Childlike innocence is a phrase that must originally have been applied exclusively to girls. Obviously it is sheer nonsense as applied to boys. Who ever saw an innocent boy, especially in a place of amusement? Are they not, one and all, given to untimely hunger, and addicted to undesirable methods of assuaging its pangs? Are they not prone to perpetual colds in the head, accompanied by loud and labored breathing, and rarely mitigated by the judicious use of pocket-handkerchiefs? Do they not indulge in a vicious and wholly unpardonable wealth of muddy boots, wherewith to trample upon their unoffending neighbors? Are they not as prone to bad language as the Tribune, and as noisy and noisome as the Sun itself? In short, are they not always and altogether the most oppressive nuisance that can annoy the peaceful pleasure-seeker? Echo answers that there isn't the smallest possible doubt of it. Why, then, do we foolishly speak of innocent boyhood?

Girls, on the other hand, may be innocent,—that is to say, when they are extremely young. Of course they outgrow it when they arrive at years of flirtation; but up to—say—their tenth or eleventh year, they rarely go in for muddy boots and inappropriate peanuts,—at least not to the same extent as boys. The average little girl is, moreover, seldom found at the CIRCUS. She prefers WALLACK'S, or BOOTH'S theatre,—whereas your usual boy despises the legitimate drama, and prefers to have his dissipations served up with a great deal of horse and plentifully spiced with the presence of the cheerful clown. For my part, I frankly confess that I do not like boys, and heartily approve of the noble sentiment expressed the other day by my landlady, who, on reading that the Parisians had destroyed the Bois de Boulogne, remarked that, "Even if the French couldn't spell 'boys' properly, she was glad to see that they knew how to treat them." Pardon the errors of her pronunciation. She learned French at a young ladies' seminary.

But I digress. It is a reprehensible habit. It is much better, as a rule, to die game than it is to digress, though on the present occasion there is no reason why I should do either. By the way, if a man has to choose between having either his leg or his arm amputated, which ought he to choose? Obviously he should choose ether,—that being much safer than chloroform.

As I was saying, the CIRCUS always has a strong flavor of orange peel. Will some one explain why orange-peel has such a close affinity for horses and sawdust? I have attempted to account for it by an elaborate stretching of the theory of chemical affinities. People crack peanuts at the CIRCUS, because the cracking of peanuts in its prosaic dreariness is in harmony with the cracking of jokes by the dreary clown. The clown himself is always hoarse, obviously because of his intimate association with the feats of horsemanship. Here are two cases in which the theory of affinities clearly applies. Now, can we not go further, and find some connection between the ring of the Circus and the peel of the orange? Or again, may not the presence of unwholesome animals in the arena have something to do with the presence of orange-rind in the seats? The latter is clearly a rind-pest of the very worst variety.

At this rate we shall never get inside the Circus building. So say MARGARET; and I therefore cease my philosophical remarks, which have so strongly impressed the doorkeeper that he has finally beckoned to a policeman to come and listen to them. Up the steep stairs we hasten, and are put into a reserved pen, where we watch the glory of motley and the glitter of spangles in the ring below.

A terrific feat of horsemanship is in progress. A daring rider, mounted on a broad platform, which is borne on the back of a placid horse, is carried on a slow canter around the ring. He evidently impersonates a member of the horse marines, for he executes elaborate imitations of pulling ropes, reefing and furling sails. Probably the horse marines reef topsails on horseback. In the absence of opposing testimony we accept his theory, and are greatly pleased to find that the equestrian sailor finally escapes being wrecked on the lower row of benches, and so meeting a watery grave among the sawdust, while his horse slowly founders beneath him.

I remark to MARGARET, while this daring act of marine horsemanship in progress, that "I hope the horse won't founder"—meaning to pun on the latter word.

But I am overheard by a horsey person in the neighborhood, who replies, "That horse hain't got a symptom of foundering. LENT keeps his horses in too good condition for that."

And I to him, in a light and jocose manner—"LENT keeps them so well fed that they never keep Lent themselves, I suppose."

But the horsey person does not see my joke,—thus proving that he shares a dulness of perception that I have too often noticed, even among my friends. So I mercifully give him one more chance and say: "I suppose Mr. LENT keeps all the fast horses, so that they never have to keep fast themselves." But he gruffly answers, "You think yourself smart, don't you? You ain't, though, and you'd better keep yourself mighty quiet." I agree with him in the latter opinion, and relapse into a dignified silence.

Presently the "Antipodal Brothers" begin their fraternal gymnastics. I again feel the spirit of speculation strong within me, and say to MARGARET, "Why are gymnasts always born in couples? Why couldn't the Antipodal Cousins, or the Antipodal Relations by Marriage, break their necks together with as much effect as though they were brothers? Does the fraternal supply of brotherly gymnastics exist in consequence of a presumed demand for the article by the public? If so, why does the public make such demand?"

And she answers, "It is a mystery. Seek not to penetrate it. That way madness lies."

Here a conundrum obtrudes itself upon me, and I ask, "Suppose Gen. TERRY had a daughter, why would she necessarily be a delightful puzzle? Obviously because she would be a Miss TERRY."

But the horsey person turns round and says, "If you want a head put on you, just keep on talking; so that folks can't hear the brothers turn a somersault. You'll be accommodated; do you understand?"

I accept his general hint, and watch the somersaulting pair. What an editor the elder brother would make! He could turn as sudden and perfect a somersault as did Mr. DANA, when he transformed the Sun in a single night from a decent daily to what it now is. Or what a politician the younger brother might become, were he to exhibit in the arena of public life the agility in turning flip-flaps, and reversing himself by unexpectedly standing on his head, which he displays in the CIRCUS ring. Then the famous equestrienne—or rideress, as WEBSTER would probably call her—careers around the circle on her thoroughbred Alaskian steed: she is evidently a great favorite, and the small boy behind me exclaims, with an ecstatic kick at the back of my neck: "Isn't this bully?"

I venture to correct him by remarking: "My son, you should say 'horsey.' You would thereby avoid confounding the noble animals before you with the no less useful, but undeniably less attractive—in an aesthetic point of view—animals which belong to the bovine race."

He is evidently overcome by my flow of language, and he asks, with a feeble show of independence: "You ain't hungry, are you?"

I say to myself: "Kind-hearted little fellow. He is grateful for my reproof, and proposes to reward me with peanuts." So I kindly reply: "No, my child, I am not hungry; why do you ask?"

"Because," answers the young villain, "I thought you couldn't be, after having histed in a whole big dictionary."

I turn abruptly to MARGARET and say: "Come, my dear"—(she is my maiden aunt, and I use the language of affection and respect to her)—"let us go. This thing is only fit for children. We'll go over to WALLACK'S and see an old comedy."

She rises reluctantly; but as we emerge into Fourteenth street, she says: "The CIRCUS is one of the nicest places in town, and I like it a million times better than I do your stupid old comedies."

The curious circumstance in connection with this remark is, that MARGARET is nearly always right.

MATADOR.

SARSFIELD YOUNG'S PANORAMA.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—Some months ago, a friend of mine requested me to write him up descriptions for a set of panoramic views, which he had purchased at a low figure at auction, and which he proposed to exhibit through the country. The "Professor" who was engaged to travel with him, it seems, was highly gifted so far as good clothes, a fine head of hair, and a sweet expression, were concerned. He could also play rudimentary music upon the flute. But he couldn't handle his mother tongue glibly enough to accompany the scenes in first class showman style.

Having the subjects given me, but without seeing a foot of the canvas, I knocked off a few remarks, which I aimed to render as appropriate as circumstances, and no regard whatever for the truth, would permit. The "Professor" was to commit them to memory, with the usual gestures, as he flourished his pointing-stick; he was to twirl his moustache, manoeuvre his pocket handkerchief, and occasionally resort to a glass of water,—and I am told he recites with great abandon.

Some of PUNCHINELLO'S readers may not enjoy the privilege of seeing the "Panoramic Cosmos." For their special benefit I am allowed to append a portion of the narration. They will observe that the back towns are indeed fortunate to obtain at a moderate price so rare an intellectual treat.

Yours,

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

PART I.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:—We are proud to have the honor of appearing before you with our series of unrivalled paintings. Inferior exhibitions boast of the extent of their canvas: ours is literally endless. Like Mr. BROOKS' TENNYSON (I beg pardon,—Mr. TENNYSON'S BROOK), it "runs on forever." It embraces every variety of landscape, waterscape, and, in the crowded halls of our large cities, a new patent fire-escape.

Everywhere we have met with unparalleled success. We have appeared before the crowned heads of Europe, and the woolly heads of Charleston and Savannah,—the verdict of praise is unanimous. Purchasing our oil and varnish at wholesale prices, we defy competition. While we have given orders to our artists to furnish the most brilliant colors and gorgeous imagination that the market affords, there is nothing here (except, perhaps, myself) to offend the most fastidious.

Our aim is high, but combined with a price that is unquestionably low; we strive to elevate and instruct the people, at twenty-five cents a head (or packages of five tickets for one dollar), and inspire a love for the pure and beautiful in art, with a liberal discount to Sunday and day schools.

As the audience sit spell-bound (no extra charge for reserved seats) before one grand conception of the artist's pencil,—lost in admiration—another glides noiselessly into view; the eye is gratified, the brain is refreshed, the digestion stimulated, and we all breathe easier.

This alone is worth double the price of admission.

But not to detain you longer on the threshold, I will ring up the curtain, and travel with you in this varied journey.

THE GIANTS' CAUSEWAY.

This stupendous structure is agreeably located on the coast of Ireland, where the waves are ever beating, and the stormy winds do blow. These pillars, grottoes, and colonnades strike the beholder with awe. They have resulted from some grand convulsion of Nature; rocked in the cradle of the deep, as things seem to be here.

It is not yet decided whether they belong to the pre-Raphaelite or the pre-Adamite period.

As the spectator gazes spell-bound on this scene of grandeur, he almost fancies that he hears the surges beating heavily at the base of these grim rocks. (This is effected by costly machinery, concealed behind the canvas.)

These columns have probably been standing here for centuries. At least that is my opinion.

I propose it to this scientific audience with great humility.

By this I mean that the great HUGH MILLER thinks as I do.

He must be a bold man to contradict such authority.

This, however, is a boulder!

JUAN FERNANDEZ,

An island in the Pacific. It is called an island, as it is entirely surrounded by water. It is famous as the residence of ROBINSON CRUSOE, who, to avoid taxation in his native land, lived here in great retirement. He had a faithful servant, FRIDAY, whom he enjoyed as much as one of these boys here does Saturday afternoon.

There is quite a local look to this view, which renders it valuable to the enthusiastic student of geography.

Ships sometimes stop here. Our artist's ship stopped fifteen minutes, thus giving him ample time for this spirited and life-like representation.

"DE TEA FABULA NARRATUR."

The women have embarked in the tea business. Tea at net prices is to be one of the chief tenets of the woman's rights party. The middle men now engaged in the business are all to be abolished. All the women lecturers are to become tea-totallers, and go before their audiences laden with packages for sale, in lots to suit, for cash. Intimations of all this we gather from the recent news from Japan, where the agent of the Woman's Tea Company, who has undertaken this reformation, has arrived, and been interviewed, on her way to secure the stock. But really, if the women do manage to give us our tea at a reasonable rate, we will buy it gladly, even though, perhaps, we should be forced to attend the lectures in order to obtain it. It is an ill wind which blows nobody good, even though the tempest originates in a tea-pot.

The Spanish Question Settled.

AUNT BATHSHEBA'S mind is very chaotic as regards the throne of Spain. She heard them talking about D'AOSTA for the situation, and says:—

"A Oyster sit upon the Spanish throne, my dear!—ay, ay—it just serves the Spanish right. They was always in a Stew, and is the most Shellfishest of people as crawls the earth!"

Anomalous.

A despatch announces that the Pope is about leaving Rome. As nothing is said with regard to his Holiness's particular destination, however, it seems as though he were about going to Roam.

From Our Special Cockney.

If, as the Tribune says, this is an "off year" with the Republicans, shouldn't they be satisfied with an 'OFFMAN for Governor?

Interesting to the Public.

There is a new envelope machine now in use in the Post-Office Department at Washington, which will dispense with the use of TOOL(E)S.

A PRACTICAL (?) SUGGESTION.

Big Man to Little One. "NOW THEN, HOSKINS, DON'T GO INTO COURT ABOUT THIS MATTER, AND HAVE ALL YOUR WASH BILLS READ OUT BY THE LAWYERS. JUST CATCH THE RASCAL AND GIVE HIM A GOOD SQUARE LICKING."

"BUSINESS FIRST."

John Bull. "GOT ALL THE ARMS YOU WANT?—ALL THE AMMUNITION?—ALL THE COAL?"

France. "YES, ALL."

J.B. "AND YOU DON'T WANT ANYTHING MORE FROM ME?"

France. "NO."

J.B. "THEN I THINK IT IS TIME FOR ME TO INTERFERE."

SPIFFKINS.

MR. SPIFFKINS was a reporter upon a daily newspaper. The reader is particularly requested to bear in