Title: Caught napping
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
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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.



                             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.”

“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?



                            CHAPTER III.

                   HOW I STOOD BEFORE THE PREFECT.


I have never succeeded in adequately describing to Betsy Jane my
feelings under escort to bonds and imprisonment, and perhaps worse;
and if I failed in making the wife of my bosom appreciate the
horrible anxiety under which I laboured during that walk, I must
necessarily fail with the public. Not of course that I was alarmed on
my own account, but I felt for my wife and family, and I was all of a
tremble for Grubbington parish. Mrs. Starch, I mean Betsy Jane, has,
since my return to the 19th century, insisted on my insuring my life.
Perhaps had I been at the period of my lapse well insured, I could
have faced the tribunal with greater equanimity. I put it plainly to
myself,—here I am about to be judged, and perhaps sentenced to suffer
excruciating agonies, in behalf of a Christianity which is not at
all of my sort, or according to my liking. I am to be, possibly,
gutted alive, or impaled, or fried like a herring, or flayed,
and rubbed over with pepper and salt,—my nerves being unusually
sensitive—all because I am supposed to be a member of a religious
community which prays for the dead, uses superstitious ceremonial
in the celebration of sacraments, and does not know anything of the
principles of the Reformation! Am I prepared to undergo frightful
tortures in witness to a faith which tolerates incense, lights, and
vestments! Am I to relinquish for ever the prospects of croquet,
archery, and other like clerical diversions, by submitting to the
rack on behalf of a lot of Christians whose allegiance to the State
is more than questionable? Suppose I am gutted, or impaled, or thrown
to lions, or roasted on a gridiron, or burned in a tar barrel, what
then?

My bones or ashes will be collected, and “deposited in peace” in
some vault of the catacombs; I shall be a saint, not the Rev. Edward
Starch, but S. Edward, P. and M. My remains will be venerated by
ignorant crowds of devotees. To these legs of mine will be given
idolatrous worship, and a future Pope will, probably, send the
severed joints of my backbone to be enshrined in gold in various
Roman Catholic Churches in Christendom. My collar-bone may be
encrusted in jewels at Toledo, my ganglions in Cracow. My little toes
may be borne about by coped ecclesiastics in Austrian processions,
and the exposition of my big toes may be the means of preventing a
plague in Algiers. Now I may fairly ask myself am I justified in thus
affording additional opportunities for the extension of superstition?

If I could be quite certain that my relics would be disposed of in an
Anglican manner, say, sent to the British Museum, why then the case
would be altered. Or again, if I could be tried upon the principles
of the Anglican Liturgy and the Thirty-nine Articles, cheerfully
would I die, but for a religion which must be abhorrent to all
readers of the _Times_, or the _Pall Mall_, or the _Guardian_, in as
much as it closely resembles that of the 19th century ritualistic
school:—

                               NEVER!

In arriving at this conclusion I suppose I lagged a bit, for one of
my escort with his lance from behind progged me in a fleshy part,
to make me walk a little quicker. I threatened him with law, but he
laughed. Laughed at being threatened with law! In what a benighted
condition Rome must be.

We reached the court, and I was at once brought before the prefect,
who happened to be then sitting. He had just disposed of a Roman
Christian or two. One he had ordered to be smeared with honey and
exposed to wasps and bees; another he had condemned to be hamstrung,
a third to be hugged to death by a bear. An ugly prospect for my poor
self—not that I considered self one moment, but I did feel keenly for
my poor wife, whose feelings would be harrowed should she read the
acts of my martyrdom in Ruinart.

“Sirrah!” exclaimed the prefect, darting at me a malignant glance.
“Who are you? Another Christian dog, eh?”

I pulled up my shirt collar, and after a premonitory cough, replied
with dignity and composure, “Illustrious Sir, allow me briefly and
lucidly to explain to you the peculiar circumstances which have
brought me into this predicament.”

“Are you a Roman?” asked the judge in a surly manner.

“No, my Lord, I am an Englishman, parson of Grubbington-in-the-Clay.”

“Humph! I suppose you are a Christian.”

“Christian is a broad term,” I replied, “and may mean anything. A
Protestant and consistent Anglican I am, but I utterly repudiate all
connexion with the Roman Church which I stoutly maintain, in the
language of our incomparable Thirty-nine Articles, to have erred, not
only in their living and manner of ceremonies, but also in matters
of faith. I regard too, the Romish doctrine concerning purgatory,
pardons, worshipping and adoration of images, as of reliques, and
also invocation of saints, to be a fond thing vainly invented, and
grounded upon no warranty of Scripture, but rather repugnant to the
word of God. I do most stoutly maintain this, and show me the member
of this Church who can stand against me in argument.”

The prefect looked at me with a puzzled air, and then asked what I
did believe.

“I believe that Bishops, priests, and deacons, are not commanded
either to vow the estate of single life, or to abstain from marriage:
and therefore that it is lawful for them, as for all other men, to
marry at their own discretion. I may add, that my wife entirely
agrees with me on this point.”

The prefect uttered an insulting remark with regard to my
intellectual capabilities.

“Are you a Christian?” he asked.

I allowed that I was, “but”——. He cut me short as I was about to
qualify the remark on the apostolic principle of being all things to
all men, and not causing my brother to offend, and asked whether I
would swear by the genius of the Emperor.

“By all means,” I replied, “the powers that be—you know the rest;
well, in Grubbington I have got a lion and unicorn over the chancel
arch. I have the utmost reverence for secular authority, and the
blindest devotion to the Crown.”

“Have you any of the sacred writings in your possession?”

I felt in my numerous pockets; I had failed before in my endeavour to
discover a certain publication of the Anglo-Continental Society, in
my breast pocket, I now explored one of the receptacles in the tail
of my coat. Yes! I came on a packet of the tracts of that society,
in Latin. I handed them at once to the prefect, who ordered his
secretary to take them.

“And,” continued he, addressing the executioner, “look out your
apparatus of torture, Maximus. Here is a man who seems to be neither
fish, nor flesh, nor fowl: he should have some special cooking.”

“My Lord, shall I roast him?”

“No, good Maximus, roasting is out of fashion.”

“Shall I boil him?”

“That is common-place.”

“Fry him, my Lord?”

“No, let us have some novelty; monotony is tedious.”

“The little horse, the red hot pincers, the thumb screws, the leaded
whips, are all stale,” mused the executioner, biting his thumb-nails
and looking dumped. Presently, however, a ray of light illumined his
face: “My Lord!” he said, looking up cheerfully, “it is an ancient
tradition in the family of my mother, who came from a remote island
of the northern seas, called Hibernia, that two cats were once shut
up in a chamber at Kilkennœa, and they fought and fought till they
had eaten each other all but the tails. My Lord, the prisoner seems
to regard the Roman Christians with an antipathy similar to that
recorded of the Kilkennœan cats, and this antipathy I presume is
reciprocated. Will it please your worship to order the confinement,
in an iron cage, of the deacon Laurence with this Britannic mongrel
Christian. I confidently anticipate great entertainment to your
Lordship, and I am satisfied that if you will condescend to inspect
the cage to-morrow morning, nothing of the several parties will be
discovered except the _os sacrum_ of each, which your Lordship is
well aware, takes that place in man which, in the inferior order of
mammals, is occupied by the tail.”

“Capital!” exclaimed the judge, “and whilst Maximus is looking up the
cage, and whilst the soldiers go in search of the deacon Laurence,
Servius, do you read the pernicious writings which the prisoner has
delivered over to us, and which the Christians regard with reverence.”

The secretary began to read; my eyes wandered about the court,
lighting on this and then on that instrument of torture. I saw a fire
of charcoal with pincers in it quite red hot, and my flesh quivered.
I saw a press under which Christians were sometimes flattened like
pancakes. I saw barbed hooks for inserting into the muscles, wooden
saws discoloured with blood, which had cut men in two. Indeed, I saw
more than I dare describe. When I attempted to go into the details
of what I beheld to my wife, she said “Now, don’t dear,” and I will
refrain from doing so here, relying upon her superior judgment.

Whilst I was examining all these horrible implements, the scribe
read on in a monotonous voice the stirring words of one of the most
pugnacious of the Anglo-Continental tracts. I now turned my gaze
upon the audience, who had taken a cruel interest in the scenes of
the court, and who were quite prepared to witness with relish the
anticipated fight between Laurence and myself. My eyes lingered first
on one and then on another. I soon observed their eyelids drooping,
and a blank expression stealing over their faces. Still the scribe
Servius read the bold statement of Anglican principles.

In the corner I observed the bear which had hugged one Christian to
death that morning, chained to a post. During the greater part of my
trial, the brute had extended its arms in an endearing manner towards
myself, and had been wagging its stump of a tail in the anticipation
of giving me a warm embrace. The bear now coiled itself up on the
floor, and went fast asleep. I now looked at the prefect. His eyes
were closed. Evidently the publication of the Anglo-Continental
Society had made a profound impression upon him. Yes! but of a kind
I had not anticipated. He, too, was asleep. I heard him snore. The
scribe’s voice began to falter, the sentences became broken. He went
to sleep also. I glanced round the court. Every one was enjoying the
repose which is brought on upon so many by a dose of laudanum, or a
perusal of the leading articles of the _Guardian_.

I seized the opportunity and stepped lightly out of the court. The
guards at the door were vigorously trumpeting through their noses; on
them too had the Anglo-Continental tract produced this happy effect.
In another moment I was in the street—I was free: I gave a whoop of
exultation, and—

                        WOKE UP IN MY STUDY.



  Transcriber’s Notes

  Created Table of Contents
  pg 13 Changed am I presumptuous is to: in
  pg 20 Added the word who after: there’s Betsy Jane (my wife)
  pg 21 Added comma after: said aside
  pg 24 Changed period after: is more than questionable to:
         a question mark
  pg 29 Changed an antipathy similiar to: similar
  pg 29 Removed repeated word: in the the inferior



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