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The fortunes of my
forbears, like the family chronicles of many of the Scotch-Irish
whose names appear frequently in American annals, follow in general
outline, but with divergent detail, the history of the Scotch
emigration to Ulster and the subsequent exodus from that province to
America.
Family tradition
throws little light on the estate of the Stephensons prior to the
time of my great-grandfather, Andrew Stephenson. What his career was
can only be dimly surmised from the general drift of large affairs
in Ulster during the period following the revolution. On the subject
of his personal activities no records survive and tradition is
almost blank. Like so many others who have sought their fortunes in
far places, he carne from the lowlands of Scotland, where the name
Stephenson flourished. Here also, it is probable, originated the
family to which George Stephenson, the distinguished engineer and
inventor, and his son Robert, also an engineer, belonged. The story
has been told from one generation to another, at least in my own
branch of this seemingly numerous clan, that Andrew Stephenson, my
great- grandfather, and George Stephenson, the engineer, came of the
same stock. [George Stephenson, who built the first passenger
railroad from Liverpool to Manchester, and the first locomotive, the
locket, used on the line, was born in the village of Wylain, eight.
miles west of Newcastle-on-Tyne. "A tradition is, indeed, preserved
in the family that old Robert Stephenson's father (George
Stephenson's great-grandfather) and mother came across the border
from Scotland on the loss of considerable property there." Smiles'
Life of George Stephenson; John Murray: London, 1857.]
Andrew Stephenson
went to Ireland some time during the first half of the eighteenth
century. In this venture, probably, he merely followed the example
of many of his hardier neighbors who were ready to abandon the land
of their birth, where increasing numbers made time scramble for a
competency difficult, for the less restricted territory wrested from
the native Irish. Others of the name had gone before him. It appears
in Pynnar's survey of the province of Ulster and in various other
records of the affairs of that settlement. But there is nothing to
indicate that my great-grandfather did not go entirely upon his own
initiative. The tradition of the family is that he was given Iands
in Donegal, possibly some of the territory forfeited by an absentee
landlord of the earlier settlement or an unfortunate proprietor
attainted of treason.
In any event he
settled in Raplioe, not far from the city of Strabane, and became
the owner of a farm and a flax-mill. The farm, called Culladerry,
evidently a property of some proportions, lay in the heart of the
flax region which, as a later traveler has observed, may be
perceived at some distance in the late summer when the fields are in
blossom "from the abominable odor of that fibrous plant." The deed
to the property, corresponding to our present-day warranty deed,
confirmed title to the possession "as long as the grass grows and
the water runs." At. Culladerry also was the flax-mill, probably
what was known as a scutching-mill, one of the small units that went
to make up the flourishing linen industry of the period. The product
of this establishment was disposed of at Strabane, to which my
elders referred oftentimes, when I was a child in New Brunswick, as
"oor market toon."
In this environment
Andrew Stephenson seems to have prospered and was considered, as
fortunes were measured at the time, a well-to-do, if not wealthy,
man. He survived at least, the vicissitudes to which the linen and
other industries were subjected by adverse legislation, export taxes
and the setbacks of an occasional bad year, which impelled thousands
of weavers and other linen- workers to emigrate to the colonies in
America. He (lid not suffer much, if at all, from religious
disturbances or business reverses during a rather difficult period
and, whatever his lot, remained at Culladerry, reared a family, and
in the fullness of his time died and was buried where he had lived
and labored.
My grandfather,
Robert Stephenson, succeeded to possession of the property. Although
he was born more than a century and a half ago, in 1753, and was in
the flower of early manhood at the time of the American Revolution,
he appears to me in a much more personal light than his
predecessors. He came to New Brunswick after my father had pointed
the way, and died, when more than eighty years of age, in the stone
house where lie had lived, a few miles from the city of Fredericton,
on the St. John River, when I was a small boy. Here also my
grand-mother died at about the age of ninety.
Robert Stephenson was It soft-spoken,
mild-mannered man, possessing, however, the typical Ulster
characteristic of an indomitable, will, which, transmitted to
succeeding generations, accounts in large measure, I have no doubt,
for the perseverance that has brought success to many of
Scotch-Irish descent in the United States. His decision of character
is exemplified in two incidents of his career which stand out rather
prominently from the body of domestic tradition centering upon him.
One of the prominent residents of the
neighborhood of Culladerry was a Judge Lindsley, a man of quite as
much determination as my grandfather. The Lindsley family was also
of Scotch origin and occupied a conspicuous position socially and
commercially in the affairs of the county. In the role of suitor to
his daughter Margaret,— who was almost a giantess in strength and
physique,— my grandfather did not appear in a favorable light in the
sight of Judge Lindsley, and to gain his end was obliged to resort
to the old method of elopement. From the time of her marriage my
grandmother never saw her father; and he, dogged to the end, did not
once mention her name, it was said, after she had deserted the
parental roof. The fact of her existence was called to his attention
when he was on his death bed, but her name did not appear among the
beneficiaries under his will.
Members of the Lindsley family also
sought their fortunes in America. My grandmother's brother owned a
farm within the the present limits of the city of Philadelphia,
where he and two men whom he employed were killed by Indians. More
than sixty years ago we contemplated engaging Daniel Webster as
counsel and having a search made of the records which might disclose
our interest in the property as heirs through my grandmother, but
because of the serious obstacles in the way of establishing the
claim and the time that had elapsed since the death of my
great-uncle we abandoned the project.
In later years my grandfather was
afflicted with rheumatism and was compelled to use crutches, but
this physical disability apparently did not result in any diminution
of his indomitable spirit. It flared forth on one occasion when the
dam by which the water power for the flax-mill was generated was in
need of repairs. The task was undertaken by some of his sons and
employees while he stood by on his crutches watching the progress of
the work. The weather was cold. There was snow on the ground and the
men were reluctant to go into the icy water. Their attempts to evade
time ordeal stirred his Ulster blood and at length, throwing aside
all precaution and his crutches as well, he plunged into the chilly
stream himself. Instead of paying for his rashness with more acute
rheumatic pains he recovered entirely from his ailment, as a result
of his bath, so the story is told, and was able to dispense with the
crutches for the remainder of his days.
My father, Isaac Stephenson, was the
fifth of seventeen children, fifteen of whom eventually came to
America in accordance with the plans he had in large measure made
for them. At the time of his birth in 1790 conditions in Ireland
were none too good. He grew up in an environment of stress and
struggle to make ends meet. Although the Stephensons were in much
better position financially than most of their neighbors in the flax
region, a family of such proportions undoubtedly presented economic
problems which even the resources of a large farm and flax mill
could not obviate altogether. In Raphoe and Donegal increasing
restrictions upon the linen trade had put a blight upon the flax
industry. The country was impoverished and held no promise for the
young man who looked to the future for opportunities for
advancement.
The exodus from the north of Ireland, which had drained the country
of many thousands of its best men and women during the latter part
of the eighteenth century, was still iii progress when my father was
a boy, and he was but one of many who followed in its wake in the
first years of the nineteenth century. From the earlier colonists
came reports of prosperity and success in the New World. The big
timber-ships from Maine and New Brunswick ports which put put into
Londonderry, not far from Raphoe, laden with masts and spars and
hewn logs of a size unknown in the sparse forests of Ireland, bore
tangible evidence of the wealth overseas and not only excited the
imagination of the people but afforded the means of flight from the
trying conditions surrounding them.
To add to the difficulties of the
Stephenson family, reverses overtook my grandfather through the
escapades Of one of his sons who had set out for Scotland to buy
horses. In this dilemma my father found inspiration in the stories
of opportunity in America, which were doubtless borne from
Londonderry (low!! the valley of the Foyle, and lie decided to join
the stream of travelers who went there to seek their fortunes.
He set sail in 1809, when he was nineteen years old, from
Londonderry where, doubtless, many of the progenitors of the
Scotch-Irish and Irish families now in the United States and Canada
also embarked. how momentous these voyages must have seemed to them
as they watched the shores of the land they knew recede, may be left
to imagination. Conditions OH board the timber ships, although they
were more commodious than most sailing vessels, were none too
luxurious. Their destination was from six to ten weeks away, with
the threat of storm and rough weather constantly hovering over them.
These rigors, however, did not check the flow of emigration.
My father landed at the port of St.
John, New Brunswick, then one of the busiest cities on the western
continent, with a population of approximately thirty-five hundred.
Thence he went up the St. John River to Fredericton, where the land
of opportunity lay. Having probably scant resources except his own
energy, and following the example of those about him, he secured
employment at once, lumbering on the Oromocto River several miles
below the town.
Life along the St. John was still
largely of the mold in which it was cast when the land bordering
upon it was parceled out in large tracts to early colonists or
Loyalist refugees from the states. These families carried with them
the aristocratic traditions of the older countries, and those who
considered themselves as belonging to this social category sought to
reproduce the manner of living which prevailed in the British Isles.
Even in my own day a. justice of the peace, or squire, was a
dignitary of much consequence, and the Loyalist grantees - who were
referred to colloquially as Bluenoses - maintained their elevated
positions with unrelaxing vigilance. In ninny instances they erected
large houses which were called at least by us children - castles,
and left the management of their estates, some of them consisting of
thousands of acres, to an overseer, if they were fortunate enough to
find one capable of performing that function.
This condition, as it happened, had an
important bearing upon my father's career in more ways than one.
Being a man of great industry and obviously of more than ordinary
capacity, he was sought out by the Loyalist grantees and men of
large affairs to take charge of their properties until he achieved
an independent position. While so engaged he met and married a
member of one of the most distinguished families of the period,
which, divided in its allegiance, rendered almost as conspicuous
service in the cause of the American Revolution as it did in the
cause of the Crown.
After lumbering for two or three years
on the Oromocto, where masts were being cut for the Royal Navy, my
father was engaged by Colonel Isaac Allen to manage his estate on
the St. John River, six miles above Fredericton. This property
covered the territory formerly occupied by the old Indian village of
Aukpaque and included within its limits Savage Island and Sugar
Island. It was also the site of an old French mission in the
vicinity of which had been an Acadian settlement, some of the
residents of which still lingered when my father assumed direction
of affairs. Although little trouble was encountered with the
Indians, some of whom also remained in the neighborhood, my father
narrowly escaped death at the hands of one of them. While he was
hoeing corn on Savage Island a member of the tribe which had once
camped there, fired with rum, threw a tomahawk at him. Fortunately
the weapon missed its mark and before the Indian could do greater
harm my father laid his head open with the hoe, all but killing him.
I had occasion to remember this incident because some years
afterward my brother nearly severed two of my fingers with the same
tomahawk, and I have borne the scar left by the wound ever since.
Adjoining the Allen estate and separated
from it by a small stream was Spring Hill, the estate of the Murray
family, one of the most important points in the lumbering industry
on the St. John River. It lay at the head of tidewater, where the
small rafts, in which form timber and logs were transported from the
upper river below Grand Falls, were made up into larger rafts to be
dropped down to the city of St. John with the tide. As a child I saw
thousands of these rafts at Spring Hill, covering in unbroken mass
acres of the surface of the river.
Of the four brothers of the Murray
family, who resided in New York at the opening of the Revolutionary
War, two, Christopher and Robert, cast their lot with the colonists,
while the others, William and John, remained loyal to the Crown. As
a penalty for their Toryism the latter, with the other Loyalists,
forfeited their possessions in the United States upon the
declaration of peace in 1783, but were compensated by the British
government with the large grant on the St. John River, extending for
several miles along the shore and as far back, which came to be
called Spring Hill.
Robert and Christopher Murray, who
remained in New York, were no more patriotic than Robert's wife.
Perhaps the zealousness with which she embraced the cause of
independence might have accounted for the rift in the family. Her
reception of Generals Howe and Clinton and other British officers,
whom she entertained at Murray Hill "with pleasant conversation and
a profusion of cake and wine," while General Putnam and his division
slipped out to the Heights of Harlem from the trap which they had
been caught in New York city, has left its impress upon the history
of 1776. Robert Murray afterwards achieved distinction as a lawyer
and was pitted against Alexander Hamilton as counsel in the first
newspaper libel suit tried in the United States. Murray Hill, his
farm on the outskirts of the city and the lake upon it are no more.
They have been engulfed by the advancing tide of buildings but the
name is still applied to the section of the metropolis to which they
gave place.
Relatives of the Murray family remained
in London and one of them, a cousin, Elizabeth Watson by name, came
to New Brunswick to visit the Loyalist brothers at Spring Hill. At
this time my father was in charge of Colonel Allen's estate
adjoining. Doubtless in the conic and go of life along the St. John
the two were thrown together. Iii any event Elizabeth Watson tarried
long at Spring Hill, they came to know each other, and in 1815,
several years after her arrival, they were married.
Although the Murrays had been divided in
their allegiance, their domestic friendships remained undisturbed.
Christopher and Robert, long after the feeling over the rebellion of
the colonies had subsided, came to Spring Hill from time to time to
visit their brothers; and my mother, whose destinies had taken her
to other places, frequently rejoined the family circle. it was on
one of these occasions that I, as a small child playing about the
house with a donkey, fell under the eye of Christopher, by avocation
a broker in New York City. He had no children, and being, for one
reason or another, attracted to me, he proposed to my mother that he
adopt me with the understanding that I be made his heir. My mother,
however, did not fall in with this plan. I was destined to come to
the United States in another way.
Some time between 1820 and 1822, my
father transferred his activities to an estate called Lincoln, nine
miles from Fredericton, a. large tract of land granted to Colonel
Leniuel Wilmot, also a refugee from the states. [Wilmot, Lemuel, of
Long Island, New York; entered the the service of the Crown and at
the peace was captain in the loyal American regiment. in 1783 he
settled on the river St. John, New Brunswick, where he continued to
reside. He died near Fredericton in 1814. He received half pay.
Hannah, his wife, a daughter of the Hon. Daniel Bliss, died in 1810.
(Sabin.)] In this undertaking lie assumed a larger measure of
responsibility and had entire direction of the lumbering and farming
operations carried on there, receiving as compensation a share of
the proceeds. The Wilmot family played an important part in the
affairs of New Brunswick. Allen Wilmot, the son of Colonel Wilmot,
one of the most distinguished lawyers in Canada and for a time
Governor of the province, spent his vacations at Lincoln while my
father was in charge of the estate.
At this place my oldest sister,
Margaret, my brother Andrew, and my sister Elizabeth Ann, were born.
After living at Lincoln for several
years my father again moved still farther down the river to
Maugerville, one of the older settlements, laid out in 1762,— where
he took charge of the estate of Colonel Miles. [Miles, Elijah. In
1783 he settled in New Brunswick. lie was a judge of the Court of
Common pleas, a colonel in the militia, and a member of the House of
Assembly. He died at Maugerville, in the County of Sunbury, at the
age of seventy-nine. (Sabin.)] This land was the most fertile in a
region renowned for its fertility and produced from sixty to one
hundred bushels of corn to the acre. Shortly after the arrival of
the family there I was born on June 18, 1829.
It was not long after his removal to
Maugerville that my father attracted the attention of Samuel Nevers,
[The Nevers family was of original Puritan stock and first settled
in Woburn, Massachusetts, in 1666. They were original grantees of
the settlement at Maugerville.] Squire Nevers, one of the
conspicuous figures in the early development of the lumbering
industry along the St. John River, a man of large enterprise who had
supplied masts to enable Francklin, Hazen and White, the Pioneer
lumbering firm of the province, to fulfill their contract with the
Royal Navy. He engaged my father to manage the varied and extensive
operations he carried on at Hartland, about eight miles up the river
from Maugerville, where he had built a huge house, known as Nevers
Castle, and established a sawmill, gristmill and oatmeal-mill at the
mouth of the Becaguimec River. In addition there was a greenhouse, a
supply store and warehouse; and the activities of the place included
farming, lumbering, and vessel-building.
Squire Nevers, who in more modern
nomenclature would have been rated as all of great importance,
according to the standard of the time, eventually suffered reverses
and the fruits of his earlier success were dissipated. One of his
descendants many years afterward sought employment of me in
Wisconsin. My brother, S. M. Stephenson, of Menonminee, Michigan,
was born at Hartland on Christmas Day, 1832 and was a namesake of
Squire Nevers.
We lived at Hartland for four or five
years, at the end of which time my father, desirous of taking up an
independent career, purchased from Squire Nevers a farm at
Greenfield, twenty-five miles farther up the river, near the mouth
of the Shiktehawk. Here my brother Robert was born, and here my
mother died on New Year's Day, 1838, when I was less than nine years
old, leaving six children, four boys and two girls. |
