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