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AN IRISH ILIAD.
The Story of Sally Cavanagh.
( is singular enough that so soon after
appearance of that wonderful little
‘ The llealities of Irish Life,” the
’ ;;lii ,p and pathos of which have afforded
much enjoyment, wholly apart from
i;> political meaning, there should come
j .yt'a volume of quite similar character,
written from a standpoint of Irish politics
directly opposite to that of Mr. Trench,
“."ally Cavanagh, or the Untenanted
Graves,” is the title of a tale of Tippe
rary by Charles K. Kickham, who is an
fid; putrid. Mr. Trench told us stories
i of real life that seemed like fiction. Mr.
Kick hum relates a fictitious narrative
which has manifestly real life for its
basis. His object is to excite the reader
against the tenant system by showing
how Sally Cavanagh was persecuted unto
death by a grasping landlord, one
Grindcm. But having made the reader
acquainted with the wicked squire and
the victims of his cruel avarice, Mr.
Kickham apparently loses sight of his
purpose, and branches off into every va
riety of anecdote and sketch, all clever
and delightful. The main story, how
ever, of Sally Cavanagh herself, is like a
Greek tragedy, deepening in horror to
the cL sc. Nothing in Carleton’s “Traits
and Stories of the Irish Peasantry,” is
liner than the following incident. A
number of emigrants are about departing
for America, among whom is Connor
Shea, the husband of Sally Cavanagh,
and Brian Purcell, a young farmer, god
father to one of Sally's children, has come
to bid them farewell. He is looking at
the poor emigrants as they pass along
the highway in the moonlight :
Here Brian noticed for the first time a
little boy who quite in a manly way was
helping to “tackle” the ass, and who had
just inquired of the boy who was driving,
“how many links he was to hang in the
draught ?’’ Brian could not help smiling
at the figure the little fellow cut. His
cuter garment was a man’s waistcoat
which reached to the calves of his sturdy
little legs. A huge felt hat hung cross
wise oil his poll, and seemed every mo
ment to threaten to fall down over his
lace and extinguish him. He held a
formidable “blackthorn” under his arm,
which, having completed the “tackling”
process, he was about applying to the
donkey’s back to make him pull out of
the way for the carriage to pass, when
Brian laid hold of him by the shoulders.
“Neddy,” said he, in astonishment,
“what on earth brought you here ?”
i “Gun’ to America, sir,” replied tfie
: boy, half frightened, but resolute.
“But, Ned, my man, what will your
poor mother do ?”
The boy’s lip trembled as he replied :
“Hasn’t she Nora, an* Tom, an’ Corney,
j an’ Willie?”
“But you’re the biggest, Ned.”
“I’ll go to America wid my daddy,”
exclaimed the boy, retreating backwards,
as if he feared that Brian thought of
compelling him to return by force.
Brian understood the whole case at once.
Here was Connor Shea’s eldest son, after
stealing away from his mother, resolved
to follow the father that loved him and
was so proud of him, and away from
whom the boy thought he could not live
even for a month. The waistcoat, and
the hat and formidable blackthorn, illus
trated poor Neddy’s notions of equip
ment for a voyage across-the Atlantic.
After a moment’s reflection, Brian put
his linger to his lips and whistled. In an
instant another whistle as loud and pierc
ing replied from the upper end of the
“gap.” Brian whistled a second time,
and many minutes did not elapse when
Conner Shea was seen hurrying down
1 the hill.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in
some anxiety.
Brian pointed to the little boy, who
stood holt upright before him. The
father’s heart swelled as he looked at
him, and turning away his head he
dashed the tears repeatedly from his eyes
before he was able to speak.
“Now, Neddy,” said lie, “like a guod
follow, go back with Mr. Purcell.
Wouldn’t you rather stay at home and
mind the rest of ’em for me till I’m sendin’
bn' the whole of ye together—when I’ll
have the grand new house built an’ ready
an’ all for ye ?”
The hoy looked at him iu silence for
a moment, his face swollen with the in
tensity of his emotion. He then rushed
’o Us father, and locking his arms round
his kn es, uttered a shriek so shrill, so
piercir-g, so fraught with the agony of
! young creature’s heart, that bo*h
J r ‘ an ucd his father stood for a moment
petrified, not knowing what to do.
me boy clung convulsively to his
lather’s legs. The lady in the carriage
: l°rg o t the impassiveness upon which she
had prided herself, and alighted and stood
- j y Hcia.ii Purcell’s side.
“ What am Ito do ?” said Connor
Shea.
“ Bring him with you,” replied Brian,
and I’ll send over and let his mother
know what has happened the moment I
reach home.”
Come, Neddy,” said Connor “ I’ll
take Mr. Purcell’s advice and let you
come with me.”
The boy let go his hold and stood by
his side, sobbing tremulously, but making
great efforts to suppress his emotion.
“Doyou know me?” inquired the lady,
stooping low and speaking into his ear.
“ No mam.”
D) you know that Mr. Purcell i
your god-father ?”
“ I do, mam.”
“ And did you never hear who was
your god-mother ?”
“ No mam,” said the boy, taking cour
age to look into her face.
The lady remained lost in thought for
awhile. “Poor Sally,” she said, half
aloud, “she never could forgive me.”
When Sally Cavanagh lived with her
father, she was a near neighbor and a
great favorite of this young lady’s family.
And the admiration of the warm-bcarted
peasant girl was divided between her and
Brian Purcell, who, in her mind, was the
ve plus ultra of creation. She got
them to “stand” for her first child. But
when she discovered that Miss Evans’
extraordinary beauty, together with a for
tunate windfall in trie shape of a legacy,
had lifted her quite above the sphere of
her young lover, and that, in fact, to
speak mildly, she had given up, the un
sophisticated heart of Sally Cavanagh
revolted against the whole proceeding.
It was so opposed to all her preconceived
notions and to her very nature that the
fickle beauty’s name—which before was
the theme ot her praises morning, noon
and night—was never heard to pass her
lips. Which shows how wofully in the
rough poor Sally Cavanagh was, and
how sadly ignorant of the world and its
ways.”
Connor goes to America, but does not
prosper there, and is wholly unable to
afford any relief to Sally, who is left quite
defenceless and at the mercy of Grindem.
She makes a hard fight against the work
house for herself and children, but is
finally compelled to enter that dreaded
abode, and is immediately attacked by
brain fever, in the treatment of which
she is forcibly separated from her dar
lings. In convalescence, she pleads to be
permitted once more to caress them, but
the officers are deaf to her entreaties
Ihe promise is, indeed, given that they
shall be brought to her, but it is never
kept.
W hen to-morrow, and to-morrow, and
a week passed, and they were still putting
her of], a terrible dread teok possession of
ber. The doctor seeing this, whispered
to the nurse that if she did not rest better
that night, the truth should be broken to
her. But having heard that the children
in the workhouse were all marched out
daily at a certain hour for air and exer
cise, Sally Cavanagh stole from the fever
hospita and hid herself in a clump of
evergreens by which the children were
to pass. She crouched down upon her
knees and elbows, watching and listen
ing intently. They are coming ! They
pass withinttt few feet of the evergreens!
I ler very breathing i* suspended. Not a
lace in that long line of pauper boys es
capes her scrutiny. But G’orney is not
there, nor Tommy, nor Nickey. Sally
Cavanagh feels an almost irrepressible
impulse to scream aloud; but by a strong
effort she resists it, and it passes away
in a shudder. She rests her forehead—
it is burning—upon the damp clay under
the evergreens, and remains motionless,
she knows not how long. She is roused
by Hie plodding tread of the pauper boys
on their return. She watches them again,
but now not anxiously, hat with a dull
unconscious gaze.
Again she is roused. A piercing light
burns iu her dark eyes, and her nostrils
quiver. The pauper girls are coming
now. She raisos herself upon her hands
as il she were about to spring forward.
It is—it is poor Norah’s yellow hair !
She does sprang forward. She seized
the child by the shoulders, and, holding
her at arm's length, stares into a face that
never wore a smile; no, never—-since the
day she was born. But it is not poor
Norah, and Sally Cavanah appears turned
into stone as the procession of pauper
girls moves past.
But is it not a sight to make one shud
der ? Is there not something horrible
in the bare idea of many hundreds of
children’s faces without one smile among
them ? Yet we assure the reader we
have seen this unnatural sight.
Another thought smote upon the
heart of Sally Cavanagh, and she was
aroused again.
She sees two men placing coffins upon
a car. There is a child’s coffin among
them; and as the men stoop to lift it
from the ground, they are pushed violent
ly aside. She tears off the lid, and the
'MiBM fii affiimrot:
bright rays of the setting suits, fall upon
the ghastly corpse. But it is cot her
child. The priest, who was coming from
the hospital, approached and spoke
to the poor distracted mother.
“ Where are they ?” she asked.
“ In Heaven—with the saints in Heav
en,” replied the priest.
“ Norah--and Oorney—and Tommy
and Nickey ?—and the youngest little
boy ?—are they all dead ?”
“Yes; they’re all dead—”
“ And buried V —she added with a
bewildered look.
“ And buried —and gone to a better
world,” said the priest.
She looked distractedly about her, till
her eyes rested on a blue mountain, ten
miles away. She bent a long piercing
gaze upon the mountain, and then utter
ing a wild shriek that rung through
every corner of the “palace of poverty,”
and made the good priest turn pale, the
broken-hearted woman rushed through
tiie gate—her hands stretched out to
wards the mountain.
Sally Cavanagh was a maniac.
The demented mother now wanders
up and down the neighborhood, returning
always at night to an old burying-ground,
where side by side she has raised five
little mounds, the “untenanted graves.”
Iu her disturbed imagination she fancies
her children are there, and that under
the tender starlight the youngest comes
down and nestles in her bosom. Mean
while the husband returns from America,
and is taken by his constant friend, Brian
Purcell, to the burying ground. Connor
Shea stands a little apart, concealed by a
wall, while Brian goes up to Sally, who
has promised to tell him on this occasion
a secret.
“ Well, every night when the stars and >
be shinin’—but you won’t tell, or they
might take him from me ?”
No, Sallie, I will not tell.”
She placed her hand upon his shoulder,
and with her mouth close to his ear,
while a childlike smile lighted up hei
face., whispered :
“He comes down when the stars do
be shinin’, and I have him iu my arms
all night.”
“\\ ho, Sally ? Who comes down
“Ah. you wouldn’t guess! Well,l’ll
tell you, the youngest of all—poor Willie
with the blue eyes. An’ I have him
here all night—here,” she repeated,
pressing both her hands against her
bosom.
Brian was almost affected to tears.
“Here is Norali outside,” said she,
kneeling down and laying her hand on
one of the mounds.
“An’sure you’d aisy know Corney, for
he was nearly as tall as Norali. An’
any one’d know the little one entirely.
But who on’y myself could guess these
two ? ’ She looked up at Brian .as if ex
pecting a reply. “No,” she continued,
“you’d never be able to guess ; but I’ll
tell you This is Tom—the little fat
bruckish; and this is Nickey. But will
nobody tell me where is Neddy poor
Connor’s own brave boy ?”
At this moment the wicked landlord,
Grindem, appears on the scene, with five
constables, and a man with a shovel and
spade whom he had brought to level the
“untenanted graves,” at the same time
that the constables are to arrest Sally.
The poor lunatic feebly resists tbe ar
rest, and clutches at the bridle rein of
j Grindem’s horse. The wretch cuts her
] across the face with his horsewhip, and
{just at the instant that Connor Shea
jis about to send a bullet through his
jbrain, tbe horse rears up and throws
! Grindem, breaking his neck against the
wall, Connor tuen rushes to his wife’s
rescue.
“Oh, save me—save me !” she cried in
an imploring voice.
“I ll save you ; yes, I’ll save you. But
oh! Sally, don’t you know me?”
“He comes down every night when
the. stars do he shinin’,” she whis
pered, “ and now they want to take me
away.”
“Oh ! Sally, look up—look up and say
you know me,” he sobbed. And as he
raised her face from his bosom, he kissed
her wan cheek passionately.
“They’re dead,” she murmured, “all
dead. Poor Norah, an’ Corney, an’
Tommy, an’ Nickey, an’ little Willie
with the blue eyes—an’ all.”
“But don’t you remember me, Sally—
your own husband ! Thry, Sally, and
remember ould times !”
But there was no meaning in her
smile.
“My God !my God!” cried the dis
tracted man, “what did I ever do to de
serve this ? Sure I was mad a while
ago, when I thought to take his life. 0,
Heavenly Father ! restore her sinses, an’
a thought of revenge I’ll never let enther
my heart again ! Holy Mary, Mother of
God, intercede for her,” he exclaimed
aloud in a voice of the most intense
entreaty.
“Look at me again, Sally —A gradk
fjeal mo croidhe /”
He felt her start slightly, and hold his
cheek close to hers, repeated the words
‘‘ A gradh geal mo croidhc /”
She raised her hand and bent her
head in a listening attitude, like one try
ing to catch some distant sound. Again
he murmured the words into her ear.
“ My own poor Sally —A gradh geal
mo croidhe /”
She covered her face with her hands
and sobbed.
“ If we were all together she mur
mured, “ what harm if we were all to
gether ?”
He remembered these were the very 7
words she used when he bade “God be
with her,” the night of his departure for
America. Looking upon them as an im
dication of returning reason, he knelt
down and exclaimed fervently, “my God,
I thank you for your mercy. And taking
the revolver from his breast again, he
flung it on the ground.
“ Come, Sally,” said he, “let us go.”
To his surprise and delight, instead of
resisting, as he expected she would, she
gave him her hand, and allowed him to
lead her like a child over the bfoken
wall at the opposite side of the old ruin,
and up towards the-angle of the wood,
where he stopped the night be parted
from her to take a last look at his home.
A day or two afterward Sally dies, and
this brings this Irish Iliad to its sombre
close
Asa relief to the deep melancholy of
this tale of Tipperary, divested of the
mirthful episodes which light it up in
Mr. Kickhain’s pages, we give a speci
men of the author’s humor, in the capital
story of Shawn’s Cow’s quarrel with his
wife about a blackbird. One Tim Croak,
a droll fellow, speaks :
“’Twas this day seven years, for all
the world, the year of the hard frast.
Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggert the
evenin’ afore; and when he went out in
the rnornin’ he had a hen blackbird. He
put the goulogue on her nick, an’ tuck
her in his hand; an’ wud one smulluck
av bis finger knocked the life outav her;
lie walked in and threw the blackbird on
the table.”
“ ‘O, Shawn,” s : z Nancy, “you’re after
catchin’ a fine Parish.’ Nancy took the
bird in her hand an’ began rubbin’ the
feathers on her breast. ‘A fine thrish,’
siz Nancv.’
“ “Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,” siz
Shawn.
“Wisha, introth, Shawn,” siz Nancy,
“ ’tis a thrish ; do you want to take the
sight o’ my eyes from me?”
“ I tell you ’tis a blackbird,” siz he.
“ Indeed theu it isn’t, but a thrish,”
siz she.
“ Any way one word borrowed an
other; and the end of av it was, Shawn
flailed at her an* gev her the father av a
bn tin ’
“ The Christmas day after, Nancy
opeued the dour an’ looked out.
“ ‘God be wid this day twelve months,’
siz she, ‘ do you renumber the fine thrish
you caught in the crib?’
“ “Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.
“ ‘Whist now,- Shawn, ’twas a thrish,’
siz Nancy.
“‘I tell you again, ’twas a blackbird,’
siz Shawn.
“ ‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnin’ to laugh,
‘ that was the quare blackbird.’ Wnd
that, one word borrowed another, and
Shawn stood up and gev her the father
av a batin’. The third Christmas day
kem, and they war in the best o’ good
humor after the lay, and Shawn puttin’
on his ridiu’ coat to go to Mass. ‘Well,
Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘l’m thiukin’ av what
an unhappy Christmas mornin’ we had
this day twelve months, all on account of
that thrish you caught in the crib, bad
cess to her.’
“ ‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.
“ ‘Wisha good luck to you, an’ don’t
be talkin’ foolish,’ siz Nancy; ‘an’you’re
betther not get into a passion agin, ac
count of an ould thrish. My heavy
curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.
“ ‘ I tell you it was a blackbird,’ siz
Shawn.
“ ‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz
Nancy.
“Wild that Shawn took down a bun
naun he had seasonin’ in the chimley
and whaled at Nancy, and gev her the
father av a batin’.
“ An’ every Christmas mornin’ from
that day to this, ’twas the same story, for
as sure as the sun Nancy’d down the
thrish”
THE (ECUMENICAL COUNCIL
TEXT OF THE POPE’S ANSWER TO THE
APPLICATION OF THE REV. DR. GUM
MING TO RE HEARD IN THE
COUNCIL.
The English papers publish the follow
ing translation of the reply of the Pope
to the letter of the Rev. Dr. Gumming,
already briefly noticed in cable tele
/
grams:
PorE Pius IX to our Venerable
Brother Henry Edward Arch
bishop of Westminster.
Venerable Brother , Health and the
Apostolic Blessing :—We have seen
from the newspapers that Dr. Gumming,
ot Scotland, has inquired of you whether
leave will be given at the approaching
Council to those who dissent from the
Catholic Church, to put forward the ar
guments which they think can be ad
vanced in support of theirown opinions;
and that, on your replying that this is a
matter to be determined by the Holy
bee, he has written to us uoon the sub
ject.
Now, if the inquirer knows what is
the belief of Catholics with respect to
the teaching authority whieh has been
given by our Divine Saviour to llis
Church, and therefore with respect to its
infallibility in deciding questions which
belong to dogma or to morals, he must
know that the Church cannot permit er
rors which it has carefully considered,
judged and condemned, to be again
brought under discussion. This, too, is
what has already beeii made known by
our letters. (Viz: The Letters Apostolic
of September 13, 1868, addressed “To
all Protestants and other non Catholics.”)
For, when we said, “It cannot be denied
or doubted that Jesus Christ himself, in
order that he might apply to all genera
tions of men the fruits of His redemp
tion, built here on earth upon Peier His
only Church, that is the one, holy, Catho
lic and Apostolic Church, and gave to
him all power that was necessary for
preserving whole and inviolate the de
posit of faith and for delivering the
same faith to all peoples, and tribes and
nations.” we thereby signified that the
primacy both of honor and of jurisdic
tion, which was conferred upon Peter
and his successors by the Founder of the
Church, is placed beyond the hazard of
disputation. This, indeed, is tbe hinge
upon which the whole question between
Catholics and all who dissent from them
turns, and from this dissent, as from a
fountain, all the errors of nou-Catholics
flow. “For inasmuch as such bodies of
men destitute of that living and diviue
ly established authority, which teaches
mankind especially the things of faith
and the rule of morals, and which also
directs and governs them in whatever
relates to eternal salvation, so these same
bodies of men have ever varied in their
teaching, and their change and instabili
ty never cease.” If, therefore, your in
quirer will consider either the opinion
which is held by the Church as to the in
fallibility of its judgment in defining
whatever belongs to faith or morals, or
what we ourselves have written respect
ing the primacy and teaching authority
of Peter, he will at once perceive that no
room can be given at the Council for
the defence of errors which have already
been condemned; and that we could*not
have invited non-Catholies to a discussion,
but have only urged them “to avail
themselves of the opportunity afforded
by this Council, in which the Catholic
Church, to which their forefathers be
longed, gives anew proof of its unity
and invincible vitality, and to satisfy
the wants of their souls by withdrawing
from a state in whieh they cannot be sure
of their salvation.”
If, bv the inspiration of Divine grace,
they seek Go l with their whole heart,
they will easily cast away all precon
ceived and adverse opinions; and, laying
aside all desire of disputation, they will
return to the Father from whom they
have long unhappily gone astray. We,
on our part, will joyfully run to meet
them; and embracing them with a father’s
charity, we shall rejoice, and the Church
will rejoice with us, that our children
who were dead have come to life
and that they who were lost have been
found. This, indeed, we earnestly ask
of God; and do you, venerable brother,
join your prayers to ours.
In the meanwhile, as a token of the
Divine favor and of our own especial ben
evolence, we most lovingly give to you
and to your diocese our Apostolic blessing.
Given at St. Peter’s, in Rome, this
4th day of September, 1860, in the
twenty-fourth of our Pontificate.
P OPE P IUS IX.
Ex-Gen. Longstreet, the other day, re
gretted the estimate in which he was held
by old friends, but claimed he had the
good of the country ai heart, and that
Virginia andTenne see were pursuing the
line of action which he, two years ago,
saw and stated, was the way of the inex
orable logic ol events.
There can be uo objection to a widow
marrying again, but when she marries a
tew weeks after the demise of her late lord
and master, and makes much money by
the operation, she is liable to criticism.
Virginia and Teunes ee were in widows’
weeds two years before entering Vto new
relations. In Longstreet’s case, the words
apply “but two months dead !’’ Virginia
and Tennessee never made wicked speed
to post
“With such dexterity to incestuous
sheets.”
5