Along with many thousand others, I went to the new Cathedral, last Thursday, to pay the last tribute of honor and respect to the great and good man who was the first American Cardinal. How reverential was the crowd that thronged the Cathedral on this occasion, and what a strikin’ contrast it presented to the time and scene when the old Cathedral of St Patrick’s was in a state of siege, guarded by armed men to protect it and its graveyard from bein’ mobbed right here in New York.
It was in the time of the Know-Nothin’ excitement. when not only was there an intense bitterness of feelin’ against foreigners on the part of “Native Americans,” but as the Irish were Catholics and most of the Americans were Protestants, an intense “religious hatred,” if there can be such a term, arose between the Catholics and the Protestants, the latter doin’ everythin’ in their power to molest the former.
The venerable Bishop Dubois was then the resident Bishop of New York. This prelate was a man of the mildest and noblest character, and had been all his life a conspicuous man. He had been in France the bosom friend of Lafayette, and when, exiled by the French Revolution, the bishop came over to this country he first settled in Virginia, where he became an intimate friend of James Monroe. He was then appointed Bishop of New York, where he officiated at old St. Mary’s Church. He was of a conciliatory disposition (like the late Cardinal) and did all he could to dispel the hard feelin’s that were arisin’ between the different nationalities and religions, but in vain. No one man–no, no ten thousand men–could have done that then.
One night the Bishop’s church, St. Mary’s, was set on fire and burned to the ground. This was bad, but worse soon came. The bishop had built a Catholic college, the first institution of that class ever erected in this State, at Nyack-on-the-Hudson. This was also burned. Both fires were conclusively proved to have been the work of political and fanatical incendiaries, and one day the bishop received a threatenin’ letter warnin’ him that the cathedral, St. Patrick’s itself, was doomed to fire and assault.
This was too much. Even the gentle Dubois had had enough of burnin’ and destroyin’, and he determined to protect the Cathedral at all hazards. The gentler the creature, as a rule, the more dangerous is he when once thoroughly desperate, and Bishop Dubois was now a determined and desperate man. He warned the local authorities that he had been threatened, he and his beloved Cathedral, and then finding that no special heed was paid by the city authorities to his communication, he resolved to take the law into his own hands, and protect himself. Self-preservation is the first law of nature.
So he called the most prominent of his congregation together, showed ‘em the threatenin’ letter he had received, told ‘em what he had done by himself, and how nothin’ had been done by anybody else, and then asked ‘em what they intended to do about it. His congregation assured the Bishop that they, under his orders, would protect him and the Cathedral from violence with their time and money; even with their lives, if necessary.
The Bishop thereupon took upon himself the duties of a commander in chief, and his congregation became indeed members of the “church militant.”
The Bishop had seen a good deal of fightin’ on the other side of the water, and he knew the value of fightin’ material of all kinds. So he got all sorts of military stores brought into the church and the various buildin’s connected with the Cathedral, puttin’ the whole place into a position of defense, and keepin’ guard day and night against incendiaries or assaults.
He did this all quietly, too, so quietly it didn’t get into the papers even, not at least until he had all things and all his men arranged for, and then he had some notices of his preparations published, so as to let people know that he was ready for an attack, which he took for granted was just the best way to prevent any attack at all.
A Mr. Lawrence Langdon acted as general manager, or managin’ general of the forces under Bishop Dubois. He had some one hundred men under him in all–men armed and knowin’ how to use their weapons if necessary, and among these hundred men, by the by, was Mr. John Kelly. The men were thoroughly drilled, and, while most of the men, of course, were Catholics and Irishmen, several were ‘emselves native born citizens who did not share at the absurd prejudice then abroad against foreigners, and who believed that Catholics had the same rights to have their churches protected as the Protestants ‘emselves.
Well, at the first, the report that Bishop Dubois and St. Patrick’s Cathedral were prepared for any emergency did serve to deter the hoodlums and roughs who wanted a row, but at last it was resolved to take the chances and “go for,” or rather against, the Cathedral anyway, and a night was appointed for the purpose.
But the Bishop, like a wise general, had his scouts and spies out, lookin’ around, and they reported that trouble was brewin’, so the Bishop and Lawrence Langdon at once took extraordinary precautions to meet the expected demonstration.
And first and foremost they set to work to make a barricade. These barricades have often been made in Paris and several times in New York, but almost always by rioters in defiance of law and order. In this case, however, the rare spectacle was presented of a barricade gotten up by decent men to conserve law, keep order and protect ‘emselves.
But the barricade was made, nevertheless, and just as thoroughly as if it had been made by the roughest roughs. The streets were torn up all around the Cathedral, and the paving stones were piled up along with lumber. Then wagons and old buses and carts were hauled up into service and placed across the streets, and it was all done in a style that would have done no discredit to a Parisian mob.
This was done in the daytime, and when the night appointed for the row came a number of thoroughly drilled and armed men were stationed around the Cathedral, and were also stationed at different points in the churchyard, behind the tombstones, with their muskets loaded, and their bayonets ready for action. They were told to keep still and to do nothin’ till the mob attacked ‘em, or the Cathedral; then they were ordered to fire or stab without mercy.
It was a strange scene for New York, a peaceful American city. Its Cathedral provided with the munitions of war, guarded and fortified like a castle in a state of siege, its venerable Bishop surrounded by armed men, while in the very city of the dead amid the old grave stones, flashed the musket and the bayonet in the hands of men who were determined to use ‘em with deadly effect when the mom came.
And the mob came, from the City Hall and Chatham street, along Broadway, several hundred strong, fillin’ the thoroughfare for blocks, marchin’ after a fashion and meanin’ mischief. At the corner of Prince street and Broadway the mob turned eastward into Prince street, nearin’ the Cathedral. It was long after dark; the night was fine and a great crowd was in the streets.
All expected a scene of turbulence and terror–a general riot, perhaps. Soon the mob reached the barricade, and then it had to stop. It would take some time to remove the obstructions, and there were men behind ‘em who did not propose to be peacefully removed. And then the mob got wind of and caught sight of the armed men, waitin’ for ‘em with weapons in their hands, behind the tombstones in the churchyard.
This looked like business, bloody business it might be, and the very silence these armed men kept made this fact more impressive. There was not a word spoken by the would-be defenders of the Cathedral–not an exclamation was heard, not a threat was uttered; they had no breath to spare for words, they were holdin’ ‘emselves ready for the time of action. This silence was more dramatic and more suggestive of warnin’ than any amount of noise, and the noisy mob was impressed by it. The mob raised a yell, but they were allowed to yell, and there was no yell raised in response. But the muskets were held tight, and the bayonets gleamed in the pale light of the faintly glimmerin’ moon.
All was still, but “armed stillness” is somethin’ terrible, and the wild mob were appalled by it.
They had hoped for provocation–somethin’ to stir their blood–but no provocation was given. They were seemingly allowed to do as they chose, and they naturally chose to do what seemed most prudent for their personal safety. They slunk away in the direction of the Bowery, where they cursed and swore and called names when they found they could do this safely, but they did nothin’ else, save stride more or less rapidly away.
While in old St. Patrick’s churchyard, the defenders of the Cathedral and the Bishop still kept silence, with their weapons in their hands.
It was a bloodless but dramatic triumph, and the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral was saved.
[Editor’s notes: Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral still stands, now known as St. Patrick’s Basilica.
The date of this incident is a bit of a mystery. Bishop Dubois died in 1842. Also mentioned is politician John Kelly, who was born in 1822. St. Mary’s church was burned (apparently by a sole arsonist) in 1831. The seminary in Nyack burned in 1833. A defensive wall was built around old St. Patrick’s Cathedral in 1834. There were a series of “Anti-Abolitionist” riots in New York in 1834, but the main targets were African-Americans and the churches and homes of noted abolitionists–not Catholics.
Since no violence occurred during this “siege,” it’s possible that it was never noted in newspaper accounts. Since no wall is mentioned, the likely date would have been late 1833 or 1834; but this means that John Kelly was not involved.
But it is also possible that the above story refers not to Bishop Dubois, but his successor Bishop Hughes. Bishop Hughes did face anti-Catholic mobs in 1844, and did implore city authorities to crack down on the “Native American” rowdies. And Hughes did rely on the assistance of the young John Kelly.
At any rate, it seems there are mistakes in the account.]
