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.