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