CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



or vast inland glens, where not a summer shieling 

 smiles beneath the region of eternal snows. But eagles 

 are subject to diseases in flesh, and bone, and blood, 

 just like the veriest poultry that die of croup and 

 consumption on the dunghill before the byre-door. 

 Sickness blinds the eye that God framed to pierce 

 the seas, and weakens the wing that dallies with the 

 tempest. Then the eagle feels how vain is the doctrine 

 of the divine right of kings. He is hawked at by the 

 mousing owl, whose instinct instructs him that these 

 talons have lost their grasp, and these pinions their 

 death-blow. The eagle lies for weeks famished in his 

 eyry, and hunger-driven over the ledge, leaves it to 

 ascend no more. He is dethroned, and wasted to mere 

 bones — a bunch of feathers — his flight is now slower 

 than that of the buzzard — he floats himself along 

 now with difficulty from knoll to knoll, pursued by 

 the shrieking magpies, buffeted by the corby, and 

 lying on his back, like a recreant, before the beak of 

 the raven, who, a month ago, was terrified to hop 

 round the carcass till the king of the air was satiated, 

 and gave his permission to croaking Sooty to dig into 

 the bowels he himself had scorned. Yet he is a noble 

 aim to the fowler still; you break a wing and a leg, 

 but fear to touch him with your hand; Fro feels the 

 iron-clutch of his talons constricted in the death- 

 pang; and holding him up, you wonder that such an 

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