Transcriber’s Note
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[Illustration: _Vide p. 21._]
CAUGHT NAPPING.
Third Edition.
LONDON:
G. J. PALMER, 32, LITTLE QUEEN STREET,
LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS.
1866.
Table of Contents
Chapter I. 3
Chapter II. 15
Chapter III. 23
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 the _Guardian_,
which is the 40th article of my creed, 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. The _Guardian_
slipped 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 the _Guardian_ had 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 as _fact_; I am unable to account for the fact, but it
is 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 the living 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, a prayer 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. I object 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 a chasuble,—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 the _Guardian_ had 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 has NO LEGS, but is a martyr’s tomb called an arcosolium,
under a recess in the wall, the face of the “altar” being flush
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 the deacon 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 unavoidable confusion 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 resemble the 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 unleavened bread 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.