whether there is any danger of this influence being compromised. Only it frequently happens, when the passions are greatly excited, that instead of teaching the people the priests are obliged to follow them, and discipline not having the material authority that it has with us, these eager temperaments are only restrained by the hands of canonical obedience, though at the same time these are usually sufficiently powerful. We must not, then, be surprised if the parochial clergy, living in the midst of a population that was unquestionably suffering great hardships, and having no connection with the classes whom they consider responsible for these sufferings, have thrown themselves into the struggle with frequently exaggerated ardour, or what at all events seems so to the French, who are accustomed to much more reserved manners in our priests. Some of them allow their enthusiasm to attain extraordinary dimensions. I was dining, quite recently, with one of my relations; eight or ten persons were present, and one of them, an Irish parish priest, was telling us something about the present state of his country. Very intelligent and full of racy humour, he related a number of anecdotes illustrative of the prevalent state of feeling, each droller than the last, and above all full of local colour. He particularly impressed upon us the sympathy of the clergy for the Land League. “The other day,” said he, “one of my colleagues was playing billiards with his vicar, when a message was brought to him that a man wanted to confess to him in the vestry. He immediately went, took his place in the confessional, and the man commenced the enumeration of his sins. “‘My father,’ said he, ‘I confess that three months ago I shot a man and killed him.’ “‘Oh, oh!’ thought the priest, ‘this is a serious matter.’ “He still held the billiard chalk in his hand, and with it made a mark on his left sleeve. “‘Go on, my son,’ he said aloud. “‘That is not all,’ stammered the man. ‘Two days later I shot Paddy Ryan.... But I only wounded him.’ “The priest made a second mark on his sleeve, and repeated with a sigh: “‘Go on, my son.’ “‘Since that I have shot at Corney O’Sullivan, and then at Tim O’Flaherty, and then again at Timothy O’Hagan.’ “The priest sprung up in his arm-chair. “‘Good heavens, my son! but what had all these men done to you that you wished to hurry them into eternity? Who were they?’ “‘Oh, my father! they were all bailiffs or tax-collectors.’ “‘Idiot!’ growled the priest, furiously rubbing his sleeve. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, instead of letting me spoil my best cassock?’”