soul from the boy; just the same record as that
of thousands of imbecile negro children. Generations
of heathendom and slavery have dredged
the inherited brains and temperaments of such
children tolerably clean of all traces of power
or purity,— palsied the brain, brutalised the
nature. Tom apparently fared no better than his
fellows.

It was not until 1857 that phenomenal powers
latent in the boy were suddenly developed,
which stamped him the anomaly he is today.

One night, some time in the summer of that
year, Mr. Oliver's family were wakened by the
sound of music in the drawing-room,— not only
the simple airs, but the most difficult exercises
usually played by his daughters were repeated
again and again, the touch of the musician being
timid, but singularly true and delicate.

Going down, they found Tom, who had been
left asleep in the hall, seated at the piano, in an
ecstasy of delight, breaking out at the end of
each successful fugue into shouts of laughter,
kicking his heels and clapping his hands. This
was the first time he had touched the piano.
Naturally, Tom became a nine days' wonder on
the plantation. He was brought in as an afterdinner's
amusement; visitors asked for him as
the show of the place. There was hardly a
realisation, however, in the minds of those who
heard him of how deep the cause for wonder
lay. The planters' wives and daughters of the
neighbourhood were not people who would be
apt to comprehend music as a science, or use it
as language; they only saw in the little negro,
therefore, a remarkable facility for repeating
the airs they drummed on their pianos— in a
different manner from theirs, it is true— which
bewildered them. They noticed, too, that, however
the child's fingers fell on the keys, cadences
followed, broken, wandering, yet of
startling beauty and pathos. The house-servants,
looking in through the open doors at the
little black figure perched up before the instrument,
while unknown wild harmony drifted
through the evening air, had a better conception
of him. He was possessed; some ghost spoke
through him— which is a fair enough definition
of genius for a Georgian slave to offer.

Mr. Oliver being indulgent, Tom was allowed
to have constant access to the piano; in truth,
he could not live without it; when deprived of
music now, actual physical debility followed; the
gnawing Something had found its food at last.
No attempt was made, however, to give him any
scientific musical teaching; nor — I wish it distinctly
borne in mind— has he ever at any time
received such instruction.

The planter began to wonder what kind of a
creature this was which he had bought, flesh and
soul. In what part of the unsightly baby-carcase
had been stowed away these old airs, forgotten
by every one else, and some of them
never heard by the child but once, but which he
now reproduced, every note intact, and with
whatever quirk or quiddity of style belonged to
the person who originally had sung or played
them? Stranger still, the harmonics which he
had never heard, had learned from no man;
the sluggish breath of the old house, being enchanted,
grew into quaint and delicate whims of
music, never the same, changing every day.
Never glad: uncertain, sad minors always, vexing
the content of the hearer,— one inarticulate,
unanswered question of pain in all, making them
one. Even the vulgarest listener was troubled,
hardly knowing why,— how sad Tom's music
was! At last the time came when the door was
to be opened, when some listener, not vulgar,
recognising the child as God made him, induced
his master to remove him from the plantation.
Something ought to be done for him: the world
ought not to be cheated of this pleasure— besides,
the money that could be made! So, Mr.
Oliver, with a kindly feeling for Tom, proud, too,
of this agreeable monster which his plantation
had grown, and sensible that it was a more
fruitful source of revenue than tobacco-fields,
set out with the boy, literally to seek their
fortune.

The first exhibition of him was given, I think,
in Savannah, Georgia; thence he was taken to
Charleston, Richmond; thence, to all the principal
cities and towns in the Southern States.

This was in 1858. From that time until the
present, Tom has lived constantly an open life,
petted, feted, his real talent befogged by exaggeration,
and so pampered and coddled that one
might suppose the only purpose was to corrupt
and wear it out. For these reasons this statement
is purposely guarded, and restricted to
plain known facts.

No sooner had Tom been brought before the
public than the pretensions put forward by his
master commanded the scrutiny of both scientific
and musical sceptics. His capacities were subjected
to rigorous tests. Fortunately for the
boy: for, so tried, harshly, it is true, yet skilfully,
they not only bore the trial, but acknowledged
the touch as skilful; every day new
powers were developed, until he reached his
limit, beyond which it is not probable he will
ever pass. That limit, however, establishes him
as an anomaly in musical science.

Physically, and in animal temperament, this
negro ranks next to the lowest Guinea type:
with strong appetites and gross bodily health
— except in one particular, which will be mentioned
hereafter. In the every-day apparent intellect,
in reason or judgment, he is but one
degree above an idiot— incapable of comprehending
the simplest conversation on ordinary topics
— amused or enraged with trifles, such as would
affect a child of three years old. On the other
side, his affections are alive, even vehement,
delicate in their instinct as a dog's or an infant's;
he will detect the step of any one dear
to him, in a crowd, and will burst into tears, if
not kindly spoken to.

His memory is so accurate that he can repeat,
without the loss of a syllable, a discourse of
fifteen minutes in length, of which he does not
understand a word. Songs, too, in French or
German, after a single hearing, he renders not
only literally in words, but in notes, style, and