second, a tall, eccentric friar, ultimately became a stumbling-block to his fraternity; another, a little, stout Lancashireman of earnest and spotless life and of a deeply humane and affectionate disposition, fell a victim, a year later, to typhus. Last, but not least, was a little rotund and rubicund Irishman of enthusiastic, unreasoning piety; kind, ascetical, hardworking, studious (for he studied everything, except religious evidences), he was a much respected figure in Irish missionary circles. The one rule he confided to young missionaries was said to be: ‘Throw the fire of hell at them,’ and with his own stentorian voice (though he told you he was consumptive, and that one lung had decayed already) he threw it with prodigious effect amongst the peasantry.
A few days afterwards we were duly clothed with the monastic garb. The ‘clothing’ has developed into an impressive religious ceremony, and, as there were six of us to be clothed on this occasion, and it was the inauguration of a new novitiate, the event was celebrated with much solemnity. The six tunics, ‘habits’ as they are called, of rough brown cloth with their knotted cords, were blessed and sprinkled with holy water in the sanctuary, and, after an eloquent sermon by the Dominican Prior from Tralee, we were enrobed with the consecrated garments, amidst much prayer and psalm singing and the audible groans of the impressionable peasantry.
Our heads had been shaven in advance, leaving a
