Naturally, I made a forcible gesture of dissent. The hall echoed with a peal of laughter. The nervous tension relaxed a little. Mr. Trench seized upon the opportunity. “Gentlemen,” said he, “it appears to me that we could not do better than invite the Venerable Archdeacon Father O’S---- to be kind enough to preside over us.” Applause broke out from all sides. The arrangement had been so well provided for, that the Archdeacon was already seated near the presidential chair. He thanked the assembly in two words, seated himself comfortably, and leant back folding his two hands in the air, and resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Well, Mr. Trench,” said he, “we are listening to you!” How well Mr. Trench knew with whom he had to deal! With the first words he managed to win the sympathy of his audience. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you know that the grand jury is a body selected, not elected.” “Hear, hear!” cried the little tailor, gesticulating like a devil in holy water. “It is not elected; it is another of those tyrannical institutions which crush poor Ireland.” (Prolonged murmurs.) “I agree with you, that it is a great misfortune. I believe that it would be better, in every respect, if the representative of the barony could be chosen by you. But since that is impossible, I cannot do better than come and consult you, in order to learn your opinion of the serious business that now preoccupies us all, whilst promising to act according to your instructions.” He then rehearsed the situation; but when he explained to them that in all probability the taxpayers would have to replace the 2,000_l._ carried off by the collector, the tumult became so formidable that the Archdeacon rose and began to speak. This was, perhaps, scarcely correct for the president, but no one appeared to mind it. But then no one here seems to trouble himself particularly about the formalities that are so cherished at Bridoison. Father O’S---- stood upright, his two hands plunged into the pockets of his cassock, his hat still upon his head. Our unfortunate French priests are so accustomed to see their most elementary rights of citizenship contested, that, once outside their church, they always look embarrassed and awkward. They never speak without a thousand hesitations, carefully weighing every word. They conceal their thoughts as much as possible; insinuations are the utmost they ever venture upon. What a contrast from the attitude of this priest; what authority he evidently derives from the conviction that he speaks in the name of the whole people. He does not spare his words.