A priest once threatened a bibulous parishioner, that if he did not become more sober in his habits, he would change him into a mouse. 'Biddy, me jewel, I can't believe Father Pat would have that power over me,' said the man that same evening as the shadows fell, 'but all the same you might as well shut up the cat.' Over elections the priests have paramount influence as I have already shown, but may cite an example at the last County election in Kerry, when three candidates stood, Sir Thomas Esmonde (Anti-Parnellite), Mr. Harrington (Parnellite), and Mr. Palmer (Conservative). The last-named out of a poll of six thousand obtained seventy votes. One of them was given after the following fashion. An illiterate voter at Killorglin being asked in the polling booth how he wished to vote, replied:-- 'For my parish priest.' 'But he is not a candidate. The three are Esmonde, Palmer, and Harrington.' 'Well, then, I'll vote for Palmer, because it is more like Father Lawler than the others.' Naturally all concerned were convulsed with laughter, but the vote was duly recorded. It is no uncommon thing to see priests carefully teaching illiterate voters the appearance of the name of the candidate for whom they are to poll, and also giving them printed cards merely containing his name, so that they can recognise it on the voting-card. Of course an Irishman would take a bribe one way and calmly vote another. But even this diplomatic tendency is outwitted by the priests, for nowadays, when they have any doubt of the political sincerity of a man, they insist on his declaring himself an illiterate voter. Then the whole question of who is to be voted for is gone through audibly and verbally, so that the honesty of the voter is known to those hanging round. In the parish of Milltown, the education is as complete as in any in Ireland, but at the last election, one third of the voters confessed themselves illiterate, with the result anticipated by the priest. If the priest understands his parishioner--a thing which admits of no possible shadow of doubt--it is equally certain that the Englishman does not, as is shown by the following frivolous tale, always a favourite of mine. 'Paddy,' said a tourist at Killarney, 'I'll give you sixpence if you'll tell me the biggest lie you ever told in your life.' 'Begorra, your honour's a gentleman! Give me the sixpence!' No one would have thought of making such an offer to an English loafer, and no English loafer would have had the wit to so neatly earn his emolument. It is the assumption of simplicity that does the trick, and so well is that put on that it comes close to the real thing. The other day, when the King and Queen were at Punchestown, a Britisher chartered a car at Naas to drive out to the course, and on the way remonstrated with the carman on the starved condition of his horse, whose ribs would have served for an anatomical study. 'Well, your honour,' the jarvey explained, 'it's an unlucky horse.'