The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain (Illustrated). Mark Twain
Читать онлайн книгу.
foreign to the subject, you know—as if you didn't either trump or follow suit, you understand?''
"Well, no," the fellow said; he hadn't noticed, but it might be; he had played along just as it came handy.
So they put it up that the simple old dummy was to keep his eye on the panorama after that, and as soon as a stunning picture was reeled out, he was to fit it to a dot with a piece of music that would help the audience get the idea of the subject, and warm them up like a camp-meeting revival. That sort of thing would corral their sympathies, the showman said.
There was a big audience that night—mostly middle-aged and old people who belonged to the church and took a strong interest in Bible matters, and the balance were pretty much young bucks and heifers—they always come out strong on panoramas, you know, because it gives them a chance to taste one another's mugs in the dark.
Well, the showman began to swell himself up for his lecture, and the old mud-dobber tackled the piano and ran his fingers up and down once or twice to see that she was all right, and the fellows behind the curtain commenced to grind out the panorama. The showman balanced his weight on his right foot, and propped his hands on his hips, and flung his eye over his shoulder at the scenery, and says:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the painting now before you illustrates the beautiful and touching parable of the Prodigal Son. Observe the happy expression just breaking over the features of the poor suffering youth—so worn and weary with his long march; note also the ecstasy beaming from the uplifted countenance of the aged father, and the joy that sparkles in the eyes of the excited group of youths and maidens, and seems ready to burst in a welcoming chorus from their lips. The lesson, my friends, is as solemn and instructive as the story is tender and beautiful."
The mud-dobber was all ready, and the second the speech was finished he struck up:
"Oh! we'll all get blind drunk
When Johnny comes marching home!"
Some of the people giggled, and some groaned a little. The showman couldn't say a word. He looked at the piano-sharp; but he was all lovely and serene—he didn't know there was anything out of gear.
The panorama moved on, and the showman drummed up his grit and started in fresh:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the fine picture now unfolding itself to your gaze exhibits one of the most notable events in Bible history—our Saviour and his disciples upon the Sea of Galilee. How grand, how awe-inspiring are the reflections which the subject invokes! What sublimity of faith is revealed to us in this lesson from the sacred writings! The Saviour rebukes the angry waves, and walks securely upon the bosom of the deep!"
All around the house they were whispering, "Oh! how lovely! how beautiful!" and the orchestra let himself out again:
"Oh ! a life on the ocean wave,
And a home on the rolling deep!"
There was a good deal of honest snickering turned on this time, and considerable groaning, and one or two old deacons got up and went out. The showman gritted his teeth and cursed the piano man to himself; but the fellow sat there like a knot on a log, and seemed to think he was doing first-rate.
After things got quiet, the showman thought he would make one more stagger at it, anyhow, though his confidence was beginning to get mighty shaky. The supes started the panorama to grinding along again, and he says;
"Ladies and gentlemen, this exquisite painting illustrates the raising of Lazarus from the dead by our Saviour. The subject has been handled with rare ability by the artist, and such touching sweetness and tenderness of expression has he thrown into it, that I have known peculiarly sensitive persons to be even affected to tears by looking at it. Observe the half-confused, half-inquiring look, upon the countenance of the awakening Lazarus. Observe, also, the attitude and expression of the Saviour, who takes him gently by the sleeve of his shroud with one hand, while he points with the other towards the distant city."
Before anybody could get off an opinion in the case, the innocent old ass at the piano struck up:
"Come, rise up, William Ripley,
And Go along with me!"
It was rough on the audience, you bet you. All the solemn old flats got up in a huff to go, and everybody else laughed till the windows rattled.
The showman went down and grabbed the orchestra, and shook him up, and says:
"That lets you out, you know, you chowder-headed old clam! Go to the doorkeeper and get your money, and cut your stick! vamose the ranche! Ladies and gentlemen, circumstances over which I have no control compel me prematurely to dismiss——"
"By George! it was splendid! Come! all hands! let's take a drink!"
It was Phelim O'Flannigan, of San Luis Obispo, who interrupted. I had not seen him before.
"What was splendid ?" I inquired.
"The launch!"
Our party clinked glasses once more, and drank in respectful silence.
P.S.—You will excuse me from making a model report of the great launch. I was with Mulf Nickerson, who was going to "explain the whole thing to me as clear as glass;" but, you see, they launched the boat with such indecent haste, that we never got a chance to see it. It was a great pity, because Mulph Nickerson understands launches as well as any man.
Origin of Illustrious Men
John Smith was the son of his father. He formerly lived in New York and other places, but he has removed to San Francisco now.
William Smith was the son of his mother. This party's grandmother is deceased. She was a brick.
John Brown was the son of old Brown. The body of the latter lies mouldering in the grave.
Edward Brown was the son of old Brown by a particular friend.
Henry Jones was the son of a sea-cook.
Ed. Jones was a son of a gun.
John Jones was a son of temperance.
In early life Gabriel Jones was actually a shoe maker. He is a shoemaker yet.
Previous to the age of eighty-five, Caleb Jones had never given evidence of extraordinary ability. He has never given any since.
Patrick Murphy is said to have been of Irish extraction.
James Peterson was the son of a common weaver, who was so miraculously poor that his friends were encouraged to believe that in case the Scriptures were carried out he would "inherit the earth." He never got his property.
John Davis's father was the son of a soap-boiler, and not a very good soap-boiler at that. John never arrived at maturity—died in childbirth—he and his mother.
John Johnson was a blacksmith. He died. It was published in the papers, with a head over it, "Deaths." It was, therefore, thought he died to gain notoriety. He has got an aunt living somewhere.
Up to the age of thirty-four Hosea Wilkerson never had any home but Home Sweet Home, and even then he had it to sing himself. At one time it was believed that he would have been famous if he became celebrated. He died. He was greatly esteemed for his many virtues. There was not a dry eye in the crowd when they planted him,
Advice for Good Little Girls
Good little girls ought not to make mouths at their teachers for every trifling offence. This kind of retaliation should only be resorted to under peculiarly aggravating circumstances.
If you have nothing but a rag doll stuffed with saw-dust, while one of your more fortunate