He remembers and plays full seven thousand pieces. In short, he plays every piece that he has ever heard. How almost godlike (it cannot be brought to human comparison) is this retentive, this perfect memory, as relating to all that is musical, or even unmusical, in sound!

Nor does he need to depend upon the music composed by others. His own soul is full of harmony, endless in variety, and most ravishing. Take from him, were it possible, all remembrance of the music written by others, and he would still be an object of delight and amazement on account of his matchless power in improvisation. Listen to his own "Rain Storm," and you shall hear, first, the thunder's reverberating peal, and anon the gentle patter of the rain-drops on the roof: soon they fall thick and fast, coming with a rushing sound. Again is heard the thunder's awful roar, while the angry winds mingle in the tempestuous fray,—all causing you to feel that a veritable storm rages without. After a while, the tempest gradually ceases; all is calmness; and you look with wonder upon this musical magician, and marvel that the piano-forte can be made to so closely imitate the sounds made by the angry elements.

No one lives, or, as far as we know, has ever lived, that can at all be compared with him. Only the musical heroes of mythology remind us of him; for he is

"As sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's lute strung with his hair:"

And Ariel, Shakspeare's child of fancy, who on Prospero's island constantly gave forth melodies of ever-varied, ever-enchanting sweetness, filling all the air with delicious harmony,—that musical spirit was but an anticipation of the coming of this actual wonder in music. Of him an eloquent writer has beautifully said, "There is music in all things; but 'Blind Tom' is the temple wherein music dwells. He is a sort of door-keeper besides; and, when he opens the portals, music seems to issue forth to wake the soul to ecstasy." The skilful metaphysician or the psychologist pauses before him, completely balked: they cannot classify this mind, human-like indeed in some respects, yet in many others surpassing all humanity, and closely approximating that which is godlike.

Some persons, it is true, judging from certain manifestations of his, or from certain lack of manifestations, have had the temerity to say that "Blind Tom" is an idiot. Out with the idea! Who ever heard of an idiot possessing such power of memory, such fineness of musical sensibility, such order, such method, as he displays? Let us call him the embodiment, the soul, of music, and there rest our investigations; for all else is futility, all else is vain speculation.

Thus have I alluded in a general way to the characteristics of this most wonderful pianist. A more particular but brief sketch of his life from infancy to manhood cannot but be interesting, not only to the student in music, but to all classes of readers.

"Thomas Greene Bethune" (I am quoting from his biography), "better known to the public as 'Blind Tom,' was born within a few miles of the city of Columbus, Ga., on the twenty-fifth day of May, 1849. He is of pure negro blood, and was born blind. His first manifestation of interest in any thing was his fondness for sounds; the first indication of capacity, his power for imitating them. Musical sounds exerted a controlling interest over him; but all sounds, from the soft breathings of the flute to the harsh grating of the corn-sheller, appeared to afford him exquisite enjoyment. His power of judging of the lapse of time was as remarkable as his power of remembering and imitating sounds. Those who are familiar with clocks that strike the hours, have observed, that, a few minutes before the clock strikes, there is a sharp sound different from and louder than the regular ticking. There was a clock in the house; and every hour in the day, just precisely when that sound was produced, Tom was certain to be there, and remain until the hour was struck.

"He exhibited his wonderful musical powers before he was two years old. When the young misses of the family sat on the steps of an evening, and sang, Tom would come around and sing with them. One of them one evening said to her father,—

"'Pa, Tom sings beautifully; and he don't have to learn any tunes: he knows them all; for, as soon as we begin to sing, he sings right along with us.'