LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2598, 4 August 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A VEBY CURIOTH EXPERIENCE. BY MABK TWAIST. This ia the story whloh the Major told me as nearly »s I can recall it:—ln the winter of 1862-3 I was commandant of Port Trumbull, at t> ew London, Conn. M»ybe onr life there was not bo brisk as life at ' the front;' still it was brisk enough, in its way—one's I rains didn't cake together there for lack of somethinv to keep them stirring, for one thing, all the Northern atmosphere a 1; that time was tbicK with mysterious rumors—iiimo'S to the effect that rebel spies were flitting everywhere, and getting ready to blow up our Northern forts, burn our hotels, send infected clothiog Into our towns, and all that sort of thing. Yon remember it. A.tl this had a tendenoy to keep us awake, and knock the traditional dullness out of garrison life. Well, one day I was in my quarters alone, doing some writiog, when a pale lad of fourteen or fif een entered, made a neat bow, and said—'l believe reoruis are received here !' • Yes.' ' Will you pleise <"ilht me, sir?' 'Dear me, no! You are too young, my boy, and too smill.' A disaopiinted look came Into his face, and quickly deepened into an expression of despondency. Be turnei slowly away, as if to go; hesitated, then faced me aga*n, and said, in a tone which went to my heirt—

• I have no h-me, a r d not a friend in the world. If yoa could only enlist me!' Bat of course the thing was out of the question, and I said so as gent'y as I could Than I told him to sit down by the stove and warm him»elf, and »ddei—' Yon shr'.l have somo'.hing to eat presently. You are hungry?' He did not answer; he did not need to; the gratitude in his big soft eyes was more eloquent than any words fould have been. He Bat down by the stove, and I went on writing. Occasionally I - took a furtive planes at him. I noticed that his clothes and shoes, although soiled and damaged, were of good sty'e and material. Ths fact was suggestive. To it I added the fact that h s voioe was low and musical, his eves desp and melancholy, his carriage and addrees gentleminlv. Evidently ths pirr chap was in trouble As a resale, I was interested. However, I bscanae absorbad In my wort bvand by, and forgot all about the boy. I den't know haw long tbis lasted, but at length 1 happened to loik up The. boy's back was towards me, but his face w»i turned in such a way that I could see one of his cheeks—fnd down that cheek a rill of noiseless tears was flowing. ■ God bless my siul!' I said to myself, ' I forgot the poor rat was starving.' Then I made amandi for my brutality by say in?, ' Come along, my lad ; you shall dine with me ; I am alone ti-dav.' He gave me aro b.3r of thosa grateful looks, and a happy light broke in hla f »c?. At the table he stood with his hand on his chair-back until I was seated, then seated him; elf. I took up my koife and fork, and —wf-11, I simply held them and kept still: for the boy bad inclined his head and was saying a silent grace A thousand hallowed memories of h me and childhood ponrod in up n ms, and I tightd to think bow far I ha I drifted from religion and its balm for hurt miods, its comfort and s:lace and sapport. As our meal progreised I observed that young Wicklow— Robert Wicklow was bis full name —knew what to do with his napkin ; and —well, In a word, I obtervid that he was a boy of good bleeding; never mind the details. He had a simple frankness, too, wh'ch won upon me. We talked mainly ab;ut himself, and I had no difficulty

in getting his history out of him. When ho spoke of his having been born and reared in Louisiana, I warmed to him decidedly, for I had s;>ent some time down there. It was almost as good as being back. Briefly, this was little Wicklow's history : —When the war broke out he and his invalid aunt and hia father were living near Baton Roug\ on a great plantation whioh had been in the family for fifty years. The father was a union man. He was persecuted In all sorts of way 3, but clung to his principles. At last, one night marked men burned his mansion down, and the family had to fly for their lives, They were hunted from place to place, and learned all there wan to know about 'poverty, and distress. The Invalid aunt found relief at laBt; misery and exposure killed her; she died in an open field, like a tramp, the rain beating upon her and the thunder booming overhead. Not long afcerwar! the father was capt ired by an a<*med band ; and. while the son begged and pleaded, the viotim was Strang up before his face. As soon as the father was pronounced dead, the eon was to'd that If he was not out of that region within twenty four hours, it would go harJ with him. That night he orept to the river side and hid himself near a plantation landing. By-and-by the F. Kenner stopped there, and he swam oat and hid himself in thb yawl that was dragging at her stern. Before daybreak the boat reached the Stock landing, and be slipped ashore He walked about three miles whioh lay between that point and the honse of an unole of his in Good Children street, in New Orleans, and then his troubles were over for the time being. But this nnole was a Union man, too, and before very long he concluded that he bad better leave the Sou'h. So be and young Wloklow slipped out of the o untry on board a sailing vfssel and in due time reached York. They pat np at the Astor Howe Yonng Wicklow had a good time of it for a whi!e, strolling up and down Broadway, and observing the strange Northern s : ghts ; but in the end a change came—and not for the better. The uncle ha I been cheerful at first, but nw he became moody, and irritable; talked of money giving out and no way to get more—• not enough left f>r one, let alor « two.' Then, onemo-ninghe was missing—did not come to breakfast The boy enquired at the office, and was told that the uncle had paid his bill the ni«ht before and gone away —to Boston, the c erk believed, but was not certain.

The l«d waa alone and friendless. He did not know what to do, bub concluded he had better try to follow and find his uncle. He went down to the steam boat landina ; learned that the trifle ,of money in his picket would noi catty .him to Biston; however, it would oaiay him to New London ; so he took passajt for that port, resolving to trust to Providence to furnish him means to travel the rest of the way. He had now been wande-ing about the streets of New London thres days and nfg'its, getting a b!te and a nap her J and there for charity's sske. But he had given up at last; courage and hope were both gone. If he could eniist, nobody oould be more thankful; if be could not get in as a soldier, couldn't he be a drummer boy ? Ah, be would work so hard to please, and would be so grateful! Well, there's the history of young Wioklow, just as he told It to me, bariiog .details. I 8-id, "My boy, you're among friends, now—don't you be any mifd:' H<> w *>'" eyea glistened. I wiled in Sergeant John Bayburn and said, 'Bayburn, quarter th?s bay VTJtn the musician*. I am going to enrol him as drummer boy. and I want you to look after him and see that he is well treated.' Well, of coura?, intercanrse between the commandant of the post and the drummer-boy o»me to an end, now; but the poor little friendless chap l*y heavy oi my heart, just the same. I kept on the look out, hop'ng to se» him brighten up and begin to be cherry and gay ; but no, the days went by, and there was no change. He a-soc'a'.ed with nobody; he was alwayß absentminded, always thinking; his face was always sad. One morning Bayburn asked leave to speak to me privately. B»id he : • I hope I don't offend, sir j but the truth ia, the musicians ere in such a sweat it ie 3 ms as if somebody's gat to speak.' ' Why, what is the trouble f • It's the Wioklow boy. sir The musicians are down on him to an extent you can't imagine.* ' • Well, go -jd. What has hs been doing ? •Prayin', sir.* •Praying !' 1 ?< s, sir ; the mualoiana haven t any pease of thetr life for tbat boy's prayin'. first thing in the morning he's at it; noons he's at it; and nights—well, nights he just lays into 'em like all possessed I bleep r Bless yoD, they cen't step ; he's got the floor, 6s the eayin* is, and then when he once gets his supplication mill agoln', there just simply eint a->y let-np to him. He starts In with the bandmaster, and he prays for him; next he takea the head bugler, and he prays for him; next the bass dram, and he scoops him in ; and so on, right straight through the band, givin' them all a show, and tafcin' that amount of interest iu it which would make you think he thought he wam't but a little while for this world, and believed he couldn't be happy In heaven without he had a brass band along, and wanted to piok 'em out for himself, ro he oould depend oa 'em to do up the national tunes In a style auit'n'to the place. Well, air, heavin' boota at him don't have no effect; it's t"ark in there; and bcsidei, he doa't pray fair, anyway, but kneels down be v ind the big dram; bo it don't maie no difference if they rain boota at him, he don't give a nern—warbles right along, same as if It was applause. They sing out—" Oh, dry up!" "Give us a rest?" "Shoot him!' "Oh tike a walk!" and aU sorts of anoh things. But whit of it? It don't phaza him He don't mind It.' After a pause—- ■ Kind of a good little fool, too ; gits np In the mornin' and carts all tbat stock of boots back, and sorts 'em out and sets eaoh man's pair where they belong. And they've been throwed at him so much now that he knows every boot in the band—can sort 'em out with his eyes shut.' After another pause—wfcioh I forebore to interrupt:— . . • But the roughest thing about it is. that when he's done pr±yin'—when he ever does get done— he' f pip?s up and begins to sing. Well, you know what a honey kind of a voice he's got when he talks; you know how it would persuade a cast iron dog to oome diwn off a door-step and lick his hand. Now, if you'll take my word for it sir, it ain't a circumstance to his singin'! Flute music is harsh to that boy's singln'. Oh, he just gurgles it out so soft and sweet and low, there in the dark, that it m»kes you think you are in heaven.' ' What is there ' rough' about that ?' ' Ah. that's just it, sir. You hear Mm sing ' Just as I am—poor, wretched, blind' just you hear him sing that, onoe, and aoe if you don't melt all up and the water Into your eyes! i don't care what he sings, it goes plum Btralght home to you—it goes deep down to where you live—and it fetches you every time! Just you hear h'm sing: "Child of sin and sorrow, filled with dismay, Walt not till to-morrow, yield thee today; Grieve not that love Which, from above"—

and so on. It makes a body feel like the wickedest, ungrate fullest brute that walks. And when he sings them songs of his about home, and mother, and childhood, and old friends dead and gone, it fetches everything before your face that you've ever loved and lost In all your life—and it's just beautiful, it's just divine to listen to, sir -bat Lord, Lord, the heart-break of it I The band—well, they all ory—every rascal of them blubbers, and don't try to bide it, either ; and firat you know, that very gang that's been slammin' boots at that boy will skip out of their bunks all of a sudden, and rash over in the dark and hug him I Yes, they do—and slobber all over him, and call him pet names, and beg him to forgive them And jast at that time, if a regiment was to offer to hurt a hair of that cub's head, they'd go for that regiment, if it was a whole army oorpa !' Another pause. ' la that all ?' said J. «Yes. sir.' ' Well, dear me, what Is the complaint ? What do th»y want done ?' • Oone ? Why, bless you, sir, tat y wank you to stop him from the slnglnV • What an idea I you said his music was divine.* 'That's jast It. It's too divine. Morlal man oan't stand It. It Btlra a body inside out j It racks his feelln's all to rags; it makes him feel bad and wioked, and not fit for any place but perdition. It ke»ps a body

in each an everlastin* state of repentln' that nothln' don't taste good and there ain't no comfort in life. And then the cryin', yon Bee—every mornin' they are ashamed to look one another in the faoe.'

' Well, this is an odd case and a singular omplaint. So they really want the singing stopped ?' 'Yes, sir, that la the idea. They don't wish to ask too muoh ; they would like powerful well to have the prayln' shut down on, or leastways trimmed off around the edges ; but the main thing's the aingln'. If they oan only get the aingin' choked off they think they can stand the prayln', rough as it is to be bullyragged so muoh that way.' I I told the sergeant I would take the matter under consideration. That night I crept into the musicians' quarters and listened. The sergeant had not overstated the caie. I heard the praying voloe plead last in the dark ; I he >rd the execrations of th■> harassed men ; I heard the rain of boot* whis through the air and bane and thump around the big drum. The thing touched me, but it amused me too. By-and-by, after an impressive ailenoe, came the singing. Lord, the pathos cf it, the enchantment of it! .Nothing in the world was ever bo sweet, si gracious, so tender, so holy, moving. 1 I maie my stay very brief; I wa* beginning to experience emotions of a sort not proper to the oammandant of a fortress. Next day I issued order* which stopped the praying and singing. Then followed three or f jur days which were so full of bounty* jumping excitements and irritations that I never once thought of my drammer-boy. But now comes Sergeant Haybarn one morning, and says—'That new boy acts mighty strange, air.' ■ How ?' ' Well, sir, he's all the time writing.' * Writing ? What does he write- letter* ?' ' I don't know, sir; but whenever he's off duty, he is always poking and nosing around the fort, all by himself— blest if I think there's a hole or corner in it he hasn't been into—and every little while he outs with pencil and paper and scribbles something down.' (To be continued )