The Irishman, at home and abroad, has ever been shamefully apologetic for his race and himself. He, the proudest of mortals, is always depreciating his nation’s glory before the world.
The most successful of Irish soldiers, as we gauge success, was Wellington, a man of Irish birth, whose family had lived in Ireland for three hundred years. Yet, if we may believe biography, he always called himself an “Englishman.” If he with three hundred years of Irish ancestry behind him was English, is there, on all this continent, such a being as an “American,” since not many of us can call ourselves “natives” by much over one century of heritage?
Quite recently, in Boston, a wise and patriotic Irishman, though not a Home Ruler, said, in presenting his case before an American audience, that his family was not exactly “Irish,” since they had been in Ireland only six hundred years!
And the patriotic poet, Doctor Sigerson, of Dublin, talking with my dear lamented friend, the late Alfred Williams, himself a descendant of the great Roger Williams, of Rhode Island, remarked, incidentally, in regard to a mutual friend, that “there was an old feud between his family and mine—but we have agreed to forget it.”
The “feud” dated back to the Danish invasion—many centuries ago—when Doctor Sigerson’s ancestors fought against Brian Boru! I mention this incident merely to show that it is possible to go back—too far—in the path of genealogy.
Let us be content with reasonable research. If we can prove that St. Brendan was the first discoverer of America, and that a seaman named “Patrick Maguire” was the bow-oar who set the first foot on the strand of the New World, from the boat of Columbus—what of it? Any clumsy forger will come forward at once and declare that Brendan was a “Scotch-Irishman” and Maguire an “Anglo-Saxon,” as their names imply. For have they not demonstrated, to their own entire satisfaction, that St. Patrick was not only a Scot, but also a Calvinist—centuries ere Calvin was born? We can afford to ignore the fables of what is, to us, comparative antiquity.
The point that I wish to make is this: I concede willingly, and, I may say, gladly, that the founders of the great Irish-American societies in America, a century or a century and a half ago, were not all of the distinctively Irish race whose faith was Catholic; but of their nationality there was not the shadow of a doubt. They were Irish, and proud to call themselves such. They were not “Scotch-Irish,” nor “Anglo-Irish.”
If they belonged, for the most part, to the faith of Grattan and Tone and Emmet, does any true Irishman love their memory the less therefor? Not one! In all the history of this, our poor, crime-stained, unhappy world, there is no nation so free from the sin of persecution for conscience’s sake as poor, persecuted Catholic Ireland. Our national saints and martyrs have been Catholic and Protestant. We have never discriminated against any man because of his religious belief, but, rather, have been proud of following our leaders who loved Ireland first.
But we are jealous in claiming our own. We do not want any man to be called “Scotch-Irish” or “Anglo-Saxon,” because he did not happen to be of the same faith as Strongbow or Henry the Second, the Catholic invaders who first overran Ireland.
Emmet is ours as much as O’Connell; Parnell belongs to Ireland as much as Owen Roe. We do not discriminate between Andrew Jackson and Phil Sheridan when we glory in the deeds of Irish-Americans.