On a brilliant day
           in May,
         in the year 1868,
         a gentleman
            was reclining
                   at his ease
                 on the great circular divan
              which at
             that period
                  occupied the centre
                       of the Salon Carre,
           in the Museum
               of the Louvre.

    This commodious ottoman has
         since been removed,
           to the extreme regret of
               all weak-kneed lovers
                   of the fine arts,
         but the gentleman in question
            had taken serene possession
                   of its softest spot,
           and,
         with his head
               thrown back
                   and his legs outstretched,
           was staring
            at Murillo's beautiful moon-borne
                            Madonna
             in profound enjoyment
                   of his posture.

    He had removed his hat,
           and flung
               down beside
                   him a little red guide-book
                 and an opera-glass.

    The day was warm;
        he was heated with walking,
           and he repeatedly
              passed his handkerchief
                   over his forehead,
         with a somewhat wearied gesture.

    And yet
         he was evidently
               not a man
         to whom fatigue was familiar;
        long,
           lean,
         and muscular,
           he suggested the sort
               of vigor
             that is commonly known as
         "toughness."

    But his exertions
           on this particular day
        had been
               of an unwonted sort,
           and he
            had performed great physical feats
              which left him less
                  jaded than his tranquil stroll
                       through the Louvre.

    He had
          looked out all the pictures
         to which an asterisk
            was affixed
                   in those formidable pages
                       of fine
                   print in his Badeker;
        his attention
            had been
                  strained and his eyes dazzled,
           and he had
             sat down
                   with an aesthetic headache.

    He had looked,
           moreover,
         not only
               at all the pictures,
           but at all the copies
             that were going forward
                 around them,
         in the hands of
               those innumerable young women
             in irreproachable toilets
             who devote themselves,
           in France,
         to the propagation of masterpieces,
           and if the truth
            must be told,
         he had often
              admired the copy much
                   more than the original.

    His physiognomy
        would have sufficiently indicated
         that he
            was a shrewd
                   and capable fellow,
           and in truth
             he had often
                sat up all night
                       over a bristling
                     bundle of accounts,
         and heard the cock crow
             without a yawn.

    But Raphael
           and Titian and Rubens
        were a new kind
               of arithmetic,
           and they inspired our friend,
         for the first time
               in his life,
           with a vague self-mistrust.

    An observer
           with anything of an eye
         for national types
        would have had no difficulty
               in determining the local origin
                   of this undeveloped connoisseur,
           and indeed such an observer
            might have
                  felt a certain humorous relish
                       of the almost ideal completeness
             with which
                 he filled
                       out the national mould.

    The gentleman on the divan
        was a powerful specimen
               of an American.

    But he
        was not
              only a fine American;
        he was
               in the first place,
           physically,
         a fine man.

    He appeared to possess
         that kind of health
               and strength which,
           when found in perfection,
         are the most impressive
          -- the physical capital
              which the owner
                does nothing to
         "keep up."

    If he
        was a muscular Christian,
           it was quite
             without knowing it.

    If it
        was necessary
              to walk
                   to a remote spot,
           he walked,
         but he
            had never known himself to
         "exercise."

    He had no theory with
          regard to cold
              bathing or the use
                   of Indian clubs;
        he was neither an oarsman,
           a rifleman,
         nor a fencer
           --he had never had
             time for these amusements--
           and he was quite unaware
             that the saddle
                is recommended
                       for certain forms of indigestion.

    He was
           by inclination a temperate man;
        but he
            had supped the night
             before his visit
                   to the Louvre
                 at the Cafe Anglais