might stand as a bond of peace between the highest and the lowest classes.  It is this which has split the kingdom into two divisions, constituting the extreme ends of society—­the wealthy and the wretched, If this third class existed, Ireland would neither be so political nor discontented as she is; but, on the contrary, more remarkable for peace and industry.  At present, the lower classes, being too poor, are easily excited by those who promise them a better order of things than that which exists.  These theorists step into the exercise of that legitimate influence which the landed proprietors have lost by their neglect.  There is no middle class in the country, who can turn round to them and say, “Our circumstances are easy, we want nothing; carry your promises to the poor, for that which you hold forth to their hopes, we enjoy in reality.”  The poor soldier, who, because he was wretched, volunteered to go on the forlorn hope, made a fortune; but when asked if he would go on a second enterprise of a similar kind, shrewdly replied, “General, I am now an independent man; send some poor devil on your forlorn hope who wants to make a fortune.”

Owen now heard anecdotes and narratives of all occurrences, whether interesting or strange, that had taken place during his abscence.  Among others, was the death of his former landlord, and the removal of the agent who had driven him to beggary.  Tubber Derg, he found, was then the property of a humane and considerate man, who employed a judicious and benevolent gentleman to manage it.

“One thing, I can tell you,” said Frank; “it was but a short time in the new agent’s hands, when the dacent farmers stopped goin’ to America.”

“But Frank,” said Owen, and he sighed on putting the question, “who is in Tubber Derg, now?”

“Why, thin, a son of ould Rousin’ Redhead’s of Tullyvernon—­young Con Roe, or the Ace o’ Hearts—­for he was called both by the youngsters—­if you remimber him.  His head’s as red an’ double as big, even, as his father’s was, an’ you know that no hat would fit ould Con, until he sent his measure to Jemmy Lamb, the hatter.  Dick Nugent put it out on him, that Jemmy always made Rousin’ Red-head’s hat, either upon the half-bushel pot or a five-gallon keg of whiskey.  ‘Talkin’ of the keg,’ says Dick, ‘for the matther o’ that,’ says he, ’divil a much differ the hat will persave; for the one’—­meanin’ ould Con’s head, who was a hard dhrinker—­’ the one,’ says Con, ’is as much a keg as the other—­ha! ha! ha!’ Dick met Rousin’ Redhead another day:  ‘Arrah, Con,’ says he, ’why do you get your hats made upon a pot, man alive?  Sure that’s the rason that you’re so fond o’ poteen.’  A quare mad crathur was Dick, an’ would go forty miles for a fight.  Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in a scrimmage betwixt the Redmonds and the O’Hanlons; an’ his last words were, ’Bad luck to you, Redmond—­O’Hanlon, I never thought you, above all men dead and gone, would be the death o’ me.’  Poor fellow! he was for pacifyin’ them, for a wondher, but instead o’ that he got pacified himself.”