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--some one had told him it was an experience not to be omitted--and he had slept none the less the sleep of the just.

His usual attitude and carriage were of a rather relaxed and lounging kind, but when under a special inspiration, he straightened himself, he looked like a grenadier on parade.