University of Virginia Library

THE LAUNCH OF THE STEAMER CAPITAL.

I WAS just starting off to see the
launch of the great steamboat Capital,
on Saturday week, when I came
across Mulph, Mulff, Muff, Mumph, Murph,
Mumf, Murf, Mumford, Mulford, Murphy
Nickerson—(he is well known to the public by
all these names, and I can not say which is the
right one)—bound on the same errand.

This was the man I wanted.

We set out in a steamer whose decks were
crowded with persons of all ages, who were
happy in their nervous anxiety to behold the
novelty of a steamboat launch.

As we approached the spot where the launch
was to take place, a gentleman from Reese
River, by the name of Thompson, came up,
with several friends, and said he had been prospecting
on the main deck, and had found an
object of interest—a bar. This was all very
well, and showed him to be a man of parts;
but like many another man who produces a
favorable impression by an introductory remark
replete with wisdom, he followed it up
with a vain and unnecessary question—Would
we take a drink? This to me!—This to M. M.
M., etc., Nickerson!

We proceeded, two by two, arm-in-arm,
down to the bar in the nether regions, chatting
pleasantly and elbowing the restless multitude.
We took pure, cold, health-giving water, with
some other things in it, and clinked our glasses
together, and were about to drink, when Smith,
of Excelsior, drew forth his handkerchief and
wiped away a tear; and then, noticing that the
action had excited some attention, he explained
it by recounting a most affecting incident in the
history of a venerated aunt of his—now deceased—and
said that, although long years had
passed since the touching event he had narrated,

he could never take a drink without
thinking of the kind-hearted old lady.

Mr. Nickerson blew his nose, and said with
deep emotion that it gave him a better opinion
of human nature to see a man who had had
a good aunt, eternally and forever thinking
about her.

This episode reminded Jones, of Mud Springs,
of a circumstance which happened many years
ago in the home of his childhood, and we held
our glasses untouched and rested our elbows
on the counter, while we listened with rapt
attention to his story.

There was something in it about a good-natured,
stupid man, and this reminded Thompson,
of Reese River, of a person of the same
kind whom he had once fallen in with while
traveling through the back settlements of one
of the Atlantic States, and we postponed drinking
until he should give us the facts in the case.
The hero of the tale had unintentionally created
some consternation at a camp-meeting by
one of his innocent asinine freaks; and this
reminded Mr. M. Nickerson of a reminiscence
of his temporary sojourn in the interior of Connecticut
some months ago; and again our uplifted

glasses were staid on their way to our
lips, and we listened attentively to

THE ENTERTAINING HISTORY OF THE SCRIPTURAL
PANORAMIST.

[I give the history in Mr. Nickerson's own
language.]

There was a fellow traveling around, in that
country, (said Mr. Nickerson,) with a moral
religious show—a sort of a scriptural panorama—and
he hired a wooden-headed old slab to
play the piano for him. After the first night's
performance, the showman says:

“My friend, you seem to know pretty much
all the tunes there are, and you worry along
first-rate. But then didn't you notice that
sometimes last night the piece you happened to
be playing was a little rough on the proprieties,
so to speak—didn't seem to jibe with the general
gait of the picture that was passing at the
time, as it were—was a little 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 run 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:

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 any thing 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:

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, any
how, 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 toward the distant city.”

Before any body could get off an opinion
in the case, the innocent old ass at the piano
struck up:

It was rough on the audience, you bet you.
All the solemn old flats got up in a huff to go,
and every body 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.