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!”