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?

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sion.

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!

"b.u.t.tons," 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."

b.u.t.tons walked up to the organ-grinder.

"Be my interpreter," said the Senator. "Introduce me."

"What's your name?" asked b.u.t.tons.

"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 ill.u.s.trious 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."