Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger
PHIL, THE FIDDLER
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
PREFACE
Among the most interesting and picturesque classes of street children in
New York are the young Italian musicians, who wander about our streets
with harps, violins, or tambourines, playing wherever they can secure
an audience. They become Americanized less easily than children of other
nationalities, and both in dress and outward appearance retain their
foreign look, while few, even after several years’ residence, acquire
even a passable knowledge of the English language.
In undertaking, therefore, to describe this phase of street life, I
found, at the outset, unusual difficulty on account of my inadequate
information. But I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of
two prominent Italian gentlemen, long resident in New York--Mr. A. E.
Cerqua, superintendent of the Italian school at the Five Points, and
through his introduction, of Mr. G. F. Secchi de Casale, editor of
the well-known Eco d’Italia--from whom I obtained full and trustworthy
information. A series of articles contributed by Mr. De Casale to
his paper, on the Italian street children, in whom he has long felt a
patriotic and sympathetic interest, I have found of great service, and I
freely acknowledge that, but for the information thus acquired, I should
have been unable to write the present volume.
My readers will learn with surprise, probably, of the hard life led by
these children, and the inhuman treatment which they receive from the
speculators who buy them from their parents in Italy. It is not without
reason that Mr. De Casale speaks of them as the “White Slaves” of New
York. I may add, in passing, that they are quite distinct from the
Italian bootblacks and newsboys who are to be found in Chatham Street
and the vicinity of the City Hall Park. These last are the children of
resident Italians of the poorer class, and are much better off than
the musicians. It is from their ranks that the Italian school, before
referred to, draws its pupils.
If the story of “Phil the Fiddler,” in revealing for the first time to
the American public the hardships and ill treatment of these wandering
musicians shall excite an active sympathy in their behalf, the author
will feel abundantly repaid for his labors.
NEW YORK, APRIL 2, 1872.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PHIL THE FIDDLER
II. PHIL AND HIS PROTECTOR
III. GIACOMO
IV. AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
V. ON THE FERRY BOAT
VI. THE BARROOM
VII. THE HOME OF THE BOYS
VIII. A COLD DAY
IX. PIETRO THE SPY
X. FRENCH’S HOTEL
XI. THE BOYS RECEPTION
XII. GIACOMO’S PRESENTIMENTS
XIII. PHIL FINDS A CAPITALIST
XIV. THE TAMBOURINE GIRL
XV. PHIL’S NEW PLANS
XVI. THE FASHIONABLE PARTY
XVII. THE PADRONE IS ANXIOUS
XVIII. PHIL ELUDES HIS PURSUER
XIX. PIETRO’S PURSUIT
XX. PIETRO’S DISAPPOINTMENT
XXI. THE SIEGE
XXII. THE SIEGE IS RAISED
XXIII. A PITCHED BATTLE
XXIV. THE DEATH OF GIACOMO
XXV. PHIL FINDS A FRIEND
XXVI. CONCLUSION
PHIL THE FIDDLER
CHAPTER I
PHIL THE FIDDLER
“Viva Garibaldi!” sang a young Italian boy in an uptown street,
accompanying himself on a violin which, from its battered appearance,
seemed to have met with hard usage.
As the young singer is to be the hero of my story, I will pause to
describe him. He was twelve years old, but small of his age. His
complexion was a brilliant olive, with the dark eyes peculiar to his
race, and his hair black. In spite of the dirt, his face was strikingly
handsome, especially when lighted up by a smile, as was often the case,
for in spite of the hardships of his lot, and these were neither few nor
light, Filippo was naturally merry and light-hearted.
He wore a velveteen jacket, and pantaloons which atoned, by their extra
length, for the holes resulting from hard usage and antiquity. His
shoes, which appeared to be wholly unacquainted with blacking, were,
like his pantaloons, two or three sizes too large for him, making it
necessary for him to shuffle along ungracefully.
It was now ten o’clock in the morning. Two hours had elapsed since
Filippo, or Phil, as I shall call him, for the benefit of my readers
unfamiliar with Italian names, had left the miserable home in Crosby
Street, where he and forty other boys lived in charge of a middle-aged
Italian, known as the padrone. Of this person, and the relations between
him and the boys, I shall hereafter speak. At present I propose to
accompany Phil.
Though he had wandered about, singing and playing, for two hours, Phil
had not yet received a penny. This made him somewhat uneasy, for he knew
that at night he must carry home a satisfactory sum to the padrone, or
he would be brutally beaten; and poor Phil knew from sad experience that
this hard taskmaster had no mercy in such cases.
The block in which he stood was adjacent to Fifth Avenue, and was lined
on either side with brown-stone houses. It was quiet, and but few passed
through it during the busy hours of the day. But Phil’s hope was that
some money might be thrown him from a window of some of the fine houses
before which he played, but he seemed likely to be disappointed, for he
played ten minutes without apparently attracting any attention. He
was about to change his position, when the basement door of one of the
houses opened, and a servant came out, bareheaded, and approached him.
Phil regarded her with distrust, for he was often ordered away as a
nuisance. He stopped playing, and, hugging his violin closely, regarded
her watchfully.
“You’re to come in,” said the girl abruptly.
“Che cosa volete?” (1) said Phil, suspiciously.
(1) “What do you want?”
“I don’t understand your Italian rubbish,” said the girl. “You’re to
come into the house.”
In general, boys of Phil’s class are slow in learning English. After
months, and even years sometimes, their knowledge is limited to a few
words or phrases. On the other hand, they pick up French readily, and as
many of them, en route for America, spend some weeks, or months, in the
French metropolis, it is common to find them able to speak the language
somewhat. Phil, however, was an exception, and could manage to speak
English a little, though not as well as he could understand it.
“What for I go?” he asked, a little distrustfully.
“My young master wants to hear you play on your fiddle,” said the
servant. “He’s sick, and can’t come out.”
“All right!” said Phil, using one of the first English phrases he had
caught. “I will go.”
“Come along, then.”
Phil followed his guide into the basement, thence up two flight of
stairs, and along a handsome hall into a chamber. The little fiddler,
who had never before been invited into a fine house, looked with
admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially at the pictures
upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he had a love for whatever
was beautiful, whether in nature or art.
The chamber had two occupants. One, a boy of twelve years, was lying
in a bed, propped up by pillows. His thin, pale face spoke of long
sickness, and contrasted vividly with the brilliant brown face of the
little Italian boy, who seemed the perfect picture of health. Sitting
beside the bed was a lady of middle age and pleasant expression. It was
easy to see by the resemblance that she was the mother of the sick boy.
Phil looked from one to the other, uncertain what was required of him.
“Can you speak English?” asked Mrs. Leigh.
“Si, signora, a little,” answered our hero.
“My son is sick, and would like to hear you play a little.”
“And sing, too,” added the sick boy, from the bed.
Phil struck up the song he had been singing in the street, a song well
known to all who have stopped to listen to the boys of his class, with
the refrain, “Viva Garibaldi.” His voice was clear and melodious, and
in spite of the poor quality of his instrument, he sang with so much
feeling that the effect was agreeable.
The sick boy listened with evident pleasure, for he, too, had a taste
for music.
“I wish I could understand Italian,” he said, “I think it must be a good
song.”
“Perhaps he can sing some English song,” suggested Mrs. Leigh.
“Can you sing in English?” she asked.
Phil hesitated a moment, and then broke into the common street ditty,
“Shoe fly, don’t bouder me,” giving a quaint sound to the words by his
Italian accent.
“Do you know any more?” asked Henry Leigh, when our hero had finished.
“Not English,” said Phil, shaking his head.
“You ought to learn more.”
“I can play more,” said Phil, “but I know not the words.”
“Then play some tunes.”
Thereupon the little Italian struck up “Yankee Doodle,” which he played
with spirit and evident enjoyment.
“Do you know the name of that?” asked Henry.
Phil shook his head.
“It is ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
Phil tried to pronounce it, but the words in his mouth had a droll
sound, and made them laugh.
“How old are you?” asked Henry.
“Twelve years.”
“Then you are quite as old as I am.”
“I wish you were as well and strong as he seems to be,” said Mrs. Leigh,
sighing, as she looked at Henry’s pale face.
That was little likely to be. Always a delicate child, Henry had a
year previous contracted a cold, which had attacked his lungs, and had
gradually increased until there seemed little doubt that in the long
struggle with disease nature must succumb, and early death ensue.
“How long have you been in this country?”
“Un anno.”
“How long is that?”
“A year,” said Henry. “I know that, because ‘annus’ means a year in
Latin.”
“Si, signor, a year,” said Phil.
“And where do you come from?”
“Da Napoli.”
“That means from Naples, I suppose.”
“Si, signor.”
Most of the little Italian musicians to be found in our streets are
brought from Calabria, the southern portion of Italy, where they
are purchased from their parents, for a fixed sum, or rate of annual
payment. But it is usual for them when questioned, to say that they come
from Naples, that being the principal city in that portion of Italy, or
indeed in the entire kingdom.
“Who do you live with,” continued Henry.
“With the padrone.”
“And who is the padrone?”
“He take care of me--he bring me from Italy.”
“Is he kind to you?”
Phil shrugged his shoulders.
“He beat me sometimes,” he answered.
“Beats you? What for?”
“If I bring little money.”
“Does he beat you hard?”
“Si, signor, with a stick.”
“He must be a bad man,” said Henry, indignantly.
“How much money must you carry home?”
“Two dollars.”
“But it isn’t your fault, if people will not give you money.”
“Non importa. He beat me.”
“He ought to be beaten himself.”
Phil shrugged his shoulders. Like most boys of his class, to him the
padrone seemed all-powerful. The idea that his oppressive taskmaster
should be punished for his cruelty had never dawned upon him. Knowing
nothing of any law that would protect him, he submitted to it as a
necessity, from which there was no escape except by running away. He
had not come to that yet, but some of his companions had done so, and he
might some day.
After this conversation he played another tune. Mrs. Leigh drew out her
purse, and gave him fifty cents. Phil took his fiddle under his arm,
and, following the servant, who now reappeared, emerged into the street,
and moved onward.