The Rev. Octagon Fidgets had a considerable insight into the other world, so he did not entirely lose sight of me. In a few words I explained to him who and what I was, and he did not even seem He said he was only “too delighted to have the opportunity of making my acquaintance.” But the martinet, fussy spirit was too strong in him to allow him to pass over his grievances, and he began again.
“Don’t you think it a horrid shame to pass over St. Swithun?”
“When did he live?” said I.
“Somewhere about nine hundred and something,”
“All that is long after my time, you see I am not a fair judge.”
“You don’t know anything about the Sarum yellow then?” asked the reverend gentleman in a sepulchra tone.
“Not I.”
“What did you cover your altar with at Holy Cross?”
“With the best we had, generally white embroidered with black.”
“Ah! the white linen cloth you mean, but did you have that embroidered?”
“Yes; why not?”
“The Privy Council would not allow that here, the white linen cloth must be perfectly plain,”
“We never allowed outsiders to interfere,” said I indignantly.
“And what was your altar like?”
“Not so large as yours and not so high up. A marble table on four marble legs, the drapery hanging loosely over it, not stretched tight like yours.”
“Humph,” muttered the curate of St. Chad’s
“And can you tell me,” said I turning questioner in my turn, “why at St. Silas’s the priest stood at the end of the altar, and also at St. Timothy’s, whilst at St. Chad’s he stood in front of it?”
“My dear sir, have you not heard that is the question upon which half of the clergy of England are ready to tear the other half in pieces? The whole Church in this country is up in arms about the position of the priest at the altar: whether he ought to stand with his back, or his right shoulder to the people; which way did you do it?”
“Neither,” said I. “The priest stood behind the altar, facing the people. But then the altar was at the west end of the church. The priest faced east and the people west,”
“Humph!” said the curate again. “We seem to have departed from primitive practice in some things.”
“Certainly,” I replied. “For instance, it seemed to me very strange that the Epistoller and Gospeller should have read turning away from the people.”
“That is old Sarum use,” said the Rev. Octagon.
A very bad use, it struck me, “What is the use of reading so that people can’t hear? When we read the gospel or the epistle we came out into the midst of the church and read with a load and distinct voice. Then” I remarked “there was no reservation.”
“Ah!” said the curate, “it will be long before people have reverence enough to resort to the Blessed Sacrament for worship.”
“I don’t mean for worship,” said I. “The reservation for purposes of worship was long after my time. We reserved for the sick and the absent, and sent it to them by the hands of the deacons. I was one of those happy persons who were messengers of the spiritual food—and very anxious were we that no one should be deprived of it.”
“Humph!” said the Rev. Octagon again, “of course, as you were on the spot I cannot contradict you.”
“Tell me too,” said I, “why you shut the doors and allowed none to depart before the more solemn part of the services? I saw several most anxious to go away, and others fidgeting much.”
“Because,” replied the curate, “all should stay and worship. Those who depart show great irreverence towards that solemn service.”
“But does it not show greater irreverence to detain the unwilling? In my time we bade all depart who were not prepared to communicate faithfully and devoutly, and diligent care was taken that there should be no irreverent gazers even in the vicinity of the holy place. No need of keeping people in by force, we were only too anxious to get rid of those who did not wish to remain. In my day it was esteemed too high a privilege to be forced upon anyone.”
“But you would not send those away who have communicated earlier and wish to mingle their intercessions with the rest?”
“By no means. Let them stay and take their share in the priesthood of the people and in offering the holy sacrifice.”
“But how?” said my friend; “you don’t mean to deny that the consecration is effected by the words of Institution pronounced by the priest?”
“No; but I deny it is entirely and alone. We always esteemed it effected by three things. The pronunciation of the words Institution, the Prayer to the Holy Ghost, called the Invocation, which came after the Prayer of Consecration, and which I perceive you omit, and the Amen of the people. With us all three were necessary; and so you will see if you read the Liturgy of St. James, which was used at Jerusalem.”
“Oh dear me!” said the curate, “this is entirely a new light; and I thought if we went in for old Sarum we were sure to be alright.”
“And I thought our Incomparable Liturgy was the model of all the primitive liturgies,” said the shade of the Rev. Edward Starch as it floated down the Strand.
“No altar! No sacrifice! None of your Popery! Down with it all!” muttered the two spies, still skulking round a corner.
I was fairly puzzled as I thought over all the divisions of the most learned Church in the most religious country in the world. Certainly the blessed Cyril would have been lost in amazement, and as for me I could not find anything like the grandeur of Holy Cross Church in the year 347 or thereabouts.
One idea struck me as I prepared for flight, leaving the astonished Octagon standing on the pavement. As none of the examples I saw are exactly like what each professes to be, the image of primitive Christianity, would it not be better to leave off biting and devouring one another, and to work back by degrees to primitive models? I shall be most happy to come and show them my experiences of the same, but I do not for a moment suppose anybody will take my advice; for after all I am
ONLY A GHOST!
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Sabine Baring-Gould Page 51