And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road,
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish—so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?—
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen. (Applause.)
PRESIDENT-GENERAL QUINLAN: We have been entertained by many
distinguished orators in the past and even on this great occasion in our
Society’s History—the classic prose is every-day work but poetry seems
almost a gift of inspiration. One of our number has again drawn his pen,
called upon the Muse, and how readily she has answered him you soon
shall know. I will only mention our Poet’s name, Mr. John Jerome Rooney,
who will read a poem which he has composed and dedicated to our Society.
MR. JOHN JEROME ROONEY: Mr. President, “Ballad of Saucy Jack Barry.” The
incident which is the subject of these lines is one of the picturesque
incidents in the life of John Barry, the father of the American Navy.
The incident occurred in the winter of 1778, February 26, and the scene
was the Delaware River. The British were occupying Philadelphia at the
time, and a British fleet was anchored in the Delaware, opposite the
city of Philadelphia. John Barry, with his ship, “Effingham,” and two or
three smaller boats, had been compelled to take refuge, in the presence
of a superior fleet, in the upper waters of the Delaware at Burlington;
but it was not the intention of John Barry to sit still while there was
a possibility of adventure of any kind, and he petitioned Congress,
after he had been there only three or four weeks, to be allowed to make
an attack upon a British war vessel that was anchored in the lower
Delaware, by name the “Alert,” that was convoying two transports filled
with food and forage for the sustenance of the British in Philadelphia.
The request was granted, and the story that I have tried to tell is the
story of how John Barry went down the river; the result I will leave to
the fortunes of the rhyme.
BALLAD OF SAUCY JACK BARRY.
(Episode of February 26, 1778.)
They have taken the old rebel city of Penn;
Lord Howe, he has filled it with red-coated men.
“What terror,” said he, “has the winter for me,
Since I hold the town and my ships hold the sea?”
But it never is safe, in making a boast,
To reckon too easy, not counting your host;
Or is it quite prudent to count on your boat
When saucy Jack Barry is up and afloat?
There were banquets for Captains and plenty for all;
The horses had forage, too much for the stall;
Double rations were served—in truth ’twas a feast,
And prospects were cheery for man and for beast.
But bins have a bottom and larders grow thin
When plenty comes out and nothing goes in;
But his Lordship smiled blandly such trifles away—
“The ‘Alert’ and two transports are down in the Bay!”
But it never is safe, in making a boast,
To reckon too easy, not counting your host;
Or is it quite prudent to count on your boat
When saucy Jack Barry is up and afloat?
The Delaware waters come down with a sweep
Past Burlington town, snow-clad and asleep,
And there lay our “Effingham,” silent and stark,
A ghost of the sea, looming up thro’ the dark.
Then, sudden, four boats sweep out from her side,
With oars swift and muffled swing down in the tide;
The moon has gone black, the wind whistles high,
And the scud of the thunder-storm darkens the sky.
Down the river they went, like the flight of a bird;
The twenty and seven said never a word—
They are after the fox of the ocean again,
And they’ll make not a stir as they enter his den.
It was three o’ the clock when, faintly ahead,
The lights of the city flashed yellow and red—
Then, sudden, a gleam, a cannon’s dull roar,
A challenge and halt from the river and shore.
But, surely, no need then to speak to them twice—
Four nautical heels were shown in a trice;
Down thro’ the night, like a hound, they’re away
To the lair of their quarry in Delaware Bay.
The sun had come up when they rounded Port Penn.
And O what a sight there for gods and for men!
A schooner (ten guns pointed out from her side,
With the flag of the Briton) swung free in the tide.
With a leap like a tiger the boats swung around,
Then straight for the Briton, with bound upon bound.
“Grapple tight!” cried the Captain, and guiding his band,
Up the side went Jack Barry, with cutlass in hand!
He is over the rails in the flash of an eye,—
“Strike, strike yonder flag or, by heaven, you die!”
But never a hand or a foot there did turn;
They were frozen with terror from stem unto stern.
With a yell the bold Britons their weapons let go,
Then, like mice in a pantry, they scurried below.
“Boys, batter the hatches,” called Jack to his men;
“We have got the red fox, at last, in his den.”
The “Kitty” and “Mermaid” awoke, with a start,
With the guns of their gallant trained straight at their heart.
Their “Alert” was caught napping (drowsy lovers, beware!)
And saucy Jack Barry had captured the fair.
“Ho, run her in shore to yonder good pier;
We’ll see how the foxes are burrowing here.
Now loosen the hatches! Come foe or come friend!
You’ll find Yankee sailors will take either end!”
Then up came a Major; forsooth, he was glum;
Two Captains, lieutenants, a man with a drum;
Ten soldiers paced out, then a hundred marines,
Like a troop in a play, strode out from the scenes!
O the twenty and seven who came down thro’ the night
Were as proud as the Cæsars to see such a sight;
Three cheers, and three more boomed up, like the seas,
As the flag of the Stars broke out on the breeze!
O it is never safe, in making a boast,
To reckon too easy, not counting your host;
Nor is it quite prudent to count on your boat
When saucy Jack Barry is up and afloat!
JOHN JEROME ROONEY.
PRESIDENT-GENERAL QUINLAN: Owing to the absence of Hon. W. A.
Prendergast, who has been kept away by illness, we will proceed to the
next speaker. I will ask you all to remain seated for a little while
longer. I introduce to you one of the most distinguished Irishmen in our
great city,—the man who, on every occasion where the cause of Ireland
could be voiced, has stood in the foremost ranks; and, although he has
petitioned me tonight to let him off, it would be like the play of
“Hamlet” without Hamlet. I will ask Hon. John W. Goff, one of the
Justices of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, to say a few
words to this assemblage. (Applause.)
[Illustration:
HON. PATRICK F. McGOWAN.
President of the Board of Aldermen and Acting Mayor
of New York. 1906, 1907, 1908, and 1909.
Life Member of the Society.
]
HON. JOHN W. GOFF: The hour is late. I beg of you to excuse me tonight
and grant the privilege of allowing me to speak at some other time, when
I shall have the advantage of being better prepared. (Applause.)
PRESIDENT-GENERAL QUINLAN: We have at our table a dark horse in the
Lists of Orators, and one who has often entertained, edified and
educated his auditors, not only by easy rhetoric, show of measured
eloquence, but also by the erudition of his thoughtful words. I take the
privilege of introducing to you Mr. Edward M. Tierney.
MR. EDWARD M. TIERNEY: Mr. Toastmaster, Ladies and Gentlemen, it would
be most ungenerous for me to make a distinction of a different character
from that already presented by the honorable gentleman who has just sat
down and attempt, at this late hour, to give you the speech that I had
prepared for this evening.
You have been regaled with oratory sublime; all that is great and
glorious to the Irishman has been brought down deep into the recesses of
his heart tonight by the preceding speakers. I have a speech that I may
twist and distort, perhaps, to suit the hour without making it too
lengthy, and, if you will bear with me for a few moments, I may interest
you before I sit down.
When your President-General invited me to make this speech he was full
of prescience, if I may call it so, for he limited me to ten minutes.
Why he placed this restriction on me some two weeks ago I was then at a
loss to understand; but it is very plain to me tonight, Ladies and
Gentlemen, the object being to give the President-General an unbridled
opportunity to furnish all the hot air for this occasion himself. That’s
all right, for he belongs to a profession that understands the
symptomatic temperament of an audience, and can tell just when to
administer the anæsthetic. It’s about time to do it now, Doctor.
I was warned not to make my speech too serious, nor yet permit it to
impinge too closely on the border line of levity, and so I am cautioned
in advance to mend my speech lest it mar my fortune.
This is a difficult feat to perform for one whose blood is tingling with
the pent-up enthusiasm of an American-Irishman, who feels a native pride
in the long line of conquests of his people in every clime the sun
shines on, and who tonight rejoices in the triumphs of this Society,
which is the medium of bringing together, under the broad canopy of
fraternity, the men and the women here assembled. Isn’t this a beautiful
spectacle to behold? Here we are, all animated by the same desire to
perpetuate in a fitting manner the names and deeds of the men with Irish
blood in their veins, who gave to the world the highest and noblest
attributes of their minds and hearts for the betterment of mankind and
for the elevation of the race.
An American-Irishman, like myself, should be very grateful to be alive,
which is saying a great deal in some localities, since the tramp of the
ancient hordes is heard in the land, and the scions of shattered
dynasties are now holding the sceptre of power through the influence of
dominant wealth.
I believe more and more in the theory that, to get the best out of an
individual or a nation, you must first subject them to some gross
injustice, which stings the pride and awakens the indignation, until
they arm themselves with stirring forces to right the wrong.
It often happens that a great man is sometimes willing to humble himself
by indifferently sitting on the cushion of advantage and going to sleep.
And it is only when he is driven, annoyed and defeated that he is put to
his wits’ end and compelled to draw on his manhood to learn the things
most essential to his preservation and his honor.
It was through such exigencies as these that the Irishmen in America
were pushed to find moderation and success in the highway of honest
endeavor, which led on and on into the field of competitive personal
rivalry, where at last the genius of the race was triumphant over every
phase of intimidation and coercion.
The success of Irishmen in this home of the exile may be due, in large
measure, to the application of the lesson that is taught by Balzac:
“To make your way in the world, you must plough through humanity like a
cannon ball, or glide through it like a pestilence.”
This axiom bears particular significance when applied to the pioneers of
our race, who were confronted with obstacles and difficulties that
loomed up like pyramids in the desert of despair, only to retard their
progress in the onward march toward the golden temple of hope, around
whose throne were clustered the cherished symbols of religious freedom
and individual liberty, that shone forth, in resplendent array, to light
the wanderer’s footsteps and guide him along the green and thriving path
of industrial and commercial supremacy that is vouchsafed to every man
of honor and thrift, who comes to this free country to escape the
thralldom and tyranny of a foreign yoke.
Here he can find the glorious sunburst of consolation in the cloudless
sky of equality that sheds its rays amid the conflicting emotions of
hope and fear, and blood and carnage, and doubt and bigotry, and
chivalry and patriotism—all alike being imbued with the warmth and glow
of its comforting and protecting influence, that ensures to every loyal
son an equal privilege to that liberty and pursuit of happiness which is
the birthright of every American citizen.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us
With freedom’s soil beneath our feet,
With freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land.”
If there be such a man in all the world, I pity him. One thing is
certain, he is not an Irishman, for if he were the blood would congeal
in his veins and he would be branded as a wanderer upon the face of the
earth, with no place to lay his hypocritical head.
Much has been said about the Irishman in America, but nothing has been
said so far about the American in Ireland. It might be well for me to
touch on the subject somewhat and tell you a little of my experience in
Ireland, and by way of preface it seems to me that every Irish-American
must hold down deep in his heart a lurking desire to visit the Green
Isle, the land of his fathers, just as I did before I went over there
five years ago and saw for myself the things that have made Irishmen
great in America.
How vividly the memories of that visit rise up before me to bring added
joys to the realities of life! That you may better understand my first
impressions of Ireland, I will tell you that I was after finishing an
extended tour of the Orient, which included the Holy Land and a great
part of Continental Europe, when I entered the portals of the historic
city of Dublin. My heart leaped with joy as I felt the friendly breeze
of welcome soothe my throbbing brain, and I longed at that moment to
share the sublime satisfaction that came o’er me with some kindred
spirit who had years ago trod the same earth and looked with beseeching
glance, as perhaps millions more did before him, out beyond the great
waters, where liberty and personal freedom were to be found.
But I was alone and could not impart to another the impulses that rose
up within me and bade me view the matchless beauty of that fair city
wherein is consecrated all the glories of Erin’s past, and where today,
on the living altar of heroic patriotism, is to be seen the surpliced
messenger of Home Rule, ready with trumpet in hand to proclaim to all
the world that Emmet’s epitaph shall soon be written.
To stand upon the sod made sacred by the ties of kinship and hallowed by
memories that made the new scenes seem as familiar as though one were
born and reared among them was the sensation I experienced when I first
set my foot upon the soil where my father and mother first saw the light
of day. There was something indefinably realistic about my presence in
the small town of the Six Mile Bridge in County Clare.
The very atmosphere seemed to be full of the incense of welcome that
made me feel at home, and when I entered the old church, which had so
often been described to me in earlier days by my parents, there came
over me an awesome reverence for every stick and stone in it. I could
picture in my mind’s eye the very spot where they knelt to pledge their
plight and to offer up prayers for their safe voyage to America, whither
they were compelled to come to seek that means of subsistence which
their own impoverished village could not provide. He who has not felt
the thrill of such heart-throbs has missed the holiest emotions of
earth.
To visit Ireland and not go through the Gap of Dunloe and take a nip of
poteen and goat’s milk at Kate Kearney’s cottage on the way to the Lakes
of Killarney, and then to be safely rowed through them by four sturdy
oarsmen, with a stop at Dinas Island (for nautical purposes only), would
be a loss even as great as not to visit Blarney Castle and kiss the
Blarney Stone.
Ever since that eventful day when I hung over the parapet and essayed to
take osculatory liberties with that hammer face member of the stone
family, there seems to be an elasticity to my tongue and oleaginous
flavor to my words that are possessed only by the lovers of art and
nature, who believe in the Stone Age and in Memnon’s harp that plays a
melody, far away from the habitat of man, to give greeting each morn to
the rising sun.
A scene of lasting remembrance to me was the one I witnessed in
Queenstown the night before our good ship, “Majestic,” sailed for this
port. On every hilltop and from every vantage point one could discern,
like a silhouette athwart the blackened night, bonfires brightly
burning, each one being the harbinger of friendly greeting to the other
and all betokening the emblems of Ireland’s motto, “Hospitality, virtue
and courage.”
That scene symbolized in no uncertain meaning the genuine love and
sincerity of a loyal people, who made those beacon lights shine forth in
luminous colors to give encouragement to the faithful hearts of the
blushing maids and the fearless lads, who were about to leave the land
of their birth and sever forever the ties of friendship by coming to
America to find here a haven of safety from the thralldom and oppression
of their home land.
I will conclude by quoting a few lines from Emerson:
Teach me your mood, O patient stars;
Who climb each night the ancient sky,
Leaving no space, no shade, no scars,
No trace of age, no fear to die.
If Emerson had dedicated this sentiment to Ireland and her patriotic
sons, he could not more fittingly have described her relations to the
implacable foe whose mood, after centuries of oppression and warfare,
has not been able to dim the lustre of that patient Star of Hope which
will shine on continuously to illumine space, without shading, but with
the scars of memory to make more radiant the valor and virtue of her
people who carry on their brow no trace of age, and in their hearts no
fear to die in the cause of human freedom.
I thank you.
PRESIDENT-GENERAL QUINLAN: This concludes the Twelfth Annual Banquet of
the American-Irish Historical Society. I thank you all in the name of
the administration for your presence and your hearty coöperation in this
feast of reason and flow of soul.
Historical Papers.
THE IRISH SHARE IN THE HUDSON-FULTON CELEBRATION.
BY JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE, ESQ., VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE SOCIETY FOR NEW
YORK.
INTRODUCTION.
New York, greatest of American cities and second of all cities of the
world in point of population and perhaps of wealth, paused for a week in
September, 1909, nominally to honor two great memories, really to
celebrate itself.
It may be that Henry Hudson, when he sailed the Half-Moon up the great
North River to the head of navigation and then returned to the ocean in
1609, never set foot on the Island of Manhattan; but the settlement by
the Dutch that followed was certainly the result of his voyage of
discovery. His was, therefore, a good epoch-making name to honor. More
directly was it meet to honor the name of Robert Fulton, whose conquest
of the waters with the power of steam in 1807 was made from New York
shipyards, and upon the mighty stream that Hudson was the first white
man to navigate. That in the person of Fulton, Ireland had a share in
the memories of these celebrated men—for he was the son of Irish
immigrants—appealed powerfully, as it should, to the race pride of the
Irish-born and Irish-descended of the City of New York. It insured their
hearty coöperation in the plans for the Hudson-Fulton celebration. But
to many the event suggested the question, what share the Irish race has
had in the upbuilding of New York, and what stake it holds in its life
and its prosperity today. Others better fitted must work out the details
of the answer, of which here is presented something of a summary. At any
rate, it covers matters well worthy of the research which naturally
drifts to a society like ours. Before attempting to record the Irish
share in New York’s Hudson-Fulton celebration, let us examine briefly
Ireland’s share in New York itself.
Here came the bulk of the great successive waves of emigration from
Ireland. How large the total of the children of Ireland, who cast their
lot with this Republic, history does not tell us with any accuracy. They
were here from the very beginning of the white man’s settlement on
Manhattan Island. Before 1820, no governmental roster of immigrants was
kept, but in the eighty years from 1821 to 1900, the United States
census bureau counts up a total of 3,871,253 Irish immigrants, nearly
3,000,000 coming hither between 1851 and 1900. That this enormous inflow
came from a country that at its highest tide-mark of population never
numbered more than 8,000,000 souls is a fact at once astounding and
appalling. Ireland literally cuts itself in two to supply the emigration
to America. Besides this outflow to America, another stream ran to
England, Australia and New Zealand, but to each in much smaller volume
than crossed the Atlantic. At its highest flow it brought over nearly a
million Irish souls in ten years, namely, between 1851 and 1860. Since
then it has fallen away, but what this immigration has meant in the
upbuilding of the country at large may be imagined from the deduction
made by the United State census of 1900. It is therein stated that
“Ireland contributed more than two-fifths of the immigration between
1821 and 1850; more than one-third from 1851 to 1860; nearly one-fifth
from 1861 to 1870.” In the following decade the stream held about the
same level. Between 1881 and 1890 it rose again by nearly fifty per
cent. Thenceforward the drain upon Ireland was to lessen, and with a
total of 390,179 between 1891 and 1900 it represented barely more than
one-tenth of the total immigration for the ten years. Since 1900 it has
steadily declined, mainly for the reason that Ireland is nearly drained
of its emigration material, but also in some degree that better
conditions are obtaining there. A backward glance shows that of the
nearly twenty millions of immigrants from all lands up to 1900 one in
every five came from Ireland.
For the eighty years back of 1820 the proportion of Irish immigrants was
even larger—probably one in four. And it was not, as many of the
descendants of the early Irish immigration have imagined, entirely of
the better off and entirely from the north of Ireland. Doubtless the
Presbyterians of the northern Irish counties predominated, and counted
in their ranks men of the learned professions as well as artificers and
merchants, but of the tens of thousands of pure Celts from the central,
southern and western counties deported to the West Indies in the
seventeenth century many thousands found their way to the settlements of
what are now the southern states of the Union. Original researches among
colonial records by a member of our society show that during the century
and a half before the Revolution several thousand immigrants of Celtic
stock came direct to the colonies from Ireland.
Of the Irish emigration before the Revolution and up to 1820, the
presence in New York of numbers of Irish high in standing as well as
stalwart in activity is easily proven. One of the leading merchants in
1655 bore the historic name of Hugh O’Neale. New York City received its
first charter from the hands of Sir Thomas Dougan, an Irishman, in 1684.
Many old Irish names appear in the census of the City of New York for
1703. New York’s first mayor after the Revolution, James Duane, was the
son of a Galway man. The first governor of the State of New York, and
afterwards vice-president of the United States, George Clinton, was also
an Irishman’s son. His kinsman, DeWitt Clinton, was a mayor of New York,
United States senator and governor of the State, and is known to history
as “the father of the Erie Canal.” Christopher Colles, from County Cork,
Ireland, was the originator of our system of rail and waterways. His
grave is in St. Paul’s. Thomas Addis Emmet, a resident of New York, was
attorney general of the State. Daniel O’Brien established the first
ferry to Perth Amboy. Dominick Lynch first introduced Italian opera to
our city. He was also the founder of the Town of Rome, N. Y.