lind? Age darkens even an Eagle's eyes--but he is
not old, for his plumage is perfect--and we see the glare of his
far-keekers as he turns his head over his shoulder and regards his eyrie
on the cliff. We would not shoot him for a thousand a-year for life. Not
old--how do we know that? Because he is a creature who is young at a
hundred--so says Audubon--Swainson--our brother James--and all
shepherds. Little suspects he who is lying so near him with his Crutch.
Our snuffy suit is of a colour with the storm-stained granite--and if he
walk this way he will get a buffet. And he _is_ walking this way--his
head up, and his tail down,--not hopping like a filthy raven--but one
foot before the other--like a man--like a King. We do not altogether
like it--it is rather alarming--he may not be an Eagle after all--but
something worse--"Hurra! ye Sky-scraper! Christopher is upon you! take
that, and that, and that"--all one tumbling scream, there he goes,
Crutch and all, over the edge of the Cliff. Dashed to death--but
impossible for us to get the body. Whew! dashed to death indeed! There
he wheels, all on fire, round the thunder gloom. Is it electric matter
in the atmosphere--or fear and wrath that illumine his wings?

We wish we were safe down. There is no wind here yet--none to speak of;
but there is wind enough, to all appearance, in the region towards the
west. The main body of the clouds is falling back on the reserve--and
observing that movement the right wing deploys; as for the left, it is
broken, and its retreat will soon be a flight. Fear is contagious--the
whole army has fallen into irremediable disorder--has abandoned its
commanding position--and in an hour will be self-driven into the sea. We
call that a Panic.

Glory be to the corps that covers the retreat. We see now the cause of
that retrograde movement. In the north-west, "far off its coming shone,"
and "in numbers without number numberless," lo! the adverse Host! Thrown
out in front, the beautiful rifle brigade comes fleetly on, extending in
open order along the vast plain between the aerial Pine-mountains to yon
Fire-cliffs. The enemy marches in masses--the space between the
divisions now widening and now narrowing--and as sure as we are alive we
hear the sound of trumpets. The routed army has rallied and
reappears--and, hark, on the extreme left a cannonade. Never before had
the Unholy Alliance a finer park of artillery--and now its fire opens
from the great batt