Original Find Was in North Carolina, While the First Attempt to
Manufacture It Was Made in Virginia in 1619.
Iron is, fortunately, the most abundant of metals as well as the most
useful, and is to be found in almost all parts of the world.
The first recorded find was in North Carolina in 1585, while the first
effort to manufacture it was made in Virginia in 1619.
The works were destroyed by Indians in 1622. The next attempt was at
Lynn, Massachusetts, where a blast furnace was started in 1643, which
produced some “sow” iron in 1645, and where a forge was built in 1648.
Bog-ore was generally used in New England in colonial days.
The first export of iron (bar) to England was made in 1717, and the
first pig-iron in 1728. Up to 1720, Massachusetts was the chief seat
of the iron industry in the colonies. In the year 1750, Pennsylvania
became the leading iron-producing colony.
The Harp of a Thousand Strings.
A Quaint Specimen of the Sermons Preached by Itinerant Exhorters in the
South in the Middle of the Last Century—Now Almost Forgotten, It Had the
Whole Country Laughing Fifty Years Ago.
The droll little sketch entitled “The Harp of a Thousand Strings”
appeared many years ago in a New Orleans newspaper. While Joshua S.
Morris is generally credited with the authorship, the claims of others
have been advanced from time to time, and the authorship appears to be
almost as cloudy as the identity of the writers of “Laugh and the
World Laughs With You,” “Casey at the Bat,” and “If I Should Die
To-Night.”
But, however cloudy may be the identity of the author, there is no
suggestion of haziness about the humor which invests the sketch
itself. “The Harp of a Thousand Strings” had scarcely more than
attained the dignity of print when it was pounced upon by nearly every
elocutionist and chronic story-teller in the country. Hundreds of
newspapers reprinted it, and in England it was frequently quoted as an
admirable example of American humor.
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.