Now that we have given a greatly abridged version of portions of M. Rozan’s work, we refer the reader for the remaining curious fragments of information scattered throughout its pages to the book itself. At the same time we venture a suggestion that in future editions it might be well if the author were, as far as practicable, to classify its contents under certain heads—such, for instance, as are dramatic, historic, local, or classic, etc., in their origin or allusion—so as to allow some continuity of ideas in its perusal, and to gather its at present scattered stones into a collection of mosaics. Footnote 48: _Petites Ignorances de la Conversation._ Par. Charles Rozan. Paris: Hetzler. 1877. Footnote 49: We may here mention that the finest elm in France is probably that in the court of the Deaf and Dumb Institution in the Rue St. Jacques in Paris. It is 50 metres in height and 5 in circumference, the last remaining of the 6,000 feet of trees planted under Henri IV. We mention this merely for the sake of our European readers, not for those accustomed to the sylvan giants of the Western world. Footnote 50: Henri III. instituted this order in memory of the three great events of his life which had happened on the Feast of Pentecost—namely, his birth, his election to the crown of Poland, and his accession to the throne of France. THE HOME-RULE CANDIDATE. _A STORY OF “NEW IRELAND.”_ CHAPTER IV. THE ELECTION. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE LITTLE CHAPEL AT MONAMULLIN,” “THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU,” ETC., ETC. I was received at Clonacooney with an enthusiasm that sent the hot blood surging through my veins in prideful throbs. At the entrance to the village I was presented with an address by a splendid specimen of the Irish race in the person of Myles Moriarty, a man who had been “out” in forty-eight, who, on the part of the tenant-farmers of Clonacooney, tendered me welcome and assurances of both moral and physical support. “The dark hour is passin’ from the ould country, sir, and yours be the hand to wipe the tear from the cheek of Erin,” were his concluding words. I must have spoken to the point, for I was cheered to the echo, and my right hand almost wrung from the arm by repeated shakings. In Father O’Dowd’s garden a small platform had been raised, composed of the kitchen table, the safety of which Biddy Finnegan watched over with tender regard. Around the little grass-plat some hundred of the “boys” were gathered, who bared their heads in respectful reverence when the good priest ascended the dais. It is chiefly in Ireland that one sees the visible link that binds priests and people. The Irish peasant never forgets that he is in the presence of the Lord’s anointed, and the respect for the clergyman upon the hillside or wayside is the same as though he were clad in his vestments and upon the altar.