THE LITTLE VIOLINIST. By Thomas Bailey Aldrich Boston And New York Houghton Mifflin Company Copyright, 1873, 1885, and 1901 Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed, Death's self is sorry. Ben Jonson. This story is no invention of mine. I could not invent anything halfso lovely and pathetic as seems to me the incident which has comeready-made to my hand. Some of you, doubtless, have heard of James Speaight, the infantviolinist, or Young Americus, as he was called. He was born in London, Ibelieve, and was only four years old when his father brought him to thiscountry, less than three years ago. Since that time he has appeared inconcerts and various entertainments in many of our principal cities, attracting unusual attention by his musical skill. I confess, however, that I had not heard of him until last month, though it seems he hadpreviously given two or three public performances in the city where Ilive. I had not heard of him, I say, until last month; but since then Ido not think a day has passed when this child's face has not risen up inmy memory--the little half-sad face, as I saw it once, with its large, serious eyes and infantile mouth. I have, I trust, great tenderness for all children; but I know that Ihave a special place in my heart for those poor little creatures whofigure in circuses and shows, or elsewhere, as "infant prodigies. "Heaven help such little folk! It was an unkind fate that did not makethem commonplace, stupid, happy girls and boys like our own Fannys andCharleys and Harrys. Poor little waifs, that never know any babyhood orchildhood--sad human midges, that flutter for a moment in the glare ofthe gaslights, and are gone. Pitiful little children, whose tender limbsand minds are so torn and strained by thoughtless task-masters, that itseems scarcely a regrettable thing when the circus caravan halts awhileon its route to make a small grave by the wayside. I never witness a performance of child-acrobats, or the exhibition ofany forced talent, physical or mental, on the part of children, withoutprotesting, at least in my own mind, against the blindness and crueltyof their parents or guardians, or whoever has care of them. I saw at the theatre, the other night, two tiny girls--mere babies theywere--doing such feats upon a bar of wood suspended from the ceiling asmade my blood run cold. They were twin sisters, these mites, with thatold young look on their faces which all such unfortunates have. I hardlydared glance at them, up there in the air, hanging by their feet fromthe swinging bar, twisting their fragile spines and distorting theirpoor little bodies, when they ought to have been nestled in softblankets in a cosey chamber, with the angels that guard the sleep oflittle children hovering above them. I hope that the father of those twobabies will read and ponder this page, on which I record not alone myindividual protest, but the protest of hundreds of men and women whotook no pleasure in that performance, but witnessed it with a pang ofpity. There is a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals. Thereought to be a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Little Children;and a certain influential gentleman, who does some things well and otherthings very badly, ought to attend to it. The name of this gentleman isPublic Opinion. {1} 1 This sketch was written in 1874. The author claims for it no other merit than that of having been among the earliest appeals for the formation of such a Society as now exists-- the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. But to my story. One September morning, about five years and a half ago, there wanderedto my fireside, hand in hand, two small personages who requested in aforeign language, which I understood at once, to be taken in and fed andclothed and sent to school and loved and tenderly cared for. Very modestof them--was it not?--in view of the fact that I had never seen eitherof them before. To all intents and purposes they were perfect strangersto _me_. What was my surprise when it turned out (just as if it were ina fairy legend) that these were my own sons! When I say they came handin hand, it is to advise you that these two boys were twins, like thatpair of tiny girls I just mentioned. These young gentlemen are at present known as Charley and Talbot, in thehousehold, and to a very limited circle of acquaintances outside; but asCharley has declared his intention to become a circus-rider, and Talbot, who has not so soaring an ambition, has resolved to be a policeman, itis likely the world will hear of them before long. In the mean time, andwith a view to the severe duties of the professions selected, they arelearning the alphabet, Charley vaulting over the hard letters with anagility which promises well for his career as circus-rider, and Talbotcollaring the slippery S's and pursuing the suspicious X Y Z's with thepromptness and boldness of a night-watchman. Now it is my pleasure not only to feed and clothe Masters Charley andTalbot as if they were young princes or dukes, but to look to it thatthey do not wear out their ingenious minds by too much study. So Ioccasionally take them to a puppet-show or a musical entertainment, andalways in holiday time to see a pantomime. This last is their especialdelight. It is a fine thing to behold the business-like air with whichthey climb into their seats in the parquet, and the gravity with whichthey immediately begin to read the play-bill upside down. Then, betweenthe acts, the solemnity with which they extract the juice from anorange, through a hole made with a lead-pencil, is also a noticeablething. Their knowledge of the mysteries of Fairyland is at once varied andprofound. Everything delights, but nothing astonishes them. That peoplecovered with spangles should dive headlong through the floor; thatfairy queens should step out of the trunks of trees; that the poorwood-cutter's cottage should change, in the twinkling of an eye, into aglorious palace or a goblin grotto under the sea, with crimson fountainsand golden staircases and silver foliage--all that is a matter ofcourse. This is the kind of world they live in at present. If thesethings happened at home they would not be astonished. The other day, it was just before Christmas, I saw the boys attentivelyregarding a large pumpkin which lay on the kitchen floor, waiting tobe made into pies. If that pumpkin had suddenly opened, if wheelshad sprouted out on each side, and if the two kittens playing with anonion-skin by the range had turned into milk-white ponies and harnessedthemselves to this Cinderella coach, neither Charley nor Talbot wouldhave considered it an unusual circumstance. The pantomime which is usually played at the Boston Theatre during theholidays is to them positive proof that the stories of Cinderellaand Jack of the Beanstalk and Jack the Giant-Killer have historicalsolidity. They like to be reassured on that point. So one morning lastJanuary, when I informed Charley and Talbot, at the breakfast-table, that Prince Rupert and his court had come to town, "Some in jags, Some in rags, And some in velvet gown, " the news was received with great satisfaction; for this meant that wewere to go to the play. For the sake of the small folk, who could not visit him at night, PrinceRupert was gracious enough to appear every Saturday afternoon during themonth. We decided to wait upon his Highness at one of his _matinées_. You would never have dreamed that the sun was shining brightlyoutside, if you had been with us in the theatre that afternoon. All thewindow-shutters were closed, and the great glass chandelier hanging fromthe gayly painted dome was one blaze of light. But brighter even than the jets of gas were the ruddy, eager faces ofcountless boys and girls, fringing the balconies and crowded into theseats below, longing for the play to begin. And nowhere were there twomerrier or more eager faces than those of Charley and Talbot, peckingnow and then at a brown paper cone filled with white grapes, which Iheld, and waiting for the solemn green curtain to roll up, and disclosethe coral realm of the Naiad Queen. I shall touch very lightly on the literary aspects of the play. Itsplot, like that of the modern novel, was of so subtile a nature as notto be visible to the naked eye. I doubt if the dramatist himself couldhave explained it, even if he had been so condescending as to attempt todo so. There was a bold young prince--Prince Rupert, of course--whowent into Wonderland in search of adventures. He reached Wonderland byleaping from the castle of Drachenfels into the Rhine. Then there wasone Snaps, the prince's valet, who did not in the least want to go, butwent, and got terribly frightened by the Green Demons of the ChrysoliteCavern, which made us all laugh--it being such a pleasant thing to seesomebody else scared nearly to death. Then there were knights in bravetin armor, and armies of fair pre-Raphaelite amazons in all the colorsof the rainbow, and troops of unhappy slave-girls, who did nothing butsmile and wear beautiful dresses, and dance continually to the mostdelightful music. Now you were in an enchanted castle on the banks ofthe Rhine, and now you were in a cave of amethysts and diamonds atthe bottom of the river--scene following scene with such bewilderingrapidity that finally you did not quite know where you were. But what interested me most, and what pleased Charley and Talbot evenbeyond the Naiad Queen herself, was the little violinist who came to theGerman Court, and played before Prince Rupert and his bride. It was such a little fellow! He was not more than a year older than myown boys, and not much taller. He had a very sweet, sensitive face, withlarge gray eyes, in which there was a deep-settled expression that I donot like to see in a child. Looking at his eyes alone, you would havesaid he was sixteen or seventeen, and he was merely a baby! I do not know enough of music to assert that he had wonderful genius, or any genius at all; but it seemed to me he played charmingly, and withthe touch of a natural musician. At the end of his piece, he was lifted over the foot-lights of the stageinto the orchestra, where, with the conductor's _bâton_ in his hand, hedirected the band in playing one or two difficult compositions. In thishe evinced a carefully trained ear and a perfect understanding of themusic. I wanted to hear the little violin again; but as he made his bow to theaudience and ran off, it was with a half-wearied air, and I did not joinwith my neighbors in calling him back. "There 's another performanceto-night, " I reflected, "and the little fellow is n't very strong. " Hecame out, however, and bowed, but did not play again. All the way home from the theatre my children were full of the littleviolinist, and as they went along, chattering and frolicking in front ofme, and getting under my feet like a couple of young spaniels (theydid not look unlike two small brown spaniels, with their fur-trimmedovercoats and sealskin caps and ear-lappets), I could not help thinkinghow different the poor little musician's lot was from theirs. He was only six years and a half old, and had been before the publicnearly three years. What hours of toil and weariness he must have beenpassing through at the very time when my little ones were being rockedand petted and shielded from every ungentle wind that blows! And what anexistence was his now--travelling from city to city, practising at everyspare moment, and performing night after night in some close theatre orconcert-room when he should be drinking in that deep, refreshing slumberwhich childhood needs! However much he was loved by those who had chargeof him, and they must have treated him kindly, it was a hard life forthe child. He ought to have been turned out into the sunshine; that prettyviolin--one can easily understand that he was fond of it himself--oughtto have been taken away from him, and a kite-string placed in his handinstead. If God had set the germ of a great musician or a great composerin that slight body, surely it would have been wise to let the preciousgift ripen and flower in its own good season. This is what I thought, walking home In the amber glow of the wintrysunset; but my boys saw only the bright side of the tapestry, andwould have liked nothing better than to change places with little JamesSpeaight. To stand in the midst of Fairyland, and play beautiful tuneson a toy fiddle, while all the people clapped their hands--what couldquite equal that? Charley began to think it was no such grand thingto be a circus-rider, and the dazzling career of policeman had lostsomething of its glamour in the eyes of Talbot. It is my custom every night, after the children are snug in their nestsand the gas is turned down, to sit on the side of the bed and chat withthem five or ten minutes. If anything has gone wrong through the day, itis never alluded to at this time. None but the most agreeable topicsare discussed. I make it a point that the boys shall go to sleep withuntroubled hearts. When our chat is ended, they say their prayers. Now, among the pleas which they offer up for the several members of thefamily, they frequently intrude the claims of rather curious objects forDivine compassion. Sometimes it is the rocking-horse that has broken aleg, sometimes it is Shem or Japhet, who has lost an arm in disembarkingfrom Noah's ark; Pinky and Inky, the kittens, and Bob, the dog, arenever forgotten. So it did not surprise me at all this Saturday night when both boysprayed God to watch over and bless the little violinist. The next morning at the breakfast-table, when I unfolded the newspaper, the first paragraph my eyes fell upon was this:-- "James Speaight, the infant violinist, died in this city late on Saturday night. At the _matinée_ of the 'Naiad Queen' on the afternoon of that day, when little James Speaight came off the stage, after giving his usual violin performance, Mr. Shewell {1} noticed that he appeared fatigued, and asked if he felt ill. He replied that he had a pain in his heart, and then Mr. Shewell suggested that he remain away from the evening performance. He retired quite early, and about midnight his father heard him say, '_Gracious God, make room for another little child in Heaven. _' No sound was heard after this, and his father spoke to him soon afterwards; he received no answer, but found his child dead. " 1 The stage-manager. The printed letters grew dim and melted into each other, as I tried tore-read them. I glanced across the table at Charley and Talbot eating their breakfast, with the slanted sunlight from the window turning their curls into realgold, and I had not the heart to tell them what had happened. Of all the prayers that floated up to heaven, that Saturday night, fromthe bedsides of sorrowful men and women, or from the cots of innocentchildren, what accents could have fallen more piteously and tenderlyupon the ear of a listening angel than the prayer of little JamesSpeaight! He knew he was dying. The faith he had learned, perhaps whilerunning at his mother's side, in some green English lane, came to himthen. He remembered it was Christ who said, "Suffer the little childrento come unto me;" and the beautiful prayer rose to his lips, "GraciousGod, make room for another little child in Heaven. " I folded up the newspaper silently, and throughout the day I did notspeak before the boys of the little violinist's death; but when the timecame for our customary chat in the nursery, I told the story to Charleyand Talbot. I do not think that they understood it very well, and stillless did they understand why I lingered so much longer than usual bytheir bedside that Sunday night. As I sat there in the dimly lighted room, it seemed to me that I couldhear, in the pauses of the winter wind, faintly and doubtfully somewherein the distance, the sound of the little violin. Ah, that little violin!--a cherished relic now. Perhaps it plays soft, plaintive airs all by itself, in the place where it is kept, missing thetouch of the baby fingers which used to waken it into life!