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.