Scarcely had the lovers of circus entertainments had time to solve the problem of the possibilities of success for two amphitheatres in London when Astley’s was re-opened as a circus by the Sangers. Circus performances are necessarily so much alike that it is only by the production of a constant succession of novelties, as was done at the Holborn establishment, or by combining hippo-dramatic spectacles with the ring performances, as Ducrow and Batty did, that any distinctive character can be established. The Sangers followed the example of their predecessors, and preceded the acts in the arena by an equestrian drama of the kind which had been found attractive in the palmy days of Astley’s. The ring performances were good, but presented no novelty. Lavinia Sanger deserved her tribute of applause as a skilful rider, who gracefully leaped over banners and boldly dashed through ‘balloons;’ and her brother’s, or cousin’s, feat of riding, or rather driving, a number of horses at once, in emulation of Ducrow, was very creditably performed, but who has not seen similar feats as well performed in every circus he has entered? We should be sorry to miss them; but they should be the ‘padding’ of the programme, and not its staple. I have often heard the question asked, ‘What can be done upon a horse which has not been done before?’ The question has been answered again and again by the equestrian feats of such masters or the art of equitation as Andrew Ducrow, Henry Adams, John Henry Cooke, Henry Welby Cooke, George Delavanti, James Robinson, and Alfred Bradbury. It is only by doing something which has never been done before, or by performing some feat in a very superior style to that of previous exhibitors, that a circus _artiste_ can emerge from the ruck, whether he is a rider, a tumbler, a juggler, or a gymnast. ‘If you want to get your name up,’ I said, several years ago, to a young gymnast, ‘you must do something that has not been done before, and not be content with performing such feats as may be seen every night, in every music-hall in London.’ ‘What can we do?’ he inquired. ‘Ay, “there’s the rub!” Only a gymnastic genius can answer the question. You may be sure that question was asked of themselves by Leotard, and Olmar, and Farini, and all the other fellows who have made their names famous, as the first performers of a skilful and daring feat. You know how they answered it, and what salaries they got. As in the story of Columbus and the egg, when a trick has once been done, there are many who can repeat it, but it is the first performer that gets the greatest fame and the highest salary.’