Part 6

All this popularity was too much for it, however. Gorged with prosperity, it lay down to a Rip Van Winkle slumber from which it has just been awakened for the readers of THE SCRAP BOOK. Like Rip Van Winkle, “The Harp of a Thousand Strings” finds that during its long sleep one of its old friends has passed away. This Is the quaint old exhorter who, combining business with theology, was so common in the South half a century ago. Sometimes he was a pedler, a patent medicine man, a lightning-rod agent, or, like the old fellow pictured in the sketch, a Mississippi flat-boat captain in search of a cargo, or with liquor to sell.

I may say to you, my brethring, that I am not an edicated man, an’ I am not one of them as believes that edication is necessary for a Gospel minister, for I believe the Lord edicates His preachers jest as He wants ’em to be edicated; an’ although I say it that oughtn’t to say it, yet in the State of Indianny, whar I live, thar’s no man as gets bigger congregations nor what I gits.

Thar may be some here to-day, my brethring, as don’t know what persuasion I am uv. Well, I must say to you, my brethring, that I’m a Hard-shell Baptist. Thar’s some folks as don’t like the Hard-shell Baptists, but I’d rather have a hard shell as no shell at all.

You see me here to-day, my brethring, dressed up in fine clothes; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my brethring, and although I’ve been a preacher of the Gospel for twenty years, an’ although I’m capting of the flat-boat that lies at your landing, I’m not proud, my brethring.

I am not gwine to tell edzactly whar my tex may be found; suffice to say, it’s in the leds of the Bible, and you’ll find it somewhar between the first chapter of the book of Generations and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions, and ef you’ll go and search the Scriptures, you’ll not only find my tex thar, but a great many other texes as will do you good to read, and my tex, when you shall find it, you shall find it to read thus:

“And he played on a harp uv a thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”

My text, my brethring, leads me to speak of sperits. Now, thar’s a great many kinds of sperits in the world—in the fuss place, thar’s the sperits as some folks call ghosts, and thar’s the sperits of turpentine, and thar’s the sperits as some folks call liquor, an’ I’ve got as good an artikel of them kind of sperits on my flat-boat as ever was fotch down the Mississippi River; but thar’s a great many other kinds of sperits, for the tex says, “He played on a harp uv a _t-h-o-u-s_-and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”

But I tell you the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex is FIRE. That’s the kind uv sperits as is meant in the tex, my brethring. Now, thar’s a great many kinds of fire in the world. In the fuss place, there’s the common sort of fire you light your cigar or pipe with, and then thar’s foxfire and camphire, fire before you’re ready, and fire and fall back, and many other kinds uv fire, for the tex says, “He played on the harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits of jest men made perfeck.”

But I’ll tell you the kind of fire as is meant in the tex, my brethring—it’s HELL FIRE, an’ that’s the kind uv fire as a great many uv you’ll come to, ef you don’t do better nor what you have been doin’—for “He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”

Now, the different sorts of fire in the world may be likened unto the different persuasions of Christians in the world. In the first place, we have the Piscapalions, an’ they are a high-sailin’ and highfalutin’ set, and they may be likened unto a turkey buzzard that flies up into the air, and he goes up, and up, and up, till he looks no bigger than your fingernail, and the fust thing you know, he cums down, and down, and down, and is a-fillin’ himself on the carkiss of a dead hoss by the side of the road, and “He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”

And then thar’s the Methodis, and they may be likened unto the squirril runnin’ up into a tree, for the Methodis beleeves in gwine on from one degree of grace to another, and finally on to perfection, and the squirril goes up and up, and up and up, and he jumps from limb to limb, and branch to branch, and the fust thing you know he falls, and down he cums kerflumix, and that’s like the Methodis, for they is allers fallen from grace, ah! and “He played on a harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits of jest men made perfeck.”

And then, my brethring, thar’s the Baptist, ah! and they have been likened unto a ’possum on a ’simmon tree, and thunders may roll and the earth may quake, but that ’possum clings thar still, ah! and you may shake one foot loose, and the other’s thar, and you may shake all feet loose, and he laps his tail around the limb, and clings, and he clings furever, for “He played on the harp uv a _thous_and strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”

[Sidenote: A Startling Summons.]

An error for which nervousness may have been responsible, was that made by the boy who was told to take the Bishop’s shaving water to him one morning and cautioned to answer the Bishop’s inquiry “Who’s there,” by saying, “The boy, my Lord.” Whether from nervousness or not, the boy managed to transpose the words of this sentence with ludicrous effect, and the Bishop was surprised and perhaps alarmed to hear in response to his inquiry the answer, “The Lord, my boy.”

The Effects of Music on Animals.

A Pigeon Was One of Mozart’s Most Appreciative Auditors—Cats, Mice, and Cows Have Performed Queer Antics When Under the Influence of Strains from Violins and Pianos.

The power of music is growing to be recognized by physicians in the treatment of certain diseases. Its effect upon animals is very marked, sometimes for good and in other instances for quite the opposite, though it is not always easy to know just which is the case.

A writer in _Harper’s Magazine_ half a century ago gave some results of personal observation of animals under the influence of music. These observations are interesting and amusing, and would seem to show beyond a doubt that animals may be quite as fond of sweet sounds as man.

The sensibility of animals to music will hardly be questioned in the present day, when the manners and habits of all animated nature are so thoroughly observed and studied.

We no longer doubt the dictum of the poet, who sings, “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast”; and, therefore, it is not so much in corroboration of his assertion, as in illustration of a fact so interesting and pleasing in itself, that we are about to bring to the notice of the reader some few instances of animal love of music which are too well authenticated to admit of a doubt, and some of which are the records of our personal observation and experience.

Mozart and His Pigeon.

One of the German biographers of Mozart makes mention of a tame pigeon, which was the companion and pet of that extraordinary genius when a child. The bird, when at liberty, would never leave the side of the young composer while he was playing any instrument, and had to be caught and confined in his cage to prevent him from following his little favorite from room to room.

Whenever the boy came into the presence of the pigeon, the latter manifested the utmost uneasiness until he began to play; if the door of the cage were opened, the bird would fly to the violin and peck at the strings, or to the harpsichord and jump and flutter on the keys, and would not be pacified until the child sat down to play, when it would perch quietly on his shoulder, and sit there for hours almost without moving a feather.

Cats have a species of undelightful music of their own, performed, as we all know, at unseasonable hours on the leads, house-tiles, and garden-walls of our dwellings. Puss’s performances are generally too chromatic for ears not feline, and we humans are given to disconcert their concertos with a shower from the water-jug, or anything else that comes to hand, when their untimely carols rouse us from our sleep.

In revenge, puss is generally as indifferent to the sublimest strains of the human voice or cunningly played instrument as any post can possibly be, and prefers the untuneful scream of the cat’s-meat man to the noblest compositions of Beethoven.

Cats Have Musical Ears.

Still, as if nature was determined to assert the triumph of harmony over every living thing, now and then a cat turns up who has a genuine musical ear, and will manifest unequivocal satisfaction and delight at harmonious combinations of sound.

We once owned a cat who would listen complacently to music by the hour together, always accompanying it with a gentle purring—who would leave her hunting-ground in garden or cellar whenever music was going on in parlor or drawing-room—who would scratch at the door, and croon and mew to be let in, and would resent a prolonged exclusion by certain expressive displays of disapprobation. When admitted, she would leap on the piano, and attempt, after the New Zealand fashion of expressing regard, to rub noses with the performer.

An old friend of ours reports another instance, which is perhaps still more remarkable. He was in the habit, most evenings in the week, of spending an hour or two at the piano after the studious labors of the day.

His pet cat, though as a kitten indifferent to music, grew to like it, and regularly led the way to the piano when the business of the tea-table was done. Here she took post on a chair, and listened gravely during the whole performance. When it ceased, and the instrument was closed, she would return to the rug, or to his knee, and sleep out the rest of the evening.

A Feline Paderewski.

Not so, however, if the piano was left open; in that case, puss leaped on the keys and pawed a performance of her own, in which she showed an extreme partiality for the treble notes, and something like alarm at the big bass ones, when she happened to give them an extra vigorous kick with her heels. In fact, a rousing discord would frighten her off the keys, but she would return again and soothe her feelings by a gentle pattering among the upper notes.

These exploits she repeated whenever the piano was left open, and whether she had auditors or not; so that it became necessary to close the instrument or exclude the cat from the room in order to insure a moment’s quietness. If by any chance her master spent the evening from home, puss showed her disappointment and dissatisfaction by restlessness and ill-temper.

Twenty-five years ago the writer was one of a joint-stock proprietary who owned a boat on an inland river, winding through a retired and picturesque tract of country. There were seven of us, all being either singers or players of instruments; and in this boat it was our custom to spend an occasional leisure hour in musical voyagings up and down the river. To many an old English melody on these occasions did the moss-covered rocks and precipitous banks return harmonious echoes.

A Dancing Cow.

We made strange acquaintances on those long voyages, up a stream navigated by no other keel than ours, and, among other natural curiosities, we fell in with a musical cow. This creature, a small, cream-colored specimen of the Alderney breed, suckled her calf, along with a dozen other vaccine mothers, in a meadow which sloped down to the river’s brink.

Whenever we turned the bend of the river, “with our voices in tune as the oars kept time,” and the meadow came in sight, there we were sure to see the white cow, standing up to the shoulders in the water, whither she had advanced to meet us, her neck stretched out and her dripping nose turned toward the boat.

As we skirted the meadow, she kept pace with us on the bank, testifying her delight by antics of which no cow in her senses would have been thought capable. She would leap, skip, roll on her back, rear on her hind legs, and then hurl them aloft in the air like a kicking horse—now rushing into the water to look at us nearer, now frisking off like a kitten at play.

When she came to the meadow-fence, she dashed through it furiously into the next field, and so on through the next fence, and the next after that. The fourth being railed, she would turn it by wading the river, and was only prevented from following us farther by a steep, precipitous bank which stopped her progress.

After these mad gambols, she always returned to her calf, first saluting us with a long, plaintive kind of bellow, by way of farewell.

Violin Charms a Snake.

At this period it was that, rescuing a fine snake from some ignorant boys who were about to kill it, under the notion that it was venomous, but who were glad to sell it for twopence, we carried the slippery creature home, and assigned him a lodging in a small wicker basket, filled with moss and suspended by a single string from a hook in the ceiling of our bachelor’s snuggery.

The reptile grew to know us, and to welcome us in his way, by gliding his cold coil across our face and temples when we brought him fresh moss, or tempted him with food, which, by the way, he would never take. It was by accident only that we discovered his musical predilections.

One evening, while marching the room to the sound of our old violin, with which it was our custom to beguile an occasional hour, we caught sight of what seemed a monstrous python threatening us from aloft. It was the shadow of our pet snake, projected by the single candle on the table to the arched ceiling above, and magnified to formidable looking dimensions.

The fellow was hanging out of the basket almost by the tip of his tall, and, with his head stretched toward us, was following our motions as we walked up and down the room.

We remembered the snake-charmers, and conceived at once that it was the music which had brought him out; and so it proved, as we had opportunity of certifying by repeated experiments. Whenever he heard the violin he came out, and always with his head in the direction of the sound, as if anxious to reach it. When taken from the basket and hung around the neck, he lay limp and as if lifeless while the music lasted, and did not immediately recover when it had ceased.

One day, on finding that he made no appearance at the call of the violin, we reached down the basket and found him gone. Whether he had fallen out by accident while hanging by his tall, or taken the leap on purpose, there was no knowing; but he had disappeared, and we saw him no more, though a few weeks after his departure we found his skin, turned inside out, behind a box placed against the wall.

Dogs Are Discriminating.

Dogs, judging from the conduct of the generality of them, may be regarded as indifferent to music, as they are noticed neither to seek nor shun it, as a general rule. Being remarkably docile, however, they may be, and are, taught to discriminate tunes, and to dance to violin, pipe, and drum in a manner that indicates plainly enough their appreciation of musical time at least.

Some dogs grind organs at the command of their unfeeling exhibitors; and though they always set about the business with a serious face, that may be no proof that they dislike music.

Our own dog—a cross between a Scotch and a Skye terrier—is affected in an extraordinary way by the notes of the harmonium, and chooses to post himself close to the instrument while it is playing. So long as the music runs below a certain pitch all is well; but touch a single note above that, and he prepares to join in the performance himself.

A Tuneful Terrier.

If a shrill note is prolonged above a minim, he points his nose in the air, at an angle of about forty degrees, and, elongating his body in a straight line from the nostrils to the tail, pitches precisely the same note, which he will go on sounding as long as you please. The inference generally drawn is that he dislikes it, and that the notes to which he thus responds are painful to him. To us that is not so clear, since, though the door be open, and he has the run of the whole house, he never shows the least disposition to make his escape. Who shall say that it is not a luxury to him?

The point is doubtful, at least; and we shall give him the benefit of the doubt, and acquit him of the charge, which we deem odious, of disrelishing music.

We shall close the present sketch by a remarkable instance of the love of music exemplified in the conduct of a party of mice who had obtained surreptitious admission at a public concert. Thus it runs:

“Soon after Miss Hay had commenced her first song, the party occupying the front seats saw a mouse sauntering leisurely up and down, close to the skirting of the platform on which she was singing. As the song proceeded, the mouse stood spellbound. A lady tried to drive it away by shaking her concert-bill at it; but the little animal had lost its fear of man, and would not retire.

Appreciative Mice.

“At the conclusion of the piece the mouse vanished, but reappeared, bringing with it a companion when the next song commenced. At the end of song the second the two mice retreated to their hole, but made their third appearance on the boards when the singing was again renewed.

“Eventually, six or seven mice came out regularly with every song, and retired when the music ceased. While the melodious tones filled the apartment all attempts to drive away the mice were vain. These most timid members of the animal kingdom were too fascinated to be in terror of the human family, who actually filled the room; and though a fiftieth part of the means used to drive them away would, under ordinary circumstances, have sufficed, they now stood, or slowly glided, so entranced by the melody which pervaded the room that they were heedless of the presence of their natural enemies.

“How naturalists may explain this phenomenon we know not, nor shall we swell this article by attempting a solution.”

The paragraph concluded by giving the names of several respectable individuals who witnessed the singular phenomenon, and who were willing to testify to the truth of the report.

The Discovery of America.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

In accordance with its policy of presenting to its readers each month articles that have to do with the history and characteristics of the month itself, THE SCRAP BOOK herewith reprints the most entertaining account that has been written of what is, without question, the most memorable incident of the month of October—the discovery of America by Christopher Columbus. It is from the pen of Washington Irving, the first great man of letters produced in the New World.

In the course of a period of travel in Europe, Irving went to Madrid, Spain, in 1826. There a post as attaché of the United States Legation was offered to him by Alexander H. Everett, then our minister to the Spanish court. This offer was accepted. Mr. Everett suggested that Irving make a translation from the Spanish of Navarrete’s “Voyages of Columbus.” The suggestion appealed to Irving, but he had scarcely more than addressed himself to his task when the idea occurred to him to write an original work on the subject. He searched the Spanish archives for new material and worked so zealously that in July, 1827, he was able to place the completed manuscript in the hands of John Murray, the famous English publisher, who brought out the work, in three volumes, in 1828.

In order that the sketch here given may be the better appreciated by persons who have allowed the earlier incidents of Columbus’s memorable voyage to escape their memories, it may be well to say that with funds supplied by Ferdinand and Isabella, King and Queen of Spain, Columbus sailed from Palos, Spain, on August 3, 1492. The expedition consisted of the Santa Maria, a decked ship, with a crew of fifty men, and commanded by Columbus in person; and of two caravels—the Pinta, with thirty men, commanded by Martin Pinzon, and the Niña, with twenty-four men, under Vicente Yañez Pinzon, a brother of Martin. Columbus had the rank of admiral. The total number of men on the three vessels was one hundred and twenty. Owing to an accident to the rudder of the Pinta, the expedition was compelled to put in at the Canary Islands on August 9th. On September 6th the vessels again weighed anchor and sailed westward into the mysterious “Ocean Sea.”

The situation of Columbus was daily becoming more and more critical. In proportion as he approached the regions where he expected to find land, the impatience of his crews augmented. The favorable signs which increased his confidence were derided by them as delusive; and there was danger of their rebelling, and obliging him to turn back when on the point of realizing the object of all his labors. They beheld themselves with dismay, still wafted onward, over the boundless wastes of what appeared to them a mere watery desert surrounding the habitable world.

What was to become of them should their provisions fail? Their ships were too weak and defective even for the great voyage they had already made, but if they were still to press forward, adding at every moment to the immense expanse behind them, how should they ever be able to return, having no intervening port where they might victual and refit?

In this way they fed each other’s discontents, gathering together in little knots, and fomenting a spirit of mutinous opposition; and when we consider the natural fire of the Spanish temperament and its impatience of control, and that a great part of these men were sailing on compulsion, we cannot wonder that there was imminent danger of their breaking forth into open rebellion and compelling Columbus to turn back.

In their secret conferences they exclaimed against him as a desperado, bent, in a mad fantasy, upon doing something extravagant to render himself notorious. What were their sufferings and dangers to one evidently content to sacrifice his own life for the chance of distinction? What obligations bound them to continue on with him, or when were the terms of their agreement to be considered as fulfilled?

They had already penetrated unknown seas, untraversed by a sail, far beyond where man had ever before ventured. They had done enough to gain themselves a character for courage and hardihood in undertaking such an enterprise and persisting in it so far. How much farther were they to go in quest of a merely conjectured land? Were they to sail on until they perished, or until all return became impossible? In such case they would be the authors of their own destruction.

On the other hand, should they consult their safety, and turn back before too late, who would blame them? Any complaints made by Columbus would be of no weight; he was a foreigner without friends or influence; his schemes had been condemned by the learned and discountenanced by people of all ranks. He had no party to uphold him, and a host of opponents whose pride of opinion would be gratified by his failure. Or, as an effectual means of preventing his complaints, they might throw him into the sea, and give out that he had fallen overboard while busy with his instruments contemplating the stars—a report which no one would have either the inclination or the means to controvert.

Columbus was not ignorant of the mutinous disposition of his crew; but he still maintained a serene and steady countenance, soothing some with gentle words, endeavoring to stimulate the pride or avarice of others, and openly menacing the refractory with signal punishment should they do anything to impede the voyage.