Do not reproach me for the prolixity with which I narrate the details of my journey. This is the wont of travellers. When one sets out for the ascent of Mont Blanc, or to visit the yawning tomb of Empedocles, the minutest particulars are carefully described. The number of persons who formed the party, the number of mules, the quality of the food, the excellent appetite of the travellers,—everything, to the very stumbling of the quadrupeds, is carefully noted down for the instruction of the sedentary world.
Upon this principle, I resolved to speak of my dog Rose,—an amiable creature for4