St. Patrick's Eve. Lever Charles James

a ‘trawneen’ when I seen him first.”

      It may be supposed from this speech, and the previous conduct of him who uttered it, that Owen Connor was an old and devoted adherent of the Leslie family, from whom he had received many benefits, and to whom he was linked by long acquaintance. Far from it. He neither knew Mr. Leshe nor his father. The former he saw for the first time as he stood over him in the fair; the latter he had never so much as set eyes upon, at any time; neither had he or his been favoured by them. The sole tie that subsisted between them – the one link that bound the poor man to the rich one – was that of the tenant to his landlord. Owen’s father and grandfather before him had been cottiers on the estate; but being very poor and humble men, and the little farm they rented, a half-tilled half-reclaimed mountain tract, exempt from all prospect of improvement, and situated in a remote and unfrequented place, they were merely known by their names on the rent-roll. Except for this, their existence had been as totally forgotten, as though they had made part of the wild heath upon the mountain.

      While Mr. Leslie lived in ignorance that such people existed on his property, they looked up to him with a degree of reverence almost devotional. The owner of the soil was a character actually sacred in their eyes; for what respect and what submission were enough for one, who held in his hands the destinies of so many; who could raise them to affluence, or depress them to want, and by his mere word control the Agent himself, the most dreaded of all those who exerted an influence on their fortunes?

      There was a feudalism, too, in this sentiment that gave the reverence a feeling of strong allegiance. The landlord was the head of a clan, as it were; he was the culminating point of that pyramid of which they formed the base; and they were proud of every display of his wealth and his power, which they deemed as ever reflecting credit upon themselves. And then, his position in the county – his rank – his titles – the amount of his property – 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 that laid his head open – it just come, like yer own, down to that – ‘Ayeh!’ says she, ‘but he’s the fine corpse; and wasn’t it the Lord spared his eye!’”

      “Stop, and good luck to you, Freney, and don’t be making me laugh; the pain goes through my brain like the stick of a knife,” said Owen, as he lifted his trembling hands and pressed them on either side of his head.

      They wetted his lips with water, and resumed their way, not speaking aloud as before, but in a low undertone, only audible to Owen at intervals; for he had sunk into a half-stupid state, they believed to be sleep. The path each moment grew steeper; for, leaving the wild “boreen” road, which led to a large bog on the mountainside, it wound now upwards, zigzaging between masses of granite rock and deep tufts of heather, where sometimes the foot sunk to the instep. The wet and spongy soil increased the difficulty greatly; and although all strong and powerful men, they were often obliged to halt and rest themselves.

      “It’s an elegant view, sure enough,” said one, wiping his dripping forehead with the tail of his coat. “See there! look down where the fair is, now! it isn’t the size of a good griddle, the whole of it. How purty the lights look shining in the water!”

      “And the boats, too! Musha! they’re coming up more of them. There’ll be good divarshin there, this night.” These last words, uttered with a half sigh, shewed with what a heavy heart the speaker saw himself debarred from participating in the festivity.

      “‘Twas a dhroll place to build a house then, up there,” said another, pointing to the dark speck, far, far away on the mountain, where Owen Connor’s cabin stood.

      “Owen says yez can see Galway of a fine day, and the boats going out from the Claddagh; and of an evening, when the sun is going down, you’ll see across the bay, over to Clare, the big cliffs of Mogher.”

      “Now, then! are ye in earnest? I don’t wonder he’s so fond of the place after all. It’s an elegant thing to see the whole world, and fine company besides. Look at Lough Mask! Now, boys, isn’t that beautiful with the sun on it?”

      “Come, it’s getting late, Freney, and the poor boy ought to be at home before night;” and once more they lifted their burden and moved forward.

      For a considerable time they continued to ascend without speaking, when one of the party in a low cautious voice remarked, “Poor Owen will think worse of it, when he hears the reason of the fight, than for the cut on the head – bad as it is.”

      “Musha; then he needn’t,” replied another; “for if ye mane about Mary Joyce, he never had a chance of her.”

      “I’m not saying that he had,” said the first speaker; “but he’s just as fond of her; do you mind the way he never gave back one of Phil’s blows, but let him hammer away as fast as he plazed?”

      “What was it at all, that Mr. Leslie did?” asked another; “I didn’t hear how it begun yet.”

      “Nor I either, rightly; but I believe Mary was standing looking at the dance, for she never foots a step herself – maybe she’s too ginteel – and the young gentleman comes up and axes her for a partner; and something she said; but what does he do, but put his arm round her waist and gives her a kiss; and, ye see, the other girls laughed hearty, because they say, Mary’s so proud and high, and thinking herself above them all. Phil wasn’t there at the time; but he heerd it afterwards, and come up to the tent, as young Mr. Leslie was laving it, and stood before him and wouldn’t let him pass. ‘I’ve a word to say to ye,’ says Phil, and he scarce able to spake with passion; ‘that was my sister ye had the impudence to take a liberty with.’ ‘Out of the way, ye bogtrotter,’ says Leslie: them’s the very words he said; ‘out of the way, ye bog-trotter, or I’ll lay my whip across your shoulders.’ ‘Take that first,’ says Phil; and he put his fist between his two eyes, neat and clean; – down went the Squire as if he was shot. You know the rest yourselves. The boys didn’t lose any time, and if ‘twas only two hours later, maybe the Joyces would have got as good as they gave.”

      A heavy groan from poor Owen now stopped the conversation, and