Fenians Pic-Nic

     “To-day that mysterious organization known throughout the world, and particularly in the House of Commons as the Fenian Brotherhood, will have a grand pow-wow at Jones’ Woods. . . . [M]usic and dancing, feasting and fun, are on the programme.”

     The article includes an extended section describing the national characteristics of the Irish and a description of Colonel Roberts’ speech to the crowd.  “Last week the German element of our city was in the ascendant.  German concerts, German banquets, pic-nics, &c.  New York resounded to the music of three thousand German singers; the slopes of Jones’ Wood were covered by a heterogeneous mass of Teuton men, women, children and lager bier glasses.  Yesterday Ireland lorded it supreme.  The Fenians occupied the places of the Germans and the lager bier glasses, and the woods rang again with the native music of the Celt.  The fourth annual picnic of the Manhattan Circle was the occasion.  Over five thousand of the sworn foes to English rule indulged in the sports and pastimes of the Old Country, while considerably more than then thousands of their friends and admirers assisted them with a will.  It is said that the German race is bound together by the bond of song; but a more powerful bond unites Irishmen.  Wherever they may be, no people love their country more than they do.  Though seas divide them from her shores, though alien skies be above them, they still are one in a soul-engrossing feeling of love of country which defies alike the influence of oppression and time.  It is also said that Irishmen can never come together without having a row, and that broken heads serve the participators as a reminder of the meeting.  This is a thoroughly English idea, and, like everything pertaining to ‘perfidious Albion,’ is entirely false.  Nothing disturbed the harmony which reigned yesterday throughout – no brawling, no high words, nothing partaking of the nature of a row – all passed off as quietly as could be wished.  And still there was plenty of fun, singing and swinging, dancing and all ‘sorts iv divarshun.’  In fact, it was

A remodeled Donnybrook.

     who has not heard of this famous field, so noted for fun and frolic, where, it is stated, an Irishman is in his glory, with the, to him, natural weapon commonly known as the ‘shillelah’ and the vegetable production called the shamrock.  He is stated to usually invite his friend into a tent and lavishly expend on him fifty cents American currency, and there, in a questionable fit of love, knocks the said friend down.  But the pristine glory of Donnybrook has departed.  Government, in a moment of high moral sense, purchased it out, and those of the Irish who are left at home are not permitted to indulge in this harmless amusement.  But here, in America, there is no opposition offered to the naturally jolly nature of the Celt.  He is untrammeled by laws in which he had no voice in making, and is allowed to enjoy himself as he may.  But his ideas are changed as to amusement; it no longer consists in the before quoted strange love episode.  He becomes a rational being and indulges his feelings in a rational way.  He becomes a member of respectable society, takes a prominent position in politics, becomes educated, and rises to a point of distinction he could never hope to attain in his own unhappy country – at least while under the influence of English rule.  The free institutions of the American republic remodel his whole character, and the Irishman of to-day is very different from him who a few years since landed at Castle Garden in a fustian suit, and with perhaps but a dollar in his pocket.  This change is mainly owing to the different nature of the American government to that under which he has previously lived.

     Yesterday Donnybrook was recalled to us; but far different from the Donnybrook of old.

The Irish Jig.

     Dancing is of very ancient origin.  From a means of expressing delight and pleasure it has attained the dignity of a science.  The most stringent rules of etiquette hamper motions which should be spontaneous.  The fearfully confusing quadrille, the perplexing Lancers, the puzzling Caledonians, and last of all the maddening German – to be perfect in which forms the labor of a lifetime – are all examples of this.  It is a pity that such should be the case; but there are dances which the stern rules of conventional society cannot interfere with, which the march of so-called civilization cannot destroy.  Among these are the Scotch reel, Highland fling, and, grandest of all, the Irish jig.  Who has not been delighted with this native piece of Terpsichorean exercise?  Many have only had opportunities of seeing it as introduced into some Irish sensation drama; but to those who have witnessed its performance at an Irish ‘pattern,’ or fair, with all the spirit which an active ‘bouchal’ and pretty ‘colleen’ can infuse into it, the repetitions yesterday could not fail to bring back the days of ‘auld lang syne.’  To describe how the girls and boys footed it to the music of the not over melodious ‘pipes,’ or the fiddle, would be an utter impossibility.  As ‘Father Jack Walsh’ was intoned the excitement became intense; two bright specimens of the Celtic race, male and female, came on the floor, and went through their respective parts with a spirit and muscle which proved beyond contradiction that their trip across the ‘salt say ocean’ had impaired neither the one nor the other.  Heel and toe they went it.  ‘Keep it up to him, Molly.  Bravo, Mickey.  Look at thim shteps, ye divil.  Hurroo!  Ould Ireland for ever.  That’s the shtyle for Galway.’  The performance of the music reflected great credit on the piper and fiddler, who were encouraged frequently by ‘Arrah! more power to your elbow.  Long life to your wind bag,’ and such like.  At length, exhausted, the first couples give way to fresh ones, who performed their part with equally commendable skill.

     But the more aristocratic dames were not excluded.  On the two large platforms in the grounds waltz, polka, &c., were freely indulged in, but to no modernized airs.  Native music served for all; and the time served as a jig came up on the platform interwoven into a waltz, mayhap.  Irish music possesses the peculiarity of speaking directly to the heart.  It awakens all the seldom dormant emotions of the Irish nature, whether of joy or sorrow.  To keep an Irishman’s feet easy while a jig is being played is as difficult a task as to ‘sup broth with a fork.’  And again the plaintive melodies, such as that of the ‘Coolin,’ seldom fail to cause tears to chase each other down the cheek of the sternest.  Other music may be more scientific—in other melodies the theory of musical sounds may be better attended to—but it seems the proper description is that which touches the heart as does the Irish.  He who

    ‘Spint a whole fortnite at Brookes’ Academy
    Larning a step for Lannegan’s Ball’

     had a fine opportunity of astonishing his less enterprising companions yesterday, and he did it, too.  Nothing was too intricate for him.  Like poor old Fezziwig in Dickens’ Christmas carol, he seemed to ‘mink with his calves which shone again,’ so supple were those necessary appendages.  The way this young man fairly carried his partner through that quadrille was astonishing.  We are satisfied he did not permit her feet to touch the ground, and again in that waltz – it was shocking!  The dancing was continued through the day, under the direction of an efficient committee, to the music of two first class bands.”

     This is a long article on the festival, but does not discuss the music to any great extent.  “We are becoming a Nation of Pic-Nickians.  Sunday schools, churches, target companies, brothers of every name and degree, Germans, Irishmen, Frenchmen, and colored persons, one and all, spread themselves and their table cloths regularly once a year in the open air, where, to the merry music of blatant brass and deafening drum they dance and celebrate their souls. . . .

     . . . Our Celtic friends are warmhearted and impulsive.  They are fond of whisky, and are apt to indulge in a little ground and lofty tumbling at these festive gatherings. . . . The platforms were crowded.  A dance is a dance all the world over, and so far as we could see there is no difference between the heeling and toeing of a Fenian couple and that of any other. . . .

     . . . The two immense platforms were crowded all the time, and the bands were allowed no rest.  Quadrilles and fancy dances followed each other in rapid succession. . . . The dancing was not of the most elegant nature, perhaps; it never was at any pic-nic we remember. . . .

     Other addresses were made, for which we have no room, but with the inspiring music of the band and the intensity of Irish enthusiasm in behalf of the ould country, a scene of much excitement ensued and a general refreshing season was enjoyed. . . .

     . . . [A]s there were at least 30,000 people there, the receipts must have been large.”