And I know that never, never,
            Till this weak, repining breast
          Still its murmurs into patience,
            Yonder from the region blest
          Shall there break a streak of radiance,
            And upon the river rest.

          I shall hail the mystic token
            Bright'ning all the waters o'er,
         Struggle through the threat'ning torrent
            Till I reach the further shore,
         Wonder then, my blind eyes open'd,
            That I had not trusted more.

JUGLINI'S CHAMPION CIRCUS.

PLEASANT shows of junior days, from the
credulous pre-historic era of childhood, come back
from the past for a few moments like a dream!
For, of course, NOW there are no such things as
spiritual angels, all stars and floating clouds,
or noble men, miracles of strength and beauty,
exact exemplars of the gods in the mythology,
whose achievements we were then learning (by
heart, question and answer) from Baxter's
Heathen Mythology. Now we only know draggled
girls with very washed-out cheeks, and the
miracles of strength and beauty are dirty men
with blue much-scraped cheeks, greasy hats,
and little linen. There is no glory, no halo, no
transfiguration, in the shows. We want the
faith.

We can look at it in another way, though
with a more practical and earthly view. Thus
only yesterday I saw a dead wall newly become
a live wall, with bills and posters printed in
green and crimson, and further, swarming like a
prairie with countless coloured horses flying here
and there, and graceful creatures, apparently
new from the garden of the first transgression,
leaping, soaring, springing, swooping, and
fluttering. This, of course, means that
"Juglini's Champion Circus" will make triumphant
entry on Monday next. It is disrespect to
the neighbourhood to find that these bills and
posters are mere forms, with the date of arrival
filled in in MS., so that, by this economy, the one
pattern does for every village and every town.
It suggests a feeling of personal cheapness.

I wonder (still reading on, though more or less
humiliated) what gentleman on the staff
undertakes the composition of the Bills! Not the
proprietor—Juglini himself—I am sure: he is
invariably a gross earthy man, with an eye to
business and horses, to his men and women, but
not to literature. I say advisedly—looking at
the aim for which they were intended, quá bills
—they are admirable. I confess with shame
that, having a certain practice in writing in
English, I could no more do it than I could ride
on one of Juglini's barebacked coursers.
Hopelessly behind all scenes as I feel now not
to be entranced by anything in the Show
department—I confess to being seduced by these
posters on a humble wall in a humble corner
of the empire. It actually stirs me as I
read, and kindles a kind of sham enthusiasm.
Juglini's is the Excelsior Troupe of Europe,
renowned over the various courts of the
Continent for "the easy grace and perfect
nonchalance of its gymnastic and antipodean
professors." I delight in the choice of that
word nonchalance—perfect nonchalance—and
read it over very often, for it does express the
bearing of the professors most accurately. So,
too, with "the wrestling youths of Corinth"
(which touches a chord somewhere), and the
exploits of that unfailing hero, who belongs,
I remark, to every Excelsior troupe. I mean
the strong gentleman with the ropy muscles
well developed through fleshings, who comes in
as much unadorned as possible; no sky-blue
trunks or silver fillets—nothing but nature,
sir, strength, sir, and a whip. So, too, with his
"coal-black steed," set off with white
leather trappings, and girthed tight in all
directions. One must feel a pardonable curiosity
to see this gentleman on "his rampant charger
in rapid gyrations." But we must be dead to
all the feelings of a man not to have a positive
yearning to look on the lovely Miss Rosa Clare,
as she appears "in her richness of classical
beauty," and, adds the bill, breaking into
verse,

         "These lovely women in their pride
         Show strength and beauty well allied!"

And yet who knows but Madame Juglini,
wife of the proprietor, in her feats of the "haute
école and simple ménage," may have equal
claims? And yet, with all these united charms,
which have justly raised this troupe to the
dignity of the Excelsiors before all the leading
courts of Europe," there will be no addition to
the original charges for the superbly cushioned
front seats at two shillings, boxes one shilling,
and galleries sixpence and threepence."

I was lucky enough to see the triumphal
entry—the band in the Olympic car leading,
the Olympic car driven by Juglini himself,
and drawn by eight matchless steeds.
Juglini's hands are positively filled with a mass
of complicated reins, with which he goes
through enormous shifting and manipulation,
as if he were gigantically playing at cat's
cradle; and yet, taken as mere driving, the task
must be tolerably easy, for there is a groom at
the head of each horse. Wonderful are the
equestrian bands; and they certainly give more
for their hire in the articles of piano, drum, and
trombone, than any other music.

The Olympic car has a swan at one end, the
gilding of whose feathers has been much rubbed
away. Then follows a waggonette with members
of the company; then the ladies, each with a
"cavalier:" each lady in a blue or pink riding-
habit, and a hat and white feather, but
not certainly in a certain "richness of their
classic beauty," which may be kept
exclusively for the night, and the "scenes in the
circle." The "cavaliers" are very dingy men,
with an air of dyeing and cleaning about their
hats and coats. But they ride with peerless
grace, and talk with "easy nonchalance"