CAUGHT NAPPING.
CAUGHT NAPPING.
CHAPTER I.
HOW I FOUND MYSELF IN THE CATACOMBS.
I am an Anglican of the Anglicans, I mean that I am τετράγωνος a Perfect Man, with four angles impinging upon my neighbours and producing among them many a sore. Whithersoever I go, into whatsoever society, I take my angles with me. They do much damage, but they establish the principle of Anglicanism.
My object in writing these lines is to announce a very remarkable phenomenon which occurred the other day, and which may prove of interest to the Psychologist.
I was sitting in my study before the fire reading theGuardian, which is the 40th article of mycreed, with my feet upon the mantle-piece, and my spectacles upon my nose. Whilst perusing with the utmost profit and gratification the letters of Messrs. Marriott and Milton on the Ritual question, an indescribable obfuscation stole over my faculties. My chin, which, on principle, I keep well elevated, sank upon my bosom, which is boney. My eyes began to close, an Æolean note issued at intervals from my nostrils. TheGuardianslipped from my fingers, and to my obscured fancy appeared to slide away into utter vacuity. The ranges of books upon my shelves seemed to undergo changes. The library of Anglo-Catholic theology began to dance, whilst the library of the Fathers retired into vacuum—but not the same vacuum into which theGuardianhad slipped, one totally distinct.
These facts will prove my abnormal condition.
What Anglican, waking or dreaming would picture Sancroft and Andrews, Bull and Cosin, capering in a reel? I record my impressions circumstantially, as they led to a very extraordinary phase in my existence, for which I am totally unable to account. That I dreamt what follows is simply impossible; the phenomena of dreams depend entirely upon the existence of imaginative faculties, but these are entirely deficient in Anglican skulls. What I relate must therefore be regarded asfact; I am unable to account for the fact, but itis not required of man to understand or to intellectually grasp, in order to believe, certain facts which come to him on high authority. The human mind is finite, &c.... (A long passage follows apparently extracted from a sermon on the limits of reason, and its relation to faith, preached by our correspondent before a rustic congregation. We omit the passage as of interest only to the composer of the sermon.) Suffice it to say, that somehow, in an inappreciable moment of time I lost the thread of time, and only caught it again after the lapse of ages. How this was effected is to me inexplicable, I can only illustrate it by the analogy of a man ascending a slippery height and sliding back from the summit, to check himself in his rearward career by catching a shrub near the bottom. Space and time are related, our appreciations of each are parallel. I checked myself with a jerk after the lapse of a thousand and odd years in the midst of the times of persecution.
I hate persecution.
I found myself deposited, with all my Anglican principles and prejudices, in the city of Rome.
I should have preferred Jericho.
Suddenly I discovered myself standing candle in hand in the gloom of a Catacomb.
The ventilation of the catacombs is most imperfect, and the close proximity of the dead to theliving must be prejudicial to health, it should be made a matter of investigation by the sanitary commissioners.
I traverse the passages with a feeling like lead upon my heart. This is caused by the consciousness that I am in an age of persecution. I by no means appreciate a condition in which Church and State do not work in harmony. If I could have left my mucous membrane in the nineteenth century I should not have minded; but a sense of discord between Church and State always agitates my nerves, which react upon the mucous membrane, and that extends over the whole body.
On my walk I read the epitaphs inscribed on the monumental slabs. The spelling on some was shameful. The schools must be in a shocking state, or no such orthographic blunders would be tolerated, as “Pollecta que ordev bendet de bianoba.” Some supervision should be exercised over the day schools. N.B. Speak to authorities about certificated masters. Recommend Battersea.
I suddenly drew up before one slab and the colour rose to my cheek in righteous indignation. On it was inscribed, after the name of the defunct, “mayest thou rest in peace, and pray for us.” I ask any candid reader whether an Anglican could contemplate such an inscription with equanimity! Here was actually in an early age of the Church, aprayer for, and an invocation of, a departed soul. This was beyond endurance, I should have at once written to the Bishop about it, but that I was aware I should obtain no redress, the practice of prayers for the dead being as old as Christianity. I felt, moreover, true insular objection to having any communications whatsoever with such an individual as the Bishop of Rome. I therefore rambled about the catacombs in search of chisel and hammer, and having found these implements, I proceeded to deface the inscription. How many happy hours I could have spent in reducing the teaching of the catacombs to a closer accordance with the doctrines of our admirable Liturgy, by scraping off paintings and altering inscriptions!
But I was afraid of detection.
On turning an angle I came upon one of the subterranean chapels or churches. A congregation was assembled, and to my bewilderment, I ascertained that my presence was expected as priest.
I tried to avoid this awkward situation; I objected to compromising myself, and it was only on mature consideration, and on reflecting that there was no one present who could convey information to any of my parishioners, that I yielded. A young man, a deacon in what the Ritualists call a dalmatic, proceeded to vest me. Some people think it a duty to do at Rome as the Romans do. Iobject to such want of principle, and if I acquiesced on this occasion, it was under protest. If I go to Rome or Thibet, I shall follow the custom I have instituted at Grubbington-in-the-Clay, North Devon, diocese Exon.
Grubbington-in-the-Clay! sweet spot where I always preach in a surplice and black stole.
Grubbington-in-the-Clay! a little heaven here below,[1]where I read the Church Militant every Sunday.
Grubbington-in-the-Clay! where I have preached the doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration for fifteen years.
Grubbington-in-the-Clay! thee no Ritualistic novelties excite, no approximations to Roman ceremonial agitate!
But I am becoming poetical.—I have a wife and fourteen children (the last in arms) at Grubbington, from whom I am severed by a chasm of 1,600 years.
However, here I am in the subterranean church of the catacombs, being vested for Ma—— I mean for the Communion.
I expend a considerable amount of time and much breath in protesting against these vestments. I object to an alb with tight sleeves and to achasuble,—a chasuble! horror!—(N.B. Since my return to this century, my hair has become grey.)
At Grubbington-in-the-Clay I wear a surplice with large sleeves like elephant’s ears, and an erect collar. O, for my surplice, my surplice! Alas! though I have relapsed through many centuries, that chaste article of ecclesiastical vesture looms in the remote future. I can go to it, but it cannot come to me.
I point out to the deacon a painting upon the wall representing a man in white with two black stripes descending from his neck, a painting with which Mr. Marriott’s letter to theGuardianhad made me familiar, and I explain to the deacon that my soul lusts after a similar garb. He assures me that the picture represents an old woman, and not a priest. I then plead for at least a black stole without crosses, but am informed that the Church of Primitive times knows nothing of these ribands, so that I have to yield my body to be invested in the sacerdotal stole of the period, and I am forced into a magnificent chasuble of oriental cloth of gold, the offering of a wealthy Christian in Cæsar’s household.
But my griefs are not yet over. The Communion Table is not a table at all. It hasNO LEGS, but is a martyr’s tomb called an arcosolium, under a recess in the wall, the face of the “altar” beingflush with the side walls, so that every possibility of turning the corner is precluded. Now, if there is a position in life which to an Anglican is bliss, it is to be like Chevy Slime, of Martin Chuzzlewit notoriety, “always round the corner, Sir!” There is a craving in his inmost soul for the North End, and as the needle points to the pole, so does the heart of the Anglican turn instinctively to that end of the table. Clap him down where you will, he sidles up by virtue of an internal guiding law to the North Side, and his soul only recovers its balance, and is in joy and peace, when he has safely doubled the corner. But here I was walled off from it. Now, to be vested in chasuble was bad enough, but to be debarred from turning the corner was beyond endurance; the last straw will break a camel’s back, and on seeing this impediment in my way I became stubborn. I might have borne the chasuble, as I could have smudged through the service at the North End according to the use of the Church at Grubbington—a use incomparably superior to those of Sarum, and York, and Hereford; but the two items together of vestment and a turning of my back to the people were too much for me.
I lay down and kicked.
At this moment there was a stir, and a foreign ecclesiastic entered. I now ascertained that thedeacon and the congregation had been actuated by a mistake in endeavouring to make me celebrate. A Scythian priest was expected, and seeing me stroll into the subterranean chapel about the time, and perceiving that I was an utter stranger, they had pounced upon me.
I was now set at liberty, and, though I strongly disapproved of non-communicating attendance, I assisted at the celebration of the Divine Mysteries.
On account of the subterranean nature of the place, there was, I suppose, a necessity for the candles which the assistant ministers bore, and for the lighted lamps upon the altar. I tried to persuade myself also that the incense was used on account of the stuffiness of the atmosphere, through the imperfect ventilation of the catacomb, and the numerous interments which took place there. I afterwards explained to the deacon, that chloride of lime would prove more effectual, and that Burnett’s disinfecting fluid was highly recommended, and that the use of either of these would obviate the necessity of using thurible and incense-boat, thereby removing prejudice and cutting off occasion of superstition. The young man was totally unacquainted with Burnett, which is not to be wondered at, as that individual will not spring into existence for one thousand and six hundred and odd years. (I am afraid there is here an unavoidableconfusion in times and tenses, necessitated by my peculiar circumstances.)
The deacon assured me solemnly that the Church had ordered the use of incense, not as a disinfectant but as an offering of adoration, and that the rule of the Universal Church was enough for him,—which was impertinent of the young man. (N.B. Curates are evidently alike in all ages.) His name I ascertain was Laurence. He was afterwards a martyr. My church at Grubbington is dedicated to him.
It is to me a matter of unceasing yet unavailing regret that Dr. Harold Browne was not an Iso-apostolic father, so that the Primitive Church might have had the benefit of perusing his work on the Thirty-nine Articles, the standard of nineteenth century Anglicanism. If this work had been then adopted as a text book of theology, what a revolution in ideas would have been produced, and I confidently believe that the number of martyrs would have been materially diminished. How full of novelty and of gratification it would have proved to the apostle of the Gentiles to ascertain that his words were capable of being twisted to establish Anglican theories, and O! glorious thought! the whole system of worship of the Early Church, instead of being modelled on the pattern of things in the Heavens, might have been brought to resemblethe sublime simplicity of Morning and Evening Prayer at, for instance, Grubbington-in-the-Clay. Probably, moreover, the liturgies of S. Peter, S. James, and S. Mark, would have been materially modified in their expressions, and curtailed of much superfluous ceremony. Yet more, am I presumptuous in suggesting that the performance of the celestial liturgy as viewed by S. John, would have exhibited a less sacrificial and ceremonial character, and have been invested with the solemn simplicity and absence of sensational attractiveness which pervades English Cathedral worship?
Thus musing, it flashed across my memory that I had a packet of the publications of the Anglo-Continental Society in my pocket before my relapse. I thought that the distribution of these works might prove of incalculable advantage to the Early Church. I felt for them in my breast pocket but missed them. It will always be a difficult matter to transfer publications (however valuable) back over a thousand years from the date of their issue, still the attempt might be made, and I strongly urge upon the Society to confine and concentrate its efforts for the future, on an attempt to convert the Primitive ages to the principles of the English Reformation.
The practice of the Early Church in using unleavenedbread and the mixed chalice, in elevating the Host and in reserving the Blessed Sacrament, cannot be too severely deprecated, whilst to a modern, the ancient offices present a mighty void which an extensive introduction of “Dearly Beloveds” alone could fill.
FOOTNOTES:[1]Minus the lights and incense mentioned in Revelation.
[1]Minus the lights and incense mentioned in Revelation.
[1]Minus the lights and incense mentioned in Revelation.