Chapter VIII: Introduction (2)

On Sunday, September 26, New York was fain to rest from its long outing of Saturday. When, however, night had fallen there was no fatigue visible in the smiling faces that gathered for the Irish Concert in Carnegie Hall. In securing the hearty coöperation of Victor Herbert, the famous composer and orchestra leader, the committee had armed itself for a triumph. Mr. Herbert is Irish-born, and of true Irish stock, a grandson of Samuel Lover, the Irish novelist and ballad writer whose “Low-backed Car” and “Rory O’Moore” threaten to outlive most of the lyrics of his generation. In Germany he received his musical education which was thorough. As a student of harmony and counterpoint none surpassed him in avidity to master all that the best could impart. Learning successively to play well nigh every instrument in the orchestra, he became proficient on the violoncello, acting as solo violoncellist in the Royal Court orchestra at Stuttgart, and taking a high rank as a virtuoso. When he came to this country in 1886 it was to take the important post of solo violoncellist under Anton Seidl, the great Wagnerian conductor at the Metropolitan opera house. His German was so good that musical people around Fortieth street wondered “how well the Dutchman spoke English,” a curious reversal of Lever’s humorous conceit: “I knew by your French you were English, and I knew by your English you were Irish.” Herbert, however, was not long in the land of the free before his Irish heart made itself known to his fellow-Gaels, and ever since it has beat in unison with them. In music he heard a higher call than being a prominent figure among the instrumentalists of even so famous a Wagnerian as Anton Seidl. When Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore, of loving musical memory, passed away, it was Victor Herbert who was called to succeed him as bandmaster of the 22d regiment, and thereafter waved the magical baton of Gilmore’s wonderful band. To this he added the duties of Kappellmeister to Anton Seidl’s orchestra and to the famous organization of Theodore Thomas. In 1898 he obeyed a call to Pittsburg to head a great orchestra, and remained there six years, his power and talent developing all the while. Returning to New York he recruited an orchestra of his own which soon won popular and critical esteem. But his forte lay in musical composition. The immediate road to success and fortune was, to his mind, by the way of comic opera, and work after work of this nature came sparkling from his brain to the joy of multitudes and to his own rapid enrichment. Still he led his now famous orchestra all over the land, working day and night, for he loved his work. The ambition to do greater things, however, never left him, and passing from mere facile outpouring of the riches of his inspiration he turned to the higher work in the realm of music. His oratorio, “The Captive,” a fine work, first heard at the Worcester (Mass.) musical festival was highly praised. Many of his serious fugitive pieces became popular with musicians and the world of music awaits with pleasant anticipation the grand opera into which he has for some time been putting his soul. He has for years been a member of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, always prompt to make the musical features of its gatherings notable, and always lending freely of his geniality to its symposiums of good fellowship.

Bear with me for this straying into the paths of biography, for Victor Herbert’s personality, his training, and his Irish birthright should be known to every son of Ireland in America, not merely as a matter of race pride but of race inspiration. We pride ourselves on our love of music. The echoes of the olden Celtic harps must be in our souls, but we have done little enough as a people to deserve the exquisite heritage. Our innate love of the art should be broadly cultivated and steadily developed, and in Victor Herbert I see a man who may yet do something great in this way for his race and ours, as he is sure to do in lofty composition for his own enduring fame. That is why I have dwelt on his striking career. In securing his hearty interest in the Irish Concert success was assured, for it brought with it the services of the magnificent orchestra trained for years under the sway of his relentless baton.

We do not lack for solo artists of merit and skill, but in choral music we have not done all we could. In Ireland a modern school of composers is doing work of which we know little here. The mending of this should be a first step in the Irish musical renaissance. If we find poets to write the books and lyrics, and musicians to compose the vibrant measures to fit them, we must have singers to interpret them and instrumentalists to give them the breadth and depth of the full artistic inspiration. Let the little band of sixty or seventy (little as choral renderings go in these days) who came together from the Catholic Oratorio Society for the Irish Concert be the melodious forerunners of Irish choral societies that may gather thousands at a time in one burst of song. At the Irish Concert the chorus sang admirably. May every member thereof be blessed for her or his participation, and their example give heart to a new musical impulse among our people.

The great house was filled to its capacity with a representative Irish gathering and presented a fine picture of comely women and handsome men. The Hudson-Fulton Celebration Commission had given the concert official place in its programme; the visiting guests of the Commission were invited. Governor Hughes of the State of New York, who boasts of Irish blood, and our one-time mayor and one-time president of Columbia College, Seth Low, as chairman of the Commission’s reception committee, occupied with the governor’s staff the central box on the grand tier. It was a “warm house,” then, that greeted the entry of the orchestra and the chorus on the broad stage, and listened raptly to what proved a fine concert of Irish music, deserving all the applause it received. And this was the programme:—

1. Overture—“Maritana,” _W. V. Wallace_

=Orchestra.=

2. Song—(a) “Ban-Chnoic Eireann, O” _Mac Conmara_

Lyric—(b) “The Penal Days” _Davis_

=Mrs. Helen O’Donnell.=

3. Chorus—(a) “The Minstrel Boy” _Moore_

(b) “Oft in the Stilly Night” _Balfe_

=Catholic Oratorio Society.=

4. Song (Irish)—“Thuit ar an m-bu-adharg” _MacHale_

Lyric (b)—“Sweet Harp of the Days That Are Gone,” _words by Samuel
Lover; music by his grandson, Victor Herbert_.

=Mr. William Ludwig.=

5. Irish Symphony—(a) “Andante Con Moto” (two movements)

(b) “Allegretto Motto Vivace” _V. Villiers
Stanford_

=Orchestra.=

6. Irish Rhapsody—“Erin, Oh, Erin” _composed by Victor Herbert and
dedicated to the Gaelic Society_

=Orchestra.=

7. Song—“An Irish Noel” _Augusta Holmes_

=Madame Selma Kronold.=

8. Chorus—(a) “Hath Sorrow Thy Young Days” _Balfe_

(b) “The Fenian War Song” _Sir. R. P.
Stewart_

=Catholic Oratorio Society.=

9. Song—(a) “Irish Reaper’s Harvest Hymn” _Keegan_

(b) “Old Ireland Shall Be Free” (_words by J. J. Rooney, old air
arranged by Victor Herbert_)

=Mr. William Ludwig.=

10. American Fantasy _Victor Herbert_

=Orchestra.=

11. Anthem—“The Star Spangled Banner”

=Orchestra and Chorus.=

Singers and players performed delightfully. Mrs. O’Donnell, Madame Kronold and William Ludwig—that famous veteran of the German opera and great interpreter of Irish ballads—all won new laurels. Mr. Ludwig’s rendition of the spirited song by John J. Rooney, author of so many fine lyrics and ballads, was particularly impressive. But it was the work of Victor Herbert’s orchestra that lifted the occasion to its real height. The performance of Villiers Stanford’s Irish symphony and Herbert’s own Irish rhapsody was as true and fine as could be conceived, and in every way worthy of the brilliant compositions themselves. The chorus gave the Balfe lyric and “Oft in the Stilly Night” with fine shading and their singing of “The Fenian War Song” won an encore that would not be denied.

As a whole the concert gave an impression profoundly gratifying to all connected with it. I have said that it was conceived in the first place by Jeremiah Lawlor. It is right to add that Major E. T. McCrystal, chairman of the Concert committee, worked hard with Mr. Lawlor for the result achieved. To Mr. Lawlor, Seth Low wrote after the concert that he found it “most enjoyable,” and added:—

“The music itself was interesting, and it was rendered in a way worthy of all admiration. I think that those who have labored so hard for so many years to awaken interest in Gaelic culture have not only done a service for the members of the Irish race in this country, but, as illustrated by this really beautiful concert, they have rendered a valuable service to the whole country.”

It is a pleasure to bear out Mr. Low, and to formulate the hope that the Irish Concert of that Sunday evening may be parent of great effort among our people to justify to themselves and the world their boasted love of the art that made Ireland famous a thousand years ago.

THE HISTORICAL PARADE.

On Tuesday, September 28, the weather in the morning held little promise of procession weather. It had rained, and in some degree dampened ardor, but the meteoric luck of the celebration was to prevail and by noon the skies were opening, and just the right condition overhead and underfoot assured. The line of the three great processions, of which this was to be the first, had been well chosen. Assembling north of Central Park the parade was to pass down the broad avenue of Central Park West, a straight line of two miles and a half, turning east at 59th street for a short half mile to Fifth avenue, then down the avenue a straight line for another two miles and a half to the point of dispersal. For three miles the parade was to pass between a succession of stands for spectators, with stands at every available point on Fifth avenue and the grand stand in the Court of Honor at 42d street, as we have noted before.

It was a fine and suggestive parade. The fifty great floats provided with so much care did not, perhaps, come up in all things to expectations. Cold daylight plays havoc with such expressions of historic symbolism. It shows the gilding, the high colors, the make-believe material too unsparingly. It betrays the utter modernity of the costumed posturers standing for legendary and historic figures. Perhaps this was not the view of the cheering thousands as the floats passed by. Art-knowledge makes one hypercritical and art-smattering makes one expect too much. Let us take it as it seemed to the multitude—the heroism of history on wheels.

But the parade, on its really inspiring side, was its men. As phalanx after phalanx passed by at a marching step one felt the greatness of the land that had beckoned to the peoples of the world with such commanding gesture that they had sent hither the flower of their manhood to share the great heritage of democracy on a continent of unbounded opportunity. There they were, the Irish, the Italian, the Teuton, the Magyar, the French, the Scotch, the Dutch, the English, the Czech, the Pole, the Slav, the Greek, the Syrian, the Dane, the Swede; and the man of the great conglomerate, the man of the evolving type—the American.

After the line of splendid-looking mounted police, trim-built and firmly seated with many a Celtic face among them, marched on foot Hermann Ridder and the Mayor—two contrasting figures—Ridder, tall and erect, the Mayor short and dapper. Together they stepped the length of the way, both beaming with fair satisfaction, the populace cheering and the band playing.

Then came a line of green, Irish flags with crownless harps of gold.

The Irish had the right of the line—the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick (with whom the American-Irish Historical Society marched) were at the head of the parade, William Temple Emmet leading. Following came the Ancient Order of Hibernians with many Irish banners and led by Thomas Kelly. They wore wide-brimmed felt hats of military trim, and carried themselves admirably. Band after band and phalanx after phalanx of this nationality or that came on, some like the Hungarians in marvels of hussar costume, others in military coats, the breasts covered with multitudes of medals, won maybe at schutzenfest or turnverein, but probably not in war.

The Clan-na-Gael made a gallant showing, and the Irish Athletic societies, headed by the redoubtable P. J. Conway, turned out in force, marching with a free swing that caught the onlookers immensely. A feature was the Tammany column—a thousand or more tall-hatted and frock-coated stalwart, presentable men, with Charles F. Murphy at their head. They paraded, be it understood, as representing the charitable and benevolent and not the political side of the long-lived organization. They were popular with the crowds.

Notable was the passage of the Clermont float. It was well known to all that Martin Sheridan and John Flannagan were to be there, and where there was any doubt among the onlookers as to which was which, were not the policemen along the route ready to tell them? “That’s Martin Sheridan, the man in the bell-topper,” alluding to the remarkable headgear under which the great athlete stood for the great inventor. So the cheers billowed for the Clermont all the way, a cheer for Robert Fulton and “a tiger, boys, for Martin!”

THE POLICE AND THEIR TASK.

And as to those great-bodied policemen who held the swarming, sometimes obstreperous, but generally patient crowds in check, how finely they did it all. I would hesitate to say whether their faces or their accents indicated sixty or seventy per cent. of live Celtic blood in them, but it was not less than the lower figure, and may have been more than the greater. They won golden opinions on every side and from all classes that day, and for the many long, arduous days until the celebration was over. It was not merely to hold the line—a task calling for firmness, tact, strength and continuous good nature, but handling with skill the enormous crowds that filled the avenues when the processions had gone by, and all were rushing for their homes, filling to overflowing every car-line, every elevated roadway, and particularly cramming to congestion in the subway. In addition they had at all times to be “guide, philosopher and friend” to the full million of visitors new to metropolitan ways and pavements. And that was a task in itself.

THE MILITARY PARADE.

For Thursday, September 30, came another splendid day when the military parade made New York tingle with marching tunes and the rhythmic tramp of men. Here was something that always quickens the popular pulse. We had seen many like it in this big, thrilling town, but none that surpassed it. The primal impulse coming from the thought: “Here are our defenders; here our men who face death for Fatherland,” has to answer, no doubt, for the cheers that greet the men at arms as they swing marching by. When kingcraft added pomp, glitter and jingle to it and tamed the trumpet to sing a siren song, and patriotism fluttered flags above it rich in color and hung on gold-tipped spears, the magic was complete. Yet this pageant showed us more in one way and less in another. More, in the fact that it showed us thousands of soldiers and armed man o’ warsmen from many alien ships and lands—some time or other our possible enemies, our possible allies—but all keeping step with our own brave men in the name of a pictorial friendship and in the hope of an unbroken peace; above all paying this passing tribute to our city and our country. Less, in that it showed us the stripping off of the gauds and finery of war, bringing more directly home to us that war today will none of these, but must keep the human material of battle in ready fighting trim. Glory was marching in khaki and scorned all gold galloon. Over the same path as the civic procession of Tuesday came Military Glory in its ranked and regimented thousands, giving something of the thought that if called on to take to the trenches or march to the attack by the time it reached Washington’s arch, the men would be ready. Thus it gave two distinct sensations to the hundreds of thousands who watched it, outside the particular thrills that came when some well-remembered or much-admired division of the troopers came tramping grimly by.

Our Irish citizens enjoyed it immensely, for they knew when the “regulars” were passing that it was dotted all over with Irish faces; that it was the army that Andrew Jackson gloried in; that Phil Sheridan, Kearney, Meagher and a hundred other brilliant men of Irish blood and strain had led on fields of death. Was not their own 69th there swinging along as it had swung at any time in fifty years that the country called? It was, and gallantly held its own for drill and trim and soldier bearing. Did they not warm to the thought that the Irish volunteers were marching, men soldiering for the very love of it, and cherishing an olden hope that sometime, somewhere they might be allowed to charge a battery or storm a height for Ireland—Ireland far away, but Ireland ever near to their hearts. And this thought gave friendliness to their hail of the French marines and the French sailors, for the French had been Ireland’s friend as well as America’s in the old troubled times, and many a one lilted under his breath “Oh, the French are on the sea, says the Shan van Vocht” when the Gallic tri-color went dancing past. These thoughts made it seem tolerable that the English were in the line and went so far as to let them give the Germans a cheer or two, and extending various degrees of approval to Italians, Brazilians and Argentines. But the West Point cadets! There, the innate love of the fighting man by the fighting race found intimate appeal. Many the Irish captain, great in the battlefield, had learned the grim trade in that battalion, and now to see how fine and supple yet tense they seemed, how superbly they marched, how arrowlike their alignment, how wonderfully they wheeled or countermarched, and the bands playing through it all. It was a glorious day for all who took part and all who looked on.

THE NAVAL PARADE.

Another day on the water came with Friday, October 1, and the weather again was all that could be wished. Early the excursion steamers took on their loads, for the route was long of the Naval Parade. Shorn of the hundreds of tugboats and small craft that had swarmed the water on the Saturday before, it was a powerful and select squadron that turned its prows upstream to escort the Half Moon and the Clermont as far as Newburg, fifty-five miles above New York. The torpedo boats and a couple of the new sub-marines formed the governmental escorting party—the very old and the very new thus touching sides—and then came over one hundred powerful craft in line, decked in vari-colored bunting and with bands playing. It was a splendid sight, as passing the war ships they swept on beyond Manhattan island up the broad, deep stream. Commander Peary on his stout ship, Roosevelt, freshly arrived that morning from the North and his conquest of the Pole, received the tribute of the thousands in the procession. The dark rocky masses of the Palisades, now glowing here and there with autumn foliage, towered on the left, and on the right lay the river towns set amid fields and woods.

Many a flag of Ireland fluttered from the upper works of the great swift steamer “Asbury Park” on which had gathered some nine hundred of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick and the American-Irish Historical Society with their families and friends. Every provision for their comfort had been made, and the occasion rapidly became one of delightful enjoyment under the stimulation of the grand and historic scenery of the noble river, and the glow of friendly courtesy wherever the Irish race foregathers. The pace could not be very fast, for the greatest of the steamers was bound by the speed of the slowest, and these latter were the Half-Moon and the Clermont. All the more could the time of observation of the many points of interest along the river be extended. Dobb’s Ferry, where Washington had headquarters for so long, while his little army watched the English forces then holding New York against the patriots. Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving’s home and the scene of his romance of The Headless Horseman, were pointed out. Tarrytown, where Major André, the British spy, was arrested, and Tappan, where he was executed, were noted as the line of steamers ploughed through the Tappan Zee where the Hudson broadens almost to a lake, and is four miles wide and twelve miles long, then past the great prison of Sing Sing on the East bank. Presently, the line was passing Stony Point, the promontory of the Hudson near the entrance to the Highlands. And the gallant story was retold of how the Revolutionary soldiers posted in the rude fortress there had succumbed to an attack by the British; how the loss of the fort rankled in the patriots’ breasts, and how, at the dead of night, in mid-July of 1779, mad Anthony Wayne with a devoted band delivered so sudden and overwhelming an assault that the British garrison was slain or captured, and the stars and stripes were sent aloft never since to give way to an alien flag. On then through the Highlands of the Hudson where the mountains slope down to the river on either side. Old river men aboard pointed out Fishkill Mountain, Storm King, Crow’s Nest, Donderberg, Anthony’s Nose, names written in the history of the country and the literature of the river. At West Point was seen perched on the cliffs the quarters of the military academy of the United States, whence so many great soldiers had been graduated and rich in the memory of Ireland’s celebrated sons as well. Across the river was pointed out the road, still winding down to the stream, by which the traitor, Benedict Arnold, fled, taking boat to the English brig of war, when he surely knew that his treason had been discovered in the capture of Major André. Swinging carefully then around the West Point bend in the river, that scene of rare beauty—the straight stretch of ten miles up to Newburg bay—broke upon the view.

WILLIAM TEMPLE EMMET, ESQ.,

Member of the Society, and President of the Society of the Friendly
Sons
of St. Patrick in the City of New York.
]

MEETING OF THE AMERICAN IRISH HISTORICAL SOCIETY.

Under the inspiration of these stirring memories, the stimulus of the celebration and the desire of all concerned, a brief but memorable meeting of the American-Irish Historical Society was held on the forward covered deck of the “Asbury Park.” The Vice President of the New York Chapter discussed the events of the day and the week, and the Irish share therein, extending welcome to the members who had come from other states at the Chapter’s call to meet their brethren in this festal trip, and called on President-General, Dr. Francis J. Quinlan, to address the company. The members warmed to the President’s appeal, for he has the happy gifts of enthusiasm and Celtic eloquence. He spoke for the spread of the society and its usefulness in gathering for future generations the story of the Irish race in America, and laying a foundation for a greater communion among its men and women of today. He was followed by Thomas Zanslaur Lee, Secretary General of the Society, who succinctly told of the recent remarkable gains in membership, and gave practical hints for a still greater accession to the Society’s ranks. William Temple Emmet, President of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, made a short speech of sympathy with the aims of the Society, and the proceedings terminated in an interchange of salutations shared by all present.

In Newburg bay the steamers of the fleet were gathering now, hovering and slowly circling about the Half-Moon and the Clermont and their escorts. The ancient town rising on the west bank of the river showed a gala front of flags, while thousands crowded the heights to view the scene upon the bay. The steamer Providence, bearing the officials of the day, had drawn up to the landing, and while they took part in a procession and made speeches appropriate to the occasion, those on the rest of the fleet dined and made merry. Never before, perhaps, had the waters thereabout furnished such a scene as that of the flag-decked fleet going to and fro under the blue sky, framed in the red and gold of autumn on the hills and breaking with screw and paddle the silver of the wide and placid stream. Would that Washington, whose fearless eyes had often gazed in the weary days of the long-drawn war, out over the river there, had caught that vision of young and strong America afloat and rejoicing a century after his passing away! His, however, were the eyes that saw across the mountains, and in the darkest day beheld the sun upon the hills beyond, and it is not for us to say what he did not see.

From Albany far up the Hudson had come the officials to take charge of the Half-Moon and the Clermont, and the pleasant task of the fleet from New York was done. Down the river, then, the prows were turned, and the homeward journey was begun. Many were the visits made and returned on board the “Asbury Park” as she headed south. The evening was deepening as she came by the city now breaking into light, a beautiful spectacle. So ended a day long to live in memory. As the excursionists stepped ashore to each one was handed a souvenir copy of Mr. Tuite’s “Robert Fulton and His Achievement,” which is reproduced in the volume farther on.

By the indefatigable secretary of the New York Chapter, Alfred J. Talley, I am furnished with the following list of the members of the Society who with their families and friends were on board:—

Albeus T. Adams, M. E. Bannon, Michael Blake, John J. Boyle, Henry J.
Breen, William J. Broderick, Francis X. Butler, Edward R. Carroll, F.
J. Cavanaugh, J. I. C. Clarke, Andrew J. Connick, Patrick J. Conway,
Hugh M. Cox, E. J. Curry, Robert E. Danvers, Thomas F. Donnelly,
Richard J. Donovan, Willis B. Dowd, John F. Doyle, M. J. Drummond,
John J. Falahee, Joseph P. Fallon, Edward D. Farrell, Frank S. Gannon,
Charles V. Halley, John H. Halloran, John Hannon, David Healy, John J.
Hickey, Michael J. Jennings, Alfred J. Johnson, James G. Johnson,
Michael J. Joyce, Phillip J. Magrath, P. J. Kelly, T. P. Kelly, Daniel
Kennedy, T. Zanslaur Lee, Charles Leslie, Warren Leslie, Thomas S.
Lonergan, Richard J. Lyons, D. H. McBride, Robert E. McDonnell, D. J.
McGinnis, James J. McGuire, Edward J. McGuire, John C. McGuire, James
A. McKenna, Stephen McPartland, Stephen J. McPartland, J. D. Morton,
John Morgan, Bartholomew Moynahan, Michael J. Mulqueen, John E.
Murphy, Thomas F. Noonan, John E. O’Brien, John O’Connell, John G.
O’Keefe, D. P. O’Neil, James O’Shea, John O’Sullivan, Sylvester J.
O’Sullivan, James W. Power, Francis J. Quinlan, Clarence W. Ramsey,
James F. Reilly, James Rorke, Joseph Rowan, James T. Ryan, John J.
Ryan, William Ryan, Dennis A. Spellissy, Thomas N. Mulry, Alfred J.
Talley, Edward M. Tierney, Frank L. Tooley, William Tully, Watson
Vredenburgh, Jr., Henry Wright, A. J. MacGuire, Harry L. Joyce, Thomas
A. Emmet, William M. Byrne, William E. Hill, James A. McKenna, William
J. Farrell, James Martin, Daniel M. Brady, John Fitzgibbon, Timothy
Murray, William T. Emmet.

The guarantors of the contract were:

On behalf of the American Irish Historical Society: J. I. C. Clarke,
Edward J. McGuire, T. Vincent Butler, William Michael Byrne, P. J.
Magrath, Harry L. Joyce, John O’Sullivan, Francis J. Quinlan, M. D.,
Alfred J. Talley.

On behalf of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick: William Temple Emmet,
Thomas T. Fitzsimons, Morgan J. O’Brien, Edward B. McCall, Warren
Leslie, John D. Crimmins, John G. O’Keefe, Edward R. Carroll.

THE CARNIVAL PARADE.

For finish to the week of celebration came on the evening of Saturday, October 2, the Carnival Parade, over the same route as those of Tuesday and Thursday. It was a brilliant spectacle of lighted floats and costumed paraders that passed down the avenues with their strings of electric lights on either side. One cannot describe it all except in general terms. It defies words, as a flight of rockets defies them, but the Germans, Austrians and Swiss, who mostly furnished the human side of the spectacle, did nobly.

It was a week to remember, and, as has been indicated, Ireland’s sons had a handsome share in it.

“MANHATTAN.”

An Ode for the Hudson-Fulton Celebration, September, 1909.

BY JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE.

_Here at thy broad sea gate,
On the ultimate ocean wave,
Where millions in hope have entered in,
Joyous, elate,
A home and a hearth to win;
For the promise you held and the bounty you gave,
Thou, and none other,
I call to thee, spirit; I call to thee, Mother,
America!_

_Spirit of world of the West
Throned on thy lifted sierras,
Rivers the path for thy feet,
Forests of green for thy raiment,
Wide-falling cascades the film of thy veil,
Moon-glow and star-flash thy jewels,
Sunrise the gold of thy hair,
Sweet was thy lure and compelling._

_Europe, pale, jaded, had palled us,
Asia, o’ergilded, repelled us,
Africa, desert faced, haunted us,
Thou, when in freshness of morning, hadst called us,
And wanted us,
Held us._

_Over the ocean we came then,
Wondering, hoping, adoring,
Called thee our mother, kissing thy feet,
Kindling our love into flame, then
Old worlds and old loves ignoring,
Making new bondage sweet.
Bless us today, O Mother._

Hark, how the bells are chiming,
How wind the horns, how cymbals clash,
And a chorus, in might volume timing,
To tramping beat that never lags!
Heavily booming the cannons flash,
And the air is thrilled with the snapping flags!

Where passed the grim Briton with venturing prow
In the cycles fled,
The city that stands like a fortress now,
Turreted high by the edge of the water,
America’s eldest, magnificent daughter,
With garlands is twining her brow,
For joy that her laughing heart remembers
Three hundred red and gold Septembers.

To catch the glint of her proudest glance,
To hear the heartening music of her drum,
To see her banners flutter and advance,
Glad in the sunrise, let us come,

Not as came Hudson thro’ mists of the sea—
Dipping and rolling his Dutch-built ship—
Scanning the land fall with hungering eyes
And close-clenched lip,
By morning and noon,
Creeping past headland and sand-billowed dune,
Wing-weary ghost of a phantom quest,
Steering athrill but where waters led west.

Not as when taking the sweep of the bay,
Sparkling agleam in the brave Autumn weather,
Silent of man in the new dawn aquiver,
Anchored his lone ship lay.
Not as he sailed where the hills draw together
Holding his course up the broad-breasted river,
Only the dream of Beyond in his brain,
Only the seas of Cathay to attain,
On till the narrowed stream told him ’twas vain.
Then back as one baffled, undone,
Unknowing he’d won by the gate of the sea
The throne of an empire of peoples to be.
Peace to his dream that found ghastly close
Mid the sheeted wraiths of the arctic snows!

Not as came Fulton; even he
Came brooding at the level of the sea,
Elect among the genius-brood of men,
Grandson of Ireland, son of the land of Penn,
Pale-browed, nursing a great work-day dream—
Harnessing the racers of the deep to steam
Here first his Clermont turned her paddle blades,
And so, our flag above his craft unfurled,
He steamed beneath the Palisades,
The Father of all steam-fleets of the world.
Well may Manhattan glory in his fame,
And on her highest roster carve his name,
Yet, not as came he, let us come.

No: to the skies as on wings
Let us rise
And come from the east with the faint red dawn,
Haven and harbor are carpets of trembling gold,
And the silver mist to the green hills clings
Till the mounting sun has the web withdrawn,
And behold,
The city lifts up to its height at last,
With frontage of hull and funnel and mast
In the day’s full beam,
And over the sky-topping roofs in the blue,
Over the flags of many a hue
Are waving white pennons of steam.

We know thee, Manhattan, proud queen,
And thy wonderful mural crown,
With Liberty islanded there at thy knee,
Uplifting her welcome to those who’d be free,
And beckoning earth’s trodden down.
We know how the waters divide
And unite for thy pride,
And the lofty bridges of steel stretch hands
To the burg on the height that stands
For thy wealth’s overflow:
With the freighters creeping between,
And the slow, slanted sails slipping to and fro,
As the giants of ocean steam in and go forth.
We trace thy slim island reach up to the north,
Its streets in arrowy distance aloom,
Its marts, its homes, its far off tomb;
The pleasure greens dotting thy vesture of white,
And tower and steeple like spears in the light.

Lift thee, Manhattan, no peer to thy strength,
Energy crystalled in turrets of stone,
Force chained to form thro’ thy breadth and thy length,
The builders’ Gibraltar, the fortress of trade,
Might of the mart into monument fashioned,
Mammon translated to mountain man-made,
The clouds ever nigher and nigher;
And the clang of the anvil, the steam-shriek impassioned
Seem calling from girder and frontlet of steel
Upward thrown,
With the square-chiseled blocks,
As they build ever higher and higher,
And then, for firm planting thy heel,
They delve ever deeper to heart of the rocks.
Deep in thy vitals the dynamos whirring,
Are feeding thy nerves that are wires,
Thy tunnels, thy veins,
Stretch out as the human tide swerves,
And thy hidden fires
With the breath of thy bosom stirring,
Make life in the dark for thy lightning trains.

And out of it all a new beauty arising,
The beauty of force,
Winning a triumph beyond thy devising,
Height-mad and power-glad
Pinnacled, domed, crenelated,
Masonry clambering course upon course,
To a glory of skyline serrated,
Lofty and meet
For the worship of all the waves laving thy feet.

Mighty, ay mighty Manhattan,
Grown, while Time counted but three arrow flights,
From bare strand and woodland and slow rising knoll—
A handful of redmen encamped on thy heights—
To the city of millions;
Of millions too ever the goal,
City whose riches are billions,
Whose might never fails,
Whom the nations from far off salute,
And the voice of a continent hails
On thy festival day!

While the cries of the multitude roll
In praise of thy marble-hewn body majestic,
Sing to me, queen, of thy soul.

Sing of thy spirit, thy mind,
Remembering then,
The kernel and not the rind,
The heat not the fires.
We shall not judge thee by thy tallest spires,
But by the stature of thy men;
Not thy great wealth of bales and casks and gold,
Nor mounting scales of what thou’st bought or sold
Shall here suffice,
But riches thine in virtues beyond price:

Not all thy beauteous daughters costly gowned,
But of thy women chastely wived and crowned;
Not all thy gold in public service spent,
But test of equal, honest government;
Not creeds or churches, tabernacles, shrines,
But faith that lives and love that shines;
Not courts and Judges multiplied,
But justice throned and glorified;
Thy reasons clear before the world avowed,
Not voice of easy conscience of the crowd;
Not by thy thousand colleges and schools,
But culture greater than their sums and rules;
Not by thy topmost reach of speech and song,
But by their lift of light and art that’s long,
And from the mingling races in thy blood,
The wane of evil and the growth of good;
Not the high-seated but the undertrod;
The brother love of man for man,
Ideals not ambitions in the van;
Not thy lip-worship but the imminence of God.

But we who’d mete thy steps upon the heights,
And thy soul-message ask
Know well the battles that thy day’s work brought.
No Greek Atlantis are thou, Plato’s thought
Made sudden real;
No fair Utopia thou of mounts ideal,
Eased of thy burden and thy task
With long surmountings in the darkness fraught.

Swift thy foundations grew, but nights of tears
And days of dark foreboding marked thy years.
Here freedom battled with the tyrant’s might,
Here Washington—Immortal One—made fight.
Here swung the prison ships and here the jail
Whose gallows freed the soul of Nathan Hale.

The orange flag of Holland flew
Above thee for a space.
Then England’s red for decades few
Flushed crimson in thy face,
Until our arms set over thee
The flag none may displace;
That waving free shall cover thee
While lasts the human race—
The flag that to the breeze we threw
When skies of hope were bare,
Its red our blood, the sky its blue,
Its stars our watchlights there.

Full oft the ocean harvests at thy doors
Shed sodden grain upon thy threshing floors,
The sound, sweet ears with wild tares reached thee mixed,
Long-fixed beliefs came hitherward unfixed.
Long-crushed desires that freedom bids to bloom,
The yoke thrown off, for lawlessness made room.
How could it other? Shorn of lords and guides
They pressed atow’rd thee over westering tides.
From lands of Czars and Princes still they come,
Some young and lusty, open-browed, and some
Oppression-stunted, famine-driven, sad.
All praying thee for welcome fair and glad—
A niche, a shelter, honest toil and home,
And these thou givest, Queen beside the foam.

And stout their grateful millions stand on guard,
Their brain and muscle working thee reward—
The solid Dutch, the level English strain,
The gifted French, our allies tried and true,
The German staunch, the Kelt of Ireland bold,
Italian fire and Spanish pride; the Jew
Keen-witted, dragging here no ghetto chain;
Each giving thee their lore, their art of old;
Each fired by thee with hopes and raptures new.

And Queen, thy women exquisite,
Thy clear-eyed maids, thy mothers pure—
Pledge of thy greatness sweetly to endure!
By these I bless thee in thy day of joy,
Thy wide-thrown halls, thy hospitable board,
Thy heart of anxious service, and the rays
Of kindliness within thy bosom stored.
No evil shall thy graciousness destroy,
And so I bid thee with increasing days
No whit thy fair ambitions to abate;
Fulfill thy destiny of good and great.

Hark, the message of Manhattan’s soul!

_Constant my soul on the hard path of duty,
Striving to win to the levels above,
Longing my soul in the gardens of beauty,
Eager my soul in the service of love,
Tender my soul to the angels of pity,
Humble my soul to the bearers of light,
Fearless my soul at the gates of the city,
Stalwart my soul for the ultimate right._

_Mighty my dreams of a city imperial,
Radiant, free with an ordered law,
Rich, but with mind-gold beyond the material,
Powerful, merciful, just without flaw,
Thrift-strong and gentle-voiced, rippling with laughter,
Song-filled, and thrilled with the triumphs of art,
Poverty banished, and now and hereafter,
Peace in my bosom, joy in my heart._

IRISH STARS IN THE ARCHIVES OF NEW YORK PROVINCE.

BY HON. HUGH HASTINGS, FORMER STATE HISTORIAN OF NEW YORK.

The Irish have never been known as explorers or as discoverers. Their forte is recognized as establishing success where others have tried and failed. Stranded as they were on their desert habitat, we can easily understand why the early annals of our country are not more frequently embellished by Irish names. As early as October 12, 1605, Sir Arthur Chichester wrote from Ireland to the English prime minister, Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, that it “was absurd folly to run over the world in search of colonies in Virginia or Guiana, whilst Ireland was lying desolate.” The first expedition that left England—almost three years before Henry Hudson discovered the river that bears his name—brought over the first Irishman to America, Francis Maguire, who arrived at Jamestown Virginia, with Captain Christopher Newport, May 6, new style, 1607. Maguire remained in the new country for nearly a year and returned to England with Newport. He wrote an account of his voyage to Virginia and submitted it to the Privy Council of Spain.

Many years elapse before an Irish name is discovered among the early settlers of New York, and then it is so overwhelmed and encumbered with Dutch orthography and Dutch pronunciation as to be well nigh indistinguishable, even to its owner if he ever ran over it. Against an ancient Dutch muster roll profound knowledge must bow deferentially. The most expert linguist stands in awe of it, and his most skilful expedients are often baffled in efforts to translate it, for the Seventeenth Century Dutch scrivener knew, read, saw, felt, thought, recognized nothing but Dutch—nor were mustees, Indians and negroes exempt from this classification. All were clothed in Dutch orthographical habiliments as religiously as they were fed with suppawn at breakfast, whether it was welcome or not.

When the time arrived, however, for Irish names to appear officially in the Archives of the Province of New York, it is supremely gratifying to us, who are proud of our Irish blood and the State and country in which we live, to discover two bright particular stars blazing steadily from a firmament black with corruption.

When Thomas Dongan, a gallant soldier and experienced man of affairs, arrived in New York City, in the fiftieth year of his age, as governor of the province, liberty of action was restrained as arbitrarily as liberty of speech was repressed. The printing press was embargoed. Freedom of worship was circumscribed. Quakers and Jews were ostracized and driven from the pale. Dongan was charged by his royal master with three important duties:

1. To call an assembly of representatives of New York.

2. To allure the Indians from the French.

3. To introduce the Roman Catholic religion into the Province.

The first was easy of accomplishment, for the governor was simply required to carry out the King’s orders, which were most agreeable to the persons directly affected. The second was facilitated by the governor’s recognized status as a Catholic. The third was impossible, because of the anomalous position of the King and the avowed and deep-rooted hostility of the people to the church of Rome. Furthermore, in the prosecution of his work toward the fulfillment of these obligations the governor invariably was balked by the prurient meddling of his royal master.

The General Assembly met at Fort James in the Battery, New York, in October, 1683, held a three weeks’ session and passed fourteen measures, including the famous “Charter of Liberties and Privileges.” In this act occurred the first official mention of “the people” in a constitutional document in America, or, as it reads, the supreme authority under the King and the duke “shall forever reside in a governor, council and the people met in general assembly.” It was also provided that the representatives should appoint their times of meeting and that they could adjourn from interval to interval at their will; that no tax should be imposed but by the consent of the governor, the council of twenty-one and the representatives; and that no billeting of troops in time of peace should be tolerated. Full and free liberty was granted to all persons professing faith in God by Jesus Christ, unmolested to exercise the mode of worship agreeable to them, provided “the good people be not disturbed.” To Albany and New York were given charters.

In this connection before proceeding to the consideration of the broader lines of Dongan’s policy and of the matters he accomplished or failed to accomplish, it may not be amiss to glance at some of the restrictions placed upon and some of the liberties enjoyed by the New Yorker of that period. The population of the province was estimated at 20,000 souls. None but freemen were permitted to sell by retail or exercise any handicraft trade; a tax of £3, 12s. was laid upon every merchant and shopkeeper and of £1, 4s. upon every handicraft man when set free; only freemen or a resident of the city three years were permitted to trade upon Hudson river; all the inhabitants on the Hudson river were prohibited from trading across the sea; bakers were required to keep good household bread made of flour, as “the meals come from the mill”; no flour bolted or “bisket” should be made for exportation but in the city; no flour or bread should be imported into the city from any other part of the province; the assize for bread was established every three months.

A few ancient police regulations of Dongan’s time will forcibly appeal to the modern dweller in New York. Servile work on the Lord’s day was proscribed under a penalty of ten shillings, with double the fine for each repetition. Children were forbidden from gathering in the streets or places to play on that day. Public houses were prohibited from selling liquor on the Sabbath during divine service unless to travellers. Constables were compelled to walk the streets with their staffs to see that the law was fulfilled, and were further required to return the names of all strangers that come to reside within the ward as masters of public houses were ordered to report all strangers that come to lodge or live with them, as the custom is today in every European city. In the days of Dongan twenty carmen and no more were appointed under proper regulations—one of which demanded that they fill up, amend and repair the breaches in the streets and highways, in and about the city, when required by the Mayor, gratis. No negro or other slave was permitted to drive any cart, except brewers’ drays, within the city. The carrying of concealed weapons was interdicted.

The high hopes the colonists had entertained of the liberal and enlightened policy James had outlined by Dongan’s introduction were soon dashed to the ground and they suffered all the pangs of a crushing disappointment. The Assembly promised by the Charter of Liberties was never convened, for in February, 1685, Charles II, King of England, died. His brother, the Duke of York, ascended the throne and as James the King promptly repudiated the Colonial policy of James the Duke, the charter was vetoed, the Assembly was abolished and the province was precipitated backward to the old Monarchial order of things.

Dongan in the meantime had won the affection and confidence of the Iroquois, partly by means of his religious professions and by his tact and straightforwardness in dealing with them. The innocent-hearted child of the forest trusted Corlear most implicitly in spite of French intrigue and French subsidies. It was the influence which Dongan had gained that restrained the tribes from a contemplated foray in Virginia. With the Indian situation confidently in his hand, Dongan was checked by his King, who had entered into a religious coalition with Louis XIV, the most powerful sovereign in Europe. James ordered the governor to prevent the Iroquois from attending a council in Canada to entertain proposals for peace. The lieutenant on the ground, unbiased by notions of European politics, far better understood the situation in New York than his royal master three thousand miles away. The governor was more far-sighted than his King. Dongan diligently aspired to annihilate French supremacy over the Indians, but questioned the wisdom of using Jesuits, whose predilections for the French were well known to him. The Iroquois were loyal to New York and had never forgiven the French for the seizure of their sachems by order of Louis XIV. Dongan faithfully attempted to foster the former sentiment, as he never neglected an opportunity to remind his red allies of the latter prejudice. The efficacious methods he had pursued were destroyed by the treaty of neutrality which inhibited New England and France from assisting Indians who were at war with one another.

Dongan’s crowning offense, however, in the eyes of his King was his failure to force his faith upon a people who were in no mood, as later events proved, to permit their religious prejudices to be tampered with. Again were the prudence and the wisdom of the lieutenant demonstrated at the expense of the intelligence of the King. Dongan’s loyalty and devotion to his church never was doubted nor questioned. The course he pursued reflects the highest credit upon his conservatism, his courage and his fidelity to religious principle. If any event were needed in the life of a King to prove deficiency in judgment, and incompetence as a ruler, the action of the unfortunate James II in superseding Thomas Dongan at this critical time and for the specific cause selected would prove sufficient and convincing.

We all have read and listened to the marvellous tales of that jaunty terror of the seas, Captain William Kidd, and been brought up from childhood on the mournful ballad of William Moore—household names both of them—but how many remember the importance of the influence exercised in those days by the governor of New York, Richard Coote, Earl of Bellomont, in the formation of the expedition organized by the former and in the apprehension of the culprit for the murder of the latter. The times were scandalously corrupt and corrupt individuals lived extravagantly up to the times. Land-grabbing was practised as an art in New York then as it is practised in Oregon today. Indian rings and land grants were common and notorious and flourished brazenly. Officers of the Crown who should have crushed them were often ringleaders in organizing them; ministers of the gospel, who should have interceded for and protected the innocent child of the forest, basely betrayed their trust, and were leagued in corruption to acquire vast tracts of valuable land from the confiding aboriginal owner. The governor of the province seldom arose above his environment. As a rule he possessed no capabilities for the position. If he were not bankrupt he was ignorant, or a degenerate representative of the nobility, despatched to New York to repair or redeem his shattered fortune or to make one by whatever means he might employ, the province being regarded by the home authorities as a common receptacle to be utilized for the purposes named. Sympathy for the colonists on the part of a governor was displayed as seldom as integrity or interest in the future of the province. The ambition of the governor seemed to be bounded by perquisites and he generally left the shores of New York for England with a fortune that placed him on a plane with the richest men of the old world. Privateering was a prolific source of revenue. No man with ready cash disdained identity with it. It was countenanced by so gracious a ruler as William III, who encouraged and patronized it. A change of flag only was necessary to convert an innocent privateer into a ferocious and bloodthirsty pirate. These wild rovers of the sea respected neither vessel nor nation. Many bore commissions from James II and from William III and many bore none at all. Governor Fletcher was their acknowledged friend and alleged co-partner in their villainies. New York City was their recognized headquarters.

It was because Bellomont had established a reputation as a man of resolution and of integrity that he was chosen by his King as governor of New York. His orders imposed obligations that reflected credit upon his abilities as an executive of the purest virtue and the strongest character. Discontent and disorder were rampant because of the cruel murder of Leisler and Milborne. Uneasiness and anxiety prevailed throughout the province because of the threatened attitude of the Indians. The rapacity and greed of his predecessor, Fletcher, had engendered enmities and jealousies that even the mighty resources of the King were powerless to allay.