that, instead of a boy being afforded opportunities of learning what life really is before he makes a solemn sacrifice of its fairest gifts, he is sedulously preserved from contact with it through fear of endangering his vocation. Too often, indeed, he is unduly influenced by the eagerness of his relatives, enters a seminary or convent for their gratification, and, if he has not the courage to return, to the disappointment and mortification of his friends, he bears for the rest of his life a shattered or depraved heart under his vestments of silk and gold. For it must be remembered that before he reaches what is usually considered to be the age of deliberation he is chained for life to his oar in the great galley—the bark of Peter—as will appear in the next chapter.
In the case of the present writer, there was happily not the faintest trace of undue family influence. Anxious as my parents were to see me in the ranks of the clergy, they were too humane even to manifest their eagerness, and they earnestly impressed upon me their desire for my return in case the new life should not suit me. Since, however, my vocation was of the normal kind, and may serve as a typical instance of monastic recruiting, it may be useful to describe it briefly.
My boyhood and early youth were spent under the shadow of the beautiful Franciscan church at Manchester. In spite, however, of the deep impression made upon me by the lovely Gothic edifice, and its
