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.  At last the music grew slower, and he cantered leisurely round the ring; bending, smirking, seesawing, waving his whip, and laying his hand on his heart, just as we have seen the Ashley’s people do.  But fancy our astonishment when, suddenly, this Sarmatian horse-tamer, coming round with his four pair at a canter, and being opposite our box, gave a start, and a—­hupp! which made all his horses stop stock-still at an instant.

“Albert!” screamed my dear Jemmy:  “Albert!  Bahbahbah—­baron!” The Sarmatian looked at her for a minute; and turning head over heels, three times, bolted suddenly off his horses, and away out of our sight.

It was his excellency the baron de Punter!

Jemmy went off in a fit as usual, and we never saw the Baron again; but we heard, afterwards, that Punter was an apprentice of Franconi’s, and had run away to England, thinking to better himself, and had joined Mr. Richardson’s army; but Mr. Richardson, and then London, did not agree with him; and we saw the last of him as he sprung over the barriers at the Tuggeridgeville tournament.

“Well, Jemimarann,” says Jemmy, in a fury, “you shall marry Tagrag; and if I can’t have a baroness for a daughter, at least you shall be a baronet’s lady.”  Poor Jemimarann only sighed:  she knew it was of no use to remonstrate.

Paris grew dull to us after this, and we were more eager than ever to go back to London:  for what should we hear, but that that monster, Tuggeridge, of the City—­old Tug’s black son, forsooth!—­was going to contest Jemmy’s claim to the property, and had filed I don’t know how many bills against us in Chancery!  Hearing this, we set off immediately, and we arrived at Boulogne, and set off in that very same “Grand Turk” which had brought us to France.