"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?
Old Virginny.
[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."
CHAPTER XXII
.
HOW A BARGAIN IS MADE.--THE WILES OF THE ITALIAN TRADESMAN.--THE NAKED SULKY BEGGAR, AND THE JOVIAL WELL-CLAD BEGGAR.--WHO IS THE KING OF BEGGARS?
"What are you thinking about, Buttons?"
"Well, Dick, to tell the truth, I have been thinking that if I do find the Spaniards they won't have reason to be particularly proud of me as a companion. Look at me."
"I look, and to be frank, my dear boy, I must say that you look more shabby-genteel than otherwise."
"That's the result of travelling on one suit of clothes--without considering fighting. I give up my theory."
"Give it up, then, and come out as a butterfly."
"Friend of my soul, the die is cast. Come forth with me and seek a clothing-store."
It was not difficult to find one. They entered the first one that they saw. The polite Roman overwhelmed them with attention.
"Show me a coat, Signore."
Signore sprang nimbly at the shelves and brought down every coat in his store. Buttons picked out one that suited his fancy, and tried it on.
"What is the price?"
With a profusion of explanation and description the Roman informed him: "Forty piastres."
"I'll give you twelve," said Buttons, quietly.
The Italian smiled, put his head on one side, drew down the corners of his mouth, and threw up his shoulders. This is the _shrug_. The shrug requires special attention. The shrug is a gesture used by the Latin race for expressing a multitude of things, both objectively and subjectively. It is a language of itself. It is, as circumstances require, a noun, adverb, pronoun, verb, adjective, preposition, interjection, conjunction. Yet it does not supersede the spoken language. It comes in rather when spoken words are useless, to convey intensity of meaning or delicacy. It is not taught, but it is learned.
The coarser, or at least blunter, Teutonic race have not cordially adopted this mode of human intercommunication. The advantage of the shrug is that in one slight gesture it contains an amount of meaning which otherwise would require many words. A good shrugger in Italy is admired, just as a good conversationist is in England, or a good stump orator in America. When the merchant shrugged, Buttons understood him and said:
"You refuse? Then I go. Behold me!"
"Ah, Signore, how can you thus endeavor to take advantage of the necessities of the poor?"
"Signore, I must buy according to my ability."
The Italian laughed long and quietly. The idea of an Englishman or American not having much money was an exquisite piece of humor.
"Go not, Signore. Wait a little. Let me unfold more garments. Behold this, and this. You shall have many of my goods for twelve piastres."
The Shrug.
[Illustration: The Shrug.]
"No, Signore; I must have this, or I will have none."
"You are very hard, Signore. Think of my necessities. Think of the pressure of this present war, which we poor miserable tradesmen feel most of all."
"Then addio, Signore; I must depart."
They went out and walked six paces.
"P-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-t!" (Another little idea of the Latin race. It is a much more penetrating sound than a loud Hallo! Ladies can use it. Children too. This would be worth importing to America.)
"P-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-t!"
Buttons and Dick turned. The Italian stood smiling and bowing and beckoning.
"Take it for twenty-four piastres."
"No, Signore; I can only pay twelve."
With a gesture of ruffled dignity the shopkeeper withdrew. Again they turned away. They had scarcely gone ten paces before the shop-keeper was after them:
"A thousand pardons. But I have concluded to take twenty."
"No; twelve, and no more."
"But think, Signore; only think."
"I do think, my friend; I do think."
"Say eighteen."
"No, Signore."
"Seventeen."
"Twelve."
"Here. Come back with me."
They obeyed. The Italian folded the coat neatly, tied it carefully, stroked the parcel tenderly, and with a meek yet sad smile handed it to Buttons.
"There--only sixteen piastres."
Buttons had taken out his purse. At this he hurriedly replaced it, with an air of vexation.
"I can only give twelve."
"Oh, Signore, be generous. Think of my struggles, my expenses, my family. You will not force me to lose."
"I would scorn to force you to any thing, and therefore I will depart."
"Stop, Signore," cried the Italian, detaining them at the door. "I consent. You may take it for fourteen."
"For Heaven's sake, Buttons, take it," said Dick, whose patience was now completely exhausted. "Take it."
"Twelve," said Buttons.
"Let me pay the extra two dollars, for my own peace of mind," said Dick.
"Nonsense, Dick. It's the principle of the thing. As a member of the Dodge Club, too, I could not give more."
"Thirteen, good Signore mine," said the Italian piteously.
"My friend, I have given my word that I would pay only twelve."
"Your word? Your pardon, but to whom?"
"To you."
"Oh, then, how gladly I release you from your word!"
"Twelve, Signore, or I go."
"I can not."
Buttons turned away. They walked along the street, and at length arrived at another clothier's. Just as they stepped in a hand was laid on Buttons's shoulder, and a voice cried out--
"Take it! Take it, Signore!"
"Ah! I thought so. Twelve?"
"Twelve."
Buttons paid the money and directed where it should be sent. He found out afterward that the price which an Italian gentleman would pay was about ten piastres.
There is no greater wonder than the patient waiting of an Italian tradesman, in pursuit of a bargain. The flexibility of the Italian conscience and imagination under such circumstances is truly astonishing.
Dress makes a difference. The very expression of the face changes when one has passed from shabbiness into elegance. After Buttons had dressed himself in his gay attire his next thought was what to do with his old clothes.
"Come and let us dispose of them."
"Dispose of them!"
"Oh, I mean get rid of them. I saw a man crouching in a corner nearly naked as I came up. Let us go and see if we can find him. I'd like to try the effect."
They went to the place where the man had been seen. He was there still. A young man, in excellent health, brown, muscular, lithe. He had an old coverlet around his loins--that was all. He looked up sulkily.
"Are you not cold?"
"No," he blurted out, and turned away.
"A boor," said Dick. "Don't throw away your charity on him."
"Look here."
The man looked up lazily.
"Do you want some clothes?"
No reply.
"I've got some here, and perhaps will give them to you."
The man scrambled to his feet.
"Confound the fellow!" said Dick. "If he don't want them let's find some one who does."
"Look here," said Buttons.
He unfolded his parcel. The fellow looked indifferently at the things.
"Here, take this," and he offered the pantaloons.
The Italian took them and slowly put them on. This done, he stretched himself and yawned.
"Take this."
It was his vest.
The man took the vest and put it on with equal _sang froid_. Again he yawned and stretched himself.
"Here's a coat."
Buttons held it out to the Italian. The fellow took it, surveyed it closely, felt in the pockets, and examined very critically the stiffening of the collar. Finally he put it on. He buttoned it closely around him, and passed his fingers through his matted hair. Then he felt the pockets once more. After which he yawned long and solemnly. This done, he looked earnestly at Buttons and Dick. He saw that they had nothing more. Upon which he turned on his heel, and without saying a word, good or bad, walked off with immense strides, turned a corner, and was out of sight. The two philanthropists were left staring at one another. At last they laughed.
"That man is an original," said Dick.
"Yes, and there is another," said Buttons.
As he spoke he pointed to the flight of stone steps that goes up from the Piazza di Spagna. Dick looked up. There sat The Beggar!
ANTONIO!
Legless, hatless, but not by any means penniless, king of Roman beggars, with a European reputation, unequalled, in his own profession--there sat the most scientific beggar that the world has ever seen.
He had watched the recent proceedings, and caught the glance of the young men.
As they looked up his voice came clear and sonorous through the air: