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 thousand 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 thousand 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 thousand 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 thousand 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 thousand strings, sperits uv jest men made perfeck.”
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.”