cise meaning of moral words can be known.' | within himself, and from a consciousness of He therefore accuses those of great negli- his own integrity, assumes force enough to gence who discourse of moral things with despise the little censures of ignorance and the least obscurity in the terms they make malice. use of; since, upon the 'forementioned ground, he does not scruple to say that he thinks morality is capable of demonstra-here mentioned. tion as well as the mathematics.'

6

Every one ought to cherish and encourage in himself the modesty and assurance I have

A man without assurance is liable to be made uneasy by the folly or ill-nature of every one he converses with. A man without modesty is lost to all sense of honour and virtue.

I know no two words that have been more abused by the different and wrong interpretations which are put upon them, than those two, modesty and assurance. To say such a one is a modest man, sometimes indeed It is more than probable that the prince passes for a good character; but at present above-mentioned possessed both these quais very often used to signify a sheepish, awk-lifications in a very eminent degree. Withward fellow, who has neither good breed-out assurance he would never have undering, politeness, nor any knowledge of the world.

taken to speak before the most august assembly in the world: without modesty he would have pleaded the cause he had taken upon him, though it had appeared ever so scandalous.

From what has been said, it is plain that

Again, a man of assurance, though at first it only denoted a person of a free and open carriage, is now very usually applied to a profligate wretch, who can break through all the rules of decency and morality with-modesty and assurance are both amiable, out a blush. and may very well meet in the same person. When they 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 endeavour therefore in this essay to restore these words to their true meaning, to prevent the idea of modesty from being confounded with that of sheepishness, and to hinder impudence from passing for assur

ance.

I shall conclude with observing, that as the same man may be both modest and assured, so it is also possible for the same 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.

If I was put to define modesty, I would call it 'the reflection of an ingenious mind, either when a man has committed an action for which he censures himself, or fancies that he is exposed to the censure of others.' For this reason a man truly modest is as much so when he is alone as in company, and as subject to a blush in his closet as when the eyes of multitudes are upon him. I do not remember to have met with any instance of modesty with which I am so well pleased as that celebrated one of the young prince, whose father being a tributary king to the Romans, had several complaints laid against him before the senate, as a tyrant and oppressor of his subjects. The prince went to Rome to defend his father; but Upon the whole I would endeavour to escoming into the senate, and hearing a multi-tablish this maxim, that the practice of virtude of crimes proved upon him, was so op- tue is the most proper method to give a man pressed when it came to his turn to speak, a becoming assurance in his words and acthat he was unable to utter a word. The story tions. Guilt always seeks to shelter itself tells us, that the fathers were more moved in one of the extremes, and is sometimes atat this instance of modesty and ingenuity tended with both. than they could have been by the most pathetic oration, and, in short, pardoned the guilty father, for this early promise of vir- No. 374.] Friday, May 9, 1712.

tue in the son.

I take assurance to be the faculty of possessing a man's self, or of saying and doing indifferent things without any uneasiness or emotion in the mind.' That which generally gives a man assurance is a moderate knowledge of the world, but above all, a mind fixed and determined in itself to do nothing against the rules of honour and decency. An open and assured behaviour is the natural consequence of such a resolution. A man thus armed, if his words or actions are at any time misrepresented, retires

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.

X.

&

friends who have been long in my interests. Power is weakened by the full use of it, but extended by moderation. Galbinius is proud, 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.'

already acquitted ourselves, and established |nown upon any thing that was past. I shall our characters in the sight of mankind. produce two fragments of his, to demonI But when we thus put a value upon our-strate that it was his rule of life to support selves for what we have already done, any himself rather by what he should perform, [ farther than to explain ourselves in order to than what he had done already. In the taassist our future conduct, that will give us blet which he wore about him, the same an over-weening opinion of our merit, to the year in which he obtained the battle of prejudice of our present industry. The Pharsalia, there were found these loose great rule, methinks, should be, to manage notes of his own conduct. It is supposed by the instant in which we stand, with forti- the circumstances they alluded to, that they tude, equanimity and moderation, according might be set down the evening of the same to men's respective circumstances. If our night. past actions reproach us, they cannot be My part is now but begun, and my atoned for by our own severe reflections so glory must be sustained by the use I make effectually as by a contrary behaviour. If of this victory; otherwise my loss will be they are praise-worthy, the memory of greater than that of Pompey. Our personal them is of no use but to act suitably to them. reputation will rise or fall as we bear our reThus a good present behaviour is an im- spective fortunes. All my private enemies plicit repentance for any miscarriage in among the prisoners shall be spared. I will what is past; but present slackness will not forget this, in order to obtain such another make up for past activity. Time has swal-day. Trebutius is ashamed to see me: I lowed up all that we contemporaries did will go to his tent, and be reconciled in yesterday, as irrevocably as it has the ac- private. Give all the men of honour, who tions of the antediluvians. But we are again take part with me, the terms I offered beawake, and what shall we do to-day-to-fore the battle. Let them owe this to their day, which passes while we are yet speaking? Shall we remember the folly of last night, or resolve upon the exercise of virtue to-morrow? Last night is certainly gone, and to-morrow may never arrive. This instant make use of. Can you oblige any man of honour and virtue? 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; your mistress will bring sorrow, and your bottle madness. Go to neither. Such What is particularly proper for the exvirtues and diversions as these are mention- ample of all who pretend to industry in the ed because they occur to all men. But every pursuit of honour and virtue, is, that this man is sufficiently convinced that to sus-hero was more than ordinarily solicitous pend 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. Let 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 left any thing 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 re

about his reputation, when a common mind would have thought itself in security, and given itself a loose to joy and triumph. But though this is a very great instance of his temper, I must confess I am more taken with his reflections when he retired to his closet in some disturbance upon the repeated ill omens of Calphurnia's dream, the night before his death. The literal 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.'

T.

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.

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 a 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 a friend, which gave an account that her father had lately been stripped of every thing by an execution. The lover, who with some difficulty 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 pretensions 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 despatched a messenger to her father with the following letter:

and have offered your daughter, if she will 'SIR,-I have heard of your misfortunes, live with me, to settle on her four hundred pounds a year, and to lay down the sum for which you are now distressed. 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 mother. She opened and read it with great surprise and concern. She did not think it proper to explain herself to the the next morning, she wrote to her daughmessenger, but, desiring him to call again ter as follows:

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 him rather choose to reduce his manner of living to his present circumstances, than solicit his friends in order to support the show of an estate when the substance was gone. His wife, who was a woman of sense and virtue, behaved herself on this occasion with uncommon decency, and never appeared so amiable in his eyes as now. Instead of upbraiding 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 'DEAREST CHILD,-Your father and I husband was continually pouring out his have just received a letter from a gentleheart to her in complaints that he had ruin- man who pretends love to you, with a proed the best woman in the world. He some-posal that insults our misfortunes, and times 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 farmer's house as he followed his country sports, fell passionately in love with her. He was a man of great generosity, but from a loose education, had contracted a hearty aversion to marriage. He therefore entertained a design upon Amanda's

would throw us to a lower degree of misery than any thing which is come upon us. How could this barbarous man think that the tenderest of parents would be tempted to supply their wants by giving up the best of children to infamy and ruin? It is 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.

'I have been interrupted: I know not how I was moved to say things would mend. As I was going on, I was startled by the 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 soon be at liberty. That cruel letter would have broke his heart, but I have concealed it from him. I have no companion at present 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 entreat 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,

her mother.

You

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, The messenger, notwithstanding he pro-I have ever met with, that which I am now your notice. Among all the oddnesses which mised to deliver this letter to Amanda, telling you gave me most delight. carried it first to his master, who he ima- must have observed that all the criers in gined would be glad to have an oppor- the street attract the attention of the pastunity of giving it into her hands himself. sengers, and of the inhabitants in the seveHis master was impatient to know the suc- ral parts, by something very particular in cess of his proposal, and therefore broke their tone itself, in the dwelling upon a note, open the letter privately to see the contents. He was not a little moved at so true a pic-ligible by a scream. or else making themselves wholly unintelThe person I am so ture of virtue in distress; but at the same delighted with has nothing to sell, but very time was infinitely surprised to find his gravely receives the bounty of the people, offers rejected. However, he resolved not for no other merit but the homage they pay to suppress the letter, but carefully sealed to his manner of signifying to them that he it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All wants a subsidy. You must sure have heard his endeavours to see her were in vain till she was assured he brought a letter from speak of an old man who walks about the He would not part with it city, and that part of the suburbs which lies beyond the Tower, performing the but upon condition that she would read it office of a day-watchman, followed by a without leaving the room. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face goose, which bears the bob of his ditty, and confirms what he says with a Quack, with the deepest attention. Her concern gave a new softness to her beauty, and, of this known circumstance, till, being the quack. I gave little heed to the mention when she burst into tears, he could no other day in those quarters, I passed by a longer refrain from bearing a part in her decrepit old fellow with a pole in his hand, sorrow, and telling her, that he too had who just then was bawling out, Half an read the letter, and was resolved to make hour after one o'clock!' and immediately. reparation for having been the occasion of a dirty goose behind made her response, it. My reader will not be displeased to see 'Quack, quack.' I could not forbear atthe second epistle which he now wrote to tending this grave procession for the length Amanda's mother. of half a street, with no small amazement to find the whole place so familiarly acquainted with a melancholy mid-night 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 watchThis letter he sent by his steward, and man in that neighbourhood; and the goose, of

'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,

But

herself, by frequent hearing his tone, out yet a very extraordinary man in his way; of her natural vigilance, not only observed, for, besides a very soft air he has in dancing, but answered it very regularly from time to he gives them a particular behaviour at time. The watchman was so affected with a tea-table, and in presenting their snuffit, that he bought her, and has taken her in box; teaches to twirl, slip, or flirt a fan, partner, only altering their hours of duty and how to place patches to the best adfrom night to day. The town has come vantage, either for fat or lean, long or oval into it, and they live very comfortably. faces; for my lady says there is more in This is the matter of fact. Now I desire these things than the world imagines. you, who are a profound philosopher, to I must confess, the major part of those I consider this alliance of instinct and rea- | am concerned with leave it to me. I desire, son. Your speculation may turn very na- therefore, according to the enclosed directurally upon the force the superior part of tion, you would send your correspondent, mankind may have upon the spirits of such who has writ to you on that subject, to my as, like this watchman, may be very near house. If proper application this way can the standard of geese. And you may add give innocence new charms, and make virto this practical observation, how in all tue legible in the countenance, I shall spare ages and times, the world has been carried no charge to make my scholars, in their away by odd unaccountable things, which very features and limbs, bear witness how one would think would pass upon no crea- careful I have been in the other parts of ture which had reason; and, under the their education. I am, sir, your most humsymbol of this goose you may enter into the ble servant, manner and method of leading creatures RACHEL WATCHFUL.' with 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, MICHAEL GANDER.'

No. 377.] Tuesday, May 13, 1712.

Quid quisque vitei, nunquam homini satis
Cautum est in horas. Hor. Lib. 2. Od. xiii. 13.
What each should fly, is seldom known;
We, unprovided, are undone.

Creech.

and pines away with a certain elegance and tenderness of sentiments which this passion naturally inspires.

These inward languishings of a mind infected with this softness have given birth to a phrase which is made use of by all the melting tribe, from the highest to the lowest -I mean that of 'dying for love.'

'MR. SPECTATOR,-I have for several years had under my care the government LOVE was the mother of poetry, and still and education of young ladies, which trust produces, among the most ignorant and barI have endeavoured to discharge with due barous, a thousand imaginary distresses and regard to their several capacities and for- poetical complaints. It makes a footman tunes. I have left nothing undone to im- talk like Oroondates, and converts a brutal print in every one of them an humble, rustic into a gentle swain. The most ordicourteous mind, accompanied with a grace-nary plebeian or mechanic in love, bleeds ful 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 have observed in those who 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 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 their own name, but she declares he is not of their family;

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 same kind of mortality in our modern tragedies, where every one gasps, faints, bleeds, and dies. Many of the poets, to describe the execution which is done by this passion, represent the fair-sex as basilisks, that destroy with their eyes; but I think Mr. Cowley has, with great justness of thought, 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 man's reflecting upon the motives that produce it. When the passion proceeds from the sense of any virtue or perfection in the person beloved, I would by no means discourage it; but if a man considers that all his heavy complaints of wounds and death arise from some little