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.