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low. 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 armer, 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 burden, which seemed prepared to sail, in which he embarkeil, the master of the vessel still paying him the homage which was due to his former station. From the mouth of the river Peneus he sailed to the 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 bad 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 prerailed upon to apply to Ptolemy, king of Egypt, to whose fath. er Pompey had been a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, wko was as yet a minor, had not the government in his own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the direction of Photiaus, an eunuch, and Theodotus, a master of the art of speaking. These advised that Pompey should be invited on shore, and thereslain ; and ac
cordingly, Achilles, 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 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 bis 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 accollected-Methinks, friend," cried he, "you and I were once fellow-soldiers together." Septimius gave only a nod with his bead, 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. this manner they approached the shore; and Cornelia, whose concern had never suffered her to lose sight of her husband, began to conceire hope, when she perceive ed 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 bis 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 favorable, fortunately, they escaped the pursuit of the Egyptian galleys. In the mean time, Pompey's murderers having cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed, the better to preserve its features, desiguing it for a present to Cesar. 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, Pbilip, still kept pear 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 fishingboat ; of which he composed a pile. While he was thus piously employed, he was accosted by an old Roman soldier, who had served uoder 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 cne of his freedmen, “ Alas !" replied the soldier, “permit me to share in this honor 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 boily 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 wliose merits deserve a temple, can scarce find a tomb."
VI.-Character of King Alfred.--HUME.
that of any monarch or citizen which the annals of any nation or age can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be a complete model of that perfect character, wiiich, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, the phi. losophers have been fond of delineatiog, rather as a fic. tion 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 bold. est enterprize with the coolest moderation; the most obstinate perseverance with the easiest flexibility ; the mest severe justice with the greatest lenity; the most vigorous command with the greatest affability of deportmeot; 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 ; vigor 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 bistorians worthy to transmit bis fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colors, and with more particular strokes, that we may at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a mar, it is impossible he could be entirely exempted.
VII.-Awkwardness in Company.-CHESTERFIELD.
he attempts to bow, and his sword, if he wears one, gets between bis legs and nearly throws him dowo. Confused and ashamed, be 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 bat, which be presently drops ; and recovering his hat, he lets fall his cane; and in picking up his cane, down goes his hat again. Thus, 'tis a considerable time before he is ad. justed.
When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his bandkerchief upon bis knees, scalds bis mouth, drops either the cup or saucer, 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 the meat between bis 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 labora ing to cut through the bone, he splashes the sauce over every body's clothes. He generally daubs himself all over; his elbows are in the pext person's plate ; and he is up to the knuckles in scup and grease. If he drink3, 'tis with his mouth full, interrupting the whole compilo my with—66 To your good health, sir,'' and “My service to you: Perhaps coughs in his glass and besprinkles the whole table.
He addresses the company by improper titles, as, Sir, for My Loril ; 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."
VII.--Virtue Man's highest Interest.-Harris. FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded
every way by an immense unknown expansionWhere am I?. What sort of a place do I inhabit?
Is it exactly accommodated, in every instance, to my convenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to of fend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own kind or a different? Is every thing subservient to me, as though I had 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 impossible.
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 seek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have an 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 smoaky house, and the sooner out of it the better. But why no interest ? Can I be contented with none but one separate and detached ? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted ? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are enough to convince me that the thing is somewhere, at least, possible. How then, ain I assured that 'tis not equally true of man? Admit it, and what follows? If so, then honor and justice arc my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.
But farther still-I stop not here--I pursue this soeial interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighborhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed