MY WALK WITH THE BLESSED LAURENCE.
At the conclusion of the service, which to me savoured too strongly
of ritualistic tendencies to be satisfactory, I entered into a long
conversation with some of the Christians present. I explained to
them that I was a priest from Britain, but they were, I found, very
ignorant of the institutions of that favoured isle. Indeed, they
regard me—_me_, the incumbent of Grubbington-in-the-Clay, and one
who has been nominated for a Proctorship in Convocation—_me_ they
regard as a Barbarian. I can afford to overlook such opinion founded
in ignorance, conscious as I am of my superior acquaintance with
the laws of natural phenomena, with the adaptations of science to
the social advantage of mankind, and above all, with the eternal
principles of the English Reformation. Eager to impart true knowledge
to these Roman Christians, I narrated to them the history of the
Established Church. I regret that my success was not equal to my
zeal; this was partly owing to my accent, which had been acquired
in English grammar schools, and which was somewhat remote from
the pronunciation of Latin in Rome 1,600 years ago. Besides I had
to narrate the history backwards from Queen Victoria’s reign to
that of Henry VIII., then to sketch very briefly the history of
pre-Reformation Christianity, dwelling chiefly on corruptions, till
I reached the century in which I then was. The vacant expression
on the countenances of my hearers struck me as resembling that
which I invariably notice in my parishioners when I am preaching at
Grubbington.
Presently, however, a look of intelligence kindled up one or two
faces, and a whisper passed from one to another relating to me,
the subject of which I could not then conjecture. The eyes of the
faithful now beamed on me with looks of compassion and tenderness,
and I could hear sympathizing sighs and expressions, such as “Poor
fellow!” “He looks cold!” “Released at last!”
Anxious to escape this attention I turned to go.
The deacon Laurence, who was a gentleman, though strongly imbued with
the superstition of his times, offered very courteously to conduct
me from the catacombs to my place of residence. I accepted his offer
with profound gratitude, as I had not the remotest conception of
where I was to reside. We traversed the passages for the most part in
silence, occasionally I broke it by exclamations of dissatisfaction
as inscriptions of questionable orthodoxy met my eyes.
We did not converse much together till we emerged into the light of
day, when I asked where I was to be lodged.
The deacon replied that the venerable Pope Sextus usually transferred
penitents from their own houses to the mansion of Donatella, where
they could enter into retreat before the expiation of their sentence.
“Eh!” I exclaimed, opening my eyes very wide.
“After your long penitence, the Holy Father will doubtless at once
remove the sentence and restore you to the communion of the Faithful.”
“Eh!” I gasped again in sad bewilderment.
“It must have been very cold up there,” mused the blessed Laurence:
then after a pause he asked suddenly, “Where is the dog?”
“What dog?” I enquired; and then aside, “Can he have heard anything
of Ponto, my Newfoundland? Impossible!”
“Why, the dog who has been with you so many ages.”
I could only stare.
“The dumb witness of your crime.”
“Witness of my crime!” I echoed, with an inward hysterical feeling as
though I wanted to laugh wildly.
“Yes, of gathering sticks on the Sabbath.”
“Sticks—Sabbath!” echoed I: “Why, who do you take me for?”
“The man in the moon, of course,” replied the blessed Laurence
demurely: “I need hardly say that your accent, your manner of
talking, and your eccentricities have convinced me and other
Christians that you can be no other than that celebrated individual,
whose release has at length been effected by the prayers of the
faithful, and who has come now to Rome to obtain absolution at the
hands of the Bishop.”
“I see,” said I, “I have not made myself sufficiently intelligible,”
and I then proceeded to explain who and what I was, and where
Grubbington-in-the-Clay was situated. After a great deal of talking
I succeeded in making all clear, and the deacon then manifested
great interest in the state of the Church in the remote province
of Britain. He was anxious to know to what extent the persecutions
raged there. I explained that it had greatly abated,—the only
instance I could recall was a circumstance attributable rather
to mischievousness than to malice—it was as follows:—Betsy Jane,
that is my wife, has a favourite donkey on which she occasionally
perambulates the parish, carrying the baby with her. A bad miller’s
boy one day shortly before my lapse, put a bunch of sting-nettles
under the brute’s tail. Neddy kicked frantically, as might have been
expected, and precipitated Betsy Jane and the baby over his head.
Providentially neither were hurt, though Jane’s gown was so torn as
to necessitate the purchase of a new one.
Laurence then enquired whether the Christians were able to assemble
for the celebration of the Divine Mysteries in sacred buildings
without interference. I said in reply that no impediment was placed
in the way of the public recital of “Dearly Beloved,” or the
attendance of the faithful on the administration of their clergy.
His enquiries were next directed to the subject of the clergy.
“Were the priests holy and blameless in life?”
“Capital fellows, never better!” then after a pause, “A little
hot-headed and rash perhaps, here and there,” alluding mentally to
the advanced ritualists.
“Given to hospitality?”
“Very much so, no end of croquet parties in the summer.”
“Devoted to fasting?”
“Well, ahem! not much; but the fact of the climate of England must
be taken into consideration, and the delicacy of digestion prevalent
among the clergy.”
“Eminent in good works?”
“Very much so, very,—there’s Betsy Jane (my wife) who is indefatigable
in visiting the poor and in attending the schools.”
“How many Bishops are there in Britain?”
“Twenty-eight, besides a few stragglers from the colonies come home
to beg, or who have relinquished their sees to take Simeonite-trust
livings.”
“You seemed not to understand the sacerdotal vestments,” said
Laurence, “have you no distinguishing marks of a priest in your
remote land?”
“Distinguishing marks. Oh, of course!”
“What may they be?” he asked.
“Why, let me see—collars.”
“Yes.”
“Whiskers.”
“Yes.”
“Well, and then the regular sacerdotal apparel of bands, and cassock,
and surplice, and stole, and hood, and all that sort of thing.”
“And the Bishops?”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “You should see an Anglican Bishop in full
vestments! That is a sight not to be forgotten. I regard the Anglican
episcopal costume to be the neatest thing out in ecclesiastical
vesture. The view of a Bishop from behind is quite overwhelming.
Stay! a bit of chalk, and a stick of charcoal—I will sketch him for
you on this wall!” Fired with enthusiasm, I proceeded to delineate
to the best of my abilities a member of the episcopal bench as
viewed from the rear. Not being a good draughtsman my sketch was not
artistically perfect, I was unable to foreshorten the feet, and I
made the lawn sleeves look rather like balloons.
Suddenly a pair of hands were placed upon my shoulders and I was
roughly swung round. I found myself surrounded by a patrol of
soldiers.
“Carry him off,” said the leader of the guard, “he is a Christian
necromancer; we have caught him in the act of drawing a magpie on
the wall of Cæsar’s palace—a bird of ill omen—to bring ruin by his
magical arts, on the house of the Augustus.”
“It is an Anglican prelate,” said I, quaking.
“It’s uncommonly like a magpie,” replied the soldier: “march him off
to the prefect.”
Laurence, as he brushed by me, said aside,
“Oh, my father! a bottle of your blood shall be sent to your
faithful flock at, What’s the name of the place?”
“Bother!” growled I.
As we turned a corner of the street, the roaring of the lions in the
distant Flavian amphitheatre was borne down on my ear.
A passing Christian exclaimed:
“The trumpet notes which sound to victory!”
Oh, Betsy Jane, Betsy Jane! And the dear children! And the baby! What
on earth shall I do?