Lowell’s Irish Mercer Girls

Harper's Weekly, Jan. 6, 1866

Asa Shinn Mercer had a goal.  He was given the task of bringing young New England women to the quickly growing Washington Territory.  Men far outnumbered women in the lumber-rich West, and if it was to be settled marriageable women, teachers, and seamstresses were needed.  Where would he find women of fine moral character who could provide the services he needed to bring back to Seattle?  Why Lowell, of course! 

Mr. Mercer visited Lowell in 1864 in the midst of the Civil War and spoke to an interested audience at Rev. Mr. Hinckley’s Unitarian Church.  He told of the wonders of the West, the travel opportunities, the men who looked forward to the women’s arrival, and the guaranteed jobs that awaited them.  In February of 1864 he took out an ad in the Lowell Daily Citizen.  Only those of high moral character should apply. He was looking for teachers and seamstresses that would be paid five dollars a week.  He kept rooms at the Washington House for interviews.  Each would have to pay her own way ($250).  Eight Lowell girls signed on.  The Daily Citizen of March 12, 1864 in an article called For the West, lists the names of the “young ladies” They would leave from New York by steamer, sail to Panama, cross the isthmus (where the girls would see their first palm trees according to a letter sent home by one of the girls), then sail onto San Francisco.  When they reached there, many men showed up to beg the women to stay in the city by the bay, but they sailed onto Washington Territory.  There they were given a grand reception.  Many of the girls became teachers and most quickly married. 

The city of Lowell was enthralled, and the papers kept all informed of their progress.  Mr. Mercer wrote back to the daily Citizen, The young ladies who came from Yankee land with me seem to be well pleased, and all are doing well. He announced he would visit the area again and this time bringing 100 families back with him.  He added, be it distinctly understood that no man of Jeff Davis' proclivities is admitted to our party.  Mercer’s later attempts were not as successful, but he did help open new lands.

Two names stand out in Mercer’s list of Lowell young ladies, Ann Murphy and Sarah Jane Gallagher.  

The Lowell City Directory of 1860 lists Ann Murphy as a teacher at Primary School #11 on Cross Street in the “Acre.”    A notice appeared in the papers before Mercer’s appearance that Murphy was not rehired as a teacher since the school had closed.  This may have been the catalyst in making this life changing decision.  She did not stay long in Washington and may have returned to San Francisco.

Sarah J Gallagher

The daughter of Irish immigrants, Sarah Jane Gallagher was born in Lowell in 1845 making her 19 at the time of her arrival at Washington Territory.  Her parents were James, listed as an innkeeper, and Ellen.  She was well educated and became a music teacher in Washington.  Within a year of her arrival she married widower, Thomas Russell who already had a child.  She later had a son.   Sarah Jane was one of the few Catholics in Seattle at the time, numbering about 10.  She became the church organist once a church was built and taught at Washington Territorial University. (Photo fr Univ of Washington Libraries, Special Collections)

As usual these stories just show up on my doorstep when I’m researching something else.  Some of this info came from two very interesting sources.  Mercer Girls Chapter, NSDAR: http://www.seattlemercergirls.com/  and Peri Lane Muhic’s website: http://www.mercergirls.com/

An Acre Memory- Memorial Day

St Bridget's Chapel at St. Patrick Cemetery

This weekend my wife and I will drive into Lowell to make our annual pilgrimage to the cemetery.  Memorial Day had a different meaning when I was younger.  In the morning we would usually walk from our tenement on Broadway to Merrimack Street to watch the parade.   World War II was still fresh in many people’s minds, and veterans would stand at attention and salute as each flag passed.  Rows upon rows of soldiers marched in formation, and the vibrations from the bass drums could be felt as the bands passed by.  The afternoon would mean a drive out to the cemetery. 

My father’s parents were buried in the flats section of St. Pat’s near the back gate.  Most of the year, it looks a little sad.  There is little if any landscaping and many of the stones have been overgrown with sod and grass clippings.  I always thought of this area as the workers’ section; those who spent their lives in the mills and factories and could not afford the grand marble or sculpted granite crosses.  But on this one weekend of the year, many if not most of this section would become a field of red geraniums and potted plants.  All along Gorham Street were flower stands where vendors would charge what they could to those who wished to say their dead, “We remember.”  Every now and then, a small American flag would be stuck in the ground to mark the grave of those who served their country.   My mother’s side of the family, being French, was buried at St. Joseph’s Cemetery (Cimetiere St. Joseph).  Each year we cleaned the marble marker.  I would walk around trying to translate the French inscriptions, and ask my mother what each meant.   We would light candles at home or at church to remember those who went before us; a practice my wife and I continue.

Today there are far fewer visitors on Memorial Day.  The fields of flowers that would transform the yards of stones into gardens are sparser than they used to be.  The traffic that would clog the entry ways into the cemetery don’t happen much anymore.   We’re busier today.  Our belief systems have shifted.  Traditions have been forgotten, or maybe they are just dormant for a while. 

O'Connell Family Monument

One annual visitor to St Patrick’s Cemetery was Cardinal O’Connell.  He was a regular celebrant of the annual Mass at Saint Bridget Chapel in the 1920s.  His first act would be to visit his parents’ grave near the office area where his limo would drop him off.  He’d kneel at the gravesite where he’d say a silent prayer and then proceed to the Chapel.  Some locals recalled that as soon as Mass was over he would be whisked out of town back to Boston and the “palace” he had built for himself.

Looking Over the Convent Wall

From the Annals of the Sisters of Notre Dame- Lowell  , MA

December 1, 1879           

About this time was purchased a lot of land from a certain John Hennessy for $4,000, and the buildings having been moved in the Spring of 1880, and the ground cleared, a brick wall was built on Adams street extending 123 ft in length.

This is the first mention of the brick wall that surrounded the school, academy, convent, chapel and grounds of the Sisters.  One of the next entries in the Annals tells that the Sisters had to sell off their cows and poultry and to close the gardens which grew some of their food.  The Rule of the SNDs was changing.  The Sisters who once freely mixed with parishioners and often visited homes as nurses were now to be semi-cloistered.  The wall was extended along the Suffolk Street side as well and the vegetable gardens were transformed into formal gardens.  The greatest section of the wall was brick with a granite capstone.  Looking at the eastern wall of St Patrick Church a large outline of a doorway exists today.  Though many recall it as a way to get from the school to the church, originally it was where the Sisters would sit to observe the Mass.  The Order mandated that the Sisters were no longer to assist at Mass sitting with the congregation and to remain within the cloister.  The Sister who wrote the annals during this period put in that this was a sad time for both the Sisters and parishioners.  The inclusion of such personal feelings was highly unusual and shows the close ties the two groups must have enjoyed.   The convent wall was a source of intrigue for many neighborhood children who would devise means on finding their way in and mention is made of neighbors hearing the nuns chanting the Divine Office or the Tantum Ergo on Sunday afternoons.  Even William Cardinal O’Connell mentions that he would make his way over to the Acre and scale the wall with his friends to see the Sisters walking in the flower gardens and grotto.

When the old school was demolished and the new school built in 1958 most of the wall was taken down with it.  The Sisters moved to the Academy grounds at Tyngsboro and made the daily trek by car.  The wall no longer served its purpose.  A small section remained in front of the current school along with several granite capstones strewn along the fence near the housing.  By the 1980s the wall was becoming a hazard.  Bricks were falling out.  The mortar was deteriorating making the wall a potential hazard.  I was there the day they took it down, pleading that maybe a small section could be retained.  As the workmen left I stole a single brick, the only relic to tell the story.  If walls could speak……..

An Acre memory: Easter

Easter on Walker St., 1960

There was a strict rule in my home on the corner of Broadway and Walker that you can’t have Easter without Lent.  It all started on Ash Wednesday when the Sisters would march us over to church to receive ashes on our foreheads.  We’d stand there comparing who had the biggest smudges like they were badges of honor.  It wasn’t uncommon to see most people in the neighborhood wearing ashes.  It was accepted that it was something we as a community did.  Not too long ago after wearing my ashes downtown, a teenage girl asked why I had something on my forehead.  Her mother shushed her out of embarrassment.  How times have changed. 

Before I continue I have to tell you that my mother was a strict observer.  As a matter of fact I found out many years later she often made up her own rules.  For example even though I was maybe 8 or 9 everyone in the house had to keep a strict fast for the 40 days.  This was not the church’s rule, but Ma’s rule which superseded any canon of the church.  Supper on Ash Wednesday and all Fridays of Lent were meatless.  That was no big deal we were used to that.  Lunch at school was always white American cheese with butter on Wonder bread.  That was it.  My friends would have peanut butter and jelly or tuna, but not in our house.  It was Lent!  There was a Sister on duty in the school cafeteria where we ate in silence.  If the smell of baloney (or is it bologna now?) wafted across the room, the Sister would make a bee line to the offender and remove the victual before mortal sin could be committed.  A soul was saved!

Suppers weren’t too different; maybe grilled cheese or tomato soup.  Because of my mother’s Canadian background we might have crepes with Vermont Maid maple syrup.   I don’t think there was ever a bottle of Aunt Jemima’s or Mrs. Butterworth’s in our home.  

Since we couldn’t eat anything between meals I came up with a plan on how to stretch supper out and fill my belly.  We’d have supper at 5 and then I’d run over to my friend Ricky’s house where they had supper at 5:30.  His Mom would invite me in and I’d sit at the table.  So for 40 days I ate 2 suppers almost every day.  Some Catholics used the fasting to shed some winter pounds.  Me?  I gained them.

My mother must not have been too good at math because according to her Saturday and Sunday did not count as Lenten fast days.  That meant a food free for all on weekends.  I recall one time I emptied out my piggy bank and bought one of those giant Hershey bars and ate the entire thing on one Saturday afternoon.  I was sure the belly ache I had was God’s vengeance for trying to outsmart Him.

When Passion Sunday would arrive every statue in church was covered in purple.  Palm Sunday was the Gospel that would never end, but it didn’t matter to us we’d be slapping each other with palm branches while it was going on.  Then on Good Friday there were the 3 hours of silence from noon to three.  I’ve heard others say they had to do the same, but I swear my mother invented it just to keep us quiet.

Without any exaggeration my earliest memory was of an Easter morning.  I couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4 but the trauma has strayed with me.  I’m sitting on the living room floor and my sister grabs my Easter basket.  It haunts me to this day.  Now that I think about it, this could be the reason why I still hide candy around the house.

Because of fasting regulation we could not eat for 3 hours before Communion, which meant the Easter basket would be in my room when I awoke, but nothing could be eaten until after Mass.  (This might have been the last of the Lenten disciplines.)  Our basket was a straw one from Green’s 5 & 10.  It had this terrible grass on the bottom on which any candy that was unwrapped would stay permanently stuck and you’d end up ingesting cellophane grass.  (We often found pieces of grass days later in the cat’s litter box.  Don’t ask questions.)  The centerpiece was a giant coconut egg, which some years was consumed on the same day.  (Read: bellyache)    Of course there were those gross yellow Peeps, also stuck to the cellophane grass, some robin’s eggs, and to fill in the rest of the basket at least 5 pounds of jelly beans.  One year I found empty peeps cartons in the garbage before Easter.  I asked who was eating candy during Lent.  My mother swore it was not her, then she’d put on her kerchief to go to confession.

We did not go out for Easter dinner.  My mother would never spend good money on what she could cook at home.  The menu was always the same baked ham basted in Chelmsford ginger ale (seriously, try it!), carrots, cabbage, and mashed potatoes.  Dessert was a bunny cake.  Yes, a bunny cake.  Two round cakes cut into the shape of a bunny’s face.  It sort of looked demonic with its black jelly bean eyes, but it was tradition.  The rest of the afternoon was filled with watching Victor Mature in The Robe, Victor Mature in Samson and Delilah, and Victor Mature in Demetrius and the Gladiators.   

My mother always received a one pound box of chocolates from Mrs. Nelson’s Candy House.  She’d bite the end off each one.  What she didn’t like she’d hand to my father for him to finish off.  I’d sit on the rug and sort my 5 lbs of jelly beans watching TV as Nero set fire to Rome and Victor Mature would battle in the Coliseum. 

An Acre memory- St. Patrick's Day

Reunion Booklet, 1920

Saint Patrick’s Day is really one of my favorite holidays. Sure there’s the big three: Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter. Even Halloween and Valentine’s Day have their good points. But March 17^th is something special. Once, when landing at Logan, a young business woman who was visiting Boston for the first time, randomly turned to me and asked what it was about St. Patrick’s Day and Americans. Some might say it’s the search for identity. Others might say it’s about the craic. Others might think of it as the Irish form of “Festivus for the rest of us” (a la Seinfeld). Today my family celebrates far differently than my parent’s time. My wife and I took a trip down memory lane and reminisced on how the day was celebrated when we were kids in the 1960s.

Growing up when and where I did in Lowell’s Acre almost made St Patrick’s Day a holy day of obligation. This wasn’t just a religious holy day, it was cultural as well. Much like Advent prepares us for Christmas or Lent for Easter, once the calendar turned to March, arrangements began. Certain foods had to be prepared, special songs were rehearsed and every item of green clothing had to be readied. At Saint Patrick School, the annual reunion show was planned weeks in advance. The show goes back to the late nineteenth century, if not earlier. Records show that the Parish would have entertainments of various sorts put on by the different societies, grade school children, and parishioners. The Parish Archives has copies of programs going back almost 100 years.

When I was attending St Patrick’s, about half the class had Irish surnames. Most of the students were half Irish and half something else, like myself. A few had no Irish in them, but still were required to sing, “Galway Bay.” A friend of mine, with whom I am still friends these many decades later, surprised me when I asked if he remembered the old songs. He confessed that he despised having to wear the green and to this day can’t stand the sound of “Oh the Days of the Kerry Dancing.” I still do not understand that.

The show was the big event of the season. The Sisters would walk the entire student body, about 400 kids, from the School to Market Street to Prescott to Merrimack and to the Auditorium. We walked 2 by 2 the full 2.4 miles. The show was always at 7 pm on March 16^th. If one can imagine the entire Lowell Memorial Auditorium was completely sold out year after year. I’m not sure if it is even there today, but behind the maroon curtain and stage was seating for the entire school chorus dressed in white shirts with green ribbons for girls and ties for boys. The Sisters, wearing a single green ribbon pinned to their habit, stood guard to ensure no shenanigans would besmirch the good name of Saint Patrick School.

The show began the same each year with the pipes and drums of Clan McPherson Band from Lawrence. The drum major in his tall bearskin hat would lead the pipers in with his silver baton flashing in the spot light. The bass drummer wearing the leopard pelt would twirl his drum sticks. You could feel the vibrations of the drum beats, not only physically, but in your very soul. The pipers would all lift their pipes and march into the hall playing “Scotland the Brave.” For you purists, remember we’re all Celts.

School Children Prepare for Show, 1950s

Singers would sing songs from the auld sod like “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” or “It’s a Great Day for the Irish.” The audience would frequently chime right in with the singers, after all these were the songs we were raised on. Little did most of us know that many of those Bing Crosby favorites were not from the auld sod and were not even written by Irish-Americans. The genre at the turn of the century was an appeal for Irish type vaudeville music and every musician, no matter the background, penned Irish sounding tunes. Those became the standards heard in every Irish-American home. But the music did its job; it joined the crowd into one communal voice.

Part of the entertainment of the night was seeing the first and second graders do a little song and dance on the stage. What would really tear up Nana and the crowd was that the girls wore little shamrock print skirts with aprons and dust caps. The boys wore green, silk pantaloons with a cummerbund. We had to go on stage and act out Mick McGilligan’s Ball. I remember this well, because I still have my pantaloons. I stole them. But my clearest recollection is how silk pantaloons, that were homemade using a loose elastic band to hold them up, can very easily slide down as you dance around a stage. And, how funny it is to see a 6 year old holding up his silk, green pantaloons in front of hundreds and hundreds of people. Yes, I’m speaking from experience.

The high point of the evening were the Irish step dancers. Step dancing had been a tradition at St Pat’s School for decades. My mother-in-law attended St Pats and took lessons back in the 1920s. When my time came around, it was common for boys and girls to go to the school hall each Saturday with their ghillies (soft shoes) and brogues (hard shoes) and Jim Madden would put them through their routines. Jim was a task master, but his mother (from Ireland) was a bit more brutal. When my own kids took part in competitions, at their first feis (competition) who was there but Jim Madden, a bit older, but still with perfect posture. The crowd at the auditorium always listened to see if the girls made their clicks with their hard shoes. Their green dresses with simple gold braiding seem plain compared to today’s outfits. (One of my daughter’s dresses cost $1500 and had to be imported from Ireland.) At that time, dancers could wear their medals won at feisana (competitions) and to see the medals all lift and fall to the beat of the music was part of the thrill.

Brenda in Step Dance Costume on Suffolk Street

At the end of the evening the pastor would always walk out and declare the news every schoolchild had been waiting to hear- there would be no school the next day. That did not mean you could sleep in the next morning. Mass was at 9 am, not just Mass, but Solemn High Mass. The celebrant wore the gold cope with the embroidered image of Patrick on the back. The opening song was “Hail Glorious Apostle Selected by God” and the closing would be “Hail Glorious St Patrick, Dear Saint of Our Isle.” Every seat in the church was filled. It was like Christmas when folks you hadn’t seen all year would show up. They were coming home.

And then there was the feast, or so some say. Personally I can’t stand corned beef. I want to be very careful here when we talk about corned beef. Every Irish American talks about the sainted grandmother’s recipe for corned beef and cabbage she carried off the boat from Ireland. The debate about this can cause whole families to stop speaking to each other. Corned beef is not the most traditional of dishes in Ireland. At the time of our ancestors beef was pretty expensive. When they came to America beef was more accessible and corned beef fit right into their price range. So maybe Nana’s recipe isn’t so Irish. In my house, corned beef was served, but it was more likely to be a boiled ham shoulder with cabbage, turnips, and boiled potatoes. Hey the Irish have great humor, literature, music, and poetry. No one ever said they had haute cuisine. Then there’s the debate over soda bread. With caraway seeds or without? With raisins or currants? Let’s not forget the green beer too. To round off this Irish meal, my French mother would make cupcakes with green frosting, and then remind me that St Joseph Day was only 2 days away.

Keening

 

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I'm uncomfortable with the term "historian" when it is applied to me. Those are very dedicated individuals who spend much time researching and seeking how and why things happened. Me, I'm a collector of other people's stories- the good, the bad, the happy, the sad, the true, and the....... what we wished really happened. For a number of years I did oral histories with members of the community. It all started because of my Dad. As a kid we'd drive around and he'd tell me the story of the Acre Shamrocks and swimming in the canals, stuff that would make a great oral history. Unfortunately I never gave him the time to do a history with me. I've lost that chance. I recall one story he shared with me.

When he was a kid living on Waugh Street in the Acre, a neighbor passed away. This must have been about 1925 when he was 7 or 8. His mother took him by the hand to attend the deceased woman's wake. He remembered seeing a wreath hanging on the door with a black crepe ribbon to announce to passers-by that the family was in mourning. He had never been to a wake before and had no idea what to expect. They walked into what would be called today the family room. The deceased was laid out in a casket, of course provided by O'Donnell's. The house was mobbed with family and friends. He remembered the gnarled hands of the deceased neighbor with the rosary beads intertwined. Candles burned at both ends of the coffin. His mother and he took a seat. There was no hope of escaping. The table before him had glasses stuffed with cigarettes and a bowl with clay pipes and tobacco. These were meant as tokens of remembrance from the family. The room where the deceased was laid out was quiet and reverent with mostly women whispering and nodding and holding lace handkerchiefs in their hands.

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The kitchen was another story. People who came to the house brought plates of sandwiches or cakes. It overflowed with offerings. Of course there was the whiskey. Jugs of the "water of life" bought at local watering holes covered what empty space there was in the kitchen. This was the male's domain. Smoke filled the room. and the glasses were being passed around again and again. My Dad loaded his plate with food, and his mom quickly escorted him out of this part of the house. He sat in the back of the viewing room while his mother made the rounds with the other ladies. As he was eating off his plate he almost jumped out of his chair. In back of him was a row of old ladies, really old ladies. They were like a chorus from some Greek tragedy. In unison they started high pitch wailing that went on and on. A few other old ladies joined in. "She's gone. She's gone" Then there were a series of lamentations not in any words he could recognize. Followed by, "We'll never see her again." There were intercessions to Blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints. Then the wailing would begin again. Much later he asked his mother who they were and she said they were the keeners. Some were family members, but other were paid professionals whose job was to set the mood and recount the actions of the soul who had passed. It was a practice that had pretty much died away by that time, and maybe he wasn't aware that he was witnessing one of the last grand Irish wakes in Lowell. He told the story a number of times over his life, and said the sound of the keeners was something he always would remember.

Back at the wake, the mourners carried on until the priest arrived and then all the women got on their
knees for the rosary. The sound from the kitchen of the glasses being filled and refilled mixed in with the Hail Marys. This same routine would be carried on for 2 more nights. His mother walked him back home only to turn around and return to the wake. It was her job to "keep watch" the whole night with a few of the other women. They would spend the entire night with the deceased telling stories of her life and struggles and then begin the rosary again. "...... now and at the hour of our death. Amen"

Thomas Nast- Racist or Social Commentator?

It’s hard to believe that the man who pretty much gave us the image of the Santa Claus we all know and love, was the same man who gave us some of the most blatant anti-Irish cartoons of the 19^th century.  So was Thomas Nast a racist?  Some of you may know that I’ve been doing research for a history of Lowell Irish due to come out in March of 2016.  (More about that later.)  When going through the hundreds of articles, it’s clear that there were times in Lowell’s past when our ancestors were not well-liked or wanted in Lowell.  Some of that may have been their own doing.  It’s also clear that there was a more liberal element in Lowell who wanted to support these new people.  

Nast is called the “Father of American cartoons.”  He used his pen to show his opinions on many topics Americans faced at the time and his own political views.  German-born, Nast was educated in American schools.  He was raised Catholic, but at some point converted to Protestantism.  Living in New York City he witnessed how Irish gangs were often involved in some of the worst criminal activity in the city.  The cartoons we know so well show his views towards the Irish.  But was he a racist?  I was only aware of a number of his pieces of work that all depict Irish as monkeys of thugs.  But Nast also drew cartoons that supported Chinese immigration, the abolition of slavery, and opposed racial segregation.  (See Wikipedia for more info on his work.)

More than one piece of research on Nast denies the man was a racist, claiming he was just being a political cartoonist.  He was doing nothing different than any other cartoonist of the time or today.  It just happens we know only his anti-Irish work.  There is also the point that as a political cartoonist his job was to stir up debate and point out the current thinking of the day.  Think of recent happenings in Paris.  Was he just showing what others were thinking?  Was he anti-Irish or anti-Catholic?  In his defense you could hardly find a newspaper in this time period that didn’t run an anti-Catholic article, joke, or even an employment sign saying “No Catholic need apply.” (This was also found in local papers.)  So was he a racist or just reflecting the views of his time in history?  You decide.

Let me return to the book.  Help!  It’s far more work than I ever imagined.  What is it people say when a hobby becomes work?  I’m on a search right now for photos from the different churches and schools.  St. Pat’s is well represented, but the book is about Lowell.  Can you help?  I need pictures from Sacred Heart, St. Mike’s, Immaculate, and St. Peter’s.  The earlier the better.  I’ve got pics of the buildings, but our story is really about people.  The men and women who made up the neighborhoods, the kids in school uniforms, the nuns and priests at work in school and church.  I’d love to get a picture of one of the nuns from St. John’s Hospital.  I think they had the big wings.  Someday I’ll tell you the story of how I gave one a smack across the face.  Hey, I was four, but I remember it. If you've got something to share please get in touch.  dadumc@comcast.net