In the middle of this Shandeleezy is an open space of ground, and a tent where, during the summer, Mr.Franconi, the French Ashley, performs with his horses and things.

As everybody went there, and we were told it was quite the thing, Jemmy agreed that we should go too; and go we did.
It's just like Ashley's: there's a man just like Mr.Piddicombe, who goes round the ring in a huzzah-dress, cracking a whip; there are a dozen Miss Woolfords, who appear like Polish princesses, Dihannas, Sultannas, Cachuchas, and heaven knows what! There's the fat man, who comes in with the twenty-three dresses on, and turns out to be the living skeleton! There's the clowns, the sawdust, the white horse that dances a hornpipe, the candles stuck in hoops, just as in our own dear country.
My dear wife, in her very finest clothes, with all the world looking at her, was really enjoying this spectacle (which doesn't require any knowledge of the language, seeing that the dumb animals don't talk it), when there came in, presently, "the great Polish act of the Sarmatian horse-tamer, on eight steeds," which we were all of us longing to see.
The horse-tamer, to music twenty miles an hour, rushed in on four of his horses, leading the other four, and skurried round the ring.

You couldn't see him for the sawdust, but everybody was delighted, and applauded like mad.

Presently, you saw there were only three horses in front: he had slipped one more between his legs, another followed, and it was clear that the consequences would be fatal, if he admitted any more.

The people applauded more than ever; and when, at last, seven and eight were made to go in, not wholly, but sliding dexterously in and out, with the others, so that you did not know which was which, the house, I thought, would come down with applause; and the Sarmatian horse-tamer bowed his great feathers to the ground.