- Letter from Sara to Margaret Maher McGoldrick
Dear Peg,
As I promised some time ago to dig up my ancestors as far back as I can trace them, I will delve
around the roots of the family tree carefully, lest I shake off some windfall that might be rotten fruit.
Whoever the antediluvian pair that first started the ball rolling, I do not know but the O'Ryans came
from Tipperary, Ireland, and as the Mc and 0 s were supposed to be true Irishmen, they descended
from the old Celtic race.
In 1818 my grandfather, William Ryan, having spent or lost two fortunes in Ireland, and being an Irish
rebel believing in self-government, as I do, came to Quebec, P.Q., in a sailing vessel. I suppose he
walked from Quebec to St. Andrews, N.B., which is about five hundred miles. Of course in those days,
it was either oxen or foot it, staying over wherever night would overtake them.
The railroad must have started to be built up the St.Croix and as it was under the Stars and Stripes,
where he wanted to be, he went up the river and bought up land, started a farm. He could not have
stayed there long, when he went back to Ireland and brought his wife and father back with him. He
must have had a restless roving nature, perhaps prospecting for a better lay, for a few years after, he
was returning home from a trip and was told of an old man being sick, and the Indians going to St.
Andrews which would be about twenty-five miles, to get the priest. He hurried home, and a few days
later the Indians took the remains of his father down the path or road and were towed across the river
to St. Andrews which was the only Catholic consecrated ground for miles and miles. That was about
1822. I am sending you a snap of the cemetery. I had hard work to find it. The wooden cross shown
here and there through tall branches, a tumbled down fence overgrown with bushes and brier and old
headstones fallen down. That man would be my Great Grandfather and Will's Great Great Grand
father. My brother Will who died in 1893 was named for Grandfather Ryan and Will, in turn, was
named for both. There are some verses by Grandfather Ryan saying he couldn't stand being poor, so
he left the tyrant nation. I remember him with very white hair, buckles in his shoes, and a tall hat with a
big handkerchief. He used to turn the beaver upside down, mop his brow and put the kerchief in it; and
woe betide the kid who molested it. He had a goodly temper and a dominant spirit, but I can see now that
it was hard for him to come to a new section and blaze the trail.
Grandmother's name was Ryan, and they say they were both educated. I have a book of Latin that
belonged to them. Ted's grandfather and my grandmother were brother and sister. Grandmother died
at middle age. Grandfather lived to be ninety-eight.
Their sons were born on the farm; my father Matthew Ryan was one. He was a hustler and too bright a
man to have to live in that country. He married my mother when they were both nineteen. He bought a
farm (where my brother John lives) but farming was too slow for him so he lumbered for years, first in
Maine, then later on a bigger scale in Nova Scotia during the winter, being home in the summer. He
always hired help for the farm.
Mother's name was Malloy. She was born in Canada and had one brother. Her mother's name was
MacAleer of Scotch and Irish parentage. They were farmers, as there was little else to do in those days.
Mother said her people came from Wexford County, Ireland, as I remember, but whether they were
married in Ireland or Canada, I do not know. Grandmother Malloy was not young when she married
and had just the two children, Mother and Uncle Mike. I remember Mother crying - so lonesome after
her mother. They lived near each other in Baileyville, Maine. Grandmother Malloy died in 1862 and
Mother in 1898.
How strange is this life. It is hardly worthwhile for one to weep after the other.
And so my dear Peg, I have shaken the limbs of the family tree. There may have been some hot
tempers and restless natures, but no real bad fruit or I would know it. I think had there been more
business in that country to feed their ambition on, they would have been more contented. I love to
wander back to the old scenes. I think it was Whittier who said -
"The hills dearest to our childish feet
have climbed the earliest,
The streams most sweet are ever those from
Which our young lips first drank."
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1864 - 1934 (70 years)
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