This heroic age has passed. But for the last thirty or forty years unfortunate Ireland has passed through many tribulations. There have been epidemics, there have been famines, and under all circumstances the clergy have behaved admirably. When one sees an Irish priest amongst his parishioners, one is first struck with the community of ideas, impressions, and tastes that exists amongst them. With us, a young peasant who has become a priest is no longer a peasant. His nature has been so well modified during the ten or twelve years that he has passed at college, that he has been made into a new being. Here a young vicar, a parish priest, son of a small farmer, differs wonderfully little from his former comrades. He is their superior in instruction, but he has retained all their tastes, all their ideas, and, I was about to add, some of their faults. I frequently see French _curés_, agriculturists’ sons, who can scarcely distinguish between a beetroot and a turnip; they have no further interest in agriculture. Here a great many of the parish priests have a small farm. The other day I saw a lease signed by one of them. This morning’s paper announces that at the Cahirmee Fair, which will soon take place, the first prize at the show will probably be awarded to a filly reared and entered by a priest, who has already been successful in this way. There should evidently be a line drawn; but I own that these agricultural priests--although, strictly speaking, a little given to horse-jobbing--please me greatly. I know that few people will be of my opinion, but I believe that the priest should be as closely allied to his people as possible. If he is not, if he isolates himself, if he has no longer any interests or tastes in common with them, he soon becomes a stranger, and, however holy he may be, he loses all influence over them. Customs which shock us when we meet with them in a foreign land, are often useful, because they entail this closer intercourse. I remember once making the same reflection at Manilla. In that country there is a mania for cockfighting. One day, some years ago, I was walking with the _abbé_ of the frigate. We saw a stout native _curé_ gravely walking down the street before us, carrying a superb cock under his arm. In a few minutes he met one of his parishioners, who was also fondly clasping one of these birds. They began to talk to each other. By their gestures we divined that they were comparing their cocks, and that each extolled the merits of his own animal. Then the arguments became warmer; the two owners placed themselves in position, and made their cocks fight. The _abbé_ was exasperated at this want of dignity. Who was right? I really cannot tell.