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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 shore, and there llain; 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 fhore. Pompey, after taking leave of Cornelia, who wept at his departure, and having repeat. ed two verses of Sophocles, fignifying, that he who trusts his freedom to a tyrant from that moment becomes a slave, 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 ihey 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 foon destroyed; for that inftant, as Pompey

rose; rose, fupporting himself upon his freed-man's arm, Seprimius itabbed him in the back, and was instantly reconded by Achillas. Pompey, perceiving his death inevitable, only difposed 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 fhrieked so loud as to be heard to the shore; 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, Porpey's murderers having cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed, the better to preserve its features, designing it for a present to Cæsar. The body was thrown naked on the strand, and exposed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them that way. However, bis faithful freed man Philip ftill kept near it; and when the crowd was dispersed, he washed it in the sea : and looking round for materials to burn it with, he perceived the wreck of a fithing-boat; of which he composed a pile. While he was thus piously employed, he was accosted by an old Roman soldier who had served pnder Pompey in his youth. " Who art thou,” said he, " that art making these luumble preparations for Pompey's funeral ?" Philip having answered that he was one of his freed-men, “ Alas," replied the foldier, « permit me to fhare in this honour allo: among all the miseries of my exile, it will be my last fad comfort, that I have been able to affift at the funeral of my old coinmander, 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 rifing earth, scraped together with their hands; over which was afterwards placed the following infcription : " He whole 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 na. tion, or any age, can present to us. He feems, 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 fic. tion of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice: lo happily were all his virtues.tempered together, fo 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 fhining talents for action. His civil and military virtues are almost equally the objects of our admiration; excepting only that the former, being more rare among prin. ces, as well as more useful, seemn chiefly to challenge our applause. Nature also, as if defirous that fo bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, kad bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of thape 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 exempted.

VII. Awkwardness in Company. When 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 should 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 lie is adjusted.


my service

When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his handkerchief upon his knees, scalds his mouth, drops either the cup or laucer, and spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At dinner, he seats himself upon the edge of the chair, at so great a distance from the table, that he frequently drops his meat between his plate and his mouth; he holds his knife, fork, and spoon, differently from other people ; eats with his knife, to the manifest danger of his mouth ; and picks his teeth with his fork.

If he is to carve, he cannot hit the joint ; but, in la bouring to cut through the bone, splashes the sauce over every body's clothes. He generally daubs himself all over ; his elbows are in the next person's plate ; and he is up to the knuckles in soup and grease. If he drinks, 'tis with his mouth full, interrupting the whole company with-" To your good health, Sir,” and “ to you:” perhaps coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the whole table.

He addresses the company by improper titles, as, Sir for my lord; mistakes one name for another ; and tells you of Mr What-d'ye-call-him, or You-know-who; Mrs Thingum, What's-her-name, or How-d'ye-call-her. He begins a story; but, not being able to finish it, breaks off in the middle, with—" I've forgot the rest.”

VIII. Virtue Man's highest Intereft.
FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded

every way by an immense unknown expansion. Where am I? What sort of place do l'inhabit ? Is it ex. actly accommodared in every instance to my convenience! Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own kind. or a different ? Is every thing subservient to me, as though I bad ordered all myself !--No-nothing like it -the farthest from it possible. The world appears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone ?- It does not. But is it not possible so to accommodate it, by my own particular industry? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What consequence then follows ? or can there be any other than this - If I seek an interest of my own detached from that of others, I


feek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence.

How then must I determine! Have I no interest at all ? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here : 'tis a smoky house, and the fooner out of it the better. But wliy no interest ? Can I be contented with none but one feparate and detached ? Is a focial interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted ? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are enow to convince me that the thing is somewhere at least possible. How, then, am I assured that 'tis not equally true of man ? Admit it ; and what follows? If so, then honour and justice are my intereft; then the whole train of moral virtues are my intereft; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society,

But, farther still-Iftop not here I pursue this focial interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the general inter course of arts and letters, by that common nature of wbich we all participate?

Again-1 must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the distant fun, from whose beams I derive vigour ? to that ftupendous course and order of the infinite host of hea. ven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on ? Were this order once confounde!, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this common general welfare. What, then, have 1 10. do, but to enlarge virtue into piety! Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my intereft; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this preat polity, and its

greater Governour our common Parent.

IX. On the Pleasure arising from Objefts of Sight. THose pleasures of the imagination which arise from

the actual view and survey of outward objects, all proceed from the figlıt of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful.


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