thickened around him. Should the rear-guard fail, nothing but a miracle could save him-but it should not fail. Every deep-laid plan was thwarted, every surprise disconcerted, and every sudden movement to crush it eluded by its tireless, sleepless leaders.Often within musket-shot of the enemy's vanguard, the excited soldiers wished to return the fire; but the stern orders to desist were obeyed, and the two tired armies toiled on. It was a fearful race for life, and right nobly was it run. At length the main army arrived within forty miles of the ferry boats which were to place a deep river between them and the foe, and hope quickened every step. All night long they swept onward through the gloom, cheered by the thought that another day would place the object for which they struggled within their grasp. On that same cold and slippery night the noble rear-guard, slowly retreating, suddenly saw, at twelve o'clock, watch-fires blazing in the distance. There then lay the army, for which they had struggled so nobly and suffered so much, overtaken at last, and sure to fall. In this fearful crisis, that gallant band paused and held a short consultation; and then resolved, with one accord, to throw themselves in an overwhelming charge on the English army, and rolling it back on itself, by a sacrifice as great as it was glorious, secure a few more hours of safety to those they were protecting. This noble devotion was spared such a trial; the fires were indeed those kindled by Greene's soldiers, but the tired columns had departed, and staggering from want of repose and food, were now stretching forward through the midnight, miles in advance. Cornwallis, when he arrived at the smouldering camp-fires, believed himself almost up with Greene, and allowing his troops but a few moments' repose, marched all night long. In the morning his van was close upon the rear of that firm guard. Now came the last prodigious effort of the British commander-that rear guard must fall, and with it, Greene, or all his labor and sacrifice would be in vain. On the banks of the Dan he had resolved to bury the American army, and if human effort and human energy could effect it, it should be done. His steady columns closed more threateningly and rapidly on the guard, pushing it fiercely before them, and scorning all meaner success, pressed forward for the greater prize. Still Lee's intrepid legion, and Washington's fearless horsemen, hung black and wrathful around their path, striving desperately, but in vain, to check their rapid advance. On, on, like racers approaching the goal, they swept over the open country, driving every thing before them. But at noon a single horseman was seen coming, in a swift gallop, up the road along which Greene had lately passed. Every eye watched him as he approached, and as he reined his panting steed up beside the officer of that exhausted, but still resolute band, and exclaimed, "The army is over the river," a loud huzza rent the air. The main portion of the guard was now hastily dispatched by the shortest route to the ferry, while Lee still hovered with his legion in front of Cornwallis. As the former approached the river, they saw Greene, wan and haggard, standing on the shore, and gazing anxiously up the road by which they were expected to appear. His army was over, but he had remained behind to learn the fate of that noble guard, and if necessary, to fly to its relief. His eye lightened with exultation, as he saw the column rush orward to the river with shouts which were echoed in deafening accents from the opposite shore. It was now dark, and the troops were crowded with the utmost dispatch into the boats and hastened over. Scarcely were they safely landed, before the banks shook beneath the hurried, heavy tramp of Lee's legion, as it came thundering on towards the ferry. The next moment the shores rung with the clatter of armor, as those bold riders dismounted, and leaped into the boats ready to receive them. The horses were pushed into the water after them, and the black mass disappeared in the gloom. In a few moments lights dancing along the farther shore, told of their safe arrival, and a shout that made the welkin ring went up from the American camp. Lee was the last man that embarked; he would not stir till his brave dragoons were all safe; and as the boat that bore him touched the shore, the tread of the British van echoed along the banks he had just left. The pursuing columns closed rapidly in towards the river, but the prey they thought within their grasp had escaped. Not a boat was left behind, and Cornwallis saw with the keenest anguish, a deep broad river rolling between him and his foe. It was a bitter disappointment; his baggage had all been destroyed in vain, and this terrible march of two hundred and fifty miles made, only to be retraced. But no pen can describe the joy and exultation that reigned in the American camp that night. The army received that gallant rear guard with open arms, and hailed them as their deliverers. Forgot was all-their lacerated feet, and stiffened limbs, and empty stomachs and scanty clothing-and even the wintry wind swept by unheeded in the joy of their escape. Together they sat down and recounted their toils, and asked, each of the other, his perils and hardships by the way. Laughter, and mirth, and songs, and all the reckless gaiety of a camp from which restraint is taken, made the shores echo. But it was with sterner pleasure Greene contemplated his escape; and as he looked on the majestic river, rolling its broad, deep current onward in the star-light, a mountain seemed to lift from his heart. He listened to the boisterous mirth about him, only to rejoice that so many brave fellows had been snatched from the enemy; then turned to his tent to ponder on his position, and resolve what next to do. Thus ended this glorious retreat. It had been conducted for two hundred and fifty miles, through a country not furnishing a single defile in which a stand could be made. Three large rivers had been crossed, forests traversed—and through rain and mud, and over frost and ice, Greene had fled for twenty days, baffling every attempt of his more powerful antagonist to force him to a decisive action. For the skill in which it was planned, the resolution and energy with which it was carrried through, and the distance traversed, it stands alone in the annals of our country, and will bear comparison with the most renowned feats of ancient or modern times. It covered Greene with more glory than a victory could have done, and stamped him at once the great commander. CLASSIC VAGARIES. PROLOGUE. We are not aware that any attempt has ever been made, either in this country or Europe, to describe, by a series of pictures, the manners, fashions and every-day life of Rome during the classical era of her history. Books of antiquities or archæology are, as a general thing, a confused medley of isolated items. Alphabetical dictionaries are worse, because in them the same faults are committed systematically. Annotations are the hay and stubble of classical learning; elaborately dry. "Excursions," (as they are called,) are rambling enough perhaps, but the reader feels that, however beautiful the subject through which he is wandering may be, he has a pedant and a bore at his side. The novelist is sometimes attacked with a learned fever, and locates his scene in the court of Augustus or Nero; but his sketches of Roman manners are always extravagant, or incorrect, or superficial, or merely fanciful. Yet through such channels as these must we gather all our information concerning the most wonderful social life, that was ever known in the world. Scholars, perhaps, have no reason to complain of this. They have Virgil, Catullus, Terence, Plautus, Pliny and Martial for guide-books and can go to Rome any day. But common readers suffer for this deficiency in our literature. So general is ignorance upon the topics before alluded to, that a plain story, setting forth the daily routine of Roman habits and manners, would, it is very likely, be greeted with strong surprise, if not with flat incredulity on the part of most readers. The present uses of our knowledge of ancient Rome appear to be threefold: first, to form the staple of rhetorical illustrations to historians, the orators of great civic "occasions," and the whole tribe of debaters: secondly, to furnish silken tourists with themes for rhapsodies in prose, whenever they come within range of the Capitoline Hill or Trajan's pillar; thirdly, to supply school boys and college students with valuable text-books. By this barbarous method it has become generally understood, that Rome was the genuine reflex of Daniel's vision of the fourth beast, with its iron teeth and feet that crushed the nations-the centre of a rude, war like monarchy: that Rome was also well-stocked with fine build ings of the Grecian order, whose ruins still remain; and finally that she was the nurse of various great orators, poets and historians. But in addition to these thoroughly established facts, the attentive student may learn that the evidences of civilization, elegance and refinement, which marked the interior life of Old Rome, are such as might properly make us blush-not perhaps for the attainments of modern society, but for our over-estimation of our own progress. Rome was not the City of Empire for nothing. The glowing eulogy of Martial Rome, the Goddess of the World, was not applied merely because a circle drawn in the sand by one of her victorious generals around a remote people united them in firm allegiance to an empire, of which they knew nothing, saw nothing, conceived nothing. Her conquests extended farther.The city was a great temple of trophies. Besides the sacred shields, the embroidered flags, the coat of mail torn from the hostile chieftain, the trappings of horses, the buckles and spears which adorned the walls of her pagan edifices, she exhibited the spoils of her tributaries in the household luxury and elegance which abounded through her private dwellings: the harvest of a commerce planted by the sword. The Roman knight at morning threw off his coverlet wrought with needle work at Babylon, and raised the tapestry of Tyre which hung before the entrance of his chamber. He entered his bathroom, the walls of which glistened with the marble of Alexandria beautifully adorned with Numidian carvings. He ascended to his dining-room, furnished with Grecian statuary and pictures, sunk upon his Persian couch, and, instead of sitting at table like his sturdy ancestors, reclined after the fashion of the conquered East. He wrote his letters upon paper from the land of the Pharaohs and Ptolemies, and read from parchment manufactured at Pergamus. He anointed himself with the perfumes of Arabia the Happy. The iron of Spain served him for weapons. His dice were made from the ivory of India. He won his races with the horses of Epirus. Around the neck of his wife hung pearls from the German Ocean. His funeral litter was borne by slaves from beyond the Mediterranean, and his lifeless remains turned to dust in a tomb of porphyry, quarried in the islands of the Ægean. All this display could be made at Rome, and yet no item be borrowed from a nation which did not acknowledge the supremacy of the Roman name. Magnificence, which had so vast a treasury of supply, can hardly be estimated, and of course not justly described. It is however but fair that such facts should excite curiosity, and induce us to try to lift the curtain which hides the interior of Roman civilization. If the reader will have patience to follow us in the masquerade, through which we shall endeavor to conduct him, he may encounter many objects new and strange. But he should keep in mind, that the whole series is rather intended to remind scholars what ought to be done, than to give a specimen of what may be done. It is our intention to write for English readers; including those whose virgin minds are guiltless of any knowledge of the dead languages. To accomplish this, all Latin words will be carefully excluded: at least as nearly all as possible. The subjects will be selected at random: yet it is likely that every subject will involve more or fewer general statements with regard to Roman life and manners. No fanciful pictures will be drawn. Every statement will be founded on fact. If in grouping, (in order to give more vivacity to the sketches,) probability is consulted instead of actual knowledge, it must be remembered that the details are accurate, although their connection may be conjectural. This will not affect the justness of the representation, in relation to the general subject of Roman Interior Life. I. A ROMAN BOOK. We must suppose, friendly reader, that, by some wonderful necromancy, Rome, as she was under her Emperors, is still in existence. But let us not forget that the rest of the world. still holds on its daily routine, undisturbed by our classic dream. In this manner we shall be enabled to feel the contrasts and resemblances of ancient and modern civilization. Remember, we are now in Rome. Shall we visit a bookstore? There are several grouped together, forming a Bookseller's Row, in the street called Argiletum. You will hardly find another book-market any where else in Rome. In this street you will observe the temples and statues of Vertumnus and Janus, the gods of merchandise. Between the two and in the finest part of the market-place, (from which circumstance you can infer the rank and importance which the trade holds in Rome,) is the piazza of the brothers Sosius. Sosii they are called the brothers Harper of the ancient craft. By the way, they are Horace's booksellers, and have sold many a copy of those vivacious sketches of human nature, full of pointedness and amenity, which, notwithstanding their strong infusion of satire and poetry, he has modestly published under the name of "discourses." Martial, the epigrammatist, seems to have no particular favorite among the book-sellers. So great was the rush for his volumes, when they first appeared, on account of their sparkling wit and close personalities, that he was obliged to distribute them among various tradesmen. He has advertised in different epigrams, at least four, of whom his works may be obtained. Martial never seems to have an appreciation of what Ovid, Horace and Virgil, talked so prettily about-immortality-but has a great deal to say about the pence which his writings ought to bring him. in shis |