Need
I describe the road from Boulogne to Paris? or need I describe that
Capitol itself? Suffice it to say, that we made our appearance there,
at "Murisse's Hotel," as became the family of Coxe Tuggeridge; and saw
everything worth seeing in the metropolis in a week. It nearly killed
me, to be sure; but, when you're on a pleasure-party in a foreign
country, you must not mind a little inconvenience of this sort.
Well, there is, near the city of Paris, a splendid road and row of
trees, which--I don't know why--is called the Shandeleezy, or Elysian
Fields, in French: others, I have heard, call it the Shandeleery; but
mine I know to be the correct pronunciation. 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.
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