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.)