HARMONY ON THE PINCIAN HILL.--MUSIC HATH CHARMS.--AMERICAN MELODIES.
--THE GLORY, THE POWER, AND THE BEAUTY OF YANKEE DOODLE, AND THE
MERCENARY SOUL OF AN ITALIAN ORGAN-GRINDER.
The Senator loved the Pincian Hill, for there he saw what he loved
best; more than ruins, more than churches, more than pictures and
statues, more than music. He saw man and human nature.
He had a smile for all; of superiority for the bloated aristocrat; of
friendliness for the humble, yet perchance worthy mendicant. He longed
every day more and more to be able to talk the language of the people.
On one occasion the Club was walking on the Pincian Hill, when
suddenly they were arrested by familiar sounds which came from some
place not very far away. It was a barrel-organ; a soft and musical
organ; but it was playing "Sweet Home."
"A Yankee tune," said the Senator. "Let us go and patronize domestic
manufacture. That is my idee of political economy."
Reaching the spot they saw a pale, intellectual-looking Italian
working away at his instrument.
"It's not bad, though that there may not be the highest kind of
musical instrument."
"No," said Buttons; "but I wonder that you, an elder of a church,
can stand here and listen to it."
"Why, what has the church to do with a barrel-organ?"
"Don't you believe the Bible?"
"Of course," said the Senator, looking mystified.
"Don't you know what it says on the subject?"
"What the Bible says? Why no, of course not. It says nothing."
"I beg your pardon. It says, 'The sound of the grinding is low.' See
Ecclesiastes, twelfth, fourth."
The Senator looked mystified, but said nothing. But suddenly the
organ-grinder struck up another tune.
"Well, I do declare," cried the Senator, delighted, "if it isn't
another domestic melody!"
It was "Independence Day."
"Why, it warms my heart," he said, as a flush spread over his fine
countenance.
The organ-grinder received any quantity of _baiocchi_, which so
encouraged him that he tried another--"Old Virginny."
"That's better yet," said the Senator. "But how on airth did this
man manage to get hold of these tunes?"
Then came others. They were all American: "Old Folks at Home,"
"Nelly Ely," "Suwannee Ribber," "Jordan," "Dan Tucker," "Jim Crow."
The Senator was certainly most demonstrative, but all the others
were equally affected.
Those native airs; the dashing, the reckless, the roaringly-humorous,
the obstreperously jolly--they show one part of the many-sided
American character.
Not yet has justice been done to the nigger song. It is not a
nigger song. It is an American melody. Leaving out those which have
been stolen from Italian Operas, how many there are which are truly
American in their extravagance, their broad humor, their glorious
and uproarious jollity! The words are trash. The melodies are every
thing.
These melodies touched the hearts of the listeners. American life
rose before them as they listened.--American life--free, boundless,
exuberant, broadly-developing, self-asserting, gaining its
characteristics from the boundless extent of its home--a continental
life of limitless variety. As mournful as the Scotch; as reckless as
the Irish; as solemnly patriotic as the English.
"Listen!" cried the Senator, in wild excitement.
It was "Hail Columbia."
"The Pincian Hill," said the Senator, with deep solemnity, "is
glorified from this time forth and for evermore. It has gained a
new charm. The Voice of Freedom hath made itself heard!"
The others, though less demonstrative, were no less delighted. Then
came another, better yet. "The Star-Spangled Banner."
"There!" cried the Senator, "is our true national anthem--the
commemoration of national triumph; the grand upsoaring of the
victorious American Eagle as it wings its everlasting flight
through the blue empyrean away up to the eternal stars!"
He burst into tears; the others respected his emotion.
Then he wiped his eyes and looked ashamed of himself--quite
uselessly--for it is a mistake to suppose that tears are unmanly.
Unmanly! The manliest of men may sometimes shed tears out of his
very manhood.
At last there arose a magic strain that produced an effect to
which the former was nothing. It was "Yankee Doodle!"
The Senator did not speak. He could not find words. He turned
his eyes first upon one, and then another of his companions; eyes
beaming with joy and triumph--eyes that showed emotion arising
straight from a patriot's heart--eyes which seemed to say: Is there
any sound on earth or above the earth that can equal this?
[Illustration: Old Virginny.]
Yankee Doodle has never, received justice. It is a tune without
words. What are the recognized words? Nonsense unutterable--the
sneer of a British officer. But the tune!--ah that is quite
another thing!
The tune was from the very first taken to the national heart, and
has never ceased to be cherished there. The Republic has grown to
be a very different thing from that weak beginning, but its
national air is as popular as ever. The people do not merely
love it. They glory in it. And yet apologies are sometimes made
for it. By whom? By the soulless dilettante. The people know
better:--the farmers, the mechanics, the fishermen, the
dry-goods clerks, the newsboys, the railway stokers, the butchers,
the bakers, the candlestick-makers, the tinkers, the tailors, the
soldiers, the sailors. Why? Because this music has a voice of its
own, more expressive than words; the language of the soul, which
speaks forth in certain melodies which form an utterance of
unutterable passion.
The name was perhaps given in ridicule. It was accepted with pride.
The air is rash, reckless, gay, triumphant, noisy, boisterous,
careless, heedless, rampant, raging, roaring, rattle, brainish,
devil-may-care-ish, plague-take-the-hindmost-ish; but! solemn,
stern, hopeful, resolute, fierce, menacing, strong, cantankerous
(cantankerous is entirely an American idea), bold, daring--
Words fail.
Yankee Doodle has not yet received its Doo!
The Senator had smiled, laughed, sighed, wept, gone through many
variations of feeling.
He had thrown _baiocchi_ till his pockets were exhausted, and then
handed forth silver. He had shaken hands with all his companions ten
times over. They themselves went not quite as far in feeling as he,
but yet to a certain extent they went in.
And yet Americans are thought to be practical, and not ideal. Yet here
was a true American who was intoxicated--drunk! By what? By sound,
notes, harmony. By music!
"Buttons," said he, as the music ceased and the Italian prepared to
make his bow and quit the scene, "I must make that gentleman's
acquaintance."
Buttons walked up to the organ-grinder.
"Be my interpreter," said the Senator. "Introduce me."
"What's your name?" asked Buttons.
"Maffeo Cloto."
"From where?"
"Urbino."
"Were you ever in America?"
"No, Signore."
"What does he say?" asked the Senator, impatiently.
"He says his name is Mr. Cloto, and he was never in America."
"How did you get these tunes?"
"Out of my organ," said the Italian, grinning.
"Of course; but how did you happen to get an organ with such tunes?"
"I bought it."
"Oh yes; but how did you happen to buy one with these tunes?"
"For you illustrious American Signore. You all like to hear them."
"Do you know any thing about the tunes?"
"Signore?"
"Do you know what the words are?"
"Oh no. I am an Italian."
"I suppose you make money out of them."
"I make more in a day with these than I could in a week with other
tunes."
"You lay up money, I suppose."
"Oh yes. In two years I will retire and let my younger brother play
here."
"These tunes?"
"Yes, Signore."
"To Americans?"
"Yes, Signore."
"What is it all?" asked the Senator.
"He says that he finds he makes money by playing American tunes to
Americans."
"Hm," said the Senator, with some displeasure; "and he has no soul
then to see the--the beauty, the sentiment, the grandeur of his
vocation!"
"Not a bit--he only goes in for money."
The Senator turned away in disgust. "Yankee Doodle," he murmured,
"ought of itself to have a refining and converting influence on the
European mind; but it is too debased--yes--yes--too debased."