In pursuing my course of lectures to my young curate—lectures which he returned with compound interest by his splendid example of zeal and energy—I put into his hands the following lines, addressed by that gentle saint, Francis de Sales, to some one in whom he had a similar interest:—  
"Accustom yourself to speak softly and slowly, and to go—I mean walk—quite composedly; to do all that you do gently and quietly, and you will see that in three or four years you will have quite regulated this hasty impetuosity. But carefully remember to act thus gently and speak softly on occasions when the impetuosity is not urging you, and when there is no appearance of danger of it, as, for example, when sitting down, rising up, eating, when you speak to N. N., etc.; and in fact everywhere and in everything dispense not yourself from it. Now, I know that you will make a thousand slips a day over all this, and that your great natural activity will be always breaking out; but I do not trouble myself about this provided that it is not your will, your deliberation; and that, when you perceive these movements, you always try to calm them. Equableness of mind and of outward demeanor is not a particular virtue, but the interior and exterior ornament of a friend of Jesus Christ." (Letter VII.)
 
Now, here's the difficulty. Undoubtedly he is impetuous, he rushes at conclusions too rapidly, he judges hastily; and with an imperfect knowledge of human nature, which is a mass of irregularities, he worries himself because he cannot bring a whole parish up to his level in a few weeks. That impetuosity shows itself everywhere. He is an anachronism, a being from another time and world, set down in sleepy Kilronan. For the first few weeks that he was here, whenever he slammed his hall door and strode down the village street with long, rapid, undulating steps, all the dogs came out and barked at him for disturbing their slumbers, and all the neighbors came to their doors and asked wildly, "Who's dead? What happened? Where's the fire?" etc., and the consequence was that the wildest rumors used to be circulated; and then, when a few days' experience disproved them, the cumulative wrath of the disappointed villagers fell on Father Letheby's devoted head.
 
"Why the mischief doesn't he go aisy? Sure, you'd think he was walking for a wager. He'll kill himself in no time if he goes on that way."
 
He used to laugh airily at all this commotion. And now here was the puzzle. No doubt whatever he can do more work in one day than I or Father Tom Laverty could do in a month. And if I clip his wings, and put lead in his shoes, as he remarked, he may take to slippers and the gout, and all his glorious work be summarily spoiled. That would never do. I have no scruple about what I said regarding the Office and Mass; but if I shall see him creeping past my window in a solemn and dignified manner, I know I shall have qualms of conscience. And yet—
 
It was in the beginning of December, and one day I had occasion to go down through the village. It was not a day to attract any one out of doors; it was one of those dreadful days which leave an eternal landmark behind them in the trees that are bent inwards toward the mountains from the terrible stress of the southwest winds. Land and sea were wiped out in the cataracts of rain that poured their deluges on sea and moor and mountain; and the channels of the village ran fiercely with brown muddy water; and every living thing was housed, except the ducks, which contemptuously waded through the dirty ruts, and only quacked melodiously when the storm lifted their feathers and flung them from pool to pool of the deserted street. I called on Father Letheby.
 
"This is dismal weather," I said, "enough to give any one a fit of the blues in this awful place."
 
He looked at me, as if this were an attempt to draw him. There was a roar of wind that shook his window-sashes, as if it said, "We will get in and spoil your pleasure, whether you like it or not"; and there was a shower of bullets, as from a Maxim, that threatened to smash in and devastate all the cosey comforts.
 
"By Jove," said he, turning round, "I never felt happier in my life. And every roar and splash of the tempest makes me draw closer and closer to this little nest, which I can call my own home."
 
It was a cosey nest, indeed. The fire burned merrily,—a little coal, a good deal of bogwood and turf, which is the cleanest fire in the world; there was cleanliness, neatness, tidiness, taste everywhere; the etchings and engravings gave tone to the walls; the piano lay open, as if saying, "Come, touch me"; the books, shining in gold and red and blue and purple, winked in the firelight; and, altogether, it was a picture of delight accentuated by the desolation outside.
 
"What do I want?" he continued. "Ease? here it is; comfort? here it is; health? thank God, perfect; society? here are the kings of men on my shelves. I have only to summon them,—here Plato, Aristotle, Æschylus, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare! come here, and they come; speak, and they open their dead lips; be silent, and back they go to their shelves. I have not got your Greek Fathers yet; but they'll come. You notice that my theological library is rather scant. But I can borrow St. Thomas, Lugo, Suarez; I cannot borrow the others, for you are so jealous about your books."
 
"Rather clever economy!" I said. "But now tell me what you do without the morning paper?"
 
"Well, now, there you touched a sore point. At least it was; but it is healing. For the first few weeks it was my daily penance. I used always breakfast in England with the paper propped against the teapot. They said it was bad for digestion, but it made me eat slowly; and you may perhaps have perceived,—indeed, you have perceived,—that I am rather quick in my habits."
 
I nodded oracularly.
 
"Well, the first few weeks I was here that was my only misery. Without the paper everything looked lonely and miserable. I used to go to the door every five minutes to see whether there was a newsboy on the horizon; but you cannot understand the feeling."
 
"Can't I? I know it well. You remember what the uprooted tree was to the blinded giant in Virgil:
 
'Ea sola voluptas,
Solamenque mali.'
Well, that was the newspaper to me. But how do you get on now?"
 
"I never care to see one. Nay, I should rather have a feeling of contempt for any one whom I should see wasting valuable time on them."
 
"But the news of the world, politics, wars, the amenities of Boards of Guardians, Town Commissioners, etc.; the suicides, the divorces, stocks and shares, etc.;—don't these things interest you?"
 
"No. My only regret is, when the boys ask me about the war, I am afraid I appear awfully ignorant. And they're so learned. Why, every fellow down at the forge thinks himself a General or an Admiral. 'Ah, if I had dem troops, wouldn't I settle so and so!' Or, 'Why the d—— didn't Gineral S—— bring out his cavalry? 'T is the cavalry does it. Bourbaki—he was the Gineral!' 'Yerra, what was he to Skobeloff?' And they look at me rather mournfully."
 
Here an awful blast swept the house, as if to raze it to its foundations.
 
"A pleasant day for a sick-call to Slieveogue!" I said.
 
"I shouldn't mind one bit. 'T would make the fire the merrier when I returned. I enjoy nothing half so much as walking in the teeth of wind and rain, along the smooth turf on yonder cliffs, the cool air lapping you all round, and the salt of the sea on your lips. Then, when you return, a grand throw-off, and the little home pleasanter by the contrast. By the way, I was out this morning."
 
"Out this morning? Where?" I exclaimed.
 
"Up at Campion's."
 
"Nonsense!"
 
"Quite true. And would you guess for what, sir?"
 
"Go on. I am a poor hand at conundrums."
 
"You don't know Mrs. C——, a constable's widow at Moydore?"
 
"I can't say I have that pleasure. Stop! Did she come about a license?"
 
"She did."
 
"And you helped her?—No! God forbid! That would be too great a somersault!"
 
"I did."
 
"What?"
 
He looked embarrassed, and said, apologetically: "Well, pardon me, sir, and I'll tell you all. She came in here this morning, wet and bedraggled. Her poor widow's weeds were dripping with the rain. She sat there. You see where her boots have left their mark. She said her husband had just died, and left her, of course, penniless, with four young children. There was nothing before her but the workhouse, unless I would help her,—and she heard that I was good to the poor; sure every one was talking about me,—you understand?"
 
I nodded.
 
"Well, there was but one possible way in which she could be helped, and that was to get her a license to sell porter and spirits. I stopped her abruptly, and said: 'My dear woman, you might as well ask me to get you appointed lady in waiting to the Queen. But in any case I'd rather cut off my right hand than help any one to get a license. Nay, I am fully determined to cut down every license in this parish until but one is left.' She looked at me in amazement. Then her Celtic temper rose. 'Wisha, 't is aisy for you to lecture poor people who have not a bite or a sup, nor a roof over their heads, wid your carpets, and your pictures, and your pianney, and your brass fire-irons; but if you had four little garlachs to feed, as I have, you'd have a different story.' Here she arose to go; and, as a parting shot: 'God help the poor, however; sure they have no one to go to when their priests desart them.' I don't know what it was," continued Father Letheby, "but I softened a little here, and said: 'Now, I have told you that I cannot do anything towards getting you a license—it's against all my principles; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go up to Captain Campion's with you, and introduce you on the strength of these letters from your parish priest; but remember, not one word shall I say in favor of your demand. Do you understand?' 'I do, your reverence,' she said; 'may God bless you!' The hot fires were ashes again. We both went up in the awful rain. It was rather early even for a morning call, and Captain Campion was not yet down stairs. So I left the widow in the hall, and went out to a sheltered spot, where I could watch the action of the storm on the waves. In half an hour I returned. There was no necessity for an introduction. The good woman had introduced herself, and secured Captain Campion's vote and influence for the next licensing sessions. I was never so sorry—nor so glad."
 
"'T is a bad business,"............