A CHAPTER ON GENEALOGY.
When I was a little fellow, I got so much into my head about my
family, and about what great big people they were in the world before
I came among them, that when I grew up to be a man, I began to trace
the genealogy of that family, and I actually did trace it up the
generations through Ham, who was saved in Noah’s Ark, to Adam and Eve
who lived in the Garden of Paradise one time. While at this work, I
was for a few years in communication with John O’Donovan of No. 36
Northumberland Street, Dublin. He was professor of the Irish language
in Trinity College. At the college, and at his house I met him whenever
business would take me to Dublin. He had then seven children--seven
sons, “an effort of nature to preserve the name” as he says in one of
his letters to me. I don’t know--sometimes my thoughts are sad, at
thinking that perhaps it was my acquaintance with those children when
they were young, in the years ’54, ’5, ’6, ’7, ’8 and ’9, that brought
them into association with me, and with my crowd of people when I came
to live in Dublin entirely in the years 1864 and ’65. John, Edmond, and
Willie were the three oldest of the seven sons of John O’Donovan. The
three of them were put to jail in Dublin charged with connection with
Fenianism. John was drowned in St. Louis, Edmond was killed in Africa,
and I was at the funeral of Willie in Calvary cemetery, Brooklyn. I’ll
come to them again. Now, I’ll get back to my genealogy.
Some of my friends may say: “To Jericho with your genealogy; what do
we care about it! We are here in America, where one man is as good as
another.” That’s all right, for any one who wants to have done with
Ireland; all right for the man who can say, with him who said to me in
New York, one day, twenty-five years ago: “What is Ireland to me now?”
“Sure I’m an American citizen!” All right for him who wants to forget
all belonging to him in the past, and who wants to be the Adam and
Eve of his name and race, but it is otherwise for men who are no way
ashamed of those who have gone before them, and who do not want to bury
in the grave of American citizenship, all the duties they owe to their
motherland, while it remains a land enslaved.
It would be no harm at all, if men of Irish societies in America, in
introducing other men into these societies would know who were their
Irish fathers and mothers. Any man who is proud of belonging to the old
blood of Ireland, will never do anything to bring disgrace upon any
one belonging to him. I don’t mind how poor he is; the poorer he is,
the nearer he is to God; the nearer he is to sanctification through
suffering, and the more marks and signs he has of the hand of the
English enemy having been heavily laid upon him.
That hand has been heavily laid upon my race. I, even to-day, feel the
weight of it on myself. When the lands of Rossmore were confiscated
on my people, they moved to neighboring places, and were hunted from
those places, till at last a resting place was found in the town of
Ross Carberry. “My great-grandfather came into Ross Carberry with a hat
full of gold,” said Peggy Leary to me the other night, “and the family
were after being outcanted from seven places, from the time they left
Rossmore, till the time they settled in Ross.”
Calling in to Dan O’Geary of Glanworth on my way home from Peggie
Leary’s, I got talking to him about old times in Ireland, and I found
that Dan had a family story much like my own. “I heard my grandmother,
Sarah Blake, say,” said he, “that when my grandfather John Foley came
into Glanworth, he had a hat full of gold.”
“A strange measure they had for gold that time, Dan,” said I--“a hat. I
heard a cousin of my own make use of the very same words an hour ago.”
“When my great-grandfather came in to Ross,” said she, “he had a hat
full of gold.”
“It must mean,” said Dan, “as much gold as would fill a hat.” And so
it must. That is the meaning of it in the Irish language--Laan-hata,
d’ore--as much gold as would fill a hat. “A hat, full of gold” would
be “hata, laan d’ore.” The Irish tongue and the Irish language are not
the only things that suffer by the effort to turn everything Irish into
English.
That nickname “Rossa” comes to me from Rossmore, not from Rosscarberry.
That great grandfather of Peggie Leary’s and mine was called “Donacha
mor a Rossa.” The word “outcanted” that his great-granddaughter Peggy
Leary used is very likely much the same as the word “evicted” that is
in use to-day.
When the Cromwellian plunderers got hold of the lands of our people,
they did not like that the plundered people would be settled down
anywhere near them. That is how the desire arose of having them sent
“to hell or Connacht.” Nor did the plunderers like that the plundered
people would hold any remembrance of what belonged to them of old, and
that is how it came to my notice that it is only in whispers my people
would carry the name “Rossa” with them. The people would call my father
“Donacha Russa”--leaving out altogether the name O’Donovan, and in
signing papers or writing letters, my father would not add the name
Russa, or Rossa.
I vowed to myself one day that if ever I got to be a man, I’d carry
the name Rossa with me. And to-day, in the city of New York, in the
face of the kind of people that govern that city, I find it as hard to
carry that name as ever my fathers found it, in the face of the English
governing Ireland.
Indeed it is not much amiss for me to say that it looks to me as
if it was the same English Sassenach spirit that was prominent and
predominant in the government of this city, and many other cities of
America to-day.
My great-grandfather Donacha Rossa was married to Sheela ni
Illean:--Julia O’Donovan-Island. They had six sons. Those six sons were
married into the following families: Dan’s wife, an O’Mahony Baan of
Shounlarach; John’s wife, a Callanan of East Carberry; Den’s wife, a
McCarthy-Meening of East Carberry; Conn’s wife, an O’Sullivan Bua’aig;
Jer’s wife (my grandmother), an O’Donovan-Baaid, and Flor’s wife, an
O’Driscoll--sister to Teige oge O’Driscoll of Derryclathagh.
Those six brothers had three sisters, one of whom married into the Lee
family of Clonakilty, one of them into the Barrett family of Caheragh,
and the other into the O’Sullivan-Stuocach family of the Common
Mountain.
My grandmother Maire-’n-Bhaaid had six sisters. One of them married
into the Good family of Macroom; one of them into the Hawkes family of
Bandon, one of them into the Hart family of Cahirmore, one of them into
the Nagle family of Fearnachountil, and the other two into some other
families between Bandon and Cork. It was through this O’Donovan-Baaid
connection that my grandfather got the relays of horses between Bandon
and Cork the time he had to make the run to the grand jury to save
himself from the White-boy indictment.
Then, my grandfather, at the mother’s side was Cornelius O’Driscoll
of Renascreena, and my grandmother was Anna ni-Laoghaire. My
grandfather had two brothers--Patrick, who was married to the sister
of Florry McCarthy of the Mall, and Denis who was married into the
O’Donovan-Dheeil family of Mauly-regan. There were some sisters there
also--one of them the mother of the O’Callaghans of the Mall, and the
other, the mother of the Noonans of Cononagh.
One of my mother’s sisters is Mrs. Bridget Murray, No. 11 Callowhill
Street, Philadelphia, and wanting some information for this chapter of
my “Recollections,” I wrote lately, asking her to answer some questions
that I laid before her. These are the questions and answers:
Q.--What was the maiden name of the mother of my grandfather, Conn
O’Driscoll?
A.--Ellen White.
Q.--What was the maiden name of the mother of my grandmother, Annie
O’Leary?
A.--Ellen MacKennedy.
Q.--What was the name of my aunt that died young?
A.--Mary.
Q.--What was her husband’s name?
A.--John O’Brien.
Q.--What was the name of the wife of my grand-uncle, Denis O’Driscoll?
A.--Mary O’Donovan-Dheeil.
Q.--Had my grandfather any sister but the one that was Paddy
Callaghan’s mother?
A.--Yes; Kate O’Driscoll, married to Denis Noonan.
Father James Noonan, the grandson of that grand-aunt of mine is now in
Providence, R. I. I had a strange family reunion with him one time. I
went to Washington, D. C., to attend the funeral of Col. Patrick J.
Downing. His body was taken to the Cathedral, and after the Requiem
Mass, Father Noonan came on the altar to say some kind words as to the
worth of the dead soldier. There I sat between the two; the priest was
the grandson of my grandfather’s sister, at my mother’s side; the dead
man was the grandson of my father’s sister. And that is how we scatter,
and how we die, and how we meet in the strange land--not knowing each
other.
Another strange meeting at a funeral came to my notice here in New
York one time. Dr. Hamilton Williams, of Dungarvan, had me to stand
god-father for a child of his. The child died, and I went to the
funeral to Calvary cemetery. Dr. Williams was not long in America at
the time. It was the first death in his family, and the child was
buried in the plot belonging to its mother’s sister. The next plot to
the right hand side of it was one on which a tombstone was erected, on
which was engraven, “Sacred to the memory of Denis O’Donovan-Rossa, of
Ross Carberry, aged ninety years.” There is my godchild, belonging to
Waterford, lying side by side with my grand-uncle’s son, belonging to
Cork.
I often thought, while reading the tombstones of Flatbush and Calvary,
what an interesting book of record and genealogy could be made from
them; and from the information that could be derived from the people
who own them. I often thought I would like to write such a book. I
would like to do it yet, but circumstances are against the possibility
of my doing so. How peacefully there, the “Fardown” rests side by side
with his up-the-country neighbor, and how quietly the Connaught man
slumbers side by side with the Leinster man. Neighborly, as in death,
so should we be in life.
I spoke of Father Noonan at Col. Dowling’s funeral; it is no harm to
let him be seen in my book, in this letter of his:
ST. ALOYSIUS, Washington, D. C.,
September 29, 1886.
MY DEAR FRIEND--Sister Stanislaus was my sister’s name in
Religion. I received an account of her death from one of the
nuns. While I naturally regret the death of my only sister,
I am consoled that she died in carrying out the end of her
vocation, viz: charity to the poor and suffering. All my
relations are dying out rapidly, but we mourn--not like those
who have no hope. I would have answered at once, but was away
from Washington when your letter reached here.
Yours most truly,
JAMES NOONAN, S. J.
If I traveled from New York to San Francisco now, and stayed a time in
every city on the way, I could find a family cousin or connection in
every one of those cities--scores of them in these two cities I name,
among people who do not even know me. The mother of the children of
Alderman Henry Hughes, of New York, was an O’Donovan-Maol; her mother
was an O’Donovan Rossa, the daughter of one of my grand-uncles. The
mother of Counsellor McIntyre’s children, of San Francisco, is an
O’Donovan-Ciuin; her father is Martin Ciuin, of Sawroo, the son of my
mother’s sister, Kate O’Driscoll.
I could go into any parish in the Province of Munster and find family
relations and connections in it. Even in England I found relations in
whatever city I entered. In London the member who gave me a ticket to
go into the House of Commons in May, 1895, was one of my Old country
cousins--Ned Barry, of Newmill, one of the members for Cork County.
Then, when I went up to Newcastle-on-Tyne, a man called on me who told
me he recollected seeing me at his father’s house, in Dunmanway, when
he was a child. He was a grandson of old Jerrie Donovan, of Nedineh,
whom I met in my early days--Jer-a-Bhaaid, who belonged to the family
of my grandmother, Mauria ’n Bhaaid. This New Castle Irishman was
half a Tipperary man. His mother, before she married his father, Tim
O’Donovan Baaid, was a Miss Doheny, the niece of Father Doheny, of
Tipperary, who was a parish priest in Dunmanway.
The day before I left Chatham prison I had a visit from a man who was
living outside the prison walls. He said I may want some money, and he
put into my hand eight or ten sovereigns. He was Bildee Barrett, of
Ross, the son of Ned Barrett, whose mother was an O’Donovan Rossa, the
sister of my grandfather.
In 1894, when I was in Ireland, a double cousin of mine wrote me this
letter:
THE ARCADE, Ross Carberry,
June 5th, 1894.
DEAR MR. O’DONOVAN--We regret very much not having the pleasure
of seeing you in Skibbereen last evening, but we are glad to
learn from James Donovan that you will visit Ross Carberry
shortly, when we hope to give you a hearty welcome to your
native town. If my father (Rick Donovan-Roe) lived, how
delighted he would be to see you.
My husband is also a cousin of yours--a grandson of old Garrett
Barry. I remain, your fond cousin,
ELLEN COLLINS.
When I think of how many ways that girl is related to me it looks like
a labyrinthian puzzle to go through the relationship. I have to travel
through all the bohreens of the barony to get to the end of it. Her
father was Rick Roe; Rick Roe’s father was Paddy Roe; Paddy Roe’s wife
was Margaret O’Driscoll; Margaret O’Driscoll was my god-mother, and she
was the sister of my grandfather, Cornelius O’Driscoll. Then that Ellen
Collins’ mother, Rick Roe’s wife, was an O’Donovan-Island--a cousin of
that Ellen Collins, though she was her mother. Ellen Collins is also
related to her husband, as he is the grandson of Garrett Barry, for
Garrett Barry’s mother was an O’Donovan-Island, the sister of my great
grandmother.
That Ellen Collins has bigger cousins in New York than I am. The
Harringtons of Dunmanway are the biggest and the richest butchers in
the city. I was going up Second Avenue one summer evening last year
and I met Charles O’Brien, of Clare, at Forty seventh Street. He
keeps an undertaker’s store. Two or three men were sitting on chairs
outside the door. He brought out a chair, and invited me to sit down,
which I did, for of all the O’Briens in New York, I love to hear this
Charlie O’Brien speak of Ireland--he has such a pride in his name and
his family, holding his head as high as the richest man who walks the
earth. Among the neighbors I was introduced to, was a Mr. Harrington,
about seventy-five years of age. When he spoke, and while he spoke, his
tongue was sounding in my ears as if it was jingling on the hearthstone
of my childhood.
“Where in the world, Mr. Harrington,” said I to him at last, “were you
living when you were growing up a child?”
“I was living in Dunmanway,” said he.
“I have never met you before,” said I, “but your voice sounds to me as
if I heard it before; I must have known some people belonging to you.
What was your mother’s name?”
“My mother’s name,” said he, “was Donovan; she was a sister to Tom
Donovan-Roe of Ross.”
That Tom Donovan-Roe was the grandfather of my correspondent Ellen
Collins, and the brother-in-law of my grand-aunt and god-mother. The
sound of the voice of Mr. Harrington’s mother must have sounded in
my ears some of the days of my childhood. Mr. Harrington’s voice is
to-day--after his fifty odd years in America--as Irish as my own.
The old Garrett Barry, Ellen Collins speaks of, was the grandfather
of Edward Barry, the member of Parliament who took me into the House
of Commons last year, and was the rent-receiver on the Lord Carberry
estate when I was a boy.
I did not satisfy the desire of Ellen Collins-Sguabbera to see me in
Ross, when I was in Ireland; nor did I satisfy my own desire either,
of seeing the spots where I had the nests of the goldfinch, and the
green-linnet, and the grey-linnet, and the wren, and the robin, and
the tomtit, and the yellow-hammer, and the lady wagtail. I did not go
into my native town. I specially avoided going into it, because I could
not go into it, as I would wish to go. I knew I would meet many there
who were broken down in the world, and I could not meet them in the
manner I would like. I, too, like Terrie of Derry have had my dreams in
the foreign lands:--
Still dreaming of home
And the bright days to come,
When the boys should all
Dub me “Sir Terrie;”
And flowing with cash
I could cut a big dash,
In the beautiful city of Derry.
But those dreams and many other dreams of mine have not been realized.
All this I am saying may be idle gossip, personal or family gossip,
yet it may lead to something that may affect every one who is not
ashamed of having an Irish father and mother, and of having every one
and everything belonging to him, Irish. To those who would be ashamed
of having it known who their father and mother and their family
connections were, I have nothing to say, and I heed little what they
say of me for having a little Irish family pride about me. My story is
the story of many a decent father and mother’s son, cast out upon the
world--the story, alas! of many a decent father and mother’s daughter
too:
“Through the far lands we roam,
Through the wastes, wild and barren,
We are strangers at home--
We are exiles in Erin.”
When Cromwell ravaged Ireland; when the cry was to the Irish people
of Munster, Leinster and Ulster--“To hell, or to Connacht, with you!”
there were not enough of people left in those three provinces to till
the land. Then propositions were made to the plundered, exterminated
people, that some of them would return, and that others of them
would go back to their lands under an agreement of paying rent to an
English landlord, and some who even owned the land got a foothold
to remain as rent-gatherers for the Cromwellians. The Barrys owned
Rathabharrig--Castle Barry. The Frekes and the Aylmers and the Evanses
came in, and changed the name from Castle Barry to Castle Freke, and
the Barrys got a chance of living on their own lands, by becoming
rent-payers and rent collectors for the Invaders.
Old Garrett Barry was the rent-agent on the Carberry estate. It was
through his friendship and influence that my father was not crushed out
entirely when he cut down the trees in the kitchen garden, and sold
them to Mick Hurley.
I have said in a previous chapter that although our land was on the
Carberry estate, Lord Carberry was not the direct landlord who received
the rent. And here I will have to notice another trick or two of
those English marauding plunderers in Ireland, and notice the habits
of servility and slavery into which the writers of Irish manners and
customs have fallen. There is the custom of “fosterage” and there is
the custom of “sponsorship” between the plunderer and the plundered.
The plunderer knows that nothing kills the wrath of the Irishman so
much as trust in his honor. The Cromwellian landlord has an heir born
to him, and he goes to the tenant O’Donovan and tells him Lady Carberry
is in very delicate health, and would take it as an everlasting favor
if Mrs. O’Donovan would take the baby from her for a short time. Mrs.
O’Donovan has had a baby of her own about the same time that Lady
Carberry had her baby. Mrs. O’Donovan takes the lord’s baby, and brings
it up with her own. The two grow up as “foster brothers.” The lord
had heard that O’Donovan had been plotting to kill him for being in
possession of the lands of the O’Donovans. But now the lord sleeps
soundly at night, for he feels O’Donovan’s wrath is paralyzed by this
confidence in his honor that the lord has shown in entrusting to his
keeping the life of his son and heir. The young lord and the young
O’Donovan grow up to be men. They are foster-brothers, “dearer to each
other than full brothers,” as those Anglo-Irish story-writers say, who
have no conception of Irish manhood or Irish spirit, and who write as
if the Irishman and his wife felt it an honor to suckle the Sassenach
robber’s child. No Irishman of the old stock feels such a thing as that
an honor to his house, though the conditions of slavery may compel him
to suffer it. That great-grandfather of mine that I have spoken of had
six sons. I have named the six families into which they married. The
mother of one of these families had one time nursed the young landlord
of their land, and it was held to be a stain upon the name of a Rossa
to make a matrimonial connection with any one who had an English
landlord for a foster-brother.
How is it that you never read of the foster-brother’s coming into
existence by his being the Irish boy who got from the English mother
the suck that did not naturally belong to him. It is--that it is the
Irishman who is in the condition of slavery, and that the English breed
in Ireland would consider themselves degraded and disgraced at nursing
an Irishman.
The second trick of the two tricks I have spoken of is the trick of
sponsorship. The lands of the Maguires are confiscated, and are made
over to an English surveyor who gets the title of Lord Leitrim. Young
Andy Maguire has the name of being a Rapparee; he is out on the hills
at night. Leitrim is afraid of him, and can’t sleep the nights well.
Mrs. Maguire has given birth to a daughter, and the lord asks that he
may be allowed the honor of standing god-father for the child. Then,
he makes the child a present of some of the old Maguire lands that lie
around the town of Tempo.
This is making a little restitution to the Maguires, and it appeases
their wrath a little. Andrew Maguire of Tempo, living at No. 242 East
14th Street, is one of the most decent Irishman living in New York
City, to day. He will not say I am far astray in what I an telling
you. I said Lord Carberry was not our landlord direct in Ross. No,
the mother of Dr. Daniel Donovan was our landlord; it was for her
Garrett Barry used to collect the rent, and the story I brought from
childhood with me about how she became landlord is that Lord Carberry
stood sponsor for one of the O’Donovan-Island children, and made it a
birthday present of the town and townland of Ross. That’s the childhood
story that got into my head. It is, perhaps, possible to reconcile it
in some shape with the following book story that I read in “Sketches in
Carberry, by Dr. Daniel Donovan, Jr., published by McGlashin & Gill,
Dublin, 1876.”
“In 1642 MacCarthy, of Benduff, captured the town of Ross, and laid
siege to Rathbarry Castle (the ancient seat of the Barrys in Carberry),
now Castle Freke.… Ross was garrisoned in the time of James II. by
the Irish forces under General McCarthy, and was reconnoitered by a
detachment of William III.’s army.”
“Large military barracks were formerly erected at Ross in close
proximity to the site of St. Fachtna’s simonastery. These barracks,
where so many warlike garrisons had been stationed from time to time
during the stirring events of the last two centuries and which changed
occupants as often as the fortunes of war veered from one side to the
other, are now in a semi-ruinous condition. Here lived formerly, after
the military had evacuated the place, a branch of the O’Donovan family
(the Island branch), to which the town of Ross Carberry belonged,
under a lease, from the end of the 18th century, up to within the last
ten years; and here also was born in December, 1807, Dr. Donovan,
Senior, of Skibbereen.” My childhood history is, that Lord Carberry
stood god-father for that Dr. Donovan’s mother and made her a present
of the town and townlands of Ross, and it is very likely there was
a compromise otherwise of some kind, wherein my people came in for
shelter, for, whereas they were hunted from place to place, since
Rossmore was confiscated on them, the six sons of my great-grandfather
now came into possession of about half the town and townland of Ross.
And they must have been respected people, too, because those six
brothers got six women to marry them who belonged to six of the best
families in the barony. That is one thing that stood to me in my battle
through life--my family record. I never was rich; I never will be rich;
but I got some of the best and handsomest girls in the country to marry
me--simply on account of myself and of my name.
One little story more will end this genealogy business of mine.
When I was in Cork city, in June, 1894, I was staying at the Victoria
Hotel. Crowds of people were calling to see me. Councilor Dick Cronin
spoke to me on a Monday morning and said: “Rossa, I have to take
you away from these people, or they will talk you to death, and you
won’t be able to give your lecture to-morrow night. Here, I have a
carriage at the door, and we’ll drive down to Fort Camden.” I went
with him. Passing by Ringaskiddy I told him I had some cousins living
around there, and I’d like he would inquire for them. “Ask the oldest
inhabitant,” said I, “where is a Miss Nagle who taught school here
forty or fifty years ago.” He made the inquiry, and we found her living
under the name of Mrs. Murphy, the mother of the present schoolmaster.
I made myself known to her. I was her mother’s sister’s grandson. I
asked her if there was any one around living belonging to another
sister of her mother, that was married near Cork to a man named Hawkes.
She said there was a grandson of hers, named McDonald, who kept
chinaware stores, on the Coal Quay, Cork. I went to McDonnell next day.
He was at his home in Sunday’s Well. I did not go further to see him.
His bookkeeper gave me this business card. “John McDonnell (late T.
& P. McDonnell), earthenware, china and glass merchants, Nos. 58 and
59 Cornmarket Street, Cork. Established over 50 years. (127 Sunday’s
Well.)”
Mr. James Scanlan, the wholesale meat-merchant of No. 614 West 40th
Street New York, is reading these “Recollections.” His grandfather was
one of that O’Donovan-Baaid family to whom my grandmother belonged.
This is his letter:
ABATTOIR, Nos. 614 to 619 West 40th Street, New York.
DEAR O’DONOVAN ROSSA--It is forty years since I left Dunmanway,
and did not bring with me much news about our family relations.
When I was a boy, our friends would come to town on market-day,
and have their talk in the Irish language. It was a pleasure
to hear them in their own soft tongue--the women with the long
cloak and the hood thrown gracefully back. The times and the
people all gone now, and none to take their place!
My mother’s name was Nora Donovan. She had one sister and three
brothers. All came to the United States. One uncle lives.
Their father was Pat Donovan of Bauhagh, four miles above
Dunmanway. He was a Donovan-Baaid. He married a Kingston from
near Drimoleague. Both died in Dunmanway about 1846. My mother
married James Scanlan. He taught school in the town. The Teady
Donovan you spoke about is second cousin to my mother. With my
best regards for you and family, I am, yours truly,
JAS. SCANLAN.
And James Donovan of 36th Street and Second Avenue, another cousin of
mine, writes me this letter.
DEAR ROSSA--The reading of your genealogical sketches has
brought many circumstances connected with the history of your
family to my mother’s recollection.
Donough Mor (your and her great-grandfather) died at Milleen,
northeast of Rosscarberry, where he lived with his eldest son
Denis. Donough and his wife, Jillen or Julia Island, were born
the same year (according to the tradition of the family), lived
to be over a hundred years old, and were buried the same week,
dying in or about the year 1793. When the funeral of Donough
Mor was departing from the house, his wife went to the door and
exclaimed in Irish, “Donough, you led a good life and had a
happy death. You have a good day and a good funeral. Good-bye
for a short time; I will soon be with you.” Before seven days
had elapsed her remains were laid beside those of her husband
near the old Abbey.
A few years after, his son Denis was outcanted of the large
farm he cultivated, which embraced the ploughland of Milleen
and part of Froe. He moved to Ross, where he erected the most
commodious house then in that town. Here he engaged in the
grocery and liquor business, with much success for many years.
In his house the monthly conference dinners of the priests of
the diocese were held up to the time of his death, in 1823.
All the brothers combined on the manufacture of linen with
farming. Five of the brothers, Daniel, Jeremiah, Cornelius,
John and Florence, had adjoining farms further north.
During the time of the free quarters they were much harassed by
the frequent raids of the English soldiers who plundered and
burned at will. A party visited Daniel’s house while he was
absent at Cork on business. They threatened his wife, (Breeda
O’Mahony-Bawn), with dire vengeance unless she revealed where
the money was hidden of which the Donovans were reported to be
possessed. Finding their threats unavailing against the heroic
woman, they set fire to the dwelling houses, loom houses, and
barns, leaving ruin and desolation where industry and plenty
reigned. When Daniel returned and heard the story from his wife
he fell on his knees, and with uplifted hands, he cried, “I
thank God, alanna, that you and the children are left to me.”
This occurred in the summer of 1797. The state of terrorism
increased to such an extent, and the plundering of the soldiery
became so high-handed, that the brothers, who were marked as
special prey by the marauders, to ensure the safety of their
wives and children, removed to Ross. The money possessed in
gold was sewed into the clothes of the women and children.
After remaining a short time in Denis’s house, the brothers
resumed the linen business in houses which they built for the
purpose. They were the largest employers of labor in the town
of Ross Carberry, where linen-weaving was in a flourishing
condition. Your grandfather had between twenty and thirty looms
at work for him; he had the reputation of being an upright
and honest business man, and in disposition generous, but
hot-tempered.
It was a noted coincidence that your great-grandmother, Jillen
Island, had six sons, Denis, Jer., Dan, Flor., Patrick and
Conn, and her brother, Dan Island, of Gurrane, had six sons
Jer., Dan, Rick, Flor., Patrick and Conn. Dan, the father of
Jer-Dan was a great genealogist, and knew the history of all
the Donovans. His sister, Aunt Nell, (Mrs. Malony of Gurrane)
whom I remember very well as a straight, pleasant featured
woman, was similarly gifted. Donal was the name of the father
of your great-grandfather Donacha More a Rossa. That Donal had
a brother Donough who was an officer in King James’ Army; of
him nothing was known after the Williamite wars. Yours truly,
JAMES T. DONOVAN.
That ends my childhood story days. The next chapter will get me into
the movement for the Repeal of the Union between England and Ireland.