It was quite impossible that these changes or innovations could take place without a certain amount of reclamation, to use the theological expression, amongst the brethren. We are a conservative race, and our conservatism has been eminently successful in that matter of supreme moment,--the preservation of the faith and the purity of our people. It is difficult, therefore, to see the necessity of change, to meet the exigencies of the times, and the higher demands of the nation and the race. Yet we have been forewarned a hundred times that we cannot put new wine into old bottles, and that a spirit is stirring amongst our people that must become unbridled and incontinent if not guided by new methods and new ideas. This is not intuitive wisdom on my part. It is gathered slowly and painfully amongst the thorns of experience. But I cannot say I was too surprised when, one morning, an old and most valued friend called on me, and revealed his anxiety and perturbation of spirit by some very deep remarks about the weather. We agreed wonderfully on that most harmonious topic, and then I said:-- "You have something on your mind?" "To be candid with you, Father Dan," he replied, assuming a sudden warmth, "I have. But I don't like to be intrusive." "Oh, never mind," I replied. "I am always open to fraternal correction." "You know," he continued nervously, "we are old friends, and I have always had the greatest interest in you--" "For goodness' sake, Father James," I said, "spare me all that. That is all _subintellectum_, as the theologians say when they take a good deal for granted." "Well, then," said he,--for this interruption rather nettled him,--"to be very plain with you, your parish is going to the dogs. You are throwing up the sponge and letting this young man do what he likes. Now, I can tell you the people don't like it, the priests don't like it, and when he hears it, as he is sure to hear it, the Bishop won't like it either." "Well, Father James," I said slowly, "passing by the mixed metaphors about the dogs and the sponge, what are exactly the specific charges made against this young man?" "Everything," he replied vaguely. "We don't want young English mashers coming around here to teach old priests their business. We kept the faith--" "Spare me that," I said. "And don't say a word about the famine years. That episode, and the grandeur of the Irish priests, is written in Heaven. We want a Manzoni to tell it,--that is, if we would not prefer to leave it unrecorded, except in the great book,--which is God's memory." He softened a little at this. "Now," said I, "you are a wise man. What do you want me to do?" "I want you to pitch into that young fellow," he said, "to cuff him and make him keep his place." "Very good. But be particular. Tell me, what am I to say?"