STREET MUSICIANS.
Street musicians in New York are as plentiful as the leaves in
Vallambrosa. One cannot walk two blocks in the entire City, without
hearing from one to half a dozen street instruments in full blast. A
few of the instruments are good and in perfect tune, but the majority
emit only the most horrible discord.
THE ORGAN GRINDERS.
Only a few of the organ grinders own their organs. The majority hire
them from parties who make a business of letting them. The rent varies
from two to twenty dollars per month, according to the quality of the
instrument; the French flute-organ commanding the best price. The
owners of the organs generally manage to inspire the "grinders" with a
wholesome terror of them, so that few instruments are carried off
unlawfully, and after all, the organ grinders are generally more
unfortunate than dishonest.
The men are generally Italians. Occasionally a German or Swiss is seen,
but Italy contributes the great majority. Women are not often seen on
the streets in such capacities, except in company with their relatives
or lovers, and then they accompany the organ with the tambourine.
In good weather, a man with a good flute-organ can generally make from
two to five dollars a day. Those who have the best instruments seek the
best neighborhoods in the upper part of the city. There they are always
sure of an audience of children, whose parents pay well, and some of
these seemingly poor fellows have made as much as from ten to fifteen
dollars in a day and evening. In bad weather, however, they are forced
to be idle, as a good organ cannot be exposed with impunity at such
times. The "grinders" pay from five to eight dollars per month for
their rooms, and sustain their families entirely upon maccaroni. They
use but a single room for all the purposes of the family, and, no
matter how many are to be accommodated with sleeping arrangements,
manage to get along in some way. They are very exclusive, and herd by
themselves in a section of Five Points. Baxter and Park and the
adjoining streets are taken up, to a great extent, with Italians.
The better class of Italians keep their apartments as neat as possible.
Children of a genial clime, they are fond of heat, and the temperature
of their rooms stands at a stage which would suffocate an American.
As a general rule, the organ grinders are better off in this country
than in their own. Their wants are simple, and they can live with
comfort on an amazingly small sum.
There are, however, many who are not so fortunate as those to whom we
have referred. These are the great majority of the organ grinders, the
owners, or renters of the vile, discordant instruments which are the
bane of city people. They earn comparatively little but kicks and
curses. They are ordered off by irate householders, and receive but
little or no consideration from the police. They live in wretchedness
and want. Their homes are vile and filthy, and they are the
perpetrators of a great many of the crimes that disgrace the city. They
are frequent visitors at the Tombs, and are ready to be employed for
any dirty job for which unscrupulous men may wish to engage them.
THE WANDERING MINSTRELS.
Any one who can turn a crank can manage a street organ. The arrangement
of the instrument being entirely automatic, no knowledge of music on
the part of the grinder is necessary. Another class of street minstrels
are required to possess a certain amount of musical skill in order to
perform creditably. These are the strolling harpers and violinists.
Like the organ grinders they are chiefly Italians, but they are not so
fortunate in a pecuniary sense. Their earnings are very slender, and
they live lives of want and misery. A very few are excellent
performers, but the great mass have not the faintest idea of music.
CHILD MINSTRELS.
It is said that there are several hundred child minstrels in the City
of New York, by which we mean children below the age of sixteen or
seventeen years. They are chiefly Italians, but there are a few Swiss
and some Germans amongst them. They are generally to be found in the
streets in pairs; but sometimes three "travel" together, and sometimes
only one is to be found.
Mr. Nathan D. Urner, of the _Tribune_, whose experience of city life
has made him a valuable authority in such matters, has recently
contributed an article on this subject to _Packard's Monthly_ for
November, 1868, from which we make the following interesting
quotations:
"As a general rule, the little ones have parents or relatives--mostly
engaged in the same business--to whose support they contribute; but
there are both men and women in the city--and most heartless, worthless
wretches they are--who import orphan children from Naples and Tuscany,
for the purpose of turning their childish talents, both as musicians
and beggars, to practical account. Indeed, a number of years ago, there
was a villain, living in Baxter street, who employed at one time
fourteen children, mostly girls, in this manner. His name, if my memory
serves me correctly, was Antonelli. At any rate, by a cruel system of
punishment and semi-starvation, he reaped considerable profit from the
unfortunates--compelling them to steal as well as beg, and converting
the girls into outcasts at the earliest possible age--until his arrest
and imprisonment in the penitentiary of a neighboring State released
them from their bondage, though only, it is to be feared, to fall into
hands quite as bad. But they are seldom much better off, even if they
have parents. A detective police officer told me that he knew of half-
a-dozen cases where Italian fathers of this class had made a regular
business of hiring out their children for the purposes of prostitution;
and the precocity of development and expression frequently betrayed by
the girls, still young in years, is mournful evidence of the truth of
his statement."
It is astonishing to see how little musical talent is exhibited by
these little ones, whose natures are drawn from the land of music. We
have repeatedly seen them sawing away patiently at a violin, or jerking
the strings of a harp, but could detect no semblance of melody in the
noise they made. Not a few of the little ones endeavor to make up in
dancing what they lack in musical skill. Their parents or proprietors
are harsh and stern with them, and endeavor to beat some slight
knowledge of their art into them, but it is a long time before they
succeed. Sometimes death steps in to end the troubles of the child
before success has crowned the efforts of the parent. Let us hope the
little voices will be more melodious in the unseen world.
Sometimes these children will be found in pairs on the streets,
consisting of a boy with a small harp, and a girl with a violin; or
sometimes two girls; one with an old, broken guitar, and the other with
a tambourine; or, again, of two boys, with harp and violin. Their
music, at the best, is but worthless, and their voices have a cracked,
harsh, monotonous cadence, but they also possess a sadness which rarely
fails to bring a penny or two into the outstretched hat. They are
dirty, ragged, and more like monkeys than children, but they have a
wistfulness and weariness about their gaze and manner that make one's
heart ache. It is so sad to see young children condemned to such lives.
They are very young, the average age being eight years, but they do not
seem like children. You think they are little old men and women.
At all hours of the day, and until late at night, you may hear their
music along the streets, and listen to their sad, young voices going up
to the ear that is always open to them. They are half fed and half
clothed, and their filthiness is painful to behold. They sleep in fair
weather under a door step, in some passage-way or cellar, or in a box
or hogshead on the street, and in the winter huddle together in the
cold and darkness of their sleeping places, for we cannot call them
homes, and long for the morning to come. The cold weather is very hard
upon them. They love the warm sun, and during the season of ice and
snow are in a constant state of semi-torpor. You see them on the
street, in their thin, ragged garments, so much overpowered by the cold
that they can scarcely strike or utter a note. Sometimes they are
permitted by the keeper of some saloon to approach his stove for a
moment or two. These are the bright periods of their dark lives, for as
a general rule, they are forced to remain in the streets, plying their
avocations until late in the night, for blows and curses are their
reward should they fail to carry to those who own them a fair day's
earnings. Give them a penny or two, should they ask it, reader. You
will not miss it. It is more to them than to you, and it will do you no
harm for the recording angel to write opposite the follies and sins of
your life that you cast one gleam of sunshine into the heart of one of
these little minstrels.
AN INCIDENT.
During one of the heavy snows of the last winter, one of these child
harpers was trudging wearily down Fifth Avenue, on his way to the vile
quarter in which he was to spend the night. It was intensely cold, and
the little fellows strength was so much exhausted by the bleak night
wind that he staggered under the weight of his harp. At length he sat
down on the steps of a splendid mansion to rest. The house was
brilliantly lighted, and he looked around timidly as he seated himself,
expecting the usual command to move off. No one noticed him, however,
and he leaned wearily against the balustrade, and gazed at the handsome
windows through which the rich, warm light streamed out into the wintry
air. As he sat there, strains of exquisite music, and the sounds of
dancing, floated out into the night. The little fellow clasped his
hands in ecstacy and listened. He had never heard such melody, and it
made his heart ache to think how poor and mean was his own minstrelsy
compared with that with which his ears were now ravished. The wind blew
fierce and keen down the grand street, whirling the snow about in
blinding clouds, but the boy neither saw nor heard the strife of the
elements. He heard only the exquisite melody that came floating out to
him from the warm, luxurious mansion, and which grew sweeter and richer
every moment. The cold, hard street became more and more indistinct to
him, and he sat very still with his hands clasped, and his eyes closed.
The ball ended towards the small hours of the morning, and the clatter
of carriages dashing up to the door of the mansion, gave the signal to
the guests that it was time to depart. No one had seen the odd-looking
bundle that lay on the street steps, half buried in the snow, and which
might have lain there until the morning had not some one stumbled over
it in descending to the carriages. With a half curse, one of the men
stooped down to examine the strange object, and found that the bundle
of rags and filth contained the unconscious form of a child. The harp,
which lay beside him, told his story. He was one of the little outcasts
of the streets. Scorning to handle such an object, the man touched him
with his foot to arouse him, thinking he had fallen asleep. Alas! it
was the eternal sleep.
A SAD STORY.
Mr. Nathan D. Urner, from whose interesting paper in _Packard's
Monthly_ we have already quoted, draws the following touching picture
of minstrel life:
A horrible murder had been committed. All engaged in it, including the
victim, were foreigners. There was not a redeeming feature, not even
the rather equivocal one of passion's frenzy, connected with the deed.
It was deliberate, long-concerted, mercenary, atrocious, and bloody.
The murderers--there were two--were shortly afterwards arrested; tried,
convicted, and sentenced to death, with a dispatch and inexorableness
which--probably owing to their friendlessness--was somewhat unusual
under the statutes of this State. The most affecting incident connected
with the condemned--both of them desperate villains--was the parting
scene between the Italian criminal (his comrade was a Spaniard) and his
child. This was a little girl, scarcely ten years of age; I doubt if
she numbered so many. The man was low-browed, narrow-templed, and of a
generally brutal, repulsive aspect. They were about to lead him into
the dungeon of the condemned, the studded door of which would not open
again save to admit his passage to the gallows-tree; and his poor child
was beside him. Hardened, sin-stained as he was, the father was himself
visibly affected; but the tempest of wild, passionate grief that
agitated the little girl, so soon to be left an orphan, was something
remarkable in one of her years.
She was evidently a child of the streets. Her dress was ragged and
foul, and even her face so unclean as to be barely redeemed by the
large, beautiful black eyes which would alone have betrayed the sunny
clime of her origin. While the wretched criminal stood, shame-facedly
and with drooping crest, before her, she fell upon his manacled hands,
kissing them wildly, and betraying in her childish grief all the deep,
sensitive, despairing sorrow of a woman. The villain before her might
have often beaten her, debased her immeasurably, but the mysterious
cord that linked their beating hearts was unbroken, though it sang like
a bowstring in the gusty horror that swept between, and stretched to
attenuation as the elder spirit sank, groaning, into the abyss of its
own wickedness. Hot tears gushed from her eyes, her little throat was
swollen with the choking sobs, and her narrow, rag-covered chest heaved
with tumultuous agony. But after he was taken away, when the iron door
which to her was, indeed, the door of the tomb, had closed between them
forever, she became quickly calm, and her face soon wore an air of
quiet resignation.
As she was about leaving the court-room she stooped and picked up a
weather-stained guitar. I guessed her vocation, and was resolved to
speak to her.
'What is your name, little one?'
'Angela, sir.' It was a sad voice, but very sweet.
'And do you play on this for a living?'
'I play and sing also, sir.'
The court had been dismissed, and the crowd were confusedly
dispersing.
'I say, little gal, can't you give us a song 'afore you go?' said an
inconsiderate policeman, meaning to be good-natured.
'I shall not sing to-day, sir!' said the little girl, decisively; and
then, with a dignity of grief which sat well upon her, despite her
rags, she passed out of the room with her dingy guitar, while the large
man who had accosted her so rudely shrank back, abashed, before the
glance with which the black eyes reproached him to the heart, ere they
vanished in the crowd.
Here was a chance for me. I happened to be the only reporter present at
the scene--'sensation' was my forte--a 'beat' upon all the other
dailies had come directly to my hand. It was late in the week, and I
was also afforded the chance of cooking the thing up remuneratively for
two or three weekly papers. But the whole thing stood before me like a
picture which it seemed a sacrilege to copy. So I cheated the _Tribune_
with the rest, and, for the first time in my life, let the opportunity
for a sensation slip my hand. No credit to either heart or head,
however, for a relapse into my chronic state of impecuniosity, on the
following week, caused me to curse a squeamishness whose absence might
have earned a score of dollars.
But I soon forgot the incidents in the court-room in the manifold and
hum-drum duties of my profession.
Several months afterward, however, I was passing down Park Row, when my
attention was attracted to a little girl playing a guitar and singing
an Italian song in a plaintive, monotonous air. Her dress and voice
attracted my attention on the instant, and, when I saw her face, I
recognized Angela, the girl of the trial-scene. It was her father whom,
at that very moment, I was going to see hanged. I stood stock-still
with amazement, the coincidence was so startling.
When she had finished her song, and had garnered up the few coppers
placed in her hand by the careless and uncritical crowd, I stepped up
to her and said:
'Angela, do you remember me?'
'Yes, sir,' she replied, her dark face lighting up with a gleam of
recognition.
'Do you know what day this is?'
'It is the morning of my father's death--how should I forget it?'
'You refused to sing on the day of his sentence--can you find heart,
then, to do so in this dreadful hour?'
The dirty little fingers fluttered nervously over the music-strings--as
the creative hand might do with a human heart of whose destiny there
was a doubt. For an instant a pang of agony wreathed the young face to
the depth of its expressions, but she resumed her sorrowful complacency
immediately.
'I am singing to my mother across the sea,' she said, quietly.
"Then, resuming her guitar, she swept out a yet more plaintive air, and
lifted her young, shrill voice in song. The crowd around her did not
increase, the interest was not enhanced, and the chary pennies of
approbation were as few as before. But to me there was a wild, desolate
melancholy in the melody that fell so unheedingly upon the ears of the
crowd. They did not see nor hear what I did. They merely saw a dusky
foreign girl using her voice for a scanty livelihood. I saw a patient,
suffering, religious spirit, singing out its agony to a kindred spirit
beyond the eight hundred leagues of heaving brine (I would wager my
life that the mother heard that song, were she buried in the bosom of
the Appenines); and the deep melancholy of those large, dark eyes,
uplifted so plaintively, the saintly refinement of sorrow that lingered
in the soft, olive face which spoke of far Italy, the 'divine despair'
of the mellow voice, haunted me strangely and unpleasantly as I hurried
away to the scene of death."
WHAT BECOMES OF THESE CHILDREN.
It is very sad to think of the future of these little ones. Without
education, with an early familiarity with want, misery, brutality, and
crime, the little minstrels rarely "come to any good." The girls grow
up to lives of shame, and fortunately die young. The boys become
vagrants, thieves, and often assassins. They soon find their way to the
reformatory establishments and prisons of the city. The police watch
them closely, and never overlook one of their offences. Everybody
condemns them, and no one reflects that they are irresponsible for
their sins. "As the twig is bent the tree is inclined."