“To arms they flew,—­axe, club, or spear,—­
  And mimic ensigns high they rear,
  And, like a bannered host afar,
  Bear down on England’s wearied war.

  “Already scattered o’er the plain,
  Reproof, command, and counsel vain,
  The rearward squadrons fled amain,
    Or made but fearful stay: 
  But when they marked the seeming show
  Of fresh and fierce and marshalled foe,
  The boldest broke array.”

The last three lines describe almost exactly what, we are told, took place at Bull Run, where our soldiers were beaten, it is asserted, in consequence of the coming up of fresh men to the assistance of the enemy, but who were not camp-followers, but the flower of that enemy’s force.  The reinforcements, contrary to what was supposed, were not numerous; but a fatigued, worn-out, ill-handled army cannot be expected to be very clever at its arithmetic.  Our men greatly overrated the strength of the new column that presented itself,—­at least, so we judge from some powerful narratives of the crisis at Manassas that have appeared.  The eye of the mind did the counting, not the more trustworthy bodily organ.  They “looked, and saw what numbers numberless” “the sacred soil of Virginia” appeared to be sending up to aid in its defence against “the advance,” and it cannot be surprising that their hearts failed them at the moment, as has happened to veterans who had grown gray since they had received the baptism of fire.  Had there been a couple of trained regiments at the command of General McDowell, at that time, with which to have met the regiments that were restoring the enemy’s battle, the day would, perhaps, have remained with the Union army; but, as there was no reserve force, trained or untrained, a retreat became inevitable; and a retreat, in the case of a new army that had become exhausted and alarmed, meant a rout, and could have meant nothing else.  We shall never hear the last of it, particularly from our English friends, who are yet jeered and joked about the business at Gladsmuir, in 1745, where and when their army was beaten in five minutes and some odd seconds by Prince Charles Edward’s Highlanders, their cavalry running off in a panic, and their General never stopping until he had put twenty miles between himself and the nearest of the plaid-men.  Indeed, he did not consider himself safe until he had left even all Scotland behind him, and had got within his Britannic Majesty’s town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, which, as it was well fortified, promised him protection for the time.  Four months later, at Falkirk, a portion of another English army was thrown into a panic by the sight of “the wild petticoat-men,” and made capital time in getting out of their way.  Two regiments of cavalry rushed right over a body of infantry lying on the ground, bellowing, as they galloped, “Dear brethren, we shall all be massacred this day!” They did their best to make their prediction true.  A third regiment, and that composed