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to sell our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation at a great distance from our acquaintance.

But unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of expence along with me, and was very near being reduced to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of anuncle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to an estate of seven thousand pounds a-year.

And now, Mr Fitz-Adam, both you and your readers will undoubtedly call me a very happy man: and so indeed I was. I fet about the regulation of my family with the most pleasing fatisfaction. The fplendour of my equipages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of fervants that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my table, and the court that was everywhere paid me, gave me inexpressible delight, fo long as they were novelties: but no sooner were they become habitual to me, than I lost all manner of relish for them; and I discovered in a very little time, that by having nothing to wish for, I had nothing to enjoy. My appetite grew palled by fatiety, a perpetual crowd of visitors robbed me of all domeltic enjoyment, my servants plagued me, and my fteward cheated me..

But the curse of greatness did not end here. Daily experience convinced me that I was compelled to live more for others than myself. My uncle had been a great party-man, and a zealous opposer of all ministerial measures ; and as his estate was the largest of any gena tleman's in the county, he supported an interest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by the court-party, which deterinined. me in gratitude to declare myself on that fide : but the difficulties I had to encounter were too many and too great for me ; insomuch that I have been based and defeated in almost every thing I have undertaken. TO desert the cause I have embarked in would disgrace me, and to go greater lengths in it would undo me. engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal gentry of the county, and am cursed by my tenants and dependants for compelling them at every elcstion to


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vote (as they are pleased to tell me) contrary to their conscience.

My wife and I had once pleased ourselves with the thought of being useful to the neighbourhood, by dealing out onr charity to the poor and industrious ; but the perpetual hurry in which we live, renders us incapable of looking out for objects ourselves; and the agents we entrust are either pocketing our bounty, or beftowing it on the undeserving. At night, when we retire to rest, we are venting our complaints on tbe miseries of the day, and praying heartily for the return of that peace which was only the companion of our humbleft situation.

This, Sir, is my history; and if you give it a place in your paper, it may serve to inculcate this important truth, that where pain, sickness, and abfolute want are out of the question, no external change of circumstances can make a man more laitingly happy than he was be. fore. It is to the ignorance of this truth, that the universal diffatisfaction of mankind is principally to be afcribed. Care is the lot of life; and he that aspires to greatness in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws himself into a furnace to avoid the shivering of an ague.

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present fitua. tion is, that it has not pleased heaven in its wrath to make me a king.

V. Battle of Pharfalia and Death of Pompey. As the armies approached, the two generals went

from rank to rank, encouraging their troops. Pompey represented to his men, that the glorious occafion which they had long befought him to grant was now before them; "and, indeed," cried he, what advantages could you with over an enemy, that you are not now poffeffed of? Your numbers, your vigour, a late victory, all affure a speedy and an eafy conquest of those harafsed and broken troops, composed of men worn out with age, and impressed with the terrours of a recent defeat: but there is still a stronger bulwark for our protection than the fuperiority of our strength-the justice of our cause. You are engaged in the defence of liberty and of your country ; you are supported by its laws, and followed by its magistrates ; you have the world fpec


tators of your conduct, and wishing you success: on the contrary, he whom you oppose is a robber and oppressor of his country, and almost already funk with the consciousness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Show, then, on this occasion, all that ardour and detestation of tyranny that should animate Romans, and do justice to mankind.” Cæsar, on his side, went among

his men with that steady serenity for which he was so much admired in the midst of danger. He in..? -fifted on nothing so strongly to his soldiers as his frequent and unsuccessful endeavours for peace. He talka ed with terrour of the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded only the necessity that urged him to it. He de. plored the many brave men that were to fall on both fides, and the wounds of his country whoever should be victorious. His foldiers answered his speech with looks of ardour and impatience ; which observing, he gave the fignal to begin. The word on Pompey's fide, was Hercules the invincible : that on Cæsar's, Venus the vicoterious. There was only so much space between both armies as to give room for fighting ; wherefore Pompey ordered his men to receive the first shock without moving out of their places, expecting the enemy's ranks to be put into disorder by their motion. Cæsar's soldiers were now rushing on with their usual impetuosity, when perceiving the enemy motionless, they all stopt short as if by general consent, and halted in the midit of their career. A terrible pause ensued, in which both armies continued to gaze upon each other with mutual terrour. At length, Cæsar's men, having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharging their javelins, and then drawing their swords. The fame method was observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigorously opposed the attack. His cavalry also were ordered to charge at the e very

onset,' which, with the multitude of archers and flingers, foon obliged Cæsar's men to give ground; whereupon Cæfar immediately ordered the fix cohorts that were placed as a reinforcement to advance, with orders to Atrike at the enemy's faces. This had its dea fired effect. The cavalry, that were but just now fure of victory, received an immediate check: the unusual method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming

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entirely at the visages of the affailants, 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 slingers, 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 withstood for some 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 cer. tain, with his usual clemency cried out, to pursue the Atrangers, and to spare the Romans; upon which they all laid down their arms and received quarter. The greatest flaughter 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 their head, he called upon them to follow and Atrike the decisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, for fome time made a formidable resiflance, 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 affected at fo melancholy a prospect, and could not help crying out to one that stood near him, “ They would have 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


feen tents adorned with ivy, and branches of myrtle, couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest luxury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle.

As for Pompey, who had formerly hown such instances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which he had placed his fole dependence, he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to remedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as filed, or by opposing frelh troops to stop the progress of the conquerors, being totally amazed by this unexpected blow, he returned to the camp, and, in his tent, waited the 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 passed along the vale of Tempe, and, pursuing the course of the river Peneus, at last arrived at a fisherman's hut, in which he passed the night. From thence he went on board a little bark, and, keeping along the fea-fore, 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. She who had long flattered herself with the hopes of victory, felt the reverse of her fortune in an agony of diftrels. She was desired by the messenger (whole tears more than words proclaimed the greatness of her misfortunes) to haften if she expected to see Pompey, with but one fhip, and even that not his own. Her grief, which before was violent, became then insupportable; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time without any signs of life. At length recovering herself, and reflecting it was


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