Author: LSL

Amos Lawrence on His Father, Samuel Lawrence

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The following passage relates some more of the stories and memories Amos Lawrence told specifically  regarding his father, Samuel. You may notice a few of the sentences describing Samuel’s military service, and his early days with Susanna, are almost verbatim duplicates of previously posted material. In point of fact, the paragraphs here below were written first, by about thirty years.  Despite the repetition, I thought they were still worth including. The flavor of this piece is just a bit different, and Samuel’s exhortation to his sons, that they should use the talents entrusted to them, is advice every child should take to heart, in any age.

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from Extracts From The Diary And Correspondence of Amos Lawrence, by William R. Lawrence, M.D., Boston, 1855

 

My father belonged to a company of minute‑men in Groton, at the commencement of the Revolution. On the morning of the 19th of April, 1775, when the news reached town that the British troops were on the road from Boston, General Prescott, who was neighbor, came towards the house on horseback, at rapid speed, and cried out, “Samuel, notify your men: the British are coming.” My father mounted the general’s horse, rode a distance of seven miles, notified the men of his circuit, and was back again at his father’s house in forty minutes. In three hours the company was ready to march, and on the next day (the 20th) reached Cambridge. My father was in the battle of Bunker Hill; received a bullet through his cap, which cut his hair from front to rear; received a spent grape‑shot upon his arm, without breaking the bone; and lost a large number of men. His veteran captain Farwell was shot through the body, was taken up for dead, and was so reported by the man who was directed to carry him off. This report brought back the captain’s voice, and he exclaimed, with his utmost power, “It aint true; don’t let my poor wife hear of this; I shall live to see my country free.” And so it turned out. This good man, who had served at the capture of Cape Breton in 1745, again in 1755, and now on Bunker Hill in 1775, is connected with everything interesting in my early days. The bullet was extracted, and remains, as a memento, with his descendants.

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William Lawrence on the War, His Grandparents’ Wedding, and the Family They Raised

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In the Introduction to this project, I wrote about having the realization…

…that people whose names have almost been forgotten, or have been forgotten, were as real as I am in all respects…

If there’s one line, one phrase, that sums up my entire motivation to do this work, to gather in all this information, and take so much time and effort and life energy to make it available to others, so that these stories can live and be passed on, it is this idea. “People whose names have almost been forgotten, or have been forgotten, were as real as I am in all respects…”

As real as I am.

I’ve often wondered if, as our lives unfold, we don’t go through a very early period of more or less secretly believing that all of those around us – mother, father, siblings, neighbors, cousins –  exist as actors in some sort of play for our benefit and our benefit alone. Then, as we add neurons and synaptic connections and gain experience, we move on to a stage where we somewhat grudgingly acknowledge that while others might be real, the time period in which we find our young selves is in fact the only time that has ever existed, that there is just the present, this present, and all pieces of evidence to the contrary, i.e. history, art, culture, language, are more or less elaborate fictions that have been thought up as embellishments to our current period. (A mentality not dissimilar to the way creationists explain away the fossil record as being placed in the ground by God, but I digress.) And then, in this “unfolding” of our consciousnesses, if we’re lucky, we enter a phase in our development, where we connect with the truth, not intellectually but viscerally, that we and every other person we know, have ever known, will ever know, are only the latest chapter of humanity’s broad narrative arc; the last few ticks of a clock whose hands have been circling for eons.

As I said, this is just  something I’ve wondered. Perhaps a child psychologist, or a pediatric neurologist, would say all the above is hogwash. I have no idea. But when I think back on my own earliest days, it feels true.

As for the last phase, connecting with the reality of other people in other times, for me there was no one single  “Aha!” moment; there were several.

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Family Memories of Samuel and Susanna Lawrence

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The following is the complete text of A Minute Man, by Mary Fosdick. Fosdick, was the daughter of Sarah Lawrence (Woodbury) Fosdick, daughter of Mary (Lawrence) Woodbury, daughter of Samuel and Susanna (Parker) Lawrence. I have included this in its entirety because, in spite of its children’s-book-like tone, and obvious license where dialogue is concerned, it as close as we will ever get to an actual oral history of our family during the Revolutionary War and the earliest days of the new United States.

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A MINUTE-MAN[1]

By Mary Fosdick

CHAPTER I

Captain Amos Lawrence was an estimable farmer in New England, who was born in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, and at a suitable age married Miss Abigail Abbott. She brought him as part of her dowry various handsome pewter articles, among them several large plates, or platters, on which her initials were stamped or cut, as was the fashion in her day, a handsome hall clock with mahogany case and brass face, and other articles of household furniture; though, as her father was also a farmer, it is not probable that she brought Captain Lawrence very much else beside the bedding which every bride [was] expected to provide. As to her personal attractions I have no means of knowing. Though born in Boston’s neighborhood, Captain Amos Lawrence made his way to Groton, a thriving village farther inland, and there our minute-man was born in the spring of 1754. He was a bright boy, and “did well,” as people said, both as a son and brother at home and as a scholar in school; and when he had exhausted the best educational advantages the place then afforded, he went to work on a small farm, which he took on a mortgage, hoping probably to make it profitable enough to enable him to support a wife. Whether he had in mind the lady whom he afterward married, I am unable to state, but in his twenty-first year he became engaged to a handsome girl, a year younger than himself, whose acquaintance he probably made while visiting his grandparents Lawrence, as her stepfather lived in a town (Concord) adjoining the one in which his mother, Miss Abbott, had been born (Lexington); so we may naturally suppose that he desired to make the farm as successful as possible. His parents had other children, and having given him the benefit of the best educational facilities in Groton, could not afford to do more, though they must have realized that such a boy as he would have been glad to go through college, as at least two of his contemporaries did, and would be an honor to any profession, for he was beloved and respected by his fellow townsmen as few young men of his age were, and was as fond of books as if he had been a rich Tory’s son.

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An Account of Samuel Lawrence’s Military Career, and a Brief Sketch of His Subsequent Civilian Life

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The following brief biography is, almost verbatim, taken from Historical Sketches of the Lawrence Family, by Robert Means Lawrence, 1888. I have made only a few edits for the sake of clarity.

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from Robert Means Lawrence, Historical Sketches of the Lawrence Family, 1888

MAJOR SAMUEL LAWRENCE

The third and youngest son of Amos and Abigail Lawrence, and grandson of John of Lexington, was born in Groton, April 24, 1754. His early life was passed on his father’s farm.

Military Career

He was a corporal in one of the Groton companies of minute-men. Late in the afternoon of Tuesday, April 18, 1775, several brass cannon arrived in Groton, having been sent there by a vote of the Committee of Safety of the Provincial Congress.

Tradition says that the minute-men held a meeting that same evening; and that nine of them set out after dark, carrying lighted torches, and, marching during the night, reached Concord very early on Wednesday morning. Having breakfasted, they joined the minute­men of Concord and the adjoining towns, and were participants in the fight at the North Bridge, and in the pursuit of the British troops as far as Lexington or beyond.

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The Lawrence Homestead at Groton

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In his book, Historical Sketches of Some Members of the Lawrence Family, Boston, 1888,  Robert Means Lawrence describes the location of the three Lawrence homesteads that were home to our family from the 17th century through to the mid-20th century. Keep in mind his references to “current” landmarks are well over a hundred years old, but I have added some notes from Uncle Johnny, John Endicott Lawrence Sr., to make locations a little more researchable.

The first homestead:

The original Homestead at Groton, built by John Lawrence when he came up from Watertown, stood “southwest of Gibbet Hill, a short distance east of the First Parish Meeting House, and near where Love Lane joins the present road to Lowell. This farm has been for many years the property and residence of Joseph F. Hall.” [And, according to John Endicott Lawrence, Sr., was more recently owned by Marion Daniels. —LSL] See Historical Sketches, p.9.

The second homestead:

John’s second son Nathaniel started out married life living in Sudbury with his wife, then moved back to Groton where he lived with his father for about twenty years, before moving in 1683 into his own Homestead, “on the ‘Mill Highway,’ so called, now the road to Ayer, about three-quarters of a mile south of the center of town and near the Indian Hills…. This estate is now the residence of William Peabody.” [According to John Endicott Lawrence, Sr., this land recently belonged to Mrs. Orick Bales. —LSL] In 1694, after a long series of Indian wars, with promise of more to come, Nathaniel moved his family out to Concord, and from there to Charlestown. The farm passed through several hands, until it was purchased again by Amos Lawrence in 1748. Amos’ children, including Samuel were born here, and when Amos died it went to his oldest son, Amos Jr. See Historical Sketches, pp.11-15, 93-94.

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The Abduction of the Tarbell Children: Part 3

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The account below is taken from Butler’s History of Groton, Pepperell, and Shirley, published in 1848.

It is the last of the historical accounts which I could find relating to the abduction of the Tarbell children, and it is both the oldest, and the least accurate.

For example, note that the author believed the mother of the boys was Elizabeth Blood. He was mistaken in this.  (It was Elizabeth Woods.) Also, note their abduction is said to have taken place on a Mr. Sanderson’s property. This may or may not conflict with the other stories, which place the event squarely on Tarbell property.

A brief note on language: The following is a historical account dating from the mid-19th century. There are instances here of the kind of language that typifies the ethnocentrism and rank prejudice of that period. These sentences are included – have been allowed to remain –  because they are integral to the meaning and substance of the document, and not because I as an individual in any way agree with or endorse these characterizations.

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from Caleb Butler, History of Groton, Pepperell, and Shirley, Boston, 1848. pp.96-7

 

…Besides these instances of alarm, attack and suffering from a savage foe, others are known to have occured, of which there is more or less authentic evidence. One, of which the tradition is undoubtedly nearly correct, is that of the two lads, John Tarbell and Zachariah Tarbell, brothers, and sons of Thomas Tarbell, who were taken and carried to Canada. The story runs thus. One evening, a little after sunsetting, the Indians came suddenly upon the inmates of a garrisoned house, which stood where the Rev. Mr. Sanderson’s house now stands, or near that spot. They all escaped and got safely into the garrison except these two boys, who being on a cherry tree had not time to descend and save themselves from captivity. The precise time of this event is not known, but it is said that Zachariah was so young, that he entirely lost his native language, and the records of Groton show, that John was born July 6, 1695, and Zachariah January 25, 1700. So it was probably between 1704 and 1708. Some years after, they both came to Groton on a visit, but having become accustomed to savage life, no persuasion prevailed upon them to return and live with their friends and relatives. The present inhabitants of that name are their collateral kindred. Their descendants are still among the Indians in Canada.

The Abduction of the Tarbell Children: Part 2

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This article, From Groton During the Indian Wars, by Samuel A. Green, Groton, 1883, pp. 109-124, is written more from the point of view of a historian. Many of the primary records relating to the incident are included, as are alternate versions of the story as it had come to be told in 1883. Apparent misspellings, punctuation abnormalities, and other errors have been checked and simply are period usage.

A brief note on language: The following is an account from the 19th century that draws on and quotes primary material written in the 18th century. There are multiple instances here of language that ranges from racially insensitive to downright repugnant, when read from a 21st century perspective. These passages are included – have been allowed to remain –  because they are integral to the meaning and substance of the unique and irreplaceable historical documents being referenced, and not because I as an individual in any way agree with or endorse these characterizations.

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from Samuel A. Green, Groton During the Indian Wars,  Groton, 1883, pp. 109-124

II.

IN a list of prisoners held by the French and Indians in Canada, March 5, 1710-11, are the names of “Zech. Tarbal, John Tarbal, Sarah Tarbal, Matt. Farnsworth [and] Lydia Longley” (Archives, LXXI. 765), all of Groton, though no date of capture is given. Lydia Longley was taken by the Indians on July 27, 1694, and the particulars of her case have already been told. The Tarbell children were carried off on June 20, 1707; but it is unknown when Mathias Farnsworth was captured, and this entry appears to be the only record of the fact. Sarah, John, and Zechariah were children of Thomas and Elizabeth (Wood) Tarbell, who, with a large family, lived on Farmer’s Row, near where James Lawrence’s house now stands. Sarah was a girl nearly fourteen years of age, John a lad of twelve years, and Zechariah only seven, at the time when they were taken. They were near kindred of the Longley family, who had been massacred thirteen years before. The father was unquestionably the Corporal Tarbell who commanded, in the autumn of 1711, one of the eighteen garrisons in the town.

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The Abduction of the Tarbell Children: Part 1

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The account below, of the abduction of our relatives, niece and nephews of one ancestor, and cousins of another, by the Caughnawaga Mohawks, is in a way the most readable because it was written for a popular magazine. I found it, as a reprint, in The Groton Historical Series, edited by Samuel Green, Vol. III, pp. 126-134, Groton, 1893.

For an absolutely excellent historical look at the French practice of encouraging Native Americans to kidnap English settlers, and the terrible cultural identity crises this would provoke among the captives themselves, see The Unredeemed Captive, by John Demos. The book is history that reads like a novel, and describes an actual abduction that took place in Deerfield, at roughly the same time the Tarbells were taken. It details the assimilation process many of the captives went through, as they became members of tribes, and their agonized choices of whether or not to later return to white society— as well as their white relatives’ anguish to have them back.

A brief note on language: The following is an account from the 19th century that draws on and quotes primary material written in the 18th century. There are multiple instances here of language that ranges from racially insensitive to downright repugnant, when read from a 21st century perspective. These passages are included – have been allowed to remain –  because they are integral to the meaning and substance of the unique and irreplaceable historical documents being referenced, and not because I as an individual in any way agree with or endorse these characterizations.

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from  Samuel Green, The Groton Historical Series,  Vol. III, pp. 126-134, Groton, 1893.

THE following story of a Groton family appeared originally in the “Boston Daily Traveller,” March 8, 1890. It was written by Mr. Stephen Olin Sherman, a well‑known journalist of Boston, who has been connected with that newspaper for nearly twenty years. Mr. Sherman is a son of the Reverend Dr. David and Catherine Bardwell (Moody) Sherman, and was born at Blandford in this State, on April 29, 1849. He entered Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut, in 1868, but left college during his Sophomore year.

A FATED FAMILY

A True Story of Provincial Life in New England

The Indian troubles which are known in our early history as “Queen Anne’s War” broke out in I702, when England resumed hostilities with France and Spain, and continued up to the time of the Peace of Utrecht, which was signed in 17I3. For many years prior to that time the Indians all along the northern border of New England had been trading with the French settlers in Canada, and with the Dutch in northern New York, neither of whom were friendly to the little English colonies, and the savages in many instances acting under the direction of the French, and always with their active sympathy and co‑operation, made frequent incursions upon the frontier, where even the utmost vigilance did not always insure the lives and property of the inhabitants.

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British Origins of the Lawrences of Groton and Boston: Saying Goodbye to a Much Loved Myth

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Prior to the 1630’s, we really know next to nothing about the Lawrence family’s actual origins in Great Britain.

The above statement is the bedrock truth on which I’m going to build the family history that follows. It’s a confession of ignorance. It’s not dramatic in any way and, for those who might care about such things – I am not one – it offers nothing in the way of prestige or bragging rights. But…it is good scholarship, and, having written it, I will sleep quite soundly at night.

For the last 150 years or so, there has been a fictitious tale circulating that our family’s first discernible ancestor was a humble Englishman, Robert Lawrence, who, in 1191 AD, as a reward for his services at the siege of Acre, was knighted by Richard the Lionheart (aka Richard I, aka Richard of Anjou). According to this story, Sir Robert Lawrence, after receiving his knighthood, returned home from war, and went on to become the progenitor of the Lawrences of Ashton Hall, and subsequently, the Lawrences of Wisset and Rumburgh, and, by the mid-17th century, the Lawrences of Watertown and Groton, Massachusetts.

The genealogical detective work that exposed this story as being at best unreliable and at worst a complete fabrication was performed in the early 1930s by the distinguished researcher G. Andrews Moriarty. Moriarty summarized his findings in an article appearing in The American Genealogist, titled “Pre-American Ancestries: V. The Lawrence Family of Groton and Boston, Massachusetts” [TAG 10 (Oct 1933): pp. 78 – 83)].

Unfortunately, despite Moriarty’s compelling and definitive debunking of the myth, the tale of Sir Robert Lawrence and the lineage that supposedly derives from him has been difficult to dispel.

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Introduction

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I read my first actual book when I was eight. It was called Smiling Hill Farm, and it related, in the simple language fit for new readers, the journey of a family in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century from their former home in a tame, domesticated Virginia, through the great dark eastern forests, to the wilderness of Indiana. It described the cabin they built at the top of a hill, their first attempts at buckskin clothing and soap-making, visiting peddlers, the relationship of the bachelor uncle to the rest of the family, malaria, first marriages. The beauty of the book, and what fascinated me about it, was that it didn’t stop there. It followed them all…through the first brick house, the weddings of grandchildren, a contingent heading west yet again, the deaths of the original mother and father, and on and on.

At the end of the book, a very old man, well into his nineties, plays with his own great-grandchildren. He is, if I recall correctly, the son of two of those settlers. In a wonderful parallel, the tall trees surrounding the house are in fact the saplings which had been left standing by the original family members, as they cleared the brush so many years before. Together the man and the children, in the shade of these trees, watch a highway being put in at the foot of the hill.

This book, told almost from the point of view of the land, was my first glimmer of what I can only call the unbroken flow of life: that the old man was once really a boy; that people whose names have almost been forgotten, or have been forgotten, were as real as I am in all respects; that our lives, far from being the discrete poems we tend to imagine them to be, are just lines, or perhaps at best verses, in a very long song.

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As a teenager visiting Boston, Massachusetts, and South Bristol, Maine, during the summer, I would prod my Grandmother Burgin to recite the names and stories of her family. She could recall from memory much of a nine generation oral history, passed from mother to daughter, that stretched back to Plymouth. At the end of the day, while pouring out orange bottled dressing for the salads, I heard about Robinsons, Frenches, Farrars, Shaws, and Sanborns. The thought of writing it down occurred to me, but before I could—the summer I was sixteen—my grandmother had a stroke and much of that oral history, lore more than names or dates, was lost. Gone.

It was then that I realized what had to be done, and I started saving whatever I could find: old envelopes with names written on the back, newspaper clippings, the nothings on which histories of this sort depend. Anything that would help me to rebuild the framework, and possibly those stories.

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The map is not the territory, and this score, this list you hold in front of you, is not the song. But my hope is that if you read between these lines, you may be able to hear something, faintly, and be able to recall it the next time you’re preparing dinner with some young relative.