Phil, the Fiddler

Jr. Horatio Alger

Phil, the Fiddler

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.

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.

“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.

CHAPTER II

PHIL AND HIS PROTECTOR

To a certain extent Phil was his own master; that is, he was at liberty to wander where he liked, provided he did not neglect his business, and returned to the lodging-house at night with the required sum of money. But woe to him if he were caught holding back any of the money for his own use. In that case, he would be beaten, and sent to bed without his supper, while the padrone, according to the terms of his contract with the distant parent would withhold from the amount due the latter ten times the sum kept by the boy. In the middle of the day he was allowed to spend three cents for bread, which was the only dinner allowed him. Of course, the boys were tempted to regale themselves more luxuriously, but they incurred a great risk in doing so. Sometimes the padrone followed them secretly, or employed others to do so, and so was able to detect them. Besides, they traveled, in general, by twos and threes, and the system of espionage was encouraged by the padrone. So mutual distrust was inspired, and the fear of being reported made the boys honest.

Phil left the house of Mr. Leigh in good spirits. Though he had earned nothing before, the fifty cents he had just received made a good beginning, and inspired in him the hope of getting together enough to save him a beating, for one night at least.

He walked down toward Sixth Avenue, and turning the corner walked down town. At length he paused in front of a tobacconist’s shop, and began to play. But he had chosen an unfortunate time and place. The tobacconist had just discovered a deficiency in his money account, which he suspected to be occasioned by the dishonesty of his assistant. In addition to this he had risen with a headache, so that he was in a decidedly bad humor. Music had no charms for him at that moment, and he no sooner heard the first strains of Phil’s violin than he rushed from the shop bareheaded, and dashed impetuously at the young fiddler.

“Get away from my shop, you little vagabond!” he cried. “If I had my way, you should all be sent out of the country.”

Phil was quick to take a hint. He saw the menace in the shopkeeper’s eyes, and, stopping abruptly, ran farther down the street, hugging his fiddle, which he was afraid the angry tobacconist might seize and break. This, to him, would be an irreparable misfortune and subject him to a severe punishment, though the fault would not be his.

Next he strolled into a side street, and began to play in front of some dwelling-houses. Two or three young children, who had been playing in the street, gathered about him, and one of them gave him a penny. They were clamorous for another tune, but Phil could not afford to work for nothing, and, seeing no prospects of additional pay, took his violin, and walked away, much to the regret of his young auditors, who, though not rich, were appreciative. They followed him to the end of the block, hoping that he would play again, but they were disappointed.

Phil played two or three times more, managing to obtain in all twenty-five cents additional. He reached the corner of Thirteenth Street just as the large public school, known as the Thirteenth Street School, was dismissed for its noon intermission.

“Give us a tune, Johnny,” cried Edward Eustis, one of the oldest boys.

“Yes, a tune,” joined in several others.

This was an invitation to which Phil was always willing to respond. Besides, he knew from experience that boys were more generous, in proportion to their means, than those of larger growth, and he hoped to get enough from the crowd around him to increase his store to a dollar.

The boys gathered around the little minstrel, who struck up an Italian tune, but without the words.

“Sing, sing!” cried the boys.

Phil began to sing. His clear, fresh voice produced a favorable impression upon the boys.

“He’s a bully singer,” said one. “I can’t sing much better myself.”

“You sing! Your singing would be enough to scare a dozen tom cats.”

“Then we should be well matched. Look here, Johnny, can’t you sing something in English?”

Phil, in response to this request, played and sang “Shoo Fly!” which suiting the boys’ taste, he was called upon to repeat.

The song being finished, Edward Eustis took off his cap, and went around the circle.

“Now, boys, you have a chance to show your liberality,” he said. “I’ll start the collection with five cents.”

“That’s ahead of me,” said James Marcus. “Justice to a large and expensive family will prevent me contributing anything more than two cents.”

“The smallest favors thankfully received,” said Edward.

“Then take that, and be thankful,” said Tom Lane, dropping in a penny.

“I haven’t got any money,” said Frank Gaylord, “but here’s an apple;” and he dropped a large red apple into the cap.

Phil; watching with interest the various contributions, was best pleased with the last. The money he must carry to the padrone. The apple he might keep for himself, and it would vary agreeably his usual meager fare.

“The biggest contribution yet,” said Edward.

“Here, Sprague, you are liberal. What’ll you give?”

“My note at ninety days.”

“You might fail before it comes due.”

“Then take three cents. ‘Tis all I have; ‘I can no more, though poor the offering be.’”

“Oh, don’t quote Shakespeare.”

“It isn’t Shakespeare; it’s Milton.”

“Just as much one as the other.”

“Here, Johnny,” said Edward, after going the rounds, “hold your hands, and I’ll pour out the money. You can retire from business now on a fortune.”

Phil was accustomed to be addressed as Johnny, that being the generic name for boy in New York. He deposited the money in his pocket, and, taking his fiddle, played once more in acknowledgment of the donation. The boys now dispersed, leaving Phil to go on his way. He took out the apple with the intention of eating it, when a rude boy snatched it from his hand.

“Give it back,” said Phil, angrily.

“Don’t you wish you may get it?” said the other, holding it out of his reach.

The young musician had little chance of redress, his antagonist was a head taller than himself, and, besides, he would not have dared lay down his fiddle to fight, lest it might be broken.

“Give it to me,” he said, stamping his foot.

“I mean to eat it myself,” said the other, coolly. “It’s too good for the likes of you.”

“You’re a thief.”

“Don’t you call me names, you little Italian ragamuffin, or I’ll hit you,” said the other, menacingly.

“It is my apple.”

“I’m going to eat it.”

But the speaker was mistaken. As he held the apple above his head, it was suddenly snatched from him. He looked around angrily, and confronted Edward Eustis, who, seeing Phil’s trouble from a little distance, had at once come to his rescue.

“What did you do that for?” demanded the thief.

“What did you take the boy’s apple for?”

“Because I felt like it.”

“Then I took it from you for the same reason.”

“Do you want to fight?” blustered the rowdy.

“Not particularly.”

“Then hand me back that apple,” returned the other.

“Thank you; I shall only hand it to the rightful owner—that little Italian boy. Are you not ashamed to rob him?”

“Do you want to get hit?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to do it.”

The rowdy looked at the boy who confronted him. Edward was slightly smaller, but there was a determined look in his eye which the bully, who, like those of his class generally, was a coward at heart, did not like. He mentally decided that it would be safer not to provoke him.

“Come here, Johnny, and take your apple,” said Edward.

Phil advanced, and received back his property with satisfaction.

“You’d better eat it now. I’ll see that he doesn’t disturb you.”

Phil followed the advice of his new friend promptly. He had eaten nothing since seven o’clock, and then only a piece of dry bread and cheese, and the apple, a rare luxury, he did not fail to relish. His would-be robber scowled at him meanwhile, for he had promised himself the pleasure of dispatching the fruit. Edward stood by till the apple was eaten, and then turned away. The rowdy made a movement as if to follow Phil, but Edward quickly detected him, and came back.

“Don’t you dare touch him,” he said, significantly, “or you’ll have to settle accounts with me. Do you see that policeman? I am going to ask him to have an eye on you. You’d better look out for yourself.”

The other turned at the caution, and seeing the approach of one of the Metropolitan police quickly vanished. He had a wholesome fear of these guardians of the public peace, and did not care to court their attention.

Edward turned away, but in a moment felt a hand tugging at his coat. Looking around, he saw that it was Phil.

“Grazia, signore,” said Phil, gratefully.

“I suppose that means ‘Thank you’?”

Phil nodded.

“All right, Johnny! I am glad I was by to save you from that bully.”

CHAPTER III

GIACOMO

After eating the apple Phil decided to buy his frugal dinner. He, therefore, went into a baker’s shop, and bought two penny rolls and a piece of cheese. It was not a very luxurious repast, but with the apple it was better than usual. A few steps from the shop door he met another Italian boy, who was bound to the same padrone.

“How much money have you, Giacomo?” asked Phil, speaking, of course, in his native tongue.

“Forty cents. How much have you?”

“A dollar and twenty cents.”

“You are very lucky, Filippo.”

“A rich signora gave me fifty cents for playing to her sick boy. Then I sang for some schoolboys, and they gave me some money.”

“I am afraid the padrone will beat me to-night.”

“He has not beat me for a week.”

“Have you had dinner, Filippo?”

“Yes, I had some bread and cheese, and an apple.”

“Did you buy the apple?”

“No; one of the schoolboys gave it to me. It was very good,” said Phil, in a tone of enjoyment. “I had not eaten one for a long time.”

“Nor I. Do you remember, Filippo, the oranges we had in Italy?”

“I remember them well.”

“I was happy then,” said Giacomo, sighing. “There was no padrone to beat me, and I could run about and play. Now I have to sing and play all day. I am so tired sometimes,—so tired, Filippo.”

“You are not so strong as I, Giacomo,” said Phil, looking with some complacency at his own stout limbs.

“Don’t you get tired, Filippo?”

“Yes, often; but I don’t care so much for that. But I don’t like the winter.”

“I thought I should die with cold sometimes last winter,” said Giacomo, shuddering. “Do you ever expect to go back to Italy, Filippo?”

“Sometime.”

“I wish I could go now. I should like to see my dear mother and my sisters.”

“And your father?”

“I don’t want to see him,” said Giacomo, bitterly. “He sold me to the padrone. My mother wept bitterly when I went away, but my father only thought of the money.”

Filippo and Giacomo were from the same town in Calabria. They were the sons of Italian peasants who had been unable to resist the offers of the padrone, and for less than a hundred dollars each had sold his son into the cruelest slavery. The boys were torn from their native hills, from their families, and in a foreign land were doomed to walk the streets from fourteen to sixteen hours in every twenty-four, gathering money from which they received small benefit. Many times, as they trudged through the streets, weary and hungry, sometimes cold, they thought with homesick sadness of the sunny fields in which their earliest years had been passed, but the hard realities of the life they were now leading soon demanded their attention.

Naturally light-hearted, Filippo, or Phil, bore his hard lot more cheerfully than some of his comrades. But Giacomo was more delicate, and less able to bear want and fatigue. His livelier comrade cheered him up, and Giacomo always felt better after talking with Phil.

As the two boys were walking together, a heavy hand was laid on the shoulder of each, and a harsh voice said: “Is this the way you waste your time, little rascals?”

Both boys started, and looking up, recognized the padrone. He was a short man, very dark with fierce black eyes and a sinister countenance. It was his habit to walk about the streets from time to time, and keep a watch, unobserved, upon his young apprentices, if they may be so called. If he found them loitering about, or neglecting their work, they were liable to receive a sharp reminder.

The boys were both startled at his sudden appearance, but after the first start, Phil, who was naturally courageous, recovered his self-possession. Not so with Giacomo, who was the more afraid because he knew he had gained but little money thus far.

“We are not wasting our time, padrone,” said Phil, looking up fearlessly.

“We will see about that. How long have you been together?”

“Only five minutes.”

“How much money have you, Filippo?”

“A dollar and twenty cents.”

“Good; you have done well. And how is it with you, Giacomo?”

“I have forty cents.”

“Then you have been idle,” said the padrone, frowning.

“No, signore,” said the boy, trembling. “I have played, but they did not give me much money.”

“It is not his fault,” said Phil, coming boldly to the defense of his friend.

“Attend to your own affairs, little scrape-grace,” said the padrone, roughly. “He might have got as much as you.”

“No, padrone; I was lucky. A kind lady gave me fifty cents.”

“That is not my affair. I don’t care where you get the money. But if you don’t bring home all I expect, you shall feel the stick.”

These last words were addressed to Giacomo, who understood their import only too well. In the miserable lodging where he herded with thirty or forty others scarcely a night passed without the brutal punishment of one or more unfortunate boys, who had been unsuccessful in bringing home enough to satisfy the rapacity of the padrone. But of this an account will hereafter be given.