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ness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Show, then, on this occasion, all that candour 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 insisted on nothing so strongly, to his soldiers, as his frequent and unsuccessful endeavours for peace. He talked with terror on the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded only the necessity that urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men that were to fall on both sides, and the wounds of his country, whoever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his speech with looks of ardour and impatience; which observing, he gave the signal to begin. The word on Pompey's side, was Hercules the invincible; that on Cæsar's, Venus the victorious. 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 midst of their career. A terrible pause ensued, in which both armies continued to gaze upon each other, with mutual terror. At length Cæsar's men, having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharging their javelins, and then drawing their swords. The same method was observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigorously opposed the attack. His cavalry, also, were ordered to charge at the very onset, which, with a multitude of archers and slingers, soon obliged Cæsar's men to give ground: whereupon Cæsar immediately ordered the six cohorts, that were placed as a reinforcement, to advance, with orders to strike at the enemy's faces. This had its desired effect. The cavalry, that were but just now sure of victory, received an immediate check; the unusual method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming 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 slingers, who were thus abandoned, were cut to pieces. Cæsar now commanded the cohorts to pur
sue 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 resist, but fled to their camp. The right wing, however, still valiantly maintained their ground. But Cæsar, being now convinced that the victory was certain, with his usual clemency, cried out, to pursue the strangers, 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 their head, he called upon them to follow, and strike the decisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, for some time made a formidable resistance, particularly 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. Cæsar seeing the field and camp strewed with his fallen countrymen, was strongly affected at so 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 presumption and madness of his adversaries. On all sides were to be seen tents adorned with ivy, and branches of myrtles, 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 shown such instances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which he had placed his sole dependence, he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to remedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or by opposing fresh 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, without 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 seashore, he descried a ship of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which he embarked, the master of the vessel still paying him the homage that was due to his former station. From the mouth of the river Peneus he sailed to Amphipolis; where, finding his affairs desperate, he steered to Lesbos, to take in his wife Cornelia, whom he had left there, at a distance from the dangers and hurry of war. She, 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 she expected to see Pompey, with but one ship, and even that not his own. Her grief, which before was violent, became now insupportable; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time without any signs of life. At length, recovering herself, and reflecting that it was now no time for vain lamentations, she ran quite through the city to the seaside. Pompey embraced her without speaking a word, and for some time supported her in his arms in silent despair.
Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his course, steering to the southeast, and stopping no longer than was necessary to take in provisions, at the ports that occurred in his passage. 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 direction of Phontinus, a eunuch, and Theodotus, a master of the art of speaking. These advised, that Pompey should be invited on shore, and there slain; and accordingly, Achilles, the command
er 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 shore. Pompey, after taking leave of Cornelia, who wept at his departure, and having repeated two verses of Sophocles, signifying, that he who trusts his freedom to a tyrant, from that moment becomes a slave; gave his hand to Achilles, 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 silence, Pompey, willing to begin the discourse, accosted Septimius, whose face he recollected" Methinks, friend," cried he, "you and I were once fellow-soldiers together." Septimius gave only a nod with his head, without uttering a word, or instancing the least civility. Pompey, therefore, took out a paper, on which he had minuted a 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 lose sight of her husband, began to conceive hope, when she perceived the people on the strand, crowding down along the coast, as if willing to receive him; but her hopes were soon destroyed; for that instant, as Pompey rose, supporting himself upon his freedman's arm, Septimius stabbed him in the back, and was instantly seconded by Achilles. Pompey, perceiving his death inevitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decency— and covering his face with his robe, without speaking a word, with a sigh, resigned himself to his fate. At this horrid sight, Cornelia shrieked 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 set sail, 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 Cæsar. The body was thrown naked on the strand, and exposed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them that way. However, his faithful freedman, Philip, still 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 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 under Pompey in his youth. "Who art thou," said he, " that art making these humble preparations for Pompey's funeral?" Philip having answered that he was one of his freedmen, "Alas!" replied the soldier, "permit me to share in this honour also; among all the miseries of my exile, it will be my last sad comfort, that I have been able to assist 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 ashes, buried them under a little rising earth, scraped together with their hands; over which was afterwards placed the following inscription:" He whose merits deserve a temple, can 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 sage 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 coldest moderation; the most obstinate 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 shining 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 princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly to challenge our applause. Nature, also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throwing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more parti