OUTLINES
noy even a man of his bulk and his blandness. Shall a drunkard found dead in a ditch, or a burglar who has fallen through a skylight, be given the benefit of the Burial Service? he was asked. The question of lighted candles was “most difficult”; the wearing of coloured stoles and the administration of the mixed chalice taxed him considerably; and finally there was the Rev. John Purchas, who, dressed in cope, alb, biretta and stole “cross-wise”, lit candles and extinguished them “for no special reason”; filled a vessel with black powder and rubbed it into the foreheads of his congregation; and hung over the Holy Table “a figure, image, or stuffed skin of a dove, in a flying attitude”. The Archbishop’s temper, usually so positive and imperturbable, was gravely ruffled. “Will there ever come a time when it will be thought a crime to have striven to keep the Church of England as representing the common sense of the Nation?” he asked. “I suppose it may, but I shall not see it. I have gone through a good deal, but I do not repent of having done my best.” If, for a moment, the Archbishop himself could ask such a question, we must confess to a state of complete bewilderment. What has become of our superlatively good man? He is harassed and cumbered; spends his time settling questions about stuffed pigeons and coloured petticoats; writes over eighty letters before breakfast sometimes; scarcely has time to run over to Paris and buy his daughter a bonnet; and in the end has to ask himself whether one of these days his conduct will not be considered a crime.
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