The Labor enquirer. [volume], December 16, 1882, Page 2, Image 2

About The Labor enquirer. [volume] (Denver, Colo.) 1882-1888

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i_njw nine ludiuis remind us.
As in snowy grace the}’ lie,
Nor to scatter thorns, but roses.
For our reaping by and by!
Strange we never prise the music.
Till the sweet voice bird lias flown;
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone.
Strange that summer skies and sunshine
Never seem one half sp fair
As when winter’s snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air.
Tips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away, ,
Never btossomed in such beaut}
As adorns the mouth to-day:
And sweet words that freight our memory 1
With their beautiful perfume.
Come to us in sweetest accents.
Through the portals of the tomb.
Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all along our path:
Let us keep the wheat and roses.
Casting out the thorns mid chart':
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day.
With a patient hfmd removing
All our griefs from out our way.
—TS- ♦»
V A Cl RIOUS EXPERIENCE.
HY MARK TWAIN.
Tip s is the story which the Major told
tae, a, nearly as L can recall it:
In the winter of .186:2-0 A was com-i
mandant of Fort Trumbull, at New Lon
don Connecticut. May be oijr life' there
was not so brisk as life at "the front:”
still it. was brisk enough in its way — |
ne’sjjrajns didn’t cake together there
for lack of something to keep them j
stirring. For one thing, all the northern I
„mosphere at that time was thick with :
mysterious rumors —rumors to the effect j
that rebelepiou were Asking c tori Where, j
and getting ready to blow up our northern J
forts, burn our hotels, send infected |
clothing into our towns, and all that
sort of thing. You remember it. All
this had a tendency tp keep us awake, j
and knock the traditional dullness out of
garrison life. Besides, ours was a re
cru ling station, which is the same as
saying we hadn’t any time to waste in j
dozing, or dreaming, or fqoling around.;
Why, with all our watchfullness, fifty
per cent of a day’s recruits would leak
out of our hand: and give us the slip the
same night. The bounties were so prodi
gious that a recruit could pay a sentinel
three or four hundred dollars to let him
escape, and still have enough of his
bounty money left to constitute a fortune
for a poor man. Yes. as 1 said before,
our life was not drowsy.
Well, one day f was in my quarters
alone, doing seine writing, when a,pale
and ragged lad of fourteen or fifteen en
tered, made a neat bow, and said.
“I believe..recruits are received here?”
“Yes."
“Will you pledse enlist me, sir?''
“Dear me, no F You are too young, my
boy, anddoo smalt”
A disappointed lpok came into his face,
and quickly deepened into an expression
of despondency. He turnefl slowly
away, as if to go ; hesitated, then faced
me again, and said, in a tone which went
to my. heart: ’ ,
“I have no home, and not a friend in
the world. If you could only enlist me!”
But of course the thing was out of the
question, and I said so as gently as I
could. Then I told him to set down by
the stove and warm himself, and added :
“You shall have something to eat pres
ently. You are hungry?" ,
He did not answer: he did not need
y ; the gratitude in his big soft eyes was
more eloquent than any words could
have beep. He sat down by the stove,
and I -went on writing. Occasionally I
took a furtive glance at him. I noticed
that his clothes and shoes, although
soiled and damaged, were of good style
and material. This fact was suggestive.
To it I added the facts that his voice was
low and musical; his eyes deep and mel
ancholy ; his carriage and address gen
tlemanly ; evidently the poor chap was
in trouble. As a result, I was interested.
However. I became absorbed in my
work, by and by, and forgot all about the
boy. I don’t know how long this lasted;
but at length I happened to look up. The
boy’s back was toward me, but his face
was turned in such away that I could
' ■■ . L .I’ • ’ lit l
cheek h. ' of rttc-...tears was •
1 (Otw my >
fc.-.’-.'M ;«■ -poo" ;at -"as shir'-ng ’
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f
and support.
As ©ur meal progressed I observed that
young Wicklow—Robert Wicklow was
his full name —knew what to do witli
liis napkin; and —well, in a word, I ob
j served that he was a boy of good breed
\ ing; never mind the details. He had a
simple frankness, too, which won upon
me. We talked mainly about liimself,
and t had no difficulty in getting his his
torv unt of him. When lie spoke of his
\ having been born and reared in Louisi
ana. I warmed to him decidedly, for I
1 had spent some time down there, i
knew all the “coast” region of the -Mis
sissippi, and loved it, and had not been
long enough away from it tor niy interest
in it to begin to pale. The very names
that fell from his lips sounded good to
me—so good that I steered the talk in
directions that would bring them out. I
Baton Rouge, Plaquemine, Donalolson
ville, Sixty-mile Point, Bohnet-( arre, the
Stock Landing, Carrollton, the Steam
ship Landing, the Steamboat Landing,
New Orleans, Tchoupitoulas street, the
Esplanade, the Rue des Rons Enfants, j
the St. Charles hotel, the Tivola circle, I
the Shell road. Lake Pontcliartrain; and
it was particularly delightful to me to
hear once more of the R. F,. Lee, the!
Natchez, the Eclipse, the General Quit-'
man, the Duncan F. Kenner, and other
old.familiar steamboats. It was almost
as good as being back there, these names
so vividly reproduced in my mind the j
■look of the things they stood for.
Briefly, this was little Wi.cklow's history:
i When the war broke out lie and his
invalid aunt and his father were living
j near Baton Rouge on a great and rich
1 plantation which had been in the family
| for fifty years. The father was a union
j man. He was persecuted in all sorts of
ways, but clung to liis principles. At j
, last, one night, masked men burned his
i mansion down, and the family had to fly 1
I J . I
! for their lives. They were hunted from
j place to place, and learned all there was
to know about poverty, hunger and dis
tress.; The invalid aunt found relief at
[last: misery and exposure killed her;
I she died in an open field, like a tramp,
j the rain beating upon her and the tliun
j der booming overhead. Not long after
! ward the father was captured by an
| armed band, and while the son begged
| and pleaded the victim was strung up
j before his face. [At this point a baleful
light shone in the youth’s eyes, and he
said with the manner of one who talks
|to himself: “If I cannot be enlisted, no
matter—l shall And a way —I shall find
! a way."] As soon as the father was pro
nounced dead the son was told that if he
was not out of that region within twenty
| four hours it would go hard with him.
I That night he crept to the riverside and
11ml himself near a plantation landing.
By and by the Duncan F. Kenner stopped
! there and he swam out and concealed
himself in the yawl that was dragging at
i her stern. Before daylight the boat
J reached the stock landing and lie slipped
j ashore. He walked the three miles
which lay between that point and the
1 house of an uncle of his in Good Children
| street, in New Orleans, and then his
troubles were over for the time being,
but this uncle was a union man, too, and
| before long he concluded that he had
i better leave the south. So he and young
Wicklow slipped out of the country on
board a sailing vessel and in due time
t reached New York. They put up at the
Astor house. Young Wicklow had a
good time of it for awhile, strolling up
and down Broadway, and observing the
strange northern sights, but in the end a
; change came—and not for the better.
; The uncle had been cheerful at first, but
j now he began to look troubled and de
spondent; moreover, he became moody
and irritable ; talked of money giving
out and no way to get more—“not enough
left for one, let alone two.” Then, one
morning, he was missing—did not come
to breakfast. The boy inquired at the
office, and was told that the uncle had
paid his bill the night before and gone
Way—to Boston, the clerk believed, but
was not certain.
The lad was alone and friendless. He
did not know what to do, but concluded
he had better try to follow and find his
Hi: la 601 cNOlh!; !• :>-.
uncle f b v.v.j , to ' ■mm-, c
1 mdiflg. ietfnn.L'iui tine i<.ti- *• ’* c oin -
in h'.-f pocku? '.y /:■ l not carry him b- .<•»*
i ton . i jver.ii mid vary hie ■’-•■a
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! his eyes glistened ! I called in Sergeant
John Rayburn—he was from Hartford;
lives in Hartford yet; may be you know
him—and said : “ltayburn, quarter this
boy with the musicians. I am going to
enroll him as a drummer boy,and I want
you to look after him and see that he is
well treated.”
Well, of course, intercourse between
the commandant of the post and the
drummer boy came to an end, now; but
the poor little friendless chap lay heavy
on my heart just the same. 1 kept on
the lookout, hoping to see him brighten
up and begin to be cheery and gay ; but
no, the days went by, and there was no
change. He associated With nobody; he
was also absent-minded, always thinking;
his Mace was always sad. One morning
Rayburn asked leave to speak to me
[privately. Said lie:
“1 hope I don’t offend, sir. but the truth
is, the musicians are in such a sweat it
1 seqms as if somebody's got to speak.
“Why. what is the trouble?”
| “It's the Wicklow boy, sir. The mu
sicians are down oa him to an extent you
I can’t imagine.
> “Well, go on,go on. \\ hat has he been
doing?”
‘Trayin , sir.
“Braying!”
1 “Yes, Fir, the musicians haven't any
peace of their life for that boy's prayin'.
First thing in the morning he’s at it;
| noons lie's at it; and -nights— well, nights
he just lays into ’em like all possessed '
i Sleep? Bless you, they can’t sleep; lie's
| got the floor, as the savin' is, and then
1 when lie once gets his supplication mill
| agoin’ there jusUumply aint any let-up to
He starts to with the band master,
j and lie prays for him ; next he takes
the head bugler, and he prays for him :
1 next the bass drum, and he scoops him
in ; and so on, right straight through the
I band, givin’ them all a show, and takin'
j that amount of interest in it which
! would make you think lie thought he
j wern’t but a little while for this world,
I and believed he couldn't be happy in
i heaven without he had a brass band
along, and wanted to pick ’em out for
himself, so he could depend on ’em to do
up the national tunes' in a style suitin’
to the place, Well, sir, heavin’ boots at
I him don't have no effect; it's dark in
j there: and. besides, he don’t pray fair,
i anyway, but kneels down behind the big
| drum ; so it don't make no difference if
! they rain boots at him, he don’t give a
I dern —warbles right along, same as if it
! was applause. They sing out. 'Oh, dry
up!’ ‘Givens a rest!' ‘Shoot him!’ ‘Oh,
take a walk !’ and all sorts of such things.
But what of it ? It don't phaze him. He
don’t mind it." After a pause: “Kind of
a good little fool, too; gits up in the
I mornin' and carts all that stock of boots
back, and sorts ’em out and sets' each
man’s pair where they belong. And
they've been th rowed at him so much now
that he knows every boot in the band—
can sort ’em out with his eyes shut."
j After another pause, which 1 forbore
j to interrupt:
“But the roughest thing about it is,
I ' ’
j that when he’s done prayin’—when he
i ever does get done —he pipes up and be
j gins to sing. Well, you know what a
j honey kind of a voice lie's got when lie
| talks; you know how it would persuade
| a cast-iron dog to come down off of a door
step and lick his hand. Now, if vou’ll
take my word for it, sir, it aint a circum
stance to his singin’! Flute music is harsh
to that boy’s singin’. Oh, lie just gurgles
j it out so soft and sweet and low, there in
; the dark, that it makes you think you are
I in heaven.”
“What is there ‘rough' about that?”
“Ah, that’s just it, sir. You hear him
sing
“ ‘Just as 1 am—poor, wretched, blind'—
just you hear him sing that once and see
if you don't melt all up and the water
come into your eyes! I don’t care what
he sings, it goes plum straight home to
you—it goes deep down to where you
live—and it fetches you every time! Just
you hear him sing:
“‘Child of sin and sorrow, tilled with dismay,
Wait not till to-morrow, yield thee to-day
Grieve not that love
Which, from above’—
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ment, if it was a whole army corps!”
Another pause. ,
“Is that all?” said I.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, dear me, what is the complaint?
What do they want done?"
“Done? Why, bless you, sir, they want |
you to stop) him from singin’.”
“What an ideal You said his music
was divine.” .
“That’s just it. It’s too divine. Mortal!
man can’t stand it. It stirs a body up so ;!
it turns a body inside out; it racks his
feelin’s all to rags ; it makes him teel bad ■
and wicked, and not fit for any place but j
perdition. It keeps a body in such an j
ever lastin' state of repentin’, that nothin’ j
don’t taste good and there a-int no com
fort in life. And then the cryin’, you see ;
—every mornin’ they are ashamed to look !
one another in the face.”
“Well, this is an odd case,and a singu- •
lar complaint. So they really want the ;
singing stopped?”
“Yes, sir, that is the idea. They don’t
wish to ask too much; they would likp ,
powerful well to have the prayin’ j
shut down on, or leastways trimmed oil';
around the edges ; but the main thing’s
the singin'. If they can only get the I
singin’ choked off. tliev think they can j
stand the prayin’, romrh as it is to he j
hullvragged so much that way. ’
I told the sergeant I would take the j
matter under consideration'. That night j
I crept into the musicians quarters and
listened. The sergeant had not over- j
stated the ope. I heard the praying j
voice pleading in the dark : I heard the
execrations of the harassed men : I heard
the rain of boots whiz through the air.!
and hang and thump around the bjgp
drum. The thing touched me, but it;
amused me to. By and by, after an im
pressive silence, came the singing. Lord!
the pathos of it. the enchantment of it!
Nothing in (lie world was ever so sweet,
so gracious.so tender, so holy, so moving.
1 made my stay very brief ; I was begin
ning to experience emotions of a sort not
proper to the commandant of a fortress. !
Next day I issued hrders which stopped
the praying and singing. Then followed
three or four days which were so full of
bounty jumping excitements and irrita
tions that I never once thought of my ‘
drummer boy. But now comes Sergeant
Rayburn, one morning, and says :
“That new boy acts mighty strange sir.'
“Howl”'
“Well, sir, lie’s all the time writing.” j
“Writing? What does he write —let-
ters?”
“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 1
think there’s a hole or corner in it he ;
hasn't been into—and every little while j
he outs with pencil and paper and scrib- i
bles something down."
1 his gave me a most unpleasant sensa
tion, I wanted to scoff at it, but it was
not a time to scoff at anything that had
the least suspicious tinge about it. Things
were happening all around us in the
north then that warned us to be always
on the alert, and always suspecting. I re
called to mind the suggestive fact that
this boy was from the south —theextreme
south, Louisiana—and the thought was
not of a reassuring nature- under the cir
cumstances. Nevertheless, it cost me a
pang to give the orders which I now gave
to Rayburn. I felt like a father who plots
to expose his own child to shame and in
jury. I told Rayburn to keep quiet, hide
his time, and get me some of those
writings whenever he could manage it
without the boy’s finding it out. And I
charged him not to do anything which
might let the bov discover that he was
being watched. I also ordered that he
allow the lad his usual liberties, but tihat [
he he followed at a distance when’; he !
went out into the town. 1
During the next two days, Rayburn (re-'
ported to me several times. No success.'
The boy was still writing, but he alwajs
pocketed his paper with a careless amr
whenever Rayburn appeared in his v»
cinity. He had gone twice to rn old del
serted stable in the town, i Nmained
minute or two, and come out again. Ones
could not pooh-pooh these things—-theyJ
had an evil look. I was-obliged to co H
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