Notes by his Granddaughter, Mary Ann Pew-Cornish.

        My grandfather, John Hogarty, was born in 1796, I think in the East central part of Ireland, near Dublin. When 14 years old he was celebrating St Patrick’s Day with other boys in the village when the press gang, a company of British soldiers, surrounded them and forced them into the Army. As he was too young and too small to be put into the Ranks as a soldier, he was put into the Band and also made an Officers Valet.

        Like all of those true Irish blood at that time he had an innate hatred for the British; moreover, he had never enlisted, and he did not like army life, so he was determined to escape.

        In 1813 after three years in the British army, he succeeded in his third attempt and reached an American vessel engaged in the War of 1812. Here he entered the American army against the British and again served in the band.

        He was with Commodore Perry at the Battle of Lake Erie and after the American victory, September 10, 1813 at Put-In Bay when the British officers marched by to surrender their swords; his old Colonel saw him and exclaimed, “Ah John, I never thought you’d leave me this way!”

        He had some interesting experiences as he traveled through Europe with the British army during its campaigns against Napoleon. On one instance while in Russia he was out with a foraging party looking for food. They came to a house and asked for something to eat. The woman set food on the table, but no knives or forks, and when the men asked for them, she said “Fingers were made before forks!” and she swept the food away. The poor hungry soldiers had to look elsewhere.

        After the close of the War of 1812 he settled at Sacketts Harbor, New York, and later married Catherine Delaney.

        My mother Ann, the oldest of the family, was born there in 1823. There were to other daughters: Catherine (Mrs. John Day) and Mary (Mrs. Byron Winnegar) and three sons: Michael, Edward and John. Edward was the father of John Hogarty, Chauncey Olcott’s manager for 25 years. John was drowned at 14 years at Green Bay, Wisconsin, wither they had moved some time after my mother’s birth. My grandfather died there in 1844 the year I was born.

        I have heard my mother say that he was a handsome man resembling the picture of Noah Webster in a book we had called “Lives of Eminent Men”.

Source: Email from Mark Martinson <>, Saturday, March 3, 2007 12:50 PM

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