THE IRISH IN PROTESTANT DENOMINATIONS IN AMERICA.
Rev. J. Havergal Sheppard, D. D.: Mr. President-General, Ladies and Gentlemen, Honored Guests and Fellow Members of the American Irish Historical Society: I esteem it a very great honor that you have conferred upon me tonight in asking me to speak at this, your annual gathering. I must confess that I feel somewhat embarrassed in facing such a body of distinguished Irishmen and their friends. It has not often been my lot to meet so many “Sons of the Ould Sod” or those whose Sires settled on these shores in the passing years as it is tonight. Nevertheless I am proud to be one of you on this occasion; in fact, I feel like a fellow countryman of mine, who was in the company of an Englishman and a Scotchman. They were complimenting each other, when the Englishman asked the Scotchman if he were not a Scotchman what would he be, and he answered, an Englishman. Then the Scotchman, not to be outdone, asked the Englishman if he was not an Englishman what he would be, and, of course, he answered a Scotchman. Then they turned to Pat, who had been listening to their expressions of friendship, and they asked him, “Pat, if you were not an Irishman, what would you be?” And he, in turn, in true Celtic fashion, answered, “If I was not an Irishman I would be ashamed of myself.” So if I was not an Irishman, after this gathering and greeting and what the Irish have done for this country, I would be ashamed of myself.
An old philosopher once said, “Let us give the past to oblivion, the present to duty, the future to Providence,” and I am sure we agree with him in two of his propositions, but we differ with his first. We are willing to give the present to duty and trust the future to Providence, but never give the past to oblivion; not until, at least, every true American knows the Irish chapter in American history. And it is such a body as this that will hasten that glad day for the Irish race, when men will know that we have as much right to these shores as any race that ever landed here. That starry flag, with its red for love and its white for law and its blue for the hope that our fathers saw in a larger liberty, has been consecrated with the blood of the liberty-loving sons of the sod.
There has never been a battle for right against wrong but “That rascal, Pat,” has been to the front, not only to fight as a private soldier, but to often lead the van as a commanding officer. We find him on the bench and at the bar pleading as an able lawyer; before the altar or in the pulpit, performing the sacred duties of religion. In fact, wherever you go or whatever profession or trade you enter you will find “That Rascal, Pat.” They are no newcomers to these shores, for shortly after that memorable landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock they made their way across the trackless main for this new land.
It was not the lure of gold but the love of liberty that brought them. Down-trodden and oppressed in the land of their birth, whether Roman Catholic or Non-conformist, by unjust and tyrannical laws passed by a government that had no sympathy with the suffering Irish, every possible means of culture were denied them, until life in the land they loved became unbearable; so those who were able to muster enough money and courage crossed the briny deep, with many sad farewells and heartbreaking partings.
It is true that many of those early settlers were from the north and had, undoubtedly, been descendents of men who settled there from Scotland and other parts of Britain and Europe; but they had been residents of Ireland for several generations before they emigrated here, and by the right of birth were “Sons of the Sod.” Many Americans of later days, as well as British historians, have given the glory to Scotland for what they did for America, and they always speak of them as Scotch-Irish, and when you ask the reason this is done they will tell you it is to distinguish between them and the Roman Catholic Irish, but supposing we follow that method in our historic research. We would have to say that every Episcopalian was an Englishman, that every Presbyterian was a Scotchman and every Roman Catholic was an Italian. But again they answer: These people came originally from Scotland, hence they are Scotch-Irish; but taking that for granted, which is not the whole truth, as we have many other races in Ireland, most of those early Scotch settlers bear Highland names and were not the Scotch Highlanders, the same race by blood, as the original Irish, and the only thing that made them Scotch was the fact of birth in Scotland; hence when they arrived back in Ireland they became Irish by the same right that they were Scotch, that of birth. In fact, they became more Irish than the Irish themselves. I think enough has been said to introduce my subject tonight.
It is my purpose to put on record a few facts in regard to the great part our fellow countrymen played in the Protestant denominations, in America. As I have already stated, most of the early Irish settlers on these shores came from Ulster and were of the Presbyterian faith. Cotton Mather says that previous to 1640 four thousand Presbyterians had arrived in New England, and there is no doubt that many of these came from Ireland. As early as 1662 a group of Irish and Scotch Presbyterians worshipped in Jamaica, Long Island, and it is claimed that this was the first church of that denomination on this continent.
Between 1670–1680 a body of Presbyterians settled on the eastern bank of the Elizabeth River in Virginia, who had with them their pastor from Ireland, who continued to labor among them until his death in 1683. Later one hundred families from Ireland settled Londonderry, New Hampshire, bringing their pastor, Rev. James McGregore, who faithfully and affectionately labored for their good.
As early as 1680 several families of Irish Presbyterians settled in the lower counties of Maryland and erected several houses of worship, as a letter from one of them, Colonel William Stevens, was presented in 1680 to the Laggan Presbytery in Ireland, requesting that a minister by sent to labor in Maryland, and in 1683 the Rev. Francis Makemie arrived by the way of Barbadoes and founded the church at Snow Hill. For several years he labored as an itinerant preacher or missionary, founding churches or strengthening those already started.
“This pioneer of the church,” says a Presbyterian authority, “was born in County Donegal, Ireland, and was so earnest, fearless and indefatigable that he persevered so well in obtaining fellow laborers, though he must cross the ocean for them, and in 1704 brought out two young men, one being John Hampton, a fellow countryman. He was instrumental in organizing the first classical assembly of the Presbyterian church in America, 1706.”
Under the name of the “Presbytery of Philadelphia,” with the Presbytery of Dublin as a model, Makemie being elected moderator and thus logically becoming the founder of organized Presbyterianism in America.
In 1716 there arrived in New York the Rev. William Tennent with his three sons, Gilbert, William, Jr., and John, from the County Armagh. After a period of labor in New York State he was called to the pastorate of the Presbyterian church at Neshiminy, Penn., where he established “The Log College” in 1726, himself an eminent scholar. He trained a number of godly and useful young men for the ministry, among who were Samuel Blair and his own three sons. This college was the foundation of which the present Princeton University was built and all those whom I have mentioned, as well as others who graduated, became leaders in the denomination. It would be superfluous for me to weary you with an account of all the great Presbyterian ministers who came to our shores from the Emerald Isle. Suffice to say that the names of Makemie, Mackie, Hampton, Tennent, Blair, Drs. Neill, Junkin, Elliott, Murry, Allison, Potts, Patterson and Hall stand out in letters of gold in the successful history of that church.
1760. A party of Irish emigrants might be seen at the Custom House Quay in Limerick, preparing to leave their native land for these congenial shores. One of the company, a young man with thoughtful look and resolute bearing, entered the vessel and from the deck preached a farewell sermon to those friends who were to be left behind. This was no other than Philip Embury, who was destined to play a prominent part in the Methodist denomination in America. It was in 1766 that he first conducted services in New York in his own house to five people. As the congregation increased he removed to a rigging loft, then building with his own hands the first Methodist church in the new world, which was called “Wesley Chapel” after the founder of the denomination in the old land. It was situated on John street, and on Oct. 30th, 1768, Embury preached the sermon of dedication.
Sometime in 1770, after Rev. Robert Williams, another fellow countryman arrived in New York, he removed to Camden Valley with several Irish families, then a vast wilderness, and organized the Methodist society at Ashgrove, which was named after another Irishman, Thomas Ashton, and there he labored until his death in 1773. At the age of 45 years his remains, after several removals and not even a stone to mark the spot where slept the silent dust, now rests under a marble shaft erected by the National Local Preachers’ Association of the Methodist Episcopal church in the village cemetery at Cambridge, N. Y., on which the following inscription appears: “Philip Embury, the earliest American minister of the Methodist Episcopal church, here finds his last resting place.” Born in Ireland, an emigrant to New York, Embury was the first to gather a little class in that city to set in motion a train of influences which resulted in the founding of the John street church, the cradle of American Methodism, the introduction of a system which has beautified the earth with salvation and increased the joys of heaven.
It is worthy of note that this inscription was penned by a famous fellow countryman of Embury, the Rev. Dr. John Newell Maffitt, the silver-tongued orator of southern Methodism.
HONORABLE CHARLES ALEXANDER,
Of Providence.
Vice-President of the Society for Rhode Island.
Simultaneously with Embury’s ministry in New York another Irishman, Rev. Robert Strawbridge, who was born at Drumsnagh, County Leitrim, and who, like Embury, had been a preacher in Ireland, settled at Sams Creek, Frederick County, Maryland, where he organized several Methodist societies. He had all the characteristic traits of his fellow countryman. He was generous, energetic, versatile and somewhat intractable to authority. During his life he was poor and his family were often straitened for food. His members appreciated his genuine zeal and self-sacrifice, so they took care of his little farm gratuitously in his absence.
Strawbridge founded Methodism in Baltimore and Hartford counties, where he raised up several preachers, among who were numbered Owen, Stephenson, Perigau, Webster, Watters, Gatch, Haggerty, Durbin and Garrettson. We discover him penetrating into Pennsylvania and then arousing the population of the eastern shore of Maryland. We trace him at last to the upper part of Long Green, Baltimore County, where an opulent and generous public citizen, who admired his character and sympathized with his poverty, gave him a farm free of rent for life. It was during one of his visiting rounds to his spiritual children that he was taken sick at the home of Joseph Wheeler and died in the summer of 1781. His grave may be seen today in the Mount Olivet cemetery at Baltimore, where his greatest success was achieved.
Robert Williams, with whom we became acquainted on his arrival in New York and whose passage was paid from Ireland by his friend, Thomas Ashton, and who took charge of the John street church, New York, after Embury, was the pioneer Methodist in Virginia, forming a society in Norfolk, 1772, which was the germ of the denomination in the state. In 1773 he traveled in various sections of the state, preaching and forming societies, then extending his ministry into North Carolina, where he also was the first to plant Methodism. A signal example of his usefulness was the conversion of Jesse Lee, the heroic founder of Methodism in New England. He died on the 26th of September, 1775.
“He was a plain, pointed preacher, indefatigable in his labors,” says a historian of the church, and another says, “His grave is unknown but he will live in the history of the Methodist church forever.”
Time would fail me to tell of all the Sons of Erin who labored in those early days for the success of the Methodist cause, but enough has been said to prove, at least, that Irishmen can claim a large place in the founding of that denomination on these shores.
In the year of 1809 there came to America from Ballymena, County Antrim, Ireland, Thomas Campbell and his son Alexander. They were men of sterling character, marked ability and decided convictions. For several years they were active and successful workers in the Baptist denomination and in 1823 Alexander Campbell established the Christian Baptist and continued as its editor until his break with that denomination on doctrinal grounds, and in 1827 he organized the Church of the Disciple of Christ. So successful became his ministry that a college was demanded for the training of young men for the ministry and in 1840 he established Bethany College at Bethany, West Virginia, which has sent out in the world more than eleven thousand graduates in the past seventy years, and the denomination which he founded ranks fifth in the protestant denominations in America, with a membership of over one million and a half.
He died March 4th, 1866, and his remains rest in Bethany, West Virginia.
I wish I had time to tell you of those of Irish birth who filled prominent positions in the pulpits of these denominations in later years. At one period three of Erin’s sons adorned the pulpits of New York City: Rev. Dr. George S. Rainsford, of St. George’s Protestant Episcopal Church; Rev. Dr. John Hall, of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church, and Rev. Dr. Henry M. Gallagher, of the Hanson Place Baptist Church of Brooklyn.
I have presented these facts, not to arouse religious strife, but rather to give glory to the land of my birth for what her sons have done on these shores, in peace as well as in war.
I am happy to say we are not here representing any sect but a country; in fact, we are all Irishmen tonight.
We have done much for America and well may we be proud of it, but never forget that America has done much for us.
When it was impossible for us to develop the latent powers born in our race in the land we loved we found the opportunities so badly needed under the folds of that starry banner, to the joy of every true Irish heart in this and the old land.
I hope that we will get to know each other as the years go by and that this organization will grow and flourish to the true glory of “Dear Old Ireland.”
God bless you, I say, however you pray;
Your faith will ne’er meet my derision.
Can’t we kindly talk o’er this matter, asthore,
And band curse, strife and division.
And we’ll love one another, my Catholic brother,
Like loyal-souled Irishmen ever.
And the heathenish strife that’s consuming our life,
We’ll bury it forever and ever.
President-General Quinlan: Ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow will soon be here, when we can all rest, but an intellectual treat such as you have tonight is seldom offered this assemblage to participate in. One of the great features of this Society is to have annual meetings, and these are prefaced by holding Executive Council meetings at different places. Last summer the Executive Council met in the city of Providence, and while there one of our number entertained us with that pure Celtic hospitality. This gentleman is one of the few who has participated in every event since his advent into the Society, and it is he, Alexander, who entertained the Executive Council in his princely style at Macedonia. I now present to you, Ladies and Gentlemen, Colonel Charles Alexander of Providence, Vice-President of the Society for the State of Rhode Island.
Hon. Charles Alexander: Mr. President, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is indeed a privilege and an honor for me to meet you tonight for the first time as a new member.
I met one of the gentlemen of this association a few days ago, and calling him by name I said, “Do you know that I have been railroaded to the speakers table January 8th?” He said, “That is good,” but I said, “No, that is bad, for I don’t know what to say.”
It reminded me very much of the story of two men who met. One said to the other, “I have been married since I met you last.” “That is good.” “Not so good; my wife has a temper.” “That’s bad.” “Not so bad; she’s got some money.” “That’s good.” “Not so good; I put the money into sheep and they all died.” “That’s bad.” “Not so bad; I got the wool.” “That’s good.” “Not so good; I put the proceeds of the wool into a tavern, and the tavern burned to the ground.” “That’s bad.” “Not so bad; my wife burned with it.”
Mr. Toastmaster, I am from Rhode Island, and you know what that means, Ladies and Gentlemen. It means that the hand of good cheer is always extended to anyone visiting our shores. (Applause.)
I will take but a very few moments of your time.
The first tablet to be placed in the State House of Rhode Island in honor of an eminent Rhode Islander is that of John Sullivan. It occupies a conspicuous niche near the main entrance, and was placed there by this Society. Our State House has ample provision for many more such memorials, but this is the only one which has been erected at the present time.
The American Irish who are making history today will be memorialized by the descendants of some of the present gathering because of their achievements, many of whom, I trust, are at this hour here assembled. This Society has reason to be proud of the exploits of those whose worthy deeds it celebrates on every such occasion, and the whole country should share with it such pride. In all the wars in the country’s history, they have occupied a position to be proud of, throughout the peaceful periods, in the halls of legislation and in public life; but the honors to be celebrated are not as yet all achieved.
Americans of Irish descent are making new names every day, contributing new achievements to the record of the country’s service, which future meetings of this organization in years to come will surely celebrate. The achievements of the past will be a stimulation in the future to every member to become worthy of the tribute of this Society; and from this fact will be no small incentive to exalted service. So I say—from the present generation—right from around this board, history will select for remembrance and fame more honorable names to add to the roll, which it will be the privilege and the duty of this Society to preserve.
Ladies and Gentlemen, you are a friend to man, and this association means something. You are a friend to man, and may I be permitted to recite just two or three verses in that line? They emanate from the pen of a gentleman who has the ability to put splendid thoughts into words.
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where the highways never ran;
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban—
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press on with the ardor of hope,
And the men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles or their tears—
Both parts of an infinite plan;—
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
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.)
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.