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.