their families to reside in the upper village, and the house which they
chose as a residence was one at some distance from those which composed
the little group we have just been describing. They said their name was
Meehan, although the general report went, that this was not true; that
the name was an assumed one, and that some dark mystery, which none
could penetrate, shrouded their history and character. They were
certainly remarkable men. The elder, named Anthony, was a dark,
black-browed person, stern in his manner, and atrociously cruel in his
disposition. His form was Herculean, his bones strong and hard as iron,
and his sinews stood out in undeniable evidence of a life hitherto spent
in severe toil and exertion, to bear which he appeared to an amazing
degree capable. His brother Denis was a small man, less savage and
daring in his character, and consequently more vacillating and cautious
than Anthony; for the points in which he resembled him were superinduced
upon his natural disposition by the close connection that subsisted
between them, and by the identity of their former pursuits in life,
which, beyond doubt, had been such as could not bear investigation.
The old proverb of “birds of a feather flock together,” is certainly a
true one, and in this case it was once more verified. Before the arrival
of these men in the village, there had been two or three bad characters
in the neighborhood, whose delinquencies were pretty well known. With
these persons the strangers, by that sympathy which assimilates with
congenial good or evil, soon became acquainted; and although their
intimacy was as secret and cautious as possible, still it had been
observed, and was known, for they had frequently been seen skulking
together at daybreak, or in the dusk of evening.
It is unnecessary to say that Meehan and his brother did not mingle much
in the society of Carnmore. In fact, the villagers and they mutually
avoided each other. A mere return of the common phrases of salutation
was generally the most that passed between them; they never entered into
that familiarity which leads to mutual intercourse, and justifies one
neighbor in freely entering the cabin of another, to spend a winter's
night, or a summer's evening, in amusing conversation. Few had ever been
in the house of the Meehans since it became theirs; nor were the means
of their subsistence known. They led an idle life, had no scarcity of
food, were decently clothed, and never wanted money; circumstances which
occasioned no small degree of conjecture in Carnmore and its vicinity.
Some said they lived by theft; others that they were coiners; and there
were many who imagined, from the diabolical countenance of the older
brother, that he had sold himself to the devil, who, they affirmed, set
his mark upon him, and was his paymaster. Upon this hypothesis several
were ready to prove that he had neither breath nor shadow; they had seen
him, they said, standing under a hedge-row of elder--that unholy
tree which furnished wood for the cross, and on which Judas hanged
himself--yet, although it was noon-day in the month of July, his person
threw out no shadow. Worthy souls! because the man stood in the shade at
the time. But with these simple explanations Superstition had nothing to
do, although we are bound in justice to the reverend old lady to affirm
that she was kept exceedingly busy in Carnmore. If a man had a sick
cow, she was elf-shot; if his child became consumptive, it had been
overlooked, or received a blast from the fairies; if the whooping-cough
was rife, all the afflicted children were put three times under an ass;
or when they happened to have the “mumps,” were led, before sunrise to a
south-running stream, with a halter hanging about their necks, under
an obligation of silence during the ceremony In short, there could
not possibly be a more superstitious spot than that which these men of
mystery had selected for their residence. Another circumstance which
caused the people to look upon them with additional dread, was their
neglect of mass on Sundays and holydays, though they avowed themselves
Roman Catholics. They did not, it is true, join in the dances,
drinking-matches, football, and other sports with which the Carnmore
folk celebrated the Lord's day; but they scrupled not, on the other
hand, to mend their garden-ditch or mould a row of cabbages on the
Sabbath--a circumstance, for which two or three of the Carnmore boys
were, one Sunday evening when tipsy, well-nigh chastising them. Their
usual manner, however, of spending that day was by sauntering lazily
about the fields, or stretching themselves supinely on the sunny side of
the hedges, their arms folded on their bosoms, and their hats lying over
their faces to keep off the sun.
In the mean time, loss of property was becoming quite common in the
neighborhood. Sheep were stolen from the farmers, and cows and horses
from the more extensive graziers in the parish. The complaints against
the authors of these depredations were loud and incessant: watches were
set, combinations for mutual security formed, and subscriptions to a
considerable amount entered into, with a hope of being able, by the
temptation of a large reward, to work upon the weakness or cupidity
of some accomplice to betray the gang of villains who infested the
neighborhood. All, however, was in vain; every week brought some new act
of plunder to light, perpetrated upon such unsuspecting persons as
had hitherto escaped the notice of the robbers; but no trace could be
discovered of the perpetrators. Although theft had from time to time
been committed upon a small scale before the arrival of the Meehans in
the village, yet it was undeniable that since that period the instances
not only multiplied, but became of a more daring and extensive
description. They arose in a gradual scale, from the henroost to the
stable; and with such ability were they planned and executed, that the
people, who in every instance identified Meehan and his brother with
them, began to believe and hint that, in consequence of their compact
with the devil, they had power to render themselves invisible. Common
Fame, who can best treat such subjects, took up this, and never laid it
aside until, by narrating several exploits which Meehan the elder was
said to have performed in other parts of the kingdom, she wound it up by
roundly informing the Carnmorians, that, having been once taken prisoner
for murder, he was caught by the leg, when half through a hedge, but
that; being most wickedly determined to save his neck, he left the leg
with the officer who took him, shouting out that it was a new species
of leg-bail; and yet he moved away with surprising speed, upon two of as
good legs as any man in his majesty's dominions might wish to walk off
upon, from the insinuating advances of a bailiff or a constable!
The family of the Meehans consisted of their wives and three children,
two boys and a girl; the former were the offspring of the younger
brother, and the latter of Anthony. It has been observed, with truth and
justice, that there is no man, how hardened and diabolical soever in
his natural temper, who does not exhibit to some particular object
a peculiar species of affection. Such a man was Anthony Meehan.
That sullen hatred which he bore to human society, and that inherent
depravity of heart which left the trail of vice and crime upon his
footsteps, were flung off his character when he addressed his daughter
Anne. To him her voice was like music; to her he was not the reckless
villain, treacherous and cruel, which the helpless and unsuspecting
found him; but a parent kind and indulgent as ever pressed an only and
beloved daughter to his bosom. Anne was handsome: had she been born and
educated in an elevated rank in society, she would have been softened
by the polish and luxury of life into perfect beauty: she was, however,
utterly without education. As Anne experienced from her father no
unnatural cruelty, no harshness, nor even indifference, she consequently
loved him in return; for she knew that tenderness from such a man was a
proof of parental love rarely to be found in life. Perhaps she loved not
her father the less on perceiving that he was proscribed by the world;
a circumstance which might also have enhanced in his eyes the affection
she bore him. When Meehan came to Carnmore, she was sixteen; and, as
that was three years before the incident occurred on which we have
founded this narrative, the reader may now suppose her to be about
nineteen; an interesting country girl, as to person, but with a mind
completely neglected, yet remarkable for an uncommon stock of good
nature and credulity.
About the hour of eleven o'clock, one winter's night in the beginning of
December, Meehan and his brother sat moodily at their hearth. The fire
was of peat which had recently been put down, and, from between the
turf, the ruddy blaze was shooting out in those little tongues and,
gusts of sober light, which throw around the rural hearth one of those
charms which make up the felicity of domestic life. The night was
stormy, and the wind moaned and howled along the dark hills beneath
which the cottage stood. Every object in the house was shrouded in a
mellow shade, which afforded to the eye no clear outline, except around
the hearth alone, where the light brightened into a golden hue, giving
the idea of calmness and peace. Anthony Meehan sat on one side of it,
and his daughter opposite him, knitting: before the fire sat Denis,
drawing shapes in the ashes for his own amusement.
“Bless me,” said he, “how sthrange it is!”
“What is?” inquired Anthony, in his deep and grating tones.
“Why, thin, it is sthrange!” continued the other, who, despite of the
severity of his brother, was remarkably superstitious--“a coffin I made
in the ashes three times runnin'! Isn't it very quare, Anne?” he added,
addressing the niece.
“Sthrange enough, of a sartinty,” she replied, being unwilling to
express before her father the alarm which the incident, slight as it
was, created in her mind; for she, like her uncle, was subject to such
ridiculous influences. “How did it happen, uncle?”
“Why, thin, no way in life, Anne; only, as I was thryin' to make a shoe,
it turned out a coffin on my hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, and began
agin, an' sorra bit of it but was a coffin still. Well, says I, I'll
give you another chance,--here goes one more;--an', as sure as gun's
iron, it was a coffin the third time. Heaven be about us, it's odd
enough!”
“It would be little matther you were nailed down in a coffin,” replied
Anthony, fiercely; “the world would have little loss. What a pitiful
cowardly rascal you are! Afraid o' your own shadow afther the 'sun goes
down, except I'm at your elbow! Can't you dhrive all them palavers out
o' your head? Didn't the sargint tell us, an' prove to us, the time we
broke the guardhouse, an' took Frinch lave o' the ridgment for good,
that the whole o' that, an' more along wid it, is all priestcraft?”
“I remimber he did, sure enough: I dunna where the same sargint is now,
Tony? About no good, any way, I'll be bail. Howsomever, in regard o'
that, why doesn't yourself give up fastin' from the mate of a Friday?”
“Do you want me to sthretch you on the hearth?” replied the savage,
whilst his eyes kindled into fury, and his grim visage darkened into a
satanic expression. “I'll tache you to be puttin' me through my catechiz
about aitin' mate. I may manage that as I plase; it comes at first-cost,
anyhow: but no cross-questions to me about it, if you regard your
health!”
“I must say for you,” replied Denis, reproachfully, “that you're a good
warrant to put the health astray upon us of an odd start: we're not come
to this time o' day widout carryin' somethin' to remimber you by. For my
own part, Tony, I don't like such tokens; an' moreover, I wish you
had resaved a thrifle o' larnin', espishily in the writin' line; for
whenever we have any difference, you're so ready to prove your opinion
by settin' your mark upon me, that I'd rather, fifty times over, you
could write it with pen an' ink.”
“My father will give that up, uncle,” said the niece; “it's bad for any
body to be fightin', but worst of all for brothers, that ought to live
in peace and kindness. Won't you, father?”
“Maybe I will, dear, some o' these days, on your account, Anne; but you
must get this creature of an uncle of yours, to let me alone, an' not
be aggravatin' me with his folly. As for your mother, she's worse; her
tongue's sharp enough to skin a flint, and a batin' a day has little
effect on her.”
Anne sighed, for she knew how long an irreligious life, and the infamous
society with which, as her father's wife, her mother was compelled to
mingle, had degraded her.
“Well, but, father, you don't set her a good example yourself,” said
Anne; “and if she scoulds and drinks now, you know she was a different
woman when you got her. You allow this yourself; and the crathur, the
dhrunkest time she is, doesn't she cry bittherly, remimberin' what she
has been. Instead of one batin' a day, father, thry no batin' a day, an'
maybe it 'ill turn out betther than thump-in' an' smashin' her as you
do.”
“Why, thin, there's truth and sinse in what the girl says, Tony,”
observed Denis.
“Come,” replied Anthony, “whatever she may say I'll suffer none of your
interference. Go an' get us the black bottle from the place; it'll soon
be time to move. I hope they won't stay too long.”
Denis obeyed this command with great readiness, for whiskey in some
degree blunted the fierce passions of his brother, and deadened his
cruelty; or rather diverted it from minor objects to those which
occurred in the lawless perpetration of his villany.
The bottle was got, and in the meantime the fire blazed up brightly; the
storm without, however, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his brother
wish that it should. As the elder of them took the glass from the
hands of the other, an air of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on
reflecting that the tempest of the night was favorable to the execution
of the villanous deed on which they were bent.
“More power to you!” said Anthony, impiously personifying the storm;
“sure that's one proof that God doesn't throuble his head about what
we do, or we would not get such a murdherin' fine night as is in it
any how. That's it! blow and tundher away, an' keep yourself an' us, as
black as hell, sooner than we should fail in what we intend! Anne, your
health, acushla!--Yours, Dinny! If you keep your tongue off o' me, I'll
neither make nor meddle in regard o' the batin' o' you.”
“I hope you'll stick to that, any how,” replied Denis; “for my part I'm
sick and sore o' you every day in the year. Many another man would
put salt wather between himself and yourself, sooner nor become a
battin'-stone for you, as I have been. Few would bear it, when they
could mend themselves.”
“What's that you say?” replied Anthony, suddenly laying down his glass,
catching his brother by the collar, and looking him with a murderous
scowl in the face. “Is it thrachery you hint at?--eh? Sarpent, is it
thrachery you mane?” and as he spoke, he compressed Denis's neck between
his powerful hands, until the other was black in the face.
Anne flew to her uncle's assistance, and with much difficulty succeeded
in rescuing him from the deadly gripe of her father, who exclaimed, as
he loosed his hold, “You may thank the girl, or you'd not spake,
nor dare to spake, about crossin' the salt wather, or lavin' me in a
desateful way agin. If I ever suspect that a thought of thrachery comes
into your heart, I'll do for you; and you may carry your story to the
world I'll send you to.”
“Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my uncle?” said Anne; “sure
he's a long time livin' with you, an' goin' step for step in all the
danger you meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas agin you, he
might a done it long agone; not to mintion the throuble it would bring
on his own head seein' he's as deep in everything as you are.”
“If that's all that's throubling you,” replied Denis, trembling, “you
may make yourself asy on the head of it; but well I know 'tisn't that
that's on your mind; 'tis your own conscience; but sure it's not fair
nor rasonable for you to vent your evil thoughts on me!”
“Well, he won't,” said Anne, “he'll quit it; his mind's throubled; an',
dear knows, it's no wondher it should. Och, I'd give the world wide that
his conscience was lightened of the load that's upon it! My mother's
lameness is nothin'; but the child, poor thing! An' it was only widin
three days of her lyin'-in. Och, it was a cruel sthroke, father! An'
when I seen its little innocent face, dead an' me widout a brother, I
thought my heart would break, thinkin' upon who did it!” The tears fell
in showers from her eyes, as she added, “Father, I don't want to vex
you; but I wish you to feel sorrow for that at laste. Oh, if you'd bring
the priest, an' give up sich coorses, father dear, how happy we'd be,
an' how happy yourself 'ud be!”
Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, and uttered a cry of
guilt in his spirit; his face became ghastly, and his eyes full of
horror: his lips quivered, and he' was about to upbraid his daughter
with more harshness than usual, when a low whistle, resembling that of
a curlew, was heard at a chink of the door. In a moment he gulped down
another glass of spirits, and was on his feet: “Go, Denis, an' get the
arms,” said he to his brother, “while I let them in.”
On opening the door, three men entered, having their great coats muffled
about them, and their hats slouched. One of them, named Kenny, was a
short villain, but of a thick-set, hairy frame. The other was known as
“the Big Mower,” in consequence of his following that employment every
season, and of his great skill in performing it. He had a deep-rooted
objection against permitting the palm of his hand to be seen; a
reluctance which common fame attributed to the fact of his having
received on that part the impress of a hot iron, in the shape of the
letter T, not forgetting to add, that T was the hieroglyphic for Thief.
The villain himself affirmed it was simply the mark of a cross, burned
into it by a blessed friar, as a charm against St. Vitus's dance,
to which he had once been subject. The people, however, were rather
sceptical, not of the friar's power to cure that malady, but of the
fact of his ever having moved a limb under it; and they concluded with
telling him, good-humoredly enough, that notwithstanding the charm, he
was destined to die “wid the threble of it in his toe.” The third was a
noted pedlar called Martin, who, under pretence of selling tape,
pins, scissors, etc., was very useful in setting such premises as this
virtuous fraternity might, without much risk, make a descent upon.
“I thought yez would out-stay your time,” said the elder Meehan,
relapsing into his determined hardihood of character; “we're ready,
hours agone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew an' two patrich calls to-day.
Now pass the glass among yez, while Denny brings the arms. I know
there's danger in this business, in regard of the Cassidys livin' so
near us. If I see anybody afut, I'll use the curlew call: an' if not,
I'll whistle twice on the patrich (* partridge) one, an' ye may come an.
The horse is worth eighty guineas, if he's worth a shillin'; an' we'll
make sixty off him ourselves.”
For some time they chatted about the plan in contemplation, and drank
freely of the spirits, until at length the impatience of the elder
Meehan at the delay of his brother became ungovernable. His voice
deepened into tones of savage passion, as he uttered a series of
blasphemous curses against this unfortunate butt of his indignation
and malignity. At length he rushed out furiously to know why he did not
return; but, on reaching a secret excavation in the mound against which
the house was built, he found, to his utter dismay, that Denis had
made his escape by an artificial passage, scooped out of it to secure
themselves a retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened behind
the house among a clump of black-thorn and brushwood, and wis covered
“with green turf in such a manner as to escape the notice of all who
were not acquainted with the secret. Meehan's face on his return was
worked up into an expression truly awful.
“We're sould!” said he; “but stop, I'll tache the thraithur what revenge
is!”
In a moment he awoke his brother's two sons, and dragged them by the
neck, one in each hand, to the hearth.
“Your villain of a father's off,” said he, “to betray us; go, an' folly
him; bring him back, an' he'll be safe from me: but let him become a
slag agin us, and if I should hunt you both into bowels of the airth,
I'll send yez to a short account. I don't care that,” and he snapped his
fingers--“ha, ha--no, I don't care that for the law; I know how to dale
with it, when it comes! An' what's the stuff about the other world, but
priestcraft and lies!”
“Maybe,” said the Big Mower, “Denis is gone to get the foreway of us,
an' to take the horse himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, at all
events; so let us hurry, for fraid the night might happen to clear up.”
“He!” said Meehan, “he go alone! No; the miserable wretch is afeard
of his own shadow. I only wondher he stuck to me so long: but sure he
wouldn't, only I bate the courage in, and the fear out of him. You're
right, Brian,” said he upon reflection, “let us lose no time, but be
off. Do ye mind?” he added to his nephews; “Did ye hear me? If you see
him, let him come back, an' all will be berrid; but, if he doesn't, you
know your fate!” Saying which, he and his accomplices departed amid the
howling of the storm.
The next morning, Carnmore, and indeed the whole parish, was in an
uproar; a horse, worth eighty guineas, had been stolen in the most
daring manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and-cry was up after the
thief or thieves who took him. For several days the search was closely
maintained, but without success; not the slightest trace could be found
of him or them. The Cassidys could very well bear to lose him; but there
were many struggling farmers, on whose property serious depredations
had been committed, who could not sustain their loss so easily. It was
natural under these circumstances that suspicion should attach to many
persons, some of whom had but indifferent characters before as well as
to several who certainly had never deserved suspicion. When a fortnight
or so had elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that might lead to
discovery, the neighbors, including those who had principally suffered
by the robberies, determined to assemble upon a certain day at
Cassidy's house, for the purpose of clearing themselves, on oath, of
the imputation thrown out against some of them, as accomplices in the
thefts. In order, however, that the ceremony should be performed as
solemnly as possible, they determined to send for Father Farrell, and
Mr. Nicholson, a magistrate, both of whom they requested to undertake
the task of jointly presiding upon this occasion; and, that the
circumstance should have every publicity, it was announced from the
altar by the priest, on the preceding Sabbath, and published on the
church-gate in large legible characters ingeniously printed with a pen
by the village schoolmaster.
In fact, the intended meeting, and the object of it, were already
notorious; and much conversation was held upon its probable result, and
the measures which might be taken against those who should refuse to
swear. Of the latter, description there was but one opinion, which was
that their refusal in such a case would be tantamount to guilt. The
innocent were anxious to vindicate themselves from suspicion: and, as
the suspected did not amount to more than a dozen, of course, the whole
body of the people, including the thieves themselves, who applauded it
as loudly as the other, all expressed their satisfaction at the measures
about to be adopted. A day was therefore appointed, on which the
inhabitants of the neighborhood, particularly the suspected persons,
should come to assemble at Cassidy's house, in order to have the
characters of the innocent cleared up, and the guilty, if possible, made
known.
On the evening before this took place, were assembled in Meehan's
cottage, the elder Meehan, and the rest of the gang, including Denis,
who had absconded, on the night of the theft.
“Well, well, Denny,” said Anthony, who forced his rugged nature into an
appearance of better temper, that he might strengthen the timid
spirit of his brother against the scrutiny about to take place on the
morrow--perhaps, too, he dreaded him--“Well, well. Denny, I thought,
sure enough, that it was some new piece of cowardice came over you. Just
think of him,” he added, “shabbin' off, only because he made, with a
bit of a rod, three strokes in the ashes that he thought resembled a
coffin!--ha, ha, ha!”
This produced a peal of derision at Denis's pusillanimous terror.
“Ay!” said the Big Mower, “he was makin' a coffin, was he? I wondher it
wasn't a rope you drew, Denny. If any one dies in the coil, it will be
the greatest coward, an' that's yourself.”