Chapter M: M. Shannon, Esq., 512 Davis Street, Elmira, N. Y. Proposed by Hon (4)

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.