the result in fact of the mathematical calculation of curves and distances, of absolute precision of eye, of the scientific knowledge of the equilibrium of forces, and of perfect physical training.  A good acrobat is always graceful, though grace is never his object; he is graceful because he does what he has to do in the best way in which it can be done—­graceful because he is natural.  If an ancient Greek were to come to life now, which considering the probable severity of his criticisms would be rather trying to our conceit, he would be found far oftener at the circus than at the theatre.  A good circus is an oasis of Hellenism in a world that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be beautiful.  If it were not for the running-ground at Eton, the towing-path at Oxford, the Thames swimming-baths, and the yearly circuses, humanity would forget the plastic perfection of its own form, and degenerate into a race of short-sighted professors and spectacled precieuses.  Not that the circus proprietors are, as a rule, conscious of their high mission.  Do they not bore us with the haute ecole, and weary us with Shakespearean clowns?—­Still, at least, they give us acrobats, and the acrobat is an artist.  The mere fact that he never speaks to the audience shows how well he appreciates the great truth that the aim of art is not to reveal personality but to please.  The clown may be blatant, but the acrobat is always beautiful.  He is an interesting combination of the spirit of Greek sculpture with the spangles of the modern costumier.  He has even had his niche in the novels of our age, and if Manette Salomon be the unmasking of the model, Les Freres Zemganno is the apotheosis of the acrobat.

As regards the influence of the ordinary model on our English school of painting, it cannot be said that it is altogether good.  It is, of course, an advantage for the young artist sitting in his studio to be able to isolate ‘a little corner of life,’ as the French say, from disturbing surroundings, and to study it under certain effects of light and shade.  But this very isolation leads often to mere mannerism in the painter, and robs him of that broad acceptance of the general facts of life which is the very essence of art.  Model-painting, in a word, while it may be the condition of art, is not by any means its aim.  It is simply practice, not perfection.  Its use trains the eye and the hand of the painter, its abuse produces in his work an effect of mere posing and prettiness.  It is the secret of much of the artificiality of modern art, this constant posing of pretty people, and when art becomes artificial it becomes monotonous.  Outside the little world of the studio, with its draperies and its bric-a-brac, lies the world of life with its infinite, its Shakespearean variety.  We must, however, distinguish between the two kinds of models, those who sit for the figure and those who sit for the costume.  The study of the first is always excellent, but the costume-model