cilities for intercourse with French
gymnasts; for England is the natural home of gymnasts. This or that
fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a word or two of
English, to have drunk English _aff-'n'-aff_, and perhaps performed in
an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by profession. He
leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to the notion that I must be an
athlete myself.

But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture of the
artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian, for the
most part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and does not
accustom him to high ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor
that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free of a new order of
thoughts. He has something else to think about beside the money-box. He
has a pride of his own, and, what is of far more importance, he has an
aim before him that he can never quite attain. He has gone upon a
pilgrimage that will last him his life long, because there is no end to
it short of perfection. He will better upon himself a little day by day;
or even if he has given up the attempt, he will always remember that
once upon a time he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time
he had fallen in love with a star. "'Tis better to have loved and lost."
Although the moon should have nothing to say to Endymion, although he
should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think he would
move with a better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to the end? The
lout he meets at church never had a fancy above Audrey's snood; but
there is a reminiscence in Endymion's heart that, like a spice, keeps it
fresh and haughty.

To be even one of the outskirters of art leaves a fine stamp on a man's
countenance. I remember once dining with a party in the inn at Chateau
Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do
peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face stood
out from among the rest surprisingly. It looked more finished; more of
the spirit looked out through it; it had a living, expressive air, and
you could see that his eyes took things in. My companion and I wondered
greatly who and what he could be. It was fair-time in Chateau Landon,
and when we went along to the booths we had our question answered; for
there was our friend busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He
was a wandering violinist.

A troop of strollers once came to th