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.

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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.