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Irish Immigrant's Journal
September 6, 1748 – I can scarcely believe that it has been thirty years since I came to the American land with my parents, my father a Scots-Irish and a stout Presbyterian, and my mother an Irish lady of the church. By all accounts I have learned since I was a little girl, people of our faith have been trying to come to America for nigh on to a century! Of a surety, when we made the voyage I was very young, barely ten years old. I remember those days as tumultuous though my mother was kind. Father always agreed with the clergymen, saying that we were oppressed, beset upon by the pagan ways of southern hedonists and wicked sinners. He thought that leaving for America was ordained by God, and it seems most of the church agreed with him. On a more practical note, the wives amidst those who migrated during the voyage of 1718 knew, as any woman knows the purse’s fullness, the truth of some things. Between hard times for the cloth market, the lack of jobs as town officials, and of course the religious oppression we faced, the natural course of action was a mass exodus from the land which bore heavy weight on our people. Oh, but America! We were all so very excited. I know because I was one of those who, thrilled beyond measure, thought the shore of the western land could not arrive fast enough. Upon first view, it seemed so alien, so different. For days I pointed, laughed and though I missed home, I knew we were in America to stay. As time moved on, I learned that a few of the families that had travelled with us had sold themselves. I didn’t understand this concept in the slightest until much later; as I began turning my attentions to the matter of finding a suiting husband and hoping he had a nice house and a farm on which we could live out our lives. It seemed that our persecution in our native lands had followed us here, some families too poor to make the journey having sold themselves to a sort of slavery in order to be able to make their way safely without being turned away. We, my parents and I, arrived in the autumn months as I recall, though there were others who arrived before us in the same year. Three other ships sailed out with us, and there were so many people. I hadn’t ever seen so many in my whole life, my parents being rather close to the home and I yet so young. I married a nice young lad from one of the other ships, and it was from him I learned more of our voyage, past and the reasons for our journey. It all seems so different now, though. So many years gone by, so much has happened. After our arrival, there was much to be done in the way of, well, living. Homes had to be found, food acquired and grown, livestock raised, people always needing sheltered and fed. The people who received us, who came to America sooner, were most gracious, kind and welcoming. We were exalted as near-family to them, eating at their tables, sharing their joy. As a result I’d had a happy childhood. My father was lucky, being a carpenter beyond his religious fascinations. A likeable man besides, he soon found that partnering with a company which had become quite lucrative in the area, he was able to have built for our family a humble and modest home, though in the years that followed our arrival there were more and more families without them. Homes, that is. The folk who welcomed us so well decided after a while they didn’t really like us so much, what with all we ate, the space we took up, the sheer numbers of us. So, we tended to keep to ourselves. As years went by, of course more of our people joined us. Money which we acquired while living here was given over to the travel expenses of our extended families, friends and church members back home, and though some came to Boston and areas around where we lived now, others went to New York and other ports in America. Hard times approached, and it seemed like we were going to have to be in it on our own, within our faith in God and our bonds as travelers. I sometimes imagine visiting the home of my birth, though I am growing old and there are the grandchildren soon to think about. My husband seems confident that we will be safe, though he works very hard in these times and is prepared to move the family again if the current pressures continue. I love this land, though I have learned that the elation of my youth when met with the gravity of our losses, particularly of the loss of our optimistic hope for freedom of the persecution we faced when I was very small, would dwindle to but a speck of dust, replaced by an iron courage and that fool stubbornness I gained on my mother’s account. Thirty years… many a league at sea… and yet I do think, I do feel, that the Presbyterians who voyaged and landed on this day, thirty years ago, have embraced this land as it has embraced them. You have only to look, to see a little girl with her American ma, her foreign pa, and know… we are American now, but Irish to our blood.
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Contributor's Note
Written for college coursework.
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