Part 13

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.

[Illustration:

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.