are thus mixed and blended together, they compose what we endeavour to express when we say, 'a modest assurance;' by which we understand the just mean between bashfulness and impudence. I shall conclude with observing, that as the same man may be both modest and assured, so it is also possible for the same person to be both impudent and bashful. We have frequent instances of this odd kind of mixture in people of depraved minds and mean education; who, though they are not able to meet a man's eyes, or pronounce a sentence without confusion, can voluntarily commit the greatest villanies, or most indecent actions. Such a person seems to have made a resolution to do ill even in spite of himself, and in defiance of all those checks and restraints his temper and complexion seem to have laid in his way. Upon the whole, I would endeavour to establish this maxim, that the practice of virtue is the most proper method to give a man a becoming assurance in his words and actions. Guilt always seeks to shelter itself in one of the extremes, and is sometimes attended with both. Your mistress will bring sorrow, and your bottle madness. Go to neither.-Such virtues and diver sions as these are mentioned, because they occur to all men. But every man is sufficiently convinced, that to suspend the use of the present moment, and resolve better for the future only, is an unpardonable folly. What I attempted to consider, was the mischief of setting such a value upon what is past, as to think we have done enough. het a man have filled all the offices of life with the highest dignity till yesterday, and begin to live only to himself to-day, he must expect he will in the effects upon his reputation be considered as the man who died yesterday. The man who distinguishes himself from the rest, stands in a press of people; those before him intercept his progress, and those behind him, if he does not urge on, will tread him down. Cæsar, of whom it was said, that he thought nothing done while there was any thing left for him to do, went on in performing the greatest exploits, without assuming to himself a privilege of taking rest upon the foundation of the merit of his former actions. It was the manner of that glorious captain, to write down what scenes he had passed through; but it was rather to keep his affairs in method, and capable of a clear review, in case they should be examined by others, than that he built a renown upon any thing that was past. I shall produce two fragments of his, to demonstrate, that it was his rule of life to support himself rather by what he should perform, than what he had done already. In the tablet which he wore about him the same year in which he obtained the battle of Pharsalia, there were found these loose notes of his own conduct. It is supposed, by the circumstances they alluded to, that they might be set down the evening of the same night. My part is now but begun, and my glory must be sustained by the use I make of this victory; otherwise my loss will be greater than that of Pompey. Our personal reputation will rise or fall as we bear our respective fortunes. All my private enemies among the prisoners shall be spared. I will forget this, in order to obtain such another day. Trebutius is ashamed to see me: I will go to his tent, and be reconciled in private. Give all the men of honour, who take part with me, the terms I offered before the battle. Let them owe this to their friends who have been long in my inte rests. Power is weakened by the full use of it, but extended by moderation. Galbinius is prond, and will be servile in his present fortune: let him wait. Send for Stertinius: he is modest, and his virtue is worth gaining. I have cooled my heart with reflection, and am fit to rejoice with the army to-morrow. He is a popular general who can expose himself like a private man during a battle; but he is more popular who can rejoice but like a private man after a victory.' THERE is a fault, which, though common, wants a name. It is the very contrary to procrastination. As we lose the present hour by delaying from day to day to execute what we ought to do immediately, so most of us take occasion to sit still, and throw away the time in our possession, by retrospect on what is past, imagining we have already acquitted ourselves, and established our characters in the sight of mankind. But when we thus put a value upon ourselves for what we have already done, any further than to explain ourselves in order to assist our future conduct, that will give us an over-weeuing opinion of our merit, to the prejudice of our present industry. The great rule, methinks, should be, to manage the instant in which we stand, with fortitude, equanimity, and moderation, according to men's respective circumstances. If our past actions reproach us, they cannot be atoned for by our own severe reflections so effectually as by a contrary behaviour. If they are praiseworthy, the memory of them is of no use but to act suitably to them. Thus a good present behaviour is an implicit repentance for any miscarriage in what is past; but present slackness will not make up for past activity. Time has What is particularly proper for the example of swallowed up all that we contemporaries did yes- all who pretend to industry in the pursuit of hoterday, as irrevocably as it has the actions of the nour and virtue is, that this bero was more than antediluvians. But we are again awake, and what ordinarily solicitous about his reputation, when a shall we do to-day, to-day which passes while we common mind would have thought itself in secuare yet speaking? Shall we remember the folly of rity, and given itself a loose to joy and triumph. last night, or resolve upon the exercise of virtue But though this is a very great instance of his temto-morrow? Last night is certainly gone, and to-per, I must confess I am more taken with his remorrow may never arrive. This instant make use of. Can you oblige any man of honour and virtne? Do it immediately. Can you visit a sick friend? Will it revive him to see you enter, and suspend your own ease and pleasure to comfort his weakness, and hear the impertinences of a wretch in pain? Do not stay to take coach, but be gone. flections when he retired to his closet in some dis turbance upon the repeated ill omens of Calphur. nia's dream, the night before his death. The lite ral translation of that fragment shall conclude this paper. Be it so then. If I am to die to-morrow, that is what I am to do to-morrow. It will not be then, because I am willing it should be then; nor shall I escape it, because I am unwilling. It is in the gods when, but in myself how I shall die. If Calphurnia's dreams are fumes of indigestion, how shall I behold the day after to-morrow? If they are from the gods, their admonition is not to prepare me to escape from their decree, but to meet it. I have lived to a fulness of days and of glory: what is there that Cæsar has not done with as much honour as ancient heroes? Cæsar has not yet died; Cæsar is prepared to die. STEELE. N° 375. SATURDAY, MAY 10, 1712. Non possidentem multa vocaveris T. HOR. Od. ix. 1. 4. ver. 45. We barbarously call them bless'd, Who spend their treasure freely, as 'twas given Smile at the doubtful tide of fate, And scorn alike her friendship and her hate: STEPNEY. } } I HAVE more than once had occasion to mention a noble saying of Seneca the philosopher, that a virtuous person struggling with misfortunes, and rising above them, is an object on which the gods themselves may look down with delight. I shall therefore set before my reader a scene of this kind of distress in private life, for the speculation of this day. house as he followed his country sports, fell pas sionately in love with her. He was a man of great generosity, but from a loose education had contracted a hearty aversion to marriage. He there fore entertained a design upon Amanda's virtue, which at present he thought fit to keep private. The innocent creature, who never suspected his intentions, was pleased with his person; and, having observed his growing passion for her, hoped by so advantageous a match she might quickly be in capacity of supporting her impoverished relations. One day, as he called to see her, he found her in tears over a letter she had just received from her friend, which gave an account that her father had lately been stripped of every thing by an execution. The lover, who with some dificulty found out the cause of her grief, took this occasion to make her a proposal. It is impossible to express Amanda's confusion when she found his pretedsions were not honourable. She was now deserted of all her hopes, and had no power to speak; but, rushing from him in the utmost disturbance, locked herself up in her chamber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to her father with the following letter: 'SIR, 'I HAVE heard of your misfortunes, and have of fered your daughter, if she will live with me, to settle on her four hundred pounds a year, and to lay down the sum for which you are now dis tressed. I will be so ingenuous as to tell you that I do not intend marriage: but if you are wise, you will use your authority with her not to be too nice, when she has an opportunity of saving you and your family, and of making herself happy. 'I am, &c. This letter came to the hands of Amanda's mo ther; she opened and read it with great surprise and concern. She did not think it proper to explain herself to the messenger, but desiring him to call again the next morning, she wrote to bet daughter as follows: DEAREST CHILD, a mean and cruel artifice to make this proposal at a time when he thinks our necessities must compel us to any thing: but we will not eat the bread of shame; and therefore we charge thee not to think of us, but to avoid the snare which is laid for thy virtue. Beware of pitying us: it is not so bad as you perhaps have been told. All things will yet be well, and I shall write my child better news. An eminent citizen, who had lived in good fashion and credit, was by a train of accidents, and by an unavoidable perplexity in his affairs, reduced to a low condition. There is a modesty usually attending faultless poverty, which made YOUR father and I have just now received a him rather choose to reduce his manner of living letter from a gentleman who pretends love to you, to his present circumstances, than solicit bis friends with a proposal that insults our misfortunes, and in order to support the show of an estate when the would throw us to a lower degree of misery than substance was gone. His wife, who was a woman any thing which is come upon us. How could this of sense and virtue, behaved herself on this occa- barbarous man think that the tenderest of parents sion with uncommon decency, and never appeared would be tempted to supply their want by giving so amiable in his eyes as now. Instead of upbraid-up the best of children to infamy and ruin? It is ing him with the ample fortune she had brought, or the many great offers she had refused for his sake, she redoubled all the instances of her affection, while her husband was continually pouring out his heart to her in complaints that he had ruined the best woman in the world. He sometimes came home at a time when she did not expect him, and surprised her in tears, which she endeavoured to conceal, and always put on an air of cheerfulness to receive him. To lessen their expense, their eldest daughter (whom I shall call Amanda) was sent into the country, to the house of an honest farmer, who had married a servant of the family. This young woman was apprehensive of the ruin which was approaching, and had privately engaged a friend in the neighbourhood to give her an account of what passed from time to time in her father's affairs. Amanda was in the bloom of her youth and beauty; when the lord of the manor, who often called in at the the farmer's 'I have been interrupted; I know not how I was moved to say things would mend. As I wa going on, I was startled by a noise of one that knocked at the door, and hath brought us an unexpected supply of a debt which has long been owing. Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some days I have lived almost without support, having conveyed what little money I could raise to your poor father. Thou wilt weep to think where he is, yet be assured he will be soon at liberty. That cruel letter would have broke his heart, but I have con cealed it from him. I have no companion at pre sent besides little Fanny, who stands watching my looks as I write, and is crying for her sister. She says she is sure you are not well, having discovered that my present trouble is about you. But do not think I would thus repeat my sorrows to grieve thee. No, it is to intreat thee not to make them insupportable, by adding what would be worse than all. Let us bear cheerfully an affliction, which we have not brought on ourselves, and remember there is a Power who can better deliver us out of it, than by the loss of thy innocence. Heaven preserve my dear child! Thy affectionate mother, The messenger, notwithstanding he promised to deliver this letter to Amanda, carried it first to his master, who he imagined would be glad to have an opportunity of giving it into her hands himself. His master was impatient to know the success of his proposal, and therefore broke open the letter privately to see the contents. He was not a little moved at so true a picture of virtue in distress; but at the same time was infinitely surprised to find his offers rejected. However, he resolved not to suppress the letter, but carefully sealed it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All his endeavours to see her were in vain till she was assured he brought a letter from her mother. He would not part with it but upon condition that she should read it without leaving the room. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the deepest attention. Her concern gave a new softness to her beauty; and when she burst into tears, he could no longer refrain from bearing a part in her sorrow, and telling her, that he too had read the letter, and was resolved to make reparation for having been the occasion of it. My reader will not be displeased to see the second epistle which he now wrote to Amanda's mother. MADAM, 'I AM full of shame, and will never forgive myself if I have not your pardon for what I lately wrote. It was far from my intention to add trouble to the afflicted; nor could any thing but my being a stranger to you, have betrayed me into a fault, for which, if I live, I shall endeavour to make you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy while Amanda is your daughter; nor shall be, if any thing can prevent it, which is in the power of, 'MADAM, "Your most obedient humble servant, N° 376. MONDAY, MAY 12, 1712. Pavone ex Pythagareo. PERS. Sat. vi. ver. 11. From the Pythagorean peacock. MR. SPECTATOR, 'I HAVE observed that the officer you some time ago appointed as inspector of signs, has not done his duty so well as to give you an account of very many strange occurrences in the public streets, which are worthy of, but have escaped your notice. Among all the oddnesses which I have ever met with, that which I am now telling you gave me most delight. You must have observed that all the criers in the street attract the attention of the passengers, and of the inhabitants in the several parts, by something very particular in their tone itself, in the dwelling upon a note, or else making themselves wholly unintelligible by a scream. The person I am so delighted with has nothing to sell, but very gravely receives the bounty of the people, for no other merit but the homage they pay to his manner of signifying to them that he wants a subsidy. You must sure have heard speak of an old man, who walks about the city, and that part of the suburbs which lies beyond the Tower, performing the office of a day-watchman, followed by a goose, which bears the bob of his ditty, and confirms what he says with a quack, quack. I gave little heed to the mention of this known circumstance, till, being the other day in those quarters, I passed by a decrepit old fellow with a pole in his hand, who just then was bawling out," Half an hour after one o'clock;" and immediately a dirty goose behind him made her response, “Quack, quack." I could not forbear attending this grave procession for the length of half a street, with no small amazement to find the whole place so familiarly acquainted with a melancholy midnight voice at noon-day, giving them the hour, and exhorting them of the departure of time, with a bounce at their doors, While I was full of this novelty, I went into a friend's house, and told him how I was diverted with their whimsical monitor and his equipage. My friend gave me the history; and interrupted my commendation of the man, by telling me the livelihood of these two animals is purchased rather by the good parts of the goose than of the leader; for it seems, the peripatetic who walked before her was a watchman in that neighbourhood; and the goose of herself, by frequently hearing his tone, out of her natural vigilance, not only observed, but answered it very regularly from time to time. The watchman was so affected with it, that he bought her, and has taken her in partner, only altering their hours of duty from night to day. The town has come into it, and they live very comfortably. This is the matter of fact. Now I desire you, who are a profound philosopher, to consider this alliance of instinct and reason. Your speculation may turn very naturally upon the force the superior part of mankind may have upon the spirits of such as, like this watchman, may be very near the standard of geese. And you may add to this practical observation, how, in all ages and times, the world has been carried away by odd unaccountable things, which one would think would pass upon no creature which had reason; and, under the symbol of this goose, you may enter into the manner and method of leading creatures, with SPECTATOR. their eyes open, through thick and thin, for they know not what, they know not why. All which is humbly submitted to your spectatorial wisdom, by, SIR, "Your most humble servant, MR. SPECTATOR, MICHAEL GANDER.' "I HAVE for several years had under my care the government and education of young ladies; which trust I have endeavoured to discharge with due regard to their several capacities and fortunes. I have left nothing undone to imprint in every one of them an humble courteous mind, accompanied with a graceful becoming mien, and have made them pretty much acquainted with the household part of family affairs; but still I find there is something very much wanting in the air of my ladies, different from what I observe in those that are esteemed your fine-bred women. Now, sir, I must own to you, I never suffered my girls to learn to dance; but since I have read your discourse of dancing, where you have described the beauty and spirit there is in a regular motion, I own myself your convert, and resolve for the future to give my young ladies that accomplishment. But upon imparting my design to their parents, I have been made very uneasy for some time, because several of them have declared, that if I did not make use of the master they recommended, they would take away their children. There was Colonel Jumper's lady, a colonel of the train-bands, that has a great interest in her parish; she recommends Mr. Trott* for the prettiest master in town; that no man teaches a jig like him; that she has seen him rise six or seven capers together with the greatest ease imaginable; and that his scholars twist themselves more ways than the scholars of any master in town: besides, there is Madam Prim, an alderman's lady, recommends a master of her own name, but she declares he is not of their family, yet a very extraordinary man in his way; for besides a very soft air he has in dancing, he gives them a particular behaviour at a tea-table, and in presenting their snuff-box; teaches to twirl, slip, or flirt a fan, and how to place patches to the best advantage, either for fat or lean, long or oval faces: for my lady says, there is more in these things than the world imagines. But I must confess, the major part of those I am concerned with leave it to me. I desire, therefore, according to the inclosed direction, you would send your correspondent who has writ to you on that subject to my house. If proper application this way can give innocence new charms, and make virtue legible in the countenance, I shall spare no charge to make my scholars, in their very features and limbs, bear witness how careful I have been in the other parts of their education. STEELE. 'I am, SIR, 6 RACHEL WATCHFUL.' T. * See the concluding letters of No 296; No 308, let. 4; No 314, let. 2; and No 316, let. 1. 377. N° 377. TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1712. Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis HOR. Od. xiii. 1. 2. ver. 18. We, unprovided, are undone. LOVE was the mother of poetry, and still produces, among the most ignorant and barbarous, a thousand imaginary distresses and poetical complaints. It makes a footman talk like Oroondates, and converts a brutal rustic into a gentle swain. The most ordinary plebeian or mechanic in love bleeds and pines away with a certain elegance and tender. ness of sentiments, which this passion naturally inspires. These inward languishings of a mind infected is made use of by all the melting tribe, from the with softness, have given birth to a phrase which highest to the lowest, I mean that of dying for love.' Romances, which owe their very being to this passion, are full of these metaphorical deaths. Heroes and heroines, knights, squires, and damsels, are all of them in a dying condition. There is the where every one gasps, faints, bleeds, and dies. same kind of mortality in our modern tragedies, Many of the poets, to describe the execution which basilisks that destroy with their eyes; but I think is done by this passion, represent the fair sex a Mr. Cowley has, with great justness of thongir, compared a beautiful woman to a porcupine, that sends an arrow from every part. I have often thought, that there is no way so effectual for the cure of this general infirmity, as a When the passion proceeds from the sense of any virtue or perfection in the person beloved, I would man's reflecting upon the motives that produce it. by no means discourage it; but if a man considers that all his heavy complaints of wounds and deaths rise from some little affectations of coquetry, which are improved into charms by his own fond ins gination, the very laying before himself the case of his distemper, may be sufficient to effect the cure of it. It is in this view that I have looked over the several bundles of letters which I have received from dying people, and composed out of them the following bill of mortality, which I shall lay before my reader without any further preface, hoping that it may be useful to him in discovering those several places where there is most danger, and those fatal arts which are made use of to de stroy the heedless and unwary: Lysander, slain at a puppet-show on the thir of September. Thyrsis, shot from a casement in Piccadilly. T. S. wounded by Zelinda's scarlet stocking, she was stepping out of a coach. Will Simple, smitten at the opera by the glance of an eye that was aimed at one who stood by be... Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball. Tim. Tattle, killed by the tap of a fan on bis lefe shoulder by Coquetilla, as he was talking careles with her in a bow-window. Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the playhouse Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora, as i 378. James's church. Damon, struck through the heart by a diamond necklace. Thomas Trusty, Francis Goosequill, William Meanwell, Edward Callow, Esqrs. standing in a row, fell all four at the same time, by an ogle of the Widow Trapland. Tom Rattle, chancing to tread upon a lady's tail as he came out of the playhouse, she turned full upon him, and laid him dead upon the spot. Dick Tastewell, slain by a blush from the queen's box in the third act of the Trip to the Jubilee. Samuel Felt, haberdasher, wounded in his walks to Islington, by Mrs. Susanna Cross-stitch, as she was clambering over a stile. R. F., T. W., S. I., M. P., &c. put to death in the last birth-day massacre. Roger Blinko, cut off in the twenty-first year of his age by a white-wash. Musidorus, slain by an arrow that flew out of a dimple in Belinda's left cheek. MESSIAH: A SACRED ECLOGUE, Composed of several passages of Isaiah the prophet. Delight no more-0 thou my voice inspire, Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove with heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay; (which she had dropped on purpose), she received it, and took away his life with a curtsy. John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was dispatched by a smile. Strephon, killed by Clarinda as she looked down into the pit. Charles Careless shot flying by a girl of fifteen, who unexpectedly popped her head upon him out of a coach. Josiah Wither, aged threescore-and-three, sent to his long home by Elizabeth Jetwell, spinster. Jack Freelove, murdered by Melissa in her hair. William Wiseacre, Gent. drowned in a flood of tears by Moll Common. John Pleadwell, Esq. of the Middle Temple, barrister at law, assassinated in his chambers, the 6th instant, by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come to him for his advice. I WILL make no apology for entertaining the reader with the following poem, which is written by a great genius, a friend of mine in the country, who is not ashamed to employ his wit in the praise of his Maker: Pepe. See No 534. Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way! No more shall nation against nation rise, To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, Isa. xi. 1. xlv. S. XXV. 4. ix. 7. XXXV. 2. 1. 3, 4. xlii. 18. XXXV, 5, 6. XXV. 8. xl. 11. ix. 6. ii. 4. lxv. 21,22. XXXV. 1,7. Ixli. 19, and lv. 13. The lambs with wolves shall grace the verdant xi. 6, 7, 8. And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead; And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet: |