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164
Glaucus; Or, The Wonders of the Shore
·
Charles Kingsley
122
There
he
sits,
twiddling
his
feelers
(a
substitute,
it
seems,
with
crustacea
for
biting
their
nails
when
they
are
puzzled),
and
by
no
means
lovely
to
look
on
in
vulgar
eyes;—
about
the
bigness
of
a
man’s
fist;
a
round-bodied,
spindle-shanked,
crusty,
prickly,
dirty
fellow,
with
a
villanous
squint,
too,
in
those
little
bony
eyes,
which
never
look
for
a
moment
both
the
same
way.
Never
mind:
many
a
man
of
genius
is
ungainly
enough;
and
Nature,
if
you
will
observe,
as
if
to
make
up
to
him
for
his
uncomeliness,
has
arrayed
him
as
Solomon
in
all
his
glory
never
was
arrayed,
and
so
fulfilled
one
of
the
proposals
of
old
Fourier—
that
scavengers,
chimney-sweeps,
and
other
workers
in
disgusting
employments,
should
be
rewarded
for
their
self-sacrifice
in
behalf
of
the
public
weal
by
some
peculiar
badge
of
honour,
or
laurel
crown.
Not
that
his
crown,
like
those
of
the
old
Greek
games,
is
a
mere
useless
badge;
on
the
contrary,
his
robe
of
state
is
composed
of
his
fellow-servants.
His
whole
back
is
covered
with
a
little
grey
forest
of
branching
hairs,
fine
as
a
spider’s
web,
each
branchlet
carrying
its
little
pearly
ringed
club,
each
club
its
rose-coloured
polype,
like
(to
quote
Mr.
Gosse’s
comparison)
the
unexpanded
birds
of
the
acacia.
{181a}
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