The Philadelphia Know Nothing Riot, 1848 |
“I know nothing.”
When a member of the Native American Party was asked about this
semi-secret political group that was based on American nativism and
anti-Catholic bigotry, that was to be his response. “I know nothing.” New England in the 1850s was fertile ground
for such a group. Too many immigrants. Too many Catholics. They infiltrated every level of government
and Lowell was no exception. Members of
the Know-Nothings felt it their duty to purge America of foreign, especially
Catholic, influence.
Reading through the few accounts of life that exist of life
in this period there is a story that keeps popping up. It tells of when the Know-Nothings were in
power and made themselves known in Lowell.
The year was 1854 and tensions were tight. The Know-Nothings were known to make visits
to convents and demand entry to see what atrocities they could find. The Sisters of Notre Dame spent the nights in
vigil waiting for the alarm to be sounded.
Men spent the night in the church tower keeping their eyes on Lowell
Street for the mobs to be crossing the bridge which would lead them to the
church and the convent.
It was a June night when their fears became reality. According to one account that has been passed
down to us, the crowd with guns and
bayonets advanced upon the convent in martial order, followed by the mob
yelling, shrieking and brandishing clubs and road tools.
On came the frenzied
force, their shouts filling the air and penetrating the convent walls to the
great terror of the sisters. The roar of the mob signified no mercy to the
noble women whose lives were dedicated to mercy, and there seemed to be no
hope. But in the meantime the news had reached a Catholic woman whose life was
of less value lo her than her religion.
The woman in question was Mrs. Julia Castle (Cassell), wife
of Henry Castles. Putting a large rock in an apron, she called upon the neighboring
wives, mothers, and sisters to follow her example, and soon full fifty women
were massed in front of the convent gate, led by the dauntless Mrs. Castle.
There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, right in the teeth of the advancing
horde, each one firmly resolved lo let the infuriated Know-Nothings trample
over her body ere the gates should be forced and the sacrilege consummated.
Leading the military
company was a burly policeman, whose sworn duty was to preserve peace and
order. He was some thirty yards in advance of the rest, his zeal in the cause
having quickened his steps. When he pompously ordered the woman to make off and
clear the way, instead of being obeyed as he expected, he found himself in the
grasp of a pair of stout Irish arms, and felt himself lifted bodily ore the
ground. The canal was nearby, but before the approaching mob could come up he
was seized by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his trousers, and was flung
into the slimy depths. The crowd halted in amazement at the audacity of the
thing, and then, by one of those instantaneous impulses which sometimes turn
the current of events and shapes history, the mind of the mob was diverted from
its infamous purpose. The sight of the
half drowned wretch as he floundered and splashed in the reeking water ere he
crawled up the banks, changed the yells of rage to shrieks of laughter, and gave
men time to take a second thought of what they were contemplating. When old Mrs.
Castle, her straggling grey locks unconfined, bade them come on and get treated
to more drinks of the same tap, they turned about and slunk home. Had the
convent been burned there would have been a bloody retaliation that night, and
many who participated would have never seen the light of another day.
Stories tend to snowball.
They grow with each telling. The
above narrative was part of Mrs. Castle’s death notice when she passed away in
1887. So did it happen? There is an eyewitness who swears to her
account. There are other accounts; one
written by a Sister of Notre Dame, and then the actual newspaper account from
the period. One can imagine Mrs. Castle
telling her story year after year; her grandchildren sitting on her lap. And with each telling, the story grows.
So what’s your story?
No comments:
Post a Comment