are tossed up to and caught by the flying
emperor. Again he is throwing off his imperial
robes contemptuously into the middle of the
sawdust, and is dressing—the boots, the white
waistcoat, the breeches, the flowing redingote,
and the little low cocked-hat. We all know
that picture; and when a glass is tossed up to
him, and he folds his arms and scans the field
narrowly, we all burst into applause and hail
him as Napoleon at WATERLOO.

It was wonderful, the way he worked it up.
Now, his brow grew lowering and gloomy, and
his head sank on his breast: by which we
knew the day to be going against him; now, he
pointed; now, he turned round and searched
the field towards the horse's tail, striving
to pierce through the smoke. But it was
easy to read in that massive face and lowering brow,
that all was over. It was time to
think of retreat. Some one tosses him his
cloak; some one else, the gentleman with the
gold band down his trousers, touches up the
horse, who begins to gallop furiously, his
nostrils out and quivering, his tail streaming in
air. The conqueror of the world is flying
from the fatal field of Waterloo. "Ils sont
mélés ensemble," I hear him say—that is in
rny mind's ear, Horatio, because I have a
suspicion that our Corsican's acquaintance with
either history or French, is too limited to have
enabled him to make such a remark. In fact,
I do catch a remark of the Corsican's as
he whirled away by me, which is a muttered
and impatient "Gee up!" No wonder he is
eager to get away from such horrors! His
faithful Garde shot down in masses, &c.
Tremendous speed now! Horse and rider lean
in centrifugally. The Corsican is down on
one knee, is up again with legs astride, is
now standing with his back to the horse's
head—an attitude, I am afraid, not
sanctioned by the imperial tradition. The pace
is terrific. The Prussians are coming, perhaps?
No; he is saved! For the horse pulls up
suddenly, and the conqueror of the world
leaps down into the sawdust, much out of
breath, bows twice, and goes off ingloriously
to St. Helena in the stables and dressing-
rooms.

To this hour, who will not find entertainment
in Richard Turpin's ride to York—Turpin by
Mr. Hedges, the famous Black Bess by his
famous mare, Cleopatra?

It is positively inspiring—I mean, the chase,
which is a real chase—for I can see that the
members of the troupe enter into the spirit of
the thing. Hark to the hollow sound of
Cleopatra's hoofs echoing against the sides of the
circus! Wonderful are the turnpike-gates,
which, strange to say, are carried in bodily by
men of the establishment, and set up in a
moment, in defiance of law and parliament, but
which makes no difference in the world to
Cleopatra and her rider, who clear them in splendid
style, and which then with equal promptitude
are carried off by their own gatekeeper. The
death of the noble mare is truly pathetic, when
her prostrate form is brought in on a large
board, carried by all the grooms of the establishment.
There seems a sort of propriety in this,
though we can hardly reason about it; and,
indeed, if we consult Mr. Ainsworth's existing
history, it may be doubted if sanction could be
found there for the board. Yet it seems highly
natural, and the spectacle of the grooms' affecting
grief, and of Turpin himself making frantic
gestures of bereavement, and of the fast glazing
eye of the dying mare (which I could see
wandering to the bit of carrot in her master's hand),
made a most pathetic spectacle.

We were led to expect great things from
Juglini in the way of rope-dancing, and were
eager to see Mons. Bocquet, who had received a
medal from the President of the Argentine
Republic. These were high testimonials, and the
gaudy grooms taking about twenty minutes to
set up Mons. Bocquet's apparatus, and hauling
on at the ropes like tars, worked us all into a
fever. Mons. Bocquet himself rather
disappointed me as to physique; for the bills had
spoken of his "elegant saltimbanque feats and
graceful poetry of the human form." But the
human form as here exhibited was very stout
and burly, displaying a sort of French swollenness,
with a distressing double chin. Without
wishing to throw doubt upon the President of
the Argentine Republic, we were inclined to
suspect that the president who conferred that
medal must have been long since interred with
all republican funeral honours; for Mons.
Bocquet seemed to have passed the age of sixty
a long time. It was wonderful, all he did. He
had his pole. It required a great deal to satisfy
him about the safety of the rope, and he made
the grooms "haul on" several times. Then
he stepped on the rope cautiously, as if he were
going into water. All the "acts" consisted
chiefly of little short jumps up and down,
changing his feet carefully. But he had to turn
the wonderful summersault, and he put it off as
long as he could. The first time was a sad
failure, as he alighted awkwardly, and tottered
and staggered, and, at last, had to leap down to
the sawdust to save himself from a fall. We
all applauded as he tried again, which he did
after many execrations, in his native tongue,
on the rope and on the grooms. We could
hear those gentry, as they were made to "haul
on" again, speaking of the artist, not respectfully.
"Rope's always wrong. Old Bokey's
getting shakey." Thus they spake. Mons.
Bocquet, all this time much oppressed by the
exertion and the burden of his own person,
was breathing and blowing in sad distress,
while his soles were being chalked. There
was the fault too. Now, at last, he was ready
to try again. The rope was better, but scarcely
satisfactory. He does it this time—staggers a
great deal as he alights, but his pole stands
true to him, and he has not to leap down into
the sawdust. We all applauded. Still, it could
scarcely be for that performance that the
President had conferred the medal. I could read
this doubt in the eyes of many.