Phil, the Fiddler.txt

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...