CHAPTER II.
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.”