recitations such as I have described, filled up the first part of the evening; then a musician from the audience went upon the stage to put the boy’s powers to the final test.  Songs and intricate symphonies were given, which it was most improbable the boy could ever have heard; he remained standing, utterly motionless, until they were finished, and for a moment or two after,—­then, seating himself, gave them without the break of a note.  Others followed, more difficult, in which he played the bass accompaniment in the manner I have described, repeating instantly the treble.  The child looked dull, wearied, during this part of the trial, and his master, perceiving it, announced the exhibition closed, when the musician (who was a citizen of the town, by-the-way) drew out a thick roll of score, which he explained to be a Fantasia of his own composition, never published.

“This it was impossible the boy could have heard; there could be no trick of memory in this; and on this trial,” triumphantly, “Tom would fail.”

The manuscript was some fourteen pages long,—­variations on an inanimate theme.  Mr. Oliver refused to submit the boy’s brain to so cruel a test; some of the audience, even, interfered; but the musician insisted, and took his place.  Tom sat beside him,—­his head rolling nervously from side to side,—­struck the opening cadence, and then, from the first note to the last, gave the secondo triumphantly.  Jumping up, he fairly shoved the man from his seat, and proceeded to play the treble with more brilliancy and power than its composer.  When he struck the last octave, he sprang up, yelling with delight:—­

“Um’s got him, Massa! um’s got him!” cheering and rolling about the stage.

The cheers of the audience—­for the boys especially did not wait to clap—­excited him the more.  It was an hour before his master could quiet his hysteric agitation.

That feature of the concerts which was the most painful I have not touched upon:  the moments when his master was talking, and Tom was left to himself,—­when a weary despair seemed to settle down on the distorted face, and the stubby little black fingers, wandering over the keys, spoke for Tom’s own caged soul within.  Never, by any chance, a merry, childish laugh of music in the broken cadences; tender or wild, a defiant outcry, a tired sigh breaking down into silence.  Whatever wearied voice it took, the same bitter, hopeless soul spoke through all:  “Bless me, even me, also, O my Father!” A something that took all the pain and pathos of the world into its weak, pitiful cry.

Some beautiful caged spirit, one could not but know, struggled for breath under that brutal form and idiotic brain.  I wonder when it will be free.  Not in this life:  the bars are too heavy.

You cannot help Tom, either; all the war is between you.  He was in Richmond in May.  But (do you hate the moral to a story?) in your own kitchen, in your own back-alley, there are spirits as beautiful, caged in forms as bestial, that you could set free, if you pleased.  Don’t call it bad taste in me to speak for them.  You know they are more to be pitied than Tom,—­for they are dumb.