MUSICAL NOTES.
As a concrete protest against Jumbomania, or the worship of mammoth dimensions, the prodigious success of Tiny Titus, America's latest wonder-child, is immensely reassuring. In the Albert Hall, where he made his début amid scenes of corybantic enthusiasm last week, the diminutive virtuoso was hardly visible to the naked eye. (As a matter of fact he is only 21 inches high and weighs just under 11 lb.) Yet by his colossal personality he dominated the vast assemblage and inspired the orchestra to such feats of dynamic diabolism as entirely eclipsed the most momentous achievements of any full-grown conductor from Nero to Nikisch.
What renders the performance of this tremendous tot so awe-inspiring is the fact that he is not merely a musical illiterate, who cannot yet read a note of music, but that he has received no education of any kind! Born at Tipperusalem, Oklahoma, on the 15th of March, 1912, he has for parents a clerk in the Eagle Bakery and a Lithuanian laundress. He never touches meat, not even baked eagles, but subsists entirely on peaches and popcorn. He has been compared to Mozart, but the comparison is ridiculous, for Mozart was carefully trained by his father, and at the age of four was a finished executant. But it is quite otherwise with Tiny Titus, who knows no music, and yet by the sole power of his genius comprehends the musical heights unattainable by adults. Mozart, in short, was an explicable miracle, while Tiny Titus is an insoluble Sphinx.
From the innumerable tributes which have been paid to the genius of this unprecedented phenomenon we can only make a brief and inadequate selection. Prince Boris Ukhtomsky writes, "When I listen to this infinitesimal giant of conductors I dream that mankind is dancing on the edge of a precipice. Tiny Titus is—the 32nd of the month." Mme. Jelly Tartakoff, the famous singer, writes: "I have been deeply shaken by Tiny Titus's concert. He is the limit." Of the homages in verse, perhaps the most touching is the beautiful poem by Signor Ocarini, the charm of which we fear is but inadequately rendered in our halting translation:—
Leaving his pop-gun and his ball,
He goes into the concert hall,
No more a baby, and proceeds
To do electrifying deeds.
Wielding a wizard's wondrous skill,
He leads us captive at his will,
But only, mark you, to delight us,
Unlike the cruel Emperor Titus.
O'ercome by harmony's aroma,
I sink into a blissful coma,
Until, my ecstasy to crown,
The infant lays his baton down.
From the Equator to the Poles
Thy fame in widening circles rolls;
But once the audience leave the hall
Thy pop-gun claims thee, or thy ball.
Imagination's wildest flight
Pants far behind this wondrous mite,
And St. Cecilia and St. Vitus
Are vanquished by our Tiny Titus.
The Evening News on the Crystal Palace ground:—
"The roof, back and sides of the stand have been taken away so that people standing on 'Spion Kop,' the hill at the back ... will have an uninterested view of the whole length of the field of play."
This, together with a nicely crowded journey both ways, makes up a pleasant afternoon.