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.