-his house--his retinue--his very equipage, were all
subjects on which they descanted with eager delight, and proudly exalted
in contrast with less favoured proprietors. At the time we speak of,
absenteeism had only begun to impair the warmth of this affection; the
traditions of a resident landlord were yet fresh in the memory of the
young; and a hundred traits of kindness and good-nature were mingled
in their minds with stories of grandeur and extravagance, which, to
the Irish peasant's ear, are themes as grateful as ever the gorgeous
pictures of Eastern splendour were to the heightened imagination and
burning fancies of Oriental listeners.

Owen Connor was a firm disciple of this creed. Perhaps his lone
sequestered life among the mountains, with no companionship save that
of his old father, had made him longer retain these convictions in
all their force, than if, by admixture with his equals, and greater
intercourse with the world, he had conformed his opinions to the
gradually changed tone of the country. It was of little moment to
him what might be the temper or the habits of his landlord. The
monarchy--and not the monarch of the soil--was the object of his
loyalty; and he would have deemed himself disgraced and dishonoured had
he shewn the slightest backwardness in his fealty. He would as soon have
expected that the tall fern that grew wild in the valley should have
changed into a blooming crop of wheat, as that the performance of such
a service could have met with any requital. It was, to his thinking, a
simple act of duty, and required not any prompting of high principle,
still less any suggestion of self-interest. Poor Owen, therefore, had
not even a sentiment of heroism to cheer him, as they bore him slowly
along, every inequality of the ground sending a pang through his aching
head that was actually torture.

"That's a mark you'll carry to your dying day, Owen, my boy," said one
of the bearers, as they stopped for a moment to take breath. "I can see
the bone there shining this minute."

"It must be good stuff anyways the same head," said Owen, with a sickly
attempt to smile. "They never put a star in it yet; and faix I seen the
sticks cracking like dry wood in the frost."

"It's well it didn't come lower down," said another, examining the deep
cut, which gashed his forehead from the hair down to the eyebrow. "You
know what the Widow Glynn said at Peter Henessy's wake, when she saw
the stroke of the scythe