BIO: Most magical is the internationally-renowned island garden of Ilnacullin described and photographed in the Spring 1998 issue of "The World of Hibernia" -- An excerpt: "On a day of azure skies and sparkling sunshine after a rainfall, I drove 11 miles from Bantry around the bay to the charming village of Glengarriff. Then boarding the "Harbour Queen" for the 15-minute trip to Ilnacullin ("island of holly,") and also known as Garinish, we sailed past sleepy seals sunbathing on rocks to a small island buffered by a belt of Monterey and Scots pines. On this barren outcropping, Belfast-born Annan BRYCE, a Member of Parliament for Iverness, Scotland, envisioned a garden and a mansion on the 37 acres he purchased from the British War Office in 1910. Rocks were blasted on this inhospitable island, soil hauled from the mainland, and specimens arrived from all corners of the globe to create a garden of pure enchantment in the midst of the sea. Bryce began building the garden before the mansion. His cash-flow dried up when his oil drilling in Russia came to a halt with the revolution there in 1917; as a result, the mansion never materialized. The head gardener, Finbar O'SULLIVAN, was found on the terrace of the Casita, a marble-columned ornamental teahouse. Frequent Sunday visits to Ilnacullin as a child and to his father's small nursery in Glengarriff provided incentives for an abiding interest in gardens. After studying at the Kildalton College of Horticulture, O'Sullivan taught polio victims at a technical school in Cork and worked at Muckross House, in Killarney, County Kerry, before coming to Ilnacullin in 1980. At the time of the article, O'Sullivan lived with his wife and three small children in Durrus, where he was also involved with the West Cork Garden Trail. "There is no shortage of moisture here, 100 inches of rainfall annually." said O'Sullivan. "I love to see people enjoying the gardens." They watched as contented children played on the sunken lawn behind the Casita. "On spring mornings, the scent of rhododendron fragrantissimum can reach you while you are still on the boat." Bryce's favorite spot was said to be Happy Valley, where black Japanese pines sheltered a magnificent weeping dacrydium franklinii from Tasmania, and oriental spruces and redfood flourishing amind an abundance of lacecap hydrangeas of startling blue. A path to the left enters the Jungle, a deep woodland notable for tender rhondondrons, giant tree ferns, most notably the Dicksonia Antarctica, and a rare Schima khasiana from China. In 1953, Roland BRYCE, Annan's son, bequeathed this treasure to the Irish nation. Their walk ended at the Walled Garden, where high stone walls and wrought-iron gates barely contained the exuberance of flowers, the most beautiful the authoress had ever seen. Mauve and blue delphiniums had grown 18 feet tall, the speckled trumpets of Cardiocrinum giganteum soar even higher. Climbing roses, yellow daisies, cotoneaster, silver-leafed Pittosporum tinged with pink, clematis, and a rainbow of asters created a crescendo of color, a potpourri of perfumes. The cry of sea birds, the drowsy drone of bees, the murmurings of trees and water lent further enchantment.

Potato Crop Failure: The earliest reports of agricultural distress in Ireland came in short notices in American newspapers. Among the first such report was the following that appeared in the "New York Tribune" on October 4, 1845: "We regret to have to state that we have had communications from more than one well-informed correspondent, announcing of the appearance of what is called "cholera" in the potatoes in Ireland, especially in the north. In one instance the party had been digging potatoes, the finest he had ever seen, from a particular field...up to Monday last. On digging in the same (field) on Tuesday he found the tubers unfit for the use of man or beast. We are most anxious to receive information as to the state of the potato crop in all parts, for the purpose eithre of allaying unnecessary alarm, or giving timely warning."

BIO: John HOLLAND was born in Liscannor, Co. Clare in 1840/41 and became a schoolteacher. As his father, John Sr., was a member of the British Coastguard Service, he and his wife, Mary SCANLON, were entitled to live in a cottage provided by the government. It was there that the couple raised their four boys during one of the most lethal periods in Irish history. Famine and disease swept the country, and the Hollands watched in horror as neighbors and friends were evicted from their homes if unable to pay their rent. Tragedy eventually struck the Hollands when their two-year-old son, Robert, died of cholera in 1847. John Holland Jr.'s birth to an Irish-speaking mother on the west coast of Ireland meant that he did not learn English until he entered school. He longed to take to the sea like his father before him, but poor eyesight made that dream all but impossible. "No one would trust me even to row a two-oared boat, much less navigate a ship, " Holland once said. I! n his spare time he became a student of submarine technology. He joined the Christian Brothers, taking his first set of vows in 1858. As a teacher, he shared his love of science with his students, but in 1860 he was forced to give up his duties as a result of poor health. The damp Irish climate had wrought havoc on his his physical well-being and he spent nearly two years in convalescence. It was during thi time that he read a newspaper article (1862 story in the "Cork Examiner" ) which told of the encounter between the "Monitor" and the "Merrimack," the two famed ironclad vessels of the American Civil War. Holland was fascinated by the ships' design and became convinced that iron warships would one day replace their wooden predecessors. Various "submersibles" could only operate underwent for brief lengths of time, and although few prototypes had been constructed by men like Robert FULTON , no one had ever built a workable submarine. Holland studied everything known a! bout earlier models and began to design his own. In 1873, Holland withdrew from the Christian Brothers and emigrated to Boston. He arrived in America and settled in Paterson, NJ, where he continued to teach and refine his submarine design. But with no funding available, Holland could only dream of seeing his plans take form. Although his move to the U. S. was motivated by health concerns, there was another factor at work. "I had never taken part in any political agitation," Holland recalled later in life, "but my sympathies were with my own country, and I had no mind to do anything that would make John Bull any stronger and more domineering than we had already found him." In 1874, Holland started teaching at St. John's Parochial School in Paterson, New Jersey. Soon after he showed his submarine ideas to the U. S. Navy and was met with the first of many rejections. Undeterred, Holland often stayed at school long after the final bell, working out his designs on the blackboard. Falling in with the Fenians (a band of m! en fighting for a free Ireland from a power base in America) his fortunes changed dramatically in 1879, when he sought out John DEVOY and proposed to build a submarine for the Clan that would be capable of sinking British ships at will. Devoy invested $23,000 in the project and in 1881 Holland's 60-foot ship conducted its first successful test runs in New York City's East River. Holland married Margaret FOLEY, an Irish-American from Paterson, who was at least 18 years younger than her husband. They had seven children, two of whom died in infancy. In the end, the "Fenian Ram," as it was called, never saw action in the cause for Irish freedom. Apparently while putting new ideas and theories to work, and fearful that the "Ram" might be confiscated as part of a pending lawsuit, John BRESLIN decided to "steal" the "Ram." Approaching it by tugboat late one night in November 1883, Breslin and his men presented the night watchman with a forged note that authorized a transfer. Having deceived the guard, they towed both the "Ram" and its smaller counterpart away from their berth. Because they did not properly seal the smaller craft's hatch, it broke free and sank as they approached Long Island Sound. Although they succeeded in transporting the larger prototype to New Haven, the Fenians soon found that she was uncooperative without her creator at the controls. Today she resides in the Paterson Museum along with the "Holland I." J John HOLLAND, briefly associated with the Nautilus Submarine Boat Co. & John P. Holland Torpedo Boat Co, eventually produced a highly successful submarine which he sold to the U. S. Navy and several other countries and is generally considered to be the father of the modern submarine. At the end of his life Holland sought to turn his creativity to finding more peaceful uses for submarines, including as a ride at seaside amusement parks and as a transport across the English Channel, but neither idea saw the light of day. Embittered by what he felt was a lack of respect afforded his ideas and battling rheumatism and poor eyesight, Holland gradually slipped out of public life. He did, however, become active in community events around his Newark, NJ home, teaching Sunday school and becoming a director in a local drama society. Showing his Irish loyalty even in his final days, he joined the American Irish Historical Society of NYC. Advancing years, a lifetime of hard work and! repeated frustrations eventually caught up with him and he fell ill with pneumonia. The inventor from Co. Clare died in August of 1914 at the age of 73. Although some of his dreams did not become a reality, he can certainly be regarded as a man ahead of his time. When others had insisted upon submerging their submarines with an even keel, Holland had argued for vessels that dove like porpoises with a sleek, simpler design. Holland once commented that "The Navy does not like submarines because there's no deck to strut on."

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT How should I not be glad to contemplate the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window and a high tide reflected on the ceiling? There will be dying, there will be dying, but there is no need to go into that The poems flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart. The sun rises in spite of everything and the far cities are beautiful and bright I lie here in a riot of sunlight watching the day break and the clouds flying Everything is going to be all right. -- Derek Mahon, born Belfast 1941

KILMAINHAM JAIL: EASTER SUNDAY, 1966 Sunbursts over this execution yard Mitigate high, harsh walls. A lowly Black cross marks the deaths we are here to honour, Relieved by an Easter lily. Wearing the nineteen-sixteen medal, a few Veterans and white-haired women recall The Post Office, Clanwilliam House, the College of Surgeons, Jacob's factory -- all Those desperate strongholds caught in a crossfire Between the English guns And Dublin's withering incredulity. Against the wall where once Connolly, strapped to a chair, was shot, a platform Holds movie cameras. They sight On the guard of honour beneath the tricolor, An officer with a horseman's light And quiet hands, and now the old President Who, soldierly still in bearing, Steps out to lay a wreath under the plaque. As then, no grandiose words, no cheering -- Only a pause in the splatter of Dublin talk, A whisper of phantom volleys. How could they know, those men in the sunless cells, What would flower from their blood and England's follies? Their dreams, coming full circle, had punctured upon The violence that gave them breath and cut them loose. They bargained on death: death came to keep the bargain. Pious postcards of men dying in spruce Green uniforms, angels beckoning them aloft, Only cheapen their cause. Today they are hailed As Martyrs; but then they bore the ridiculed shame of Mountebanks in a tragedy which has failed. And they were neither the one nor the other -- simply Devoted men who, though the odds were stacked Against them, believed their country's age-old plight And the moment gave no option but to act. Now the leaders, each in his sweating cell, The future a blind wall and the unwinking Eyes of firing-squad rifles, pass their time In letters home, in prayer. Maybe they are thinking Of Mount Street, the blazing rooftops, the Post Office, Wrapping that glory round them against the cold Shadow of death. Who knows the pull and recoil of A doomed heart? They are gone as a tale that is told, The fourteen men. Let them be more than a legend: Ghost-voices of Kilmainham, claim your due -- This is not yet the Ireland we fought for. You living, make our Easter dreams come true. -- C. Day-Lewis, late Poet Laureate of England, born Ballintubbert, Co. Laois

THROUGH A GLASS BRIGHTLY Feet crunching in the gravel, the first few steps would be past yew trees and rows of raspberry bushes on one side, and rhododendrons, wild roses, lilacs and God knows what flower his mother Had dreamt up, on the other. It was her lasting passion. That day would be fine, probably a Sunday in late June before the lane was tarmacadamed. Then past the entrance (more flowers) and onto the road, turning right. The grove would be to the left --it's gone now, his father reclaimed it-- the young trees (were they pines?) outrageously perfuming the breeze, and the cows, taking refuge from the heat, would stupidly stare at him. There would be wild strawberries under the milkstand, and if he looked up, There were more lilacs under the telegraph wires. Below the grove was the rushy field (even the rushes are gone) and on the other side of the road, the fallow field where he and his brothers would play hurling on summer evenings, sometimes in the rain-- like the fanatics they would never be again. The lighter shade of grass marked their pitch, three jackets and a shirt made the goalposts and hacked branches of trees the hurls. The ball was usually for real. In the distance beyond that, a sleeping Annagh Hill, the colour of raspberry juice, and Croghan Kinsella, mountain of the legendary gold. A few yards more and he'd be flanked by briars, the long stalks green and strong, invading the road. Then to the bridge, once swept away by a flood which carried a man who survived to wear a bump like a boulder on his forehead. The river, calm but strong (now it's calm and feeble, widened to save crops from floodwaters) would show off trout doing dazzling turns on fins, or high jumps for insects under the cluster of tall, benign oaks. Then he'd end his voyage, pushing in the gate to the two-roomed cottage where the old couple lived in a shade of former glory, wading his way through guinea hens, and while the dog barked and bared his teeth, they would set tea and cakes, and he would be a prince, listening to the affairs of the realm. -- Philip Casey, Wexford-born poet, living in Dublin

Thought I would repost my interests. My ancestor, Bridget Millea (aka Celia) was born in Waterford Ireland 1872 to James and Ellen (maiden name Walsh). I know she had at least one sister, Mary Ellen born 1870 also in Waterford. Anyone with any connections?

BIO: A treasure trove of 120 letters written to family members by Michael HURLEY and his brother Denis, who emigrated to Nevada from the family farm in the townland of Tawnies Upper, Clonakilty, Co. Cork, in the early 1870s can be found in the Cork Archives Institute along with many photographs. (See Spring 2000 issue of "The World of Hibernia" magazine also for six-page article, letter extracts, photos). The brothers emigrated to Nevada from the family farm in the townland of Tawnies Upper, Clonakilty, Co. Cork in the early 1870s. The collection of HURLEY letters were written to family members in the Clonakilty area and span a period of 67 years. They left behind their parents, Timothy and Mary (HAYES) HURLEY, as well as siblings John, Timothy, and Kate. While Michael likely arrived in the U.S. in 1870, brother Denis is known to have disembarked in Boston in April 1873, traveled to NY, and then took a train out west to Carson City, NV, to join Michael who was emplo! yed on the railroad. Nevada was an attractive location for immigrants in the early 1870s as the state was reaping the benefits from the discovery of silver in the Sierra Nevadas in 1859. During the 1860s and early 1870s the Comstock Lode produced over $300 million worth of silver and gold out of a total state production of over $440 million. The Irish were one of the largest ethnic groups in Nevada. In 1870, out of a total foreign-born population of 1,908 in Ormsby Co, where Carson City was located, 243 were Irish-born. The majority of the Irish in NV worked in the mines. Michael and Denis were employed on the railroad, but like many others kept a keen eye on mining stocks and shares, hoping to make their fortune. For most of his working life Michael was employed on the railroads across the NW including OR and WA, and from 1906 until his death in 1926 he lived as a boarder with a family called ANDERS in San Francisco. His letter home written in the aftermath of the 1906 SF earthquake revealed, "I was not injured by the catastrophe... though it was frightful. It happened about 5 o' clock in the morning. I thought it would never quite shaking... When I got up and went out and saw so many large buildings thrown down and what was not thrown down burning; it was a sight not to be forgotten." On Michael's death in June 1926, Denis wrote to his eldest brother John in Clonakilty: "Our brother Michael died in SF last evening, June the 9th at 6 p.m. and will be buried here in my plot on the 12th inst. He died with friends with whom he was makin! g his home for upwards of 30 years. His wants were seen to both spiritually and corporeally." Denis HURLEY had settled in NV, living for the most part in Carson City. His marriage to Margaret BURKE took place in Reno on 13 Jan 1887; Margaret was born in Roscommon and census records indicate that she emigrated to the U.S. in 1884 at the age of 18. A brief report of the wedding was carried by the "Nevada State Journal:"of 15 Jan 1887. The wedding is spoken of as being one of the "grandest of the season and the presents superb." Her death was poor throughout their marriage and her death from typhoid fever in 1910 at the age of 50 was a severe blow to Denis; they had no children. Denis was employed by the Virginia and Truckee RR Co. until his retirement in 1906. He served as a guard at the Nevada State Prison, was appointed bailiff at Federal Court at age 70, was active in politics as a Republican. His death from a "heart ailment" was reported in the "Carson City Daily" (NV) March 4, 1938. The eldest brother, John HURLEY, inherited the family farm in Ireland and raised four daughters - Mary, Catherine, Hanorah, and Eileen. A letter to the family from Michael on the 43-acre farm near Clonakilty in 1890 advised younger brother Tim "to pin up the collar of your shirt and get married and run that place yourself, I don't want it." In October 1892 Denis wrote, "I believe Tim is foolish to be postponing his marriage so long under the circumstances. As dairy farming is the most profitable he should get a good looking and affectionate wife that would make first-class butter. If he cannot get one in Cork, why I will give him a letter of recommendation to go wife seeking down in Connaught." Youngest brother Tim eventually married Catherine SCANNELL in February 1895, and there is a marvelous photo of their large family in the magazine. The letters are personal but mirror events in Ireland of which the brothers were very interested -- commenting on the Parnell & Mrs. O'Shea scandal, praise for Michael Collins, etc. On the death of his brothers jJohn and Tim in the late 1920s, Denis continued to correspond with family members in Clonakilty, primarily his niece Mary DEASY, the daughter of his eldest brother John HURLEY. While Denis had never met any of his brother's daughters, and his only link was with them through his letters, yet family ties remained strong and the affection he held for his nieces in Ireland is very evident from his letters. Denis, the more eloquent of the two correspondents, revealed an educated and cultured man. He died on March 3, 1938 and was buried in Carson City beside his wife and brother. Brother Michael, in contrast, roamed throughout the American NW, speculating unsuccessfully in stocks and shares and enduring frequent periods of unemployment. The contrasting lives of the! brothers in the U.S. as portrayed in their letters home clearly illustrate the diversity of the emigrant experience.

HORGAN, Daniel. Effects under 200 pounds -- Letters of Administration, 20 March 1871 of the personal estate of Daniel HORGAN, late of Great George's-street Cork Builder deceased who died 21 Feb 1870 at same place were granted at Cork to Michael Joseph HORGAN of the South Mall in said City Solicitor the Nephew of said deceased for the benefit of Catherine HORGAN Widow, John HORGAN, the Reverend David HORGAN, Ellen GILLMAN, Mary DALY and Margaret HORGAN only next of kin of said deceased.

HORNIDGE, John Isaiah -- Effects under 450 pounds. 08 June 1871 Letters of Administration (with the Will annexed) of the personal estate of John Isaiah HORNIDGE late of the South Dublin Union Workhouse. Dublin Master of said Workhouse a Widower deceased who died 22 April 1871 at same place were granted at the Principal Registry to James Seymour LONGSTAFF of Stephen's-green Dublin Merchant and William Thomas ORPIN of George's-terrace George's-avenue Blackrock County Dublin Accountant the Guardians during minority only of the Daughter and only next of kin of deceased.

The untitled poem below by Nina Havers appeared as part of her contribution in the yearly (1999) "Leitrim Guardian" regarding a day at Drumshanbo Mart. Nina said, "We brought in the cattle early. I had them penned in the byre the night before, and at eight o'clock this morning Gabriel and Sean turned up with the tractor and trailer and together we did battle with the weanling heifers in the mud of the street. It was cold and a soft drizzle had us all soaked before the trailer door finally slammed shut on the sacrificial cows... The place is rapidly filling up. I greet a few neighbours and acquaintances. The bellowing of cattle, the curses and shouts of the mart men, and the restiveness of the crowd seem to swell like a tide as the auctioneer and his sidekick climb into their box, start whispering to each other and shuffle papers... As the selling proceeds, I become one with the crowd around me - we are all there for a common purpose and I cease to be "The English woman who got the Duignan's place" and am "a farmer selling cattle." ... I look about me. You can tell the farmers from the dealers. The dealers usually lean on the wall of the ring, itself, often wear hats and tweed jackets and have red faces. The farmers stay mostly on the tiers . Some come in jeans and sweaters, but most wear either wellies or heavy working boots. They come in all shapes and sizes; thin and fat, straight and strong or bent with arthritis, young and fresh or old and lined, dark as Gypsies, fair as Vikings, brown or grey or red or balding. They have one thing in common and a tough granite set about their faces." Winter on a small farm When your hands are chapped and your movements are old And the land is trapped in a death-like cold, When you can't feel your toes and your fingers are numb, Remember that summer will one day come; There'll be flowers all over the ripe fields of clover One warm day when summer smiles again. When the trees are bare, the reeds stiff and brown, And your boots crunch loud on the frozen ground, When the ice lies thick on the rain water butt, And you can't feel the baler-twine knife while you cut: There'll be flowers all over the ripe fields of clover One warm day when summer smiles again. When it's dark in the morning and dark at night And the cowshed is lit by candle light, when there's sleet and rain and snow and frost And half of your lambs will be surely lost, Think: There'll be flowers all over the ripe fields of clover One warm day when summer smiles again. When the cows breathe smoke like dragon's fire And God holds the world in his granite-hard ire, When the wife is complaining and the World needs explaining And your children turn blue and want comfort from you, Say, "There'll be flowers all over the ripe fields of clover One warm day when summer smiles again." -- Nina Havers

CHILD Imagine the miracle and series of events: Creation happening in Mother's womb; Being sustained, nourished, cared for and cherished, Perfection shaping every limb. Unknown persons welcomed me onto the stage of life, High and low voices, sounds being registered. I warmed in the love of a husband and wife. Between two and five was important to me, Growing in giving and receiving. Smiling faces, kisses, embraces Meant so much to me. Do mothers, fathers, everyone out there, See treasure when they hold a child? The responsibility, potential and love they're imparting Shapes the future of the world. -- Sean Garvey (contemporary)

The "American Letter" -- In the 19th century Americans seemed to agree that they didn't really want the Irish, but also that they couldn't do without them. The role of Irish labor in propelling forward America's industrial revolution was enormous. Just prior to the U.S. Civil War, one newspaper commented: "America demands for her development an inexhaustible fund of physical energy, and Ireland supplies the most part of it. There are several sorts of power working at the fabric of this Republic -- water-power, steam-power, and Irish-power. The last works hardest of all." Despite their meager earnings, faithful Irish immigrants sent millions of dollars back to Ireland. It is estimated that remittances to Ireland averaged more than one million dollars per year in the 1840s and rose to ten million per year by the 1870s. The Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank in NY, founded in 1850 as an offshoot of the Irish Emigrant Society, opened with 2,300 accounts totaling $238.56. This one bank would send more the $30 million to Ireland between 1850 and 1880. In NY in 1855 Irish held skilled jobs such as bakers, blacksmiths, brewers and distillers, carpenters, dressmakers and seamstresses, ironworkers, machinists, masons and bricklayers, merchants, policemen, printers, retail shopkeepers, shoemakers, tailors and wine and liquor dealers. Unskilled labor included domestic servants, laundresses, laborers, and drivers, hackmen and coachmen. There were also a few doctors and lawyers holding professional jobs. All told, it is estimated that $234 million was sent by the Irish in America to their friends and families in Ireland between 1848 and 1900. Many families in Ireland depended for their survival on what they called "The American Letter." With so large a percentage of Irish immigrants occupying unskilled positions, few Irish held leadership positions in the early labor movement, but by the late 1840s and 1850s, there were clear signs that Irish workers were beginning to gain influence, in part because more and more Irish were acquiring skills and moving out of the ranks of common labor. In Philadelphia in 1856, for example, J. F. FINNEGAN (Lithographers Society), Frank MALLON (Hatters Union) and C. C. SCANLON (Journeymen House Carpenters Association) were officers in their respective unions. In New York in 1854 it was reported that Irishmen comprised nearly all the officers of the Tailor's Trade Association.

I have recently started researching my husband's family history. His grandparents emigrated from Ireland in 1886, from what I understand. His grandfather was Edward MARTIN, born in May, 1870 (?) in Ireland. His grandmother, Katherine/ Catheine DIXON, was born in December, 1870 in Ireland. My information tells that both of them were born in County Wexford, possibly in Ballybawn parish. They were married in Ireland in 1885 before sailing for the U.S. Can anyone suggest where I would look for more information on them and other ancestors in this family? Shirley Martin <gcmsam@snowhill.com>

Seamus HEANEY was born in 1939 in Mossbawn, Co. Derry to Margaret & Patrick Heaney, the eldest of nine children. Here are two poignant verses that he wrote in memory of his mother (M.K.H. 1911-1984). When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes >From each other's work would bring us to our senses. So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives -- Never closer the whole rest of our lives. ---- The cool that came off the sheets just off the line Made me think the damp must still be in them But when I took my corners of the linen And pulled against her, first straight down the hem And then diagonally, then flapped and shook The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind, They made a dried-out undulating thwack. So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand For a split second as if nothing had happened For nothing had that had not always happened Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go, Coming close again by holding back In moves where I was X and she was 0 Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks. -- Seamus Heaney, from "Clearances"

FWD with permission. ----- Original Message ----- From: Gail Meyer Kilgore To: Don Kelly Sent: Sunday, September 15, 2002 8:57 PM Subject: Fw: {not a subscriber} Genealogist ;-) ----- Original Message ----- From: Dan Flanagan To: Alexander-L@rootsweb.com Sent: Sunday, September 15, 2002 8:49 PM Subject: {not a subscriber} Genealogist To All: Am in need of a genealogist IN IRELAND. Can anyone send me name and contact info on one they have had experience with? Thanks in advance, Dan Flanagan Austin, Texas I can be reached here: dflanagan@austin.rr.com --- Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free. Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com). Version: 6.0.386 / Virus Database: 218 - Release Date: 09/09/2002 --- Outgoing mail is certified Virus Free. Checked by AVG anti-virus system (http://www.grisoft.com). Version: 6.0.381 / Virus Database: 214 - Release Date: 8/2/02

The fame of the Blasket islands stems as much from their contribution to literature as to their unearthly beauty. Three autobiographies by islanders have becomes world classics Tomas O'Crohan's "The Islandman," Peig Sayers,' "An Old Woman's Reflections, and Muiris O Suileabhain's "Twenty Years A-Growing," and there are many others. These writings encapsulate a rich oral tradition of storytelling, poetry and folktales, and translators have captured much of the musical turns of phrase, sheer beauty of expression. A ship's bell near Peig Sayers' cottage likely came from one of the many shipwrecks which were to bring both sorrow and joy to the islanders. The Blaskets lie off the most westerly point of the Dingle Peninsula. At its closest point, the Great Blasket is only 3/4 mile from the mainland, but boatmen will not take you out unless they are sure of a calm day. As your boat approaches the Great Blasket, an instinctive silence falls, and all eyes are turned towards the ruined cottages, the time-worn pathways winding up and over the hill, the soft outlines of old field systems. Ring forts and beehive huts suggest settlement on the Blaskets from the Iron Age, while documentary references to an ancient church and an old stone cross, now both disappeared, indicate a medieval community. In the 13th century, Great Blasket was leased to the FERRITER family by the Earl of Desmond for an annual rent of two hawks. Ships of the Spanish Armada, sheltering here in the 1588, though the islands uninhabited, but it may be that the natives thought it wiser to keep out of sight. Ferriter's Castle, 2 miles NW of Ballyferriter, was the birthplace of Pierce FERRITER, one of the last Irish chiefs to hold out against CROMWELL. Eventually the Baskets came into the possession of the Earl of Cork and remained part of the extensive Cork and Orrery estate until 1907, when the Great Blaskets was bought by the Congested Districts Board and freeholds were sold to the tenant-occupiers. Inishvickillaune is now owned by the former Taoiseach, Charles HAUGHEY, who has built a! house there. Prior to the Great Famine (1841) the population of the islands was 153. Twenty years later it had dropped to 98 - not as severe as the 50% reduction found on the mainland. Fever and diseases associated with the potato blight did not cross to the island and the community fed itself by catching fish, rabbits, seals, guillemots, puffins and razorbills. Shipwrecks likely played a part, bringing life-saving supplies. O'Crohan recalled being told of the wheat ship which was wrecked on the White Strand in Famine times, and how every grain was gathered, washed and dried. "Baighrean," the people called it. By 1910, the population had recovered to 160, islanders had their own school and their own weaver. Dramatist John Millington SYNGE, who visited there in 1904, was struck by the fine quality of the flannel woven from the speckled sheep. Men fished the rough waters and risked their very lives climbing cliffs for seabirds and their eggs. At evening, the islanders would gather in each others' homes to sing, dance and tell stories. It was a tightly-knit community where everyone was known and all worked together in the struggle for survival. Over time their children were to leave to the mainland for an easier life. The supply of turf ran out in the 1930s, in 1947 with only 50 residents the school closed. By 1953, the remaining 22 people were evacuated, sitting silently in the boat sent for them, staring back at the homes they were leaving forever. Today, the Blaskets are showing new life. The passion felt by islanders has lived on in their descendants who have striven to ensure that the link is not permanently broken. There are newcomers, too, who comment that the place is in their blood, that they are completely happy there. Sue REDICAN has revived the island weaving tradition. Sue first came over from England to work at her craft in Dingle. Once she visited the Baskets, she said, she "had" to live there. Sue has been living on the Great Blasket for 18 years, for some of the year alone with her looms and spinning wheels, weaving intricate and colorful sashes (the traditional Irish "crios") as well as scarves and shawls. Visitors have found a cheerful tea-room in one house on the island where soup, brown bread and tea is to be enjoyed, and in the summer-time a student from the mainland has a bookshop where her grandfather once lived. Sue REDICAN enjoys the days where the sun is shining, the sky blue with large, fluffy white clouds, the birds chirping. Some of the island's docile rabbits may pay her a visit. When she works outdoors Sue sees dolphins and whales passing through the Sound. "When there is a gale blowing, the spray comes over the island 30 feet in the air, " but she feels this has prevented the Blaskets from having become over-commercialized - a good thing. Sue likes to read, do the crosswords in old copies of the "Irish Times, " and on the rare occasions she does go across the mainland it is get a stock of books. By 4:30, she is burning candles. "I have a Tilly lamp but it's still fairly dark in here in the kitchen, you wouldn't know what you're putting into the pot for supper!" The ferry brings essential supplies from the mainland. When asked if she was nervous on a stormy day or silent star-studded night? "Why would I be? What is there to harm me? I'd be at more risk in a cit! y. Out here, there's the waves and the wind and the memories of all who have lived on the Blaskets. I could not be in better company." The churchyard at Dunquin looks out towards Blasket Sound. -- Excerpts, "Ireland of the Welcomes" July-Aug 2001

"The Quays"of Limerick -- The 19th century saw a great surge of new building in Limerick. Fine tall houses of handsome proportions were built along the bank of the Shannon, with a view of the riverside scene. The Georgian architecture rivaled that of Dublin in distinction if not in extent. But, as happened also in Dublin and Cork, the passage of time brought about a change in the pattern of housing. The merchants and other wealthier inhabitants moved away from the river, further from the city center, and to houses with more in the way of modern facilities. The grand old houses were bought up by landlords and subdivided into tenement flats or single rooms By the 20th century, many families were crowded into these building, living in conditions of appalling squalor and degradation. An account by Dorothy McCALL, "A Visit to Limerick in 1938." -- "A few scattered villas and a brand-new electricity house warned me we were approaching Limerick. Past some dull terraces and suddenly we seemed back in the eighteenth century. Only the raw bricks of a Jesuit college warned me that the Crescent we were now entering was not a dream, that I should not be seeing patches and powder on the pavements. Down the long continuous thoroughfare of Patrick and Rutland Street to Charlotte Quay we went, between rows of lovely Georgian houses of dark red brick, built apparently to one pattern. Even the porticoes are uniform. A pair of Ionic pillars above a stately flight of stone steps supports each beautiful fanlight, and with few exceptions the windows with their twelve or sixteen panes remain intact. But the houses themselves are sadly ravaged, glass out of a fanlight here, a broken step there. And when we reached Charlotte Quay I was appalled at the squalor. Swarms! of ragged children ran in and of out of the great doors, for these palatial houses have now become a hive of tenement houses occupied by the poorest of the poor." Round the corner are the Old Custom House with its riverside garden, and other quays, their tall houses all showing the same sad face. And past them flows the strong tide of the Shannon from which the Atlantic breezes blow, fresh and cleansing." Where government had nothing to offer, and charity was both insufficient and cold-hearted, the people at the bottom of the heap had to rely on one another. Areas like the Lanes of Limerick or the Liberties of Dublin were looked on with horror by people who lived elsewhere as the abodes of dirt and crime. Within these close-packed streets there was an enduring spirit of community and mutual help, despite all the frictions and hardships. Of there was little they do, but simply a words, a gesture, or a cup of tea could help to maintain the self-respect of someone even worse off. >From homes that were intolerably cramped and crowded, the children came out whenever they could to play in the streets. They did not have toys, but they did not lack amusements. Stones, pieces of wood or rope, all could be turned into playthings. The windows of the little shops, packed with items they could rarely afford, were a source of endless interest. They played the same games, and chanted the same rhymes, all across the country: "I've a pain in me belly," Says Doctor Kelly. "Rub it with oil," Says Doctor Boyle, "A very good cure," Says Doctor Moore." Per Paul MALONE, "Memories of Picquet Lane,", Old Limerick Journal. "But we all retained one common goal in life and that was to leave school at fourteen years, get into long pants, find a job as a messenger boy on a bike and have a few bob to spend -- after we had given the wages to our mothers."

BIO: (See information about Irish Loyalist artist John RAMAGE below). Most of the United States rejoiced at the glad tidings of victory in the Revolutionary War, but one group of Americans was plunged into despair - the loyalists. Best estimates range between 75,000 and 100,000 dissenting Americans. At least 60,000 and perhaps 80,000 left the US during and after the Revolution. Contrary to myth, loyalists (a name they gave themselves ) were not all wealthy aristocrats. Among the loyalists who fled Boston with the British army in 1776 were 382 farmers, traders and mechanics. Many of those who could afford it retreated to England but were disillusioned by seeing "prostitutes thronging London's streets," and of the climate where they had to "wear winter clothing in August." Most of all, they were desperately homesick and those who had not actively fought against the Revolution were largely able to return unmolested. When it became apparent that the Americans had no! intention of honoring the clause in the peace treaty calling for compensation for loyalist losses, the British Parliament appointed a commission that examined 4,118 claims from loyalists who had had their property confiscated and their houses wrecked or looted by the rebels. Eventually the royal government paid out almost 3.3 million pounds to the claimants. A few loyalists won pensions or government jobs, but the standard British solution to loyalist pleas was a grant of land in Canada. Most, about 35,000, settled in Nova Scotia Along with grants of land, the Crown gave them warm clothing, farm supplies and equipment, and cash grants for the first two years. More than 3,000 ex-slaves who had joined the British also settled in Nova Scotia. After seven years they were so disgusted by the local government's failure to give them decent land, and its insistence on segregating them and in several cases re-enslaving them, that 1,000 blacks persuaded the Crown to transport t! hem back at Africa, where they helped create the British colony of Sierra Leone. No matter where they went, most loyalists remained American to the end of their days. No one summed up the divided state of their souls better than Massachusetts leader of the lost cause, Thomas HUTCHINSON. Not along before his death, he wrote in his diary: "I would rather die in a little country farmhouse in New England than in the best nobleman's seat in Old England." A portrait miniature of George WASHINGTON was sold by Christie's auction house to an anonymous bidder for $1.2 million in January of 2001. Painted in 1789 by John RAMAGE, the fine oval portrait measures 2-1/8 in. high and also includes plaited strands of Washington's hair inside its lovely case. Ramage painted the portrait - the first one completed of Washington after his inauguration as the nation's first president for First Lady Martha Washington. RAMAGE, an Irishman who had fought on the Loyalist side during the American Revolution, was considered New York's most fashionable artist of miniature portraits at the time. George Washington's private nickname for Martha was "Patsy." She had shared many of the hardships of the war with her husband, journeying north each year to preside at General Washington's winter quarters at Valley Forge, Morristown and other sites. A consummate hostess, she entertained Congressmen and French diplomats with unfailing skill. Washington wore a ring on his finger containing her portrait in miniature, although I don't know who the artist was.

BIO: Johnny DORAN was born in 1909 in Rathnew, Co. Wicklow into a family of professional travelling musicians, a descendant of the legendary 19th century Wicklow piper, John CASH. Taking to the road in the early 1930s and from then until his tragic death at the age of 42, Doran's pipes could be heard wherever there was a large gathering of people. Although he travelled widely throughout most of Ireland, Co. Clare was to become his favorite - no doubt attracted by the wealth of tradition still alive in the county and the fact that he found a ready and deeply appreciative listening audience for his soulful music. Doran's piping style was as wild, impassioned and exciting as it was technically brilliant. The uilleann (elbow) or Union Pipes is a complex, elbow-blown instrument comprised of bellows, bag and chanter, drones and regulators (keys set on the drones which provide chordal rhythm accompaniment) played while seated. Only half a century ago this popular instrument! looked as if it was in danger of becoming extinct. In Co. Clare the uilleann pipes had become a distant memory. Due to immigration, and following the death in 1900 of the celebrated blind piper Garret BARRY, there were no pipers to be heard - until Johnny Doran arrived. Johnny's repertoire included a selection of traditional tunes which he had learned at his piper father's knee as a boy in Wicklow. Many musicians referred to such pieces as "travellers tunes" -- "The Blackbird," "Colonel Frazer, "The Fox Hunt," and the haunting air "The Coolin. These tunes were associated with professional travelling musicians such as Johnny and his brother, Felix, (also an accomplished uilleann piper) and the DUNNE brothers from Co. Limerick. In Johnny's rending of such reels as "Rakish Paddy" or "My Love Is In America" he plays the tunes over and over, as if exploring new possibilities in a flurry of both intricately executed legato (open fingering) and staccato (close fingering) runs on the chanter. He apparently never took a drink, refused to play the pipes after the midnight hour and would often go into the fields after dark to play his pipes for the "little people." It was said of him that he was a gentle soul and "you could meet no better." Few pictures of Johnny Doran survive, although one can be found in the July-Aug 2001 issue of "Ireland of the Welcomes." Taken in Terenure, Co. Dublin in 1941, it shows him outside his horse-drawn caravan with fellow piper, Pat Cash and a young boy, possibly his nephew. Described as a small, intense, good-looking man with dark skin and black hair, Johnny cut an exotic figure wherever he set up to play. According to the renowned fiddler, the late John KELLY, "He looked for all the world like an Indian." Mr. Kelly first encountered Johnny and his piping at a fair in Kilkee in West Clare in the early 1930s and was captivated by this wiry, impish man who was driving the crowd gathered about him wild with excitement. The men remained friends throughout the years and often played together at informal sessions. Had it not been for the foresight of the late West Clare fiddler, Mr. Kelly, then living in Dublin, we may not have had the opportunity to hear and appreciate Johnny's unique piping style and stunning virtuosity. Kelly persuaded Kevin DANAHER of the Irish Folklore Commission to commit Doran's music to tape. On New Year's Day 1948, as Johnny emerged from his caravan, parked overnight by a high wall near Christchurch in Dublin, a fierce storm blew the wall onto the caravan, pinning him underneath. Although he survived his many injuries and travelled with his wife to his home in Wicklow after his hospitalization, his health continued to deteriorate. He died in a hospital in Athy, Co. Kildare on January 19, 1950. Mr. Doran's precious few recordings are still with us - those "hives of honeyed sound" - which are said to enchant and bewitch the listener with the eloquent, beautiful language of the heart.