to the maidens in blue and pink. It is
impossible to distinguish the strong man by his
apparent strength, which is not apparent in his
day-suit; and I should like to have pointed out to
me the three side-splitting English clowns, and
the "grotesque comique," "le petit Jacques."
There is no gathering this from the faces of
the artists.

There must be a charm, an air of gipsy
encampment, in this driving and riding from place
to place! Of course, when the foray is made
on the greater towns, the matter becomes
simple and prosaic. The "fiery-trained barbs,"
and the Olympic waggon, band, &c., are all put
into horse- boxes, second-class carriages, and
thus transported. But in the rural districts it
is different. Once, in Wales, along a most
charming road that overhangs the Menai
Straits, and which leads from Bangor to
Beaumaris, I met the whole troupe, "Swabey's
Globe and Mammoth Troupe," cantering on to
their next station. A more cheerful party could
not be conceived. The Olympic car was there;
and the "strong man," and the antipodean
professors, and the "ladies" of the troupe, were
crowded into it and "lunching." Some were
riding the fiery barbs, which were dappled and
piebalded most mysteriously. A minor Olympic
car was laden with strange framework, which I
found later expand into the "cushioned boxes,
price two shillings," the monster pavilion of
dingy canvas travelling on before. I learned from
an expert that the whole monster pavilion,
"comfortably cushioned front seats" and all, only took
two or three hours to set up, and an hour or so
to "strike." But when a little private "wan"
carne up, with a green door, brass knocker,
and cabin windows, with muslin curtains à la
Jarley, which "wobbled" along a little uneasily
(and a funnel at the back), I felt a yet greater
desire to be one of them. Madame Swabey
herself was looking out of the cabin window.
Before evening they would have pitched the
"pavillon monstre" in a cozy field outside this
queer Welsh town, Beaumaris; the Swabey
children would have been put to bed in the
Jarley "wan," while Swabey himself and
Madame Swabey would have quarters in a
second-class inn of the little old town.

The sensation, I suspect, must be nearly akin
to that of going in a yacht. They touch, in
their equestrian way, at nearly as many places.
They can see the country as if they were
tourists. The whole has an air of elegant
vagabondage.

When the night comes on, and the
"monstre" tent is up, and the huge gas-ring blazing,
when the elegantly stuffed front seats at two
shillings are well filled, and the big drum is
pounding and thundering away, the whole
has an inviting and festive air. The rustics
crowd in. If you yourself are in the little
village or hamlet, from pleasure or necessity,
you will find it hard to resist. The roars of
laughter, the sudden cessation of band and
drum, their resumption of work almost as
sudden, the applause—all these sounds, coming ,
through canvas, invite the stranger. Madame
Juglini takes the money and gives tickets.
She has a much better business head than,
Juglini himself. What conservatives are these
equestrians! The tradition never seems to
fade. The old dishes are always served, and
yet they do not pall.

As I enter and take my position on a superbly
stuffed front seat (2s.), I find I am just in time
for an old conservative "act;" for actually
the lady is standing on a flat saddle on a
very " blooming" bay, and, holding a whip over
her head, now "ducking" into a kneeling
position, now shooting up into the "first
position;" now she changes with a little jump
to this side, now to that; now she is on her
knees; now she twists a pink scarf about her.
All this is familiar—so familiar, especially at
the end, when the steed, who has been going at
an easy and rhythmical canter, "blowing" very
hard all the time, breaks into a swift gallop.
Then the gentleman walking round in the middle
cracks his whip hard, and the young lady,
"in her richness of beauty," leans inward—in
a manner alarming to everybody but natural
philosophers, who know that it is the effect of
centrifugal force—while the "richness of beauty"
seems to grow excited and utter frantic sounds
like "Hup, hup!" the steed finally stopping very
short, blowing very hard, and his rider dropping
into a sitting attitude on his back, "blowing"
herself a little, and with her muslin all up to
her shoulders.

In the circus of a higher school, and
conducted on the French system, the gentlemen
who wear blue-buttoned semi-military frocks
and a gold band down their trousers, and who
walk round and round in the middle, trailing
their whips in the sawdust, are worthy of all
study; especially in the manner in which they
never take their eyes off the steed for a moment.
They are elegant men as a class, and have an air
of diplomacy about them, and, in the conversations
they hold, their part has certainly all the
refinement and polish. Not so much can be
said on the other side, though those "inimitable
children of Momus," the side-splitters,
Roberts and Williams, the well-known English
clowns, do their best. I mark the distinction,
"English clown," for there is a difference in
their humour: the "grotesque comique " being
more spiritual, if I may use the term, in his
conceits. Between these brothers in art there
is no love lost. But the two English
humorists have to put up with French
freedoms, the "petit grotesque comique" being
quite at home with the audience, chattering
pleasantly, pulling away chairs from under
Messrs. Brown and Roberts in earnest, and
exposing those gentlemen to jeers and a serious
loss of personal dignity. Their looks of fury,
seen struggling through white lead and streaks
of vermilion, were highly diverting. Yet Brown
had his merits, and I own to the recollection of
some laughter at his exertions, which is what few
clowns can hope to extort now. When a sort of
platform was carried in by the showy grooms