Litchfield enquirer., 1862-11-27

whom have forgotten, followed. At the close of each piece, Tom, without waiting for the au- dience, would himself applaud violently, kick ing, pounding his hands together, turning al- ways to his master for the approving pat on the head Songs, recitaions such as l have de scribed, filled up the first part of the evening then musician from the audience went upon the stage to pH the boys powers to the final test. Songs and intricate symphonies were giv' on, which it was most improbable the boy could ever hay. heard he remained standing, utterly moiionless, until they were finished, and for a moment or two aGer-ihen. seating himself. gave them without the break of a note. Others fol- lowed more difficult, in which he played the bass accompaniment in the manner I have de scribed. repeating instantly the treble. The child looked dull, wearied, during this part oi the trial, and lis master, perceivng ii, announ- ced the exhibition closed. when the musician (who was citizen of tae town, bythe-way) drew out thick roll of score, which he explain ed 10 be a Fantasia of his own composition never published.
 "7his 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 boys brain to so cruel a test some of the audience even interfered but the musician insisted, and took his place. Tom sat beside hm-his head rolling nervously from side to side-s,ruck the opening cadence, and then, from the first note to the last, gave the se- condo triumphantly. Jumping up, he fairly shove q the man from his seat, and proceeded to play the treble with more brlliancy and power than it's composer. When he struck the last oc- tave, he sprang up, yelling with delight :-
 "Ums got him, Massa! ums got him 1" cheering and rolling about the stage.
 The cheers of the audience-for the boys es- pecially 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, 1 have not touched upon the moments when his master was talking, and Tom was left to himself-when a weary despair seem ed to settle down on the distorted face, and the stubby little black fingers, wandering over the keys, spoke for Toms own caeed soul within. Never, by any chance, merry, childish laugh of xnusic in the broken cadences tender or wild, a defiant ortcry, tired sigh breaking down into silence. Whatever wearied voice it took, the same bitter, hopeless soul spoke through all |: " Bless me, even ne, also, o my Father!' A something that took all the pain and pathos of the world into its weak and pitiful cry.
 Some beautiful caged spirit, one could not but know, struggled for breath under that brutal form and idiotc brain. 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 story?) in your own kitchen, in your own black alley, there are spirits as beautiful caged in forms as bcstia , 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--IHiss Hdrding in tAe Aad''t:c.