Part 12
The last week in September is apt to be blessed with fine, mild weather in New York, and this time it held good. No more beautiful day could be wished than Saturday, September 25, 1909, when the banks of the Hudson River for ten miles from its mouth became the vantage ground for many more than a million sightseers, with the great stream itself a Broadway of the water over which the floating procession was to pass. Toward the City shore the long line of the gathered warships stretched adrape with gay bunting. Behind the water-front packed with human beings from the Battery Park to Grant’s tomb and beyond, rose the great mass of the city, its lifted turrets and spires and its soaring buildings forming a majestic background. Power spoke in every line and mass that met the eye, and beauty of a kind seldom seen gave its impress of delight. Down the harbor, the fleet of steamers was gathering in its hundreds, every craft from great Hudson River and Sound steamers and private yachts to squadron upon squadron of tugs. All were flag-draped and all were laden with joy-bound participants. The Brooklyn shore down to Fort Hamilton at the Narrows, and the heights and shore of Staten Island from Fort Wadsworth curving around the harbor were black with human beings. Hard by the Kill von Kull lay the Half Moon and the Clermont, the one a quaint, picturesque ghost of the great days of adventure of the early seventeenth century, the other in its long square ugliness a reminder that adventure with steam power in a new element was concerned with fitness and not with beauty; that Fulton was thinking of the turning of his ridiculous paddle wheels rather than the looks of things. And on the Dutch craft stood a make-believe Henry Hudson with a Dutch crew clad in the sea-dogs’ garments of his time. What a dim, pathetic figure that real Hudson of whom here was the twentieth century shadow. He must have been a man of grim purpose and of strong flesh and blood, but never did a man so near our time fade out into the mist more completely than he who first sent the prow of a white man’s ship up past the Palisades and the Highlands. On the Clermont was also a goodly company rigged out in the habiliments of 1807 that still bore something of the lines of the dandies of Paris in the time of the Directory. But it was a man of Robert Fulton’s blood who impersonated the creator of the first steamship that could truly navigate, and that meant that there was Irish blood in him.
It was when the procession in the course of the afternoon began to move with our long slim darting torpedo boats escorting the Half-Moon and the Clermont and all the other steam craft following that the true glory of the day began, and as the vessels swung into line heading northward every piston-beat of the engines, every turn of the churning screws and splashing paddles seemed to make a chorus of Fulton! Fulton! Fulton! and in a precious undertone to many a thousand of the onlookers it murmured Ireland! Ireland! Ireland! whence came the brain that had put a heart of giant power into every floating fortress, every giant of the transatlantic trade that the great flotilla passed as it swept up the river. As the little ship of Hudson and the ungainly master-boat of Fulton passed, the fleets of the world saluted them. So they passed up, acclaimed from the banks and the stream, the Half-Moon and the Clermont halting at the picturesque water gate on the Riverside slope for the reception ceremonies where the dignitaries waited from the Governor of New York state down.
THE ILLUMINATIONS ON WATER AND LAND.
For the rest of those afloat it was a sail nearly to Yonkers before the last of the United States battleships was passed, and the turning point reached. By this time the evening was falling rapidly in a glory of crimson sunset that made the river glow as paven with red gold, the Palisades rising black as ebony against the west, and the lingering rays falling in warm ivory and pale pink on the white house-line of New York on its hills farther down the stream. But as the light paled, and the shadows filled with purple and presently when a misty greyness was coming over all on land and water, another glory began which was to gladden and grow until it made a great picture that perhaps the world had never seen and certainly the world of Columbus and Hudson and Fulton had never witnessed before—the festal lighting on water and on land.
Lucky were those in that day procession up the river whose craft could linger in the upper reaches until all the glory of night was ablaze. The warships outlined in strings of electric lamps, the lights on the moving craft, the monuments on shore brilliantly set off with skeleton tracing of light, building after building on both sides of the river glowing with electric lights in every fantasy of device and color, the houses one and all lit up at every window, the tower of Madison Square one mighty shaft of light. Farther South the sky-piercing tower of the Singer building like a glowing mural crown dominated the vast field of the twenty-story office buildings, all illuminated to their roofs. In the harbor the Liberty Statue shone in an island of light. Up the East River a special glory was seen with its three great bridges spanning the stream in glittering cobwebs of light that hung between the water and the sky. All the buildings on the New York and Brooklyn shores swam in a shimmering golden haze. The avenues were long lines of diamonds strung from pillar to pillar, and then to the north a wonderful aurora of fan-spread search-lights, and from a dozen points over the island and the rivers spouted, great fountains of fireworks storming the heavens with jets of colored fire. It was fascinating, intoxicating, and the millions watched it in a daze from nightfall until midnight when at last the city and the river were left to the stars.
THE IRISH CONCERT.
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.