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entirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible disfiguring wounds they made, all contributed to intimidate them so much, that, instead of defending their persons, their only endeavour was to save their

faces. A total rout ensued of their whole body, which fled in great disorder to the neighbouring mountains, while the archers and lingers, who were thus abandoned, were cut to pieces. Cæsar now commanded the cohorts to pursue their success, and, advancing, charged Pompey's troops upon the flank. This charge the enemy with stood for fome time with great bravery, till he brought up his third line, which had not yet engaged. Pompey's infantry being thus doubly attacked in front by fresh troops, and in rear by the victorious cohorts, could no longer refift, but fled to their camp. The right wing however, ftill valiantly maintained their ground. But Cæsar, being now convinced that the victory was certain, with his usual clemency cried out, to pursue the frangers, and to spare the Romans; upon which they all laid down their arms and received quarter. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who fled on all quarters, but principally went for safety to the camp. The battle had now lasted from the break of day till noon, although the weather was extremely hot; the conquerors, however, did not remit their ardour, being encouraged by the example of their general, who thought his victory not complete till he became master of the enemy's camp. Accordingly, marching on foot at thein head, he called upon them to follow and strike the decisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, for fome time made a formidable resistance, par ticularly a great number of Thracians and other barbarians who were appointed for its defence : but nothing could resist the ardour of Cæsar's victorious army; they were at last driven from their trenches, and all fled to the mountains not far off. Cæfar seeing the field and camp

strewed with his fallen countrymen, was strongly affedted at fo melancholy a prospect, and could not help crying out to one that stood near him, “ They would: bave it so." Upon entering the enemy's camp, every object presented fresh instances of the blind prelumption and madness of his adversaries. On all sides were to be


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the borib seen tents adorned with ivy, and branches of myrtle, red nois couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded with NJing

tplate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest luxury, heir best and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the lich fri rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle.

As for Pompey, who had formerly Ahown such in. ged,

stances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry color routed, on which he had placed his sole dependence, he Pompe absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to remvmedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or e broken by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of the con. Porno querors, being totally amazed by this unexpected blow, t bra be returned to the camp, and, in his tent, waited the ccade issue of an event, which it was his duty to direct, not

to follow. There he remained for some moments with out speaking : till, being told that the camp was attacked, " What,” says he, “ are we pursued to our very entrenchments ?" and immediately quitting his armour for a habit more suitable to his circumstances, he fled on horseback; giving way to all the agonizing reflections which his deplorable situation must naturally suggest.

In this melancholy manner he palled along the vale of kde Tempe, and, pursuing the course of the river Peneus,

at lait arrived at a fisherman's hut, in which he passed

the night. From thence he went on board a little bark, trand, keeping along the sea-shore, he descried a ship of

fome burden, which seemed preparing to fail, in which he embarked, the master of the vessel (till paying him the homage which was due to his former station. From the mouth of the river Peneus he failed to Amphipolis; where, finding his affairs desperate, he steered to Lefbos. to take in his wife Cornelia, whoin he had left there at a distance from the dangers and hurry of the war. Shey who had long flattered herself with the hopes of victory, felt the reverse of her fortune in an agony of distress. She was desired by the messenger (whose tears more than words proclaimed the greatness of her misfortunes) to hasten if the expected to see Pompey, with but one fhip, and even that not his own. Her grief, which before was violent, became then insupportable; the fainted away, and lay a confiderable time without any signs of life. At lengtha recovering herself, and reflecting it was

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now no time for vain lamentations, the ran quite through the city to the sea-side. Pompey embraced her without speaking a word, and for some time fupported her in his arms in filent despair.

Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his course, steering to the south-east, and stopping no longer than was necessary to take in provisions at the ports that occurred in his paílage. He was at last prevailed upon to apply to Ptolemy king of Egypt, to whose father Pompey had been a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, who was as yet a minor, had not the government in his own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the di. rection of Photinus an eunuch, and Theodotus a master of the art of speaking. These advised that Pompey should be invited on fhore, and there flain; and, accordingly, Achillas, the commander of the forces, and Septimius, by birth a Roman, and who had formerly been a centurion in Pompey's army, were appointed to carry their opinion into execution. Being attended by three or four more, they went into a little bark, and rowed off from land towards Pompey's ship that lay about a mile from the frore. Pompey, after taking leave of Cornelia, who wept at his departure, and having repeated two verses of Sophocles, fignifying, that he who trusts his freedom to a tyrant from that moment be comes a llave, gave his hand to Achillas, and stept into the bark, with only two attendants of his own. They had now rowed from the ship a good way, and, as during that time they all kept a profound filence, Pompey, willing to begin the discourse, accofted Septimius, whose face he recollected. “ Methinks, friend,” cried he, “ you and I were once fellow-foldiers together." Sep timius gave only a nod with his head, without uttering, a word, or inftancing the least civility. Pompey, therefore, took out a paper, on which he had minuted 2. speech he intended to make to the king, and began reading it. In this manner they approached the shore; and Cornelia, whose concern had never suffered her to. lofe fight of her husband, began to conceive hope, when the perceived the people on the strand crowding down along the coasts, as if willing to receive him: but her hopes were soon destroyed; for that instant, as Pompey


rose, fupporting himself upon his freed-man's arm, Septimius ftabbed him in the back, and was instantly fe. conded by Achillas. Pompey, perceiving his death inevitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decency; and, covering his face with his robe, without fpeaking a word, with a sigh resigned himself to his fate. At this horrid fight, Cornelia shrieked so loud as to be heard to the fhore; but the danger she herself was in did not allow the mariners time to look on: they immediately fet fail, and, the wind proving favourable, fortunately they escaped the pursuit of the Egyptian gallies. In the mean time, Pompey's murderers having cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed, the better to preserve its features, designing it for a present to Cæfar. The body was tbrown naked on the strand, and exposed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them that way, However, his faithful freed-man Philip still kept near it; and when the crowd was dispersed, he washed it in the fea : and looking round for materials to burn it with, he perceived the wreck of a fishing-boat; of which he composed a pile. While he was thus piously employed, he was accosted by an old Roman soldier who had served onder Pompey in his youth. “ Who art thou,” said he, " that art making these lumble preparations for Pompey's funeral?” Philip having answered that he was one of his freed-men, “ Alas," replied the foldier, « permit me to share in this honour allo:


all the miseries of my exile, it will be my last fad comfort, that I have been able to affist at the funeral of my old commander, and touch the body of the bravest general that ever Rome produced.” After this they both joined in giving the corpse the last rites; and, collecting his alhes, buried them under a little rising earth, scraped together with their hands; over which was afterwards placed the following infcription : " He whose merits deserve a temple, can now scarce find a tomb."

VI. Character of King Alfred. THE merit of this prince, both in private and public

life, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen which the annals of any nation, or any age, can present to us. He seems, indeed,


to be the complete model of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a fage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice : so happily were all his virtues.tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds ! He knew how to conciliate the-boldest enterprise with the coolest moderation; the most obsti. nate perseverance with the easiest flexibility; the most severe justice with the greatest lenity; the most vigorous command with the greatest affability of deportment; the highest capacity and inclination for science with the most fining talents for action. His civil and military virtues are almoft equally the objects of our admiration ; excepting only that the former, being more rare among prin. ces, as well as more useful, seein chiefly to challenge our applause. Nature also, as if defirous that fo bright a production of her skill fhould be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, enga, ging, and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of hiftorians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we may at least per. ceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is impossible he could be entirely exs empted.

VII. Awkwardness in Company.
Hen an awkward fellow first comes into a room

he attempts to bow ; and his sword, if he wears one, gets between his legs, and nearly throws him down. Confuled and ashamed, he stumbles to the upper end of the room, and seats himself in the very place where he fhould not. He there begins playing with his hat, which he presently drops ; and, recovering his hat, he lets fall his cane; and, in picking up his cane, down

goes hat again. Thus, 'tis a considerable time before he is adjusted.



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