Look at that old hound, who stands
doubtful, looking up at his master for advice. Look at the severity,
delicacy, lightness of every curve. His head is finer than a deer's;
his hind legs tense as steel springs; his fore-legs straight as
arrows: and yet see the depth of chest, the sweep of loin, the
breadth of paw, the mass of arm and thigh; and if you have an eye for
form, look at the absolute majesty of his attitude at this moment.
Majesty is the only word for it. If he were six feet high, instead
of twenty-three inches, with what animal on earth could you compare
him? Is it not a joy to see such a thing alive? It is to me, at
least. I should like to have one in my study all day long, as I
would have a statue or a picture; and when Mr. Morrell gave (as they
say) two hundred guineas for Hercules alone, I believe the dog was
well worth the money, only to look at. But I am a minute
philosopher.
I cap them on to the spot at which Reinecke disappeared. Old
Virginal's stern flourishes; instantly her pace quickens. One
whimper, and she is away full-mouthed through the wood, and the pack
after her: but not I.
Pages:
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178