“Eh? I mean what sort do you affect?”
“Affect?” said I, “I did not know religion was a matter of affectation. In my day it was a very real thing, and often cost a man his life.”
“Ah, poor things, overwork I suppose; should learn to take it easy, no use killing oneself for an idea.”
“Idea?” more incomprehensible still. “But you have not answered my question about religion?”
“Religion?” replied my friend; “Ah, yes to be sure. Which do you prefer?”
“Which?” said I in amazement; “why the Christian religion to be sure.”
“Yes, but there are such a lot of them,” replied my friend. “High and Low, and Puseyite and Ritualist, and Papist and Baptist, and Wesleyan and Methodist, and Calvinist and Independent, and Bible Christians and . . . .”
Stop, stop,” replied I, “you puzzle me more than ever; who may you be? are you a deacon?” hoping I might find a kindred spirit in my new acquaintance.
“My name’s Boodle; and as to being a Deacon, I’d as soon be a chimney sweep.”
I was astonished. To speak thus of an office I had always looked upon as one of the chiefest honours the Christian Church had to bestow. As for myself I had never considered myself worthy to fill it, but had been persuaded into accepting it by the blessed Cyril himself. He vainly tried to ordain me priest, but I considered myself too highly honoured already, and nothing would induce me to accept that awful dignity.
For a moment I forgot I was a ghost “I was a deacon once,” I said, “the deacon Irenae. . . .” I stopped in time, “One of seven belonging to the Church of Holy Cross, and—”
“What, seven to one church?” said Boodle, “that must have been a precious long way off, we should have cut you down.”
“Cut me down? There were a hundred to S. Sophia, in Constantinople.”
“What, all in residence?” asked Boodle.
“Of course;” what could he mean?
“What frightful extravagance! Reduction is the order of the day; we should make very short work of that. But you spoke of Holy Cross Church. Where may that be, pray?”
“In Jerusalem,” I replied.
“Ha! Palestine Exploration Fund and all that; yes, I know; perhaps you were dug out with the rest?”
“Dug out with the rest ?”
“Yes, with the lamp and the dishes, and all the things they found, you know;” and off Boodle went into a Ha, ha, ha! which took him some minutes to recover.
I did not know what he meant, and thought I had met with an unfortunate man afflicted by the loss of his reasoning powers. However, as I am a ghost it did not matter to me, for should he become violent I had nothing to do but to disappear.
“But you want to know something about the last new thing in religion?”
I did not at all like his way of putting it, but thought I had better humour him, so said “Yes.”
“Well, the swell thing now is to go and hear a gospel address in the Drill Hall.”
“Is that a church?”
“Dear me, no; but you don’t know the meaning of the word church. A church is an assembly of faithful people. Well, Delia Perkins gives the next gospel address.”
“And who is Delia Perkins?”
“Delia Perkins was—a very wicked woman; Delia Perkins is—a saint.”
“Poor soul! poor soul! Was her time of penance and probation long?”
“Penance? what for?”
“Why you said she sinned and then repented; she lapsed, I imagine, in the persecution. For how long was she put out of the Church?”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” replied Boodle, “the Church considers itself extremely honoured by having her bright eyes in it.”
“But of course the priest absolved her first?”
“How provoking you are. We have none of that ritualistic nonsense here. She says she can do her own soul without any of your priests and rubbish.”
“Anon! Anon! then will I lend her the Treatise of S. John Chrysostom the Golden Mouthed upon the Priesthood; it came after my time, but I doubt not I procure it, and she will see how great is the office she despises.”
“Read? my dear fellow, I should like to see her do it! No one has any time to read now. By the time we have done our Times, and our Pall Mall, and our Temple Bar, we have read enough to float our minds for the day, and a big book sends the best of us into a fit of sulks.”
“But stay; has not S. Paul a passage forbidding women to speak in the Church? Perhaps though you never heard of S. Paul?” for my mind misgave me, my informant appealing so very ignorant on some points.
“Oh, yes I have, and I know the passage you refer to. But there S, Paul speaks of the Church; now the Drill Hall isn’t a church,”
“But if I understood you rightly, you said just now it is. You said a church was an assembly of faithful people. Pardon me, is not this arguing in a circle?”
“Oh bother!” replied my illogical friend, “how you worry one, I never was brought up to theology.”
“Then why talk about it, if you have, no time to read about it?” Here I remembered the saying, that every Englishman considers himself born a farmer and a theologian, however ignorant he may be on every other subject.
“My dear sir, if we only talked about what we understood, our conversation would be extremely limited. But to tell you the truth, I am glad you have no fancy for the renowned Delia, for I am in reality an old fashioned Anglican, and don’t approve of all these new lights. Moderation say I, moderation, and leave these frights and fervours to Happy Tommy and the rest of them.”
“And who is Happy Tommy?”
“A converted collier. He tells exciting tales of how he dragged his grandmother round the room by her white hair when he was drunk and multitudes crowd to hear him, for the greater the sinner the greater the saint.”
“And was this man baptised before he perpetrated these atrocities?”
“I suppose so.”
I was aghast. “The Blessed Cyril would have insisted on years of lowly penitence before he readmitted him to Christian fellowship. You would have seen such a man when truly repentant fall at the feet of the faithful and implore their prayers. You would have seen him in the porch weeping scalding tears, and counting himself unworthy even to hear the prayers, much less to join in them: you would have seen”—
“Well, I don’t know anything about your friend the Blessed Cyril, but I do know that people here I don’t make such a fuss about repentance. The more atrocious the crimes, the more they like to talk about them, and the more people crowd to hear them.”
“Do you not remember how we read that holy Paul, when converted, went into the wilderness for three years to fit himself to preach the gospel?”
“My dear fellow, we’ve got no desert here, except one of brick and mortar, and there is no glory to be gained by hiding oneself.”
“Of course not. But what has a Christian to do with glory? Read Tertullian’s De Corona and you will see, though afterwards he lapsed into heresy, how nobly and beautifully he speaks in that treatise of the glory which is our Master’s alone.”
“What’s the gentleman’s name? Tertullian? Oh, ah, something ritualistic I suppose. Tomorrow’s Sunday: you had better come to my church, St. Silas.”
“With pleasure. What hour does the great Liturgy begin?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“Surely that is rather late?”
“Not at all. Quite early enough. Some very extreme people assemble at seven or eight o’clock, but it’s not considered at all the thing. In fact it’s very extreme.”
I thought something about the extreme of laziness, but said nothing, especially as Boodle held out his card in the kindest manner. I promised to be faithful to the appointment, and having waited till my friend had turned the corner of the street, for fear of startling him by my sudden disappearance, I dropped the intelligent stranger and subsided into the ghost.
CHAPTER 2: HOW I WENT TO CHURCH WITH
BOODLE
Punctual to my appointment, I was at the door of St. Silas’s a little before eleven. Crowds were streaming in at the three doors which led into the church. “This looks well,” thought I, “devotion to the Christian Faith seems to have a home within this city. I wonder if they have had a persecution here lately.”
Boodle was late, and a roll of distant thunder from within told me that something had begun. I soon saw my fat friend puffing up the steps.
“Come along,” he said, “I’m late. They don’t keep seats beyond the first lesson.”
“Keep seats!” I did not understand him. He spoke as if he were talking of the amphitheatre. The Gentiles always had their seats kept for them there, but I scarcely thought Christians would in this matter imitate the unbelievers: and “the lesson,” lesson of what? There was no time to ask questions though, and we hurried into church. They had not yet begun, though a mighty instrument of music, perched on high, was giving forth a roll of harmony.
“Confound it,” said Boodle, “they’ve stuffed an old woman into my seat, and I’ve only one, too; they might have waited a few minutes.”
“My seat again.” I was so aghast at his profane language in the holy precincts that I could not ask him for an explanation. But what I saw explained itself. The whole building was mapped out into little divisions with high but thin walls between. These little divisions were lined with seats, some had crimson cushions, and some had not. I imagined the thin walls were to prevent any pushing and quarrelling that might take place (for I had always heard that the English were the most pugnacious people in the world), and I also judged that the cushions were for the comforts of invalids. I could not help thinking what an advance civilization had made since my time.
My stout friend beckoned to a busy-looking gentleman in a short black gown and a stick, and told him to “put us into a seat.” Now I could speedily have dispensed with the attentions of the busy gentleman by dropping the intelligent stranger and resuming the ghost, but I was again afraid of the effect such a proceeding might have upon Boodle, whose nerves I perceived were not of the strongest order. However, I saw a row of seats without backs or cushions, and I said to him, “Why cannot we sit here?”
“My dear fellow,” he replied, “they are the free seats,” and his tone of contempt showed me that somehow or other they “were not the thing.”
“Oh, I understand,” a ray of light shooting across my mind, “those are the places for the penitents; in my time they were not allowed to come beyond the entrance.”
Boodle lifted his eyebrows, and I saw that I had said something wrong again, so I resolved to be silent and watch the service. In the meantime we had been conducted to a red-cushioned seat and the door carefully shut upon us. I thought at first we were to be locked in, for fear we might wish to go away before the proper time, but I heard no sound of the key being turned upon us.
Preceded by the busy man in the short black gown and the stick in his hand a quiet gentleman arrayed in white ascended a short wooden tower and went down on his knees within it. The other Christians took no notice of him at all and might as well have been asleep for anything they seemed to care. In a little while he got up and muttered something and then began an address, “Dearly Beloved.” I thought the dearly beloved objects of his affection seemed wondrous cold in their method of returning it, for though they arose from their seats they scarcely paid any attention to him or showed any animation whatever. When Boodle got into his seat he stood for a few seconds and stuck his nose into his hat.
This curious proceeding did not seem to excite any astonishment on the part of our neighbours. The ceremony to me had no meaning, and as the Blessed Cyril had always warned us never to do anything for the sake of mere form or without a meaning, I kept to my own practice and that of my fellow-worshippers in Holy Cross, and bowing low, reverently made the sign of the Cross. I heard the rustle of a silk dress evidently shaken with rage and disgust, and saw on my right an elderly lady whose face was suffused with anger. She edged off from me with a look of indignation, and whispered to her neighbour, “Puseyite!” What could she mean! I looked again, for I knew old ladies were often afraid of insects, and I thought perhaps some loathsome animal of that name might have been crawling on her muff.
“Shall I catch it for you, ma’am?” I whispered as politely as possible. The old lady shook herself again and immediately changed places with her companion. These English are strange people; what could I have done to offend her! I was grieved that I should have done so, and in my distress I very nearly turned into Irenaeus the Deacon, but on the whole thought I might complicate the situation still further by so doing. The service went on. There were singings, readings, prayers, but no Amens like claps of thunder, no responses like the roaring of the sea— such as I remember in Jerusalem and the churches where I had the honour to minister.
The attitudes, too, of the worshippers astonished me. Boodle took it easy and sat through all the prayers, and many more followed his example. Some placed their knees upon high cushions, which conveniently hoisted their bodies up until midway they leant upon the red-cushioned seats. This was called kneeling, but it did not look to me like the attitude of the penitents in Holy Cross, in the year of grace, 348. I at first did as I was accustomed to do in the church of the Blessed Cyril, and stood upon my feet as we always did on the Lord’s Day and on the Forty Days after the Resurrection Day, But seeing that this created astonishment, and being anxious in all things to avoid giving offence I went down upon my knees, declining the high cushion, which would have caused the action to become an unreality.
By degrees this sleepy hind of worship came to an end; though far be it from me to speak ill of any kind of Christian observance, I cannot help calling it sleepy, for none seemed the better or the worse for it, and not a muscle of any one’s countenance changed. A gentle murmur was the utmost notice bestowed a any of the petitions presented to the throne in name, and the sentiments of sorrow, penitence, joy, and hope sung for them by a few voices near the magnificent instrument of music in the gallery, seemed to wake no answering echo in their hearts.
At the end of the church against the wall and covered with red was what looked to me an altar in spite of two red cushions at each end of it. We had no cushions to recline on in the church of the Holy Cross in the year 348 at Jerusalem. I had wondered all through the service when the Great Liturgy was going to begin, for of course the altar would not then stand useless. At last the gentleman arrayed in white went to one end of the altar, and placing his elbows on the cushion hoisted himself up to his knees on a short bench before him, whilst another gentleman likewise in white did exactly the same exactly opposite to him at the other end, and with their heads in their hands and their elbows on the altar they repeated something in a gentle and monotonous tone. Whilst this was going on someone touched my shoulder in a manner which showed me it was no denizen of earth, and I saw above me the shade of the Rev. Edward Starch of Grubbington-in-the-Clay contemplating the scene with the most sublime satisfaction.
“Ah!” he said to me, and spirit voices have the gift of not disturbing an earthly congregation, “this is the true spirit of Anglicanism, see how far removed from Popish superstition on the one hand and from Puritanical baldness on the other. Look at the bright example of Primitive Christianity!”
“Reading the Ten Commandments in front of a red altar with nothing on it?” said I, as one of the reverend gentlemen advanced to the rails in front of the altar. “It is not the least like what took place in my time!”
Now you must know that in the Holy Shades no religions animosities exist. Each ghost has his own peculiar liking, and generally continues attached to what he loved most during his sojourn on earth, but he never considers it necessary to use bad language to the other ghosts if they should be of a different way of thinking; and such terms as vulgar Protestant and superstitious Papist are never heard amongst us. We all hope there are many different ways of looking at the same truth. So I did
not feel at all angry with the ghost of the Rev. Edward Starch, but calmly nodded to it as it floated above me.
I could not help imagining what would be the feelings of that old lady in the rustling silk if she only knew how close her dainty bonnet was to the peaceful shade; and worse still, should she ever discover that the quiet gentleman on her left was the Deacon Irenaeus of the year 348. After the Gospel and the Creed, one of the sleepy clergymen aforesaid ascended the steps of a high pulpit and began his sermon.
“That is good,” whispered the shade of the Rev. Edward Starch, “now you see the real primitive way of doing things.”
“And where are the children?” said I, “I see none.”
The shade pointed to a gallery at the west end, over the music gallery. It was crowded with little faces, some full of mischief, most, heavy with sleep.
“Humph!” said I, “we used to place them close to the altar. The Blessed Cyril always said the children were worthiest to be near it. And where are the poor? I see none.”
The shade pointed to the seats for the penitents as I thought, and I saw about a score of persons who looked as if they wished they were anywhere else.
Ho, everyone that thirsteth come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money, come ye, buy and eat; yea, come buy wine and milk, without money and without price.
I was startled; I thought it must be another ghost making a quotation in an ironical manner: but no, it was the text of the coming sermon, and the voice was very earthly.
Could anyone have a nobler theme? One to make the heart glow and the tongue utter words of fire, to rouse the whole man to animation. I could not help thinking what the holy Cyril would have made of it. But the sleepy preacher was, if possible, more sleepy than his congregation. He told them how thankful they ought to be that they lived in such a favoured land, where every one might hear the truth if he would listen, (here the deaf old people in the far-off free seats began to fidget); how thankful they ought to be that England was England, and not any other country; how thankful they ought to be for their pastors, meaning himself, no doubt, and the other gentleman in white, who was nodding his head in the most emphatic manner inside the altar rails, whether with sleep or with assent I could not quite make out; how thankful they ought to be that grace had been given them to do right; and, in short, how thankful they ought to be they were not as other men; and, having sent most of his congregation to sleep and very nearly himself also, he brought himself up with a jerk, and abruptly concluded before that catastrophe occurred. Then returning to the Holy Table, the offerings of the faithful were collected.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 49