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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 demonBut 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.

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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.'

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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 ad-
vantageous a match she might quickly be
in a capacity of supporting her impoverish-
ed 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.
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 des-
patched a messenger to her father with the
following letter:

She

'SIR,-I have heard of your misfortunes, and have offered 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 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.

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 This letter came to the hands of Amanwife, who was a woman of sense and virtue, da's mother. She opened and read it with behaved herself on this occasion with ungreat surprise and concern. She did not common decency, and never appeared so think it proper to explain herself to the amiable in his eyes as now. Instead of up-messenger, but, desiring him to call again braiding him with the ample fortune she the next morning, she wrote to her daughhad brought, or the many great offers she ter as follows: 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 con-
veyed 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 No. 376.] Monday, May 12, 1712.
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,

soon after went up to town himself to com-
plete the generous act he had now resolved
on. By his friendship and assistance Aman-
da's father was quickly in a condition of
retrieving his perplexed affairs. To con-
clude, he married Amanda, and enjoyed the
double satisfaction of having restored a wor-
thy family to their former prosperity, and
of making himself happy by an alliance to
their virtues.

Pavone ex Pythagoreo.

From the Pythagorean peacock.

Pers. Sat. vi. 11.

'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. You 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. or else making themselves wholly unintelHe was not a little moved at so true a pic-ligible by a scream. The 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 offers rejected. However, he resolved not to suppress the letter, but carefully sealed it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All she was assured he brought a letter from her mother. He would not part with it but upon condition that she would 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.

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 office of a day-watchman, followed by a lies beyond the Tower, performing the goose, which bears the bob of his ditty, and confirms what he says with a Quack, of this known circumstance, till, being the quack. I gave little heed to the mention other day in those quarters, I passed by a decrepit old fellow with a pole in his hand, hour after one o'clock!' and immediately who just then was bawling out, Half an a dirty goose behind 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 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

his endeavours to see her were in vain till

'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,

,

herself, by frequent 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 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.'

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 ad-
vantage, 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 enclosed direc-
tion, 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 vir-
tue 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. I am, sir, your most hum-
ble servant,
RACHEL WATCHFUL.'

6

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

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.’

Quid quisque vitei, nunquam homini satis Cautum est in horas. Hor. Lib. 2. Od. xiii. 13. What each should fly, is seldom known; 'MR. SPECTATOR,-I have for several We, unprovided, are undone. 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

affectations of coquetry, which are im- she received it, and took away his life with proved into charms by his own fond ima-a courtesy. gination, the very laying before himself the cause 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 farther preface, as 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 destroy the heedless and unwary.

Lysander, slain at a puppet-show on the third of September.

Thyrsis, shot from a casement in Picca

dilly.

John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was despatched 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 three score 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 Tem

T. S. wounded by Zelinda's scarlet stock-ple, barrister at law, assassinated in his ing, as 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 him.

Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball. Tim. Tattle, killed by the tap of a fan on his left shoulder, by Coquetilla, as he was talking carelessly with her in a bowwindow.

Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the playhouse in Drury-lane by a frown. Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora, as she was adjusting her tucker.

Ralph Gapley, esq. hit by a random-shot at the ring.

F. R. caught his death upon the water, April the 1st.

W. W. killed by an unknown hand, that was playing with the glove off upon the side of the front-box in Drury-lane.

Sir Christopher Crazy, bart. hurt by the brush of a whale-bone petticoat.

Sylvius, shot through the sticks of a fan at St. 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 play-house, 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. Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove (which she had dropped on purpose) VOL. II.

13

chambers the 6th instant, by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come to him for his advice.

No. 378.] Wednesday, May 14, 1712. Aggredere, O magnos! aderit jam tempus honores. Virg. Ecl. iv. 48, Mature in years, to ready honours move.-Dryden, 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.

MESSIAH:

A SACRED ECLOGUE,

Composed of several passages of Isaiah the Prophet.
Written in Imitation of Virgil's Pollio.

YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus, and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more.-O Thou my voice inspire,
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

Rapt into future times, the bard begun,
A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Isa, xi. 1.
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic dove.
Ye heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, xxv. 4.
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!

From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.

xlv. 8.

All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; Returning justice lift aloft her scale:

ix. 7.

XXXV. 2.

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
And white-rob'd Innocence from heav'n descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn!
Oh spring to light, auspicions Babe, be born!
See Nature bastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance;
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies!

Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers:
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears;
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.
A God! a God! the vocal hills reply,
Lo earth receives him from the bending skies!
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys rise!
* Pope, See No. 534.

xi. 3, 4.

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