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Published: December 29th 2005
Catholic Apostolic Church - 1890
*Distortion: Travelblog photos are best viewed with Internet Explorer.An Excerpt from the Travel Journal of the Rev. Harold Nigel Fox Jr. circa 1920
ENTRY NINE -- The Vision I was unable to shake the dark feeling of melancholy that had crept into me during my visit to the graveyard. My many tonics and restoratives, prescribed by a variety of physicians, were of little or no avail. I attempted to go about my business as normally as possible, but Sipho began to eye me warily, therefore I knew I was merely fooling myself. We were both down in the dumps but did our level best to keep a stiff upper lip. Hearty, insincere jocularity was the order of the day when either of us would catch the other out.
After three nights of unsettling dreams accompanied by strange noises, alternating with nerve-wracking days, dark circles were beginning to form under my eyes; Sipho's were very bloodshot, so I surmised that he had not spent the time pleasantly either. We dare not discuss our feelings. I did not object to Sipho's suggestion that we stay up that evening to listen to the gramophone. Although it was obvious that we were both feeling miserable, music would help us while away the hours.
-ii-
I had been sleeping in the master bedroom whereas Sipho had taken up quarters in my former room with all its memories. Having finally exhausted my collection of music, he suggested we turn in. We retired to our respective bed chambers, but I continued to put off the inevitable and stayed up reading a Sherlock Holmes mystery;
The Hound of the Baskervilles, or was it
The Light in the Darkness?
In any event, I do not recall closing my book, putting down my pipe or drifting into sleep. I do remember being startled awake by a strange noise coming from the upper passageway; it was that witching time of night when graveyards surrender the souls of the dear departed. I found myself in the dark, heart pounding furiously, nightclothes bunched round me. The door to my sleeping chamber was ajar. As I rose, I became aware of the moonlight pouring into the passage from the upper balcony window located just past the lumber room. It was quite bright in the corridor, therefore it seemed a prudent decision to proceed. In the moonlight, I was suddenly conscious of a preternatural being at the end of the passageway. The spectre seemed to walk backwards from me and shimmered in an eerie fashion. I shook my head, inwardly upbraiding myself that the demon did not exist but when I looked again, the apparition was still there. Lord have mercy!
I inched forwards, determined to keep my wits about me and confront the dark shape. Every ounce of my terrified being was screaming for me to return to my room. When I was within a few feet of the wall at the end of the corridor, just before reaching the staircase to my left, it finally dawned on me: the dark, terrifying shape was my own shadow, somewhat distorted by the moonlight behind me. I chuckled quietly at my own gullibility and decided to retire for the night once again.
-iii-
Likely of the lateness of the hour, I was now in desperate need of repose. Without pausing to light the lamp, I grabbed my nightclothes and quickly jumped into bed. Much to my horror, there seemed to be something moving underneath me. It let out a beastly groan as I landed heavily on top of it. There was a frightful commotion. I scrambled back out and swiftly reached for the light. In its glow I could make out the features of Sipho, blankets pulled up round his chin, eyes large, and mouth agape. So alarming was the state of his countenance that he did not look altogether human.
I attempted to explain to Sipho that I had, quite automatically, entered my childhood room following my scare, instead of my parents' bedchamber. With more than a touch of waggish prose I endeavoured to convince my jolted companion that the situation was humorous, but Sipho refused to join in my levity. He did agree however, rather quickly, when I suggested that we exchange sleeping quarters, so that this happenstance would not occur a second time.
Another troubled night
A noise awoke me. Glancing at my pocket watch in the moonlight I could see that it was exactly half past eleven. I do believe I knew that the Reverend Harold Nigel Fox Junior was in for another troubled night. As on the previous evening, I entered the passageway and a shadow greeted me. My investigation was cut short, however, when a feeling of euphoria welled up inside me. A strange aura engulfed me! Flashing lights began in my head, and while for many, these sparkles would mean the beginning of a migraine or an epileptic fit, this was not true for me. Recognising the symptoms, I quickly returned to my room, for I knew bed would be the safest place to ride out the storm, as it were.
'Episode' was undoubtedly a misnomer: what I truly experienced was an altered consciousness. The bright moonlight, now filling my boyhood room intensified into a deep, rich blue; glowing with an unearthly luminescence. I thanked God that I had not been hit with this feeling while out and about. The incredible euphoria; an almost giddy feeling assailed me. I lay down and shut my eyes. The entire world seemed to reel. There was a sensation of falling. Finally, I opened my eyes and focused on the comforting portrait of Jesus, the Good Shepherd. The room had become motionless; the deep blue moonlight had turned into daylight.
Small Things Long Forgotten
My quarters were the same, yet different. Somehow they seemed more familiar. The portrait of Jesus was in the identical position, but the rest of the room had been altered somewhat. There was the distinct sound of a dove cooing outside my window. I could smell the fresh cut flower that my mother had placed beside my bed (a habit of hers since my illness). From my vantage point I could see everything; incredibly, it was the sleeping chamber of my childhood days. I must say this experience fairly astounded me. Climbing out of bed, I cautiously moved towards the window. My room was a lofty chamber: there before me lay the East Avalon of my youth, down to the tiniest detail. The tree that had reached to the windowsill was now barely half the size; I could even see the Lodge Gates. In wonder I gazed at the horse and wagon making its way up the street; it was that of Mister James Stephenson, the milkman, doing his Saturday deliveries.
"What are you staring at, Harry?" It was the voice of my mother; her Scottish brogue seemed stronger than I remembered. My heart thumped madly in my chest. "Shouldn't you be making ready for Sabbath-day school? Have you studied your catechism?" It could be fairly said that my mother was the most potent influence on my spiritual life when I was a boy. Her love and devotion were the pre-eminent factors in my early childhood. She was a profoundly spiritual person with a mystical vein of character which could be recognised in her deep set eyes. I have little doubt that my blessed mother was the source of my ethereal aspirations.
"I am not well," I said shakily, thinking that my statement was not far from the truth. My eyes drank in Mother's handsome features as I turned to face her. Many of Father's peers had scorned him for marrying beneath his station in life, yet in truth it was Mother's inheritance that allowed our family both servants and a fine home. My father to his dying day felt she was the most beautiful lass to have ever walked the earth! I continued to stare at this lovely woman from long ago. No lines marred her satiny complexion, and her bright blue eyes sparkled, undimmed by time. I was afraid to blink lest she disappear.
"Not to worry, my little lambie pie. Your father did want to speak to you before you left, therefore I'll allow you a mulligan just for to-day. You lads'll be the end of me: two odd ducks, birds of a feather," she laughed, but her countenance showed concern; I never wanted to miss Sabbath-day school.
When she left, I found my knees giving way. Returning to the bed, I recognised the red and blue-checked counterpane she had made for it. I ran my hand across its unfaded squares. At first I sat like one paralysed, marvelling at the small things long forgotten. The wardrobe looked new, polished to a glossy shine, my cricket bat leaning against it. The matching dressing-table had brass handles which now glistened. Round the looking glass were attached various awards, set out to best advantage. Hanging in a prominent place next to it was my Sabbath-day School attendance certificate. The Holy Bible (Catholic Apostolic Version) its leather cover a deep, rich, red and the pages edged in shiny gold; had been a prize. It now sat on the bedside table.
Rising up, I could see more: a boy's catapult and several pebbles lay on the windowsill. With childish glee I furtively picked up the simple weapon and tried it at the open window, congratulating myself as a pebble found its mark on the tree below me, sending a number of birds off in all directions. What a fine prospect there was from the oriel; all of Somerset was set out before me. The size of my tiny hands clutching the catapult held me spell-bound for a moment, and then I pulled open the wardrobe to look at the garments hanging there. Finally, with a tide of emotion washing over me, I dressed, and made my way out of the door.
An Incredible Sense of Peace
"Harry, where've you been? Your father's been waiting for you!" scolded Mother.
I hoped she had not thought ill of me. Yet I felt no guilt for my tardiness and did not make haste. Filled with an incredible sense of peace, I walked down the long passageway to my father's study. I revelled in her singing of a Highland song (her family was from the Clan McCallum). My, how I loved and missed my parents. To have another chance to visit with them was a gift from God. Before entering the office I turned and snuggled against my mother's side. "Ta," she said doting on me as only my mother could. After an embrace that lasted more than a minute, she opened the study door.
"I have been waiting for you, Son," said my father in a tone that always made me feel special . . . loved. "Do sit down." My father, renowned for his "healing powers" and his "gift of prophecy" generated considerable income for the Church. Yet he was generous to the nth degree (father, had on more than once occasion suffered financial misfortune due to the duplicity of friends). He had been considered strange by most people, including me.
Deeds that won the Empire was required reading as he believed the British Empire (like Rome before it) was the destined instrument in God's hand for the 'Second Coming'. However, the basic goodness of the man, his love the Lord and his neighbour, overshadowed his many idiosyncrasies. He was forever available to his family; a person who was always there for people in need. He was a true Christian, although a die-hard
Irvingite.
When my father was a boy, his own father, (who was also an ordained man) had decided to follow certain saintly persons who had received wonderful gifts of the Holy Ghost through the ministry of a Scottish minister, named Edward Irving. This fiery pastor had shaken English society with his preternatural homilies on eschatology. He proclaimed that we were in the "End Times" of human history. This movement had seen the restoration of the apostolic gifts of speaking in tongues and healing.
My father, like his father before him became an ardent believer. Indeed my father totally believed that he had discovered the key to ‘Biblical prophecy’ and could now fully comprehend the ‘signs of the times’. He himself prophesied under the guidance of the Spirit. More extraordinary was the fact that when he laid hands on the sick and infirm…they had been healed! Also, father had become quite convinced of his belief that the Antichrist was here and his presence was about to be made known; furthermore Christ had now returned and was at this very moment walking amongst us. It was in this very strange, emotionally charged atmosphere of agalliasis that my own childhood was passed.
"No Sabbath Day school this Saturday to-day due to illness?" he enquired, with a tone that showed concern. I had once been very ill with rheumatic fever. "You look fit to me . . . but, never mind. In a few days you shall be off to school (King Edward VI Christian Academy) and we shall miss you." It was an unusual verbalisation of affection, for as was the case with most Englishmen of his class, father rarely expressed his love in words. Yet he was a tender man...a lover of small children. Although his Christian faith often seemed to reveal itself in an otherworldly way, it could be fairly said that he was the most decent of men.
Every verse of Revelation was said to be happening now, in our own days. Christ was here "as a thief in the night" harvesting His elect. The term,
' Second Coming', was always upon father's lips as he lived in anticipation of the Second Advent. "Let us see how your religious studies are progressing," he began, in a manner that I had heard many times before. I could almost guess at the exact phrases that would follow.
"Why was our church founded?"
"It was founded because the 'End of the Age' is at hand," I parroted off, amazed that I still knew the answer as if it were yesterday.
He continued,"When shall the Son of Man be revealed?"
"No one knows the day or the hour, only our Father in Heaven," was my proud reply, feeling quite accomplished.
It was so very good to listen to the rich timbre of his voice once more. My father continued to lecture me at length, covering every detail of his favourite section of the Bible. My mind wandered as he spoke. From left to right, I slowly scanned the study, reading the titles of the many books in the bookcases, sweeping my eyes across the massive desk top, and coming to rest upon my father's comfortable reading chair. Suddenly my gaze was jerked back to something that jarred: placed next to the tallboy was a leather portmanteau; mine, not my father's. It seemed older than its present age, even more worn. I stared intently, trying to understand. It was a blatant incongruity.
"Harry! Are you listening?"
"Oh yes, father," my voice quavered.
"Then tell me: what is the 'abomination that wreaks desolation' ?"
"The ships from the western coastlines (England) shall oppose the Wolf and he shall lose heart and withdraw. Then he shall return and vent his fury against the Holy Covenant. And he shall show favour to all who forsake the Covenant. His armed forces shall rise up to desecrate the daily sacrifice . . . " I caught my breath, continuing to dredge up the long-forgotten Scripture passage, ". . . then they shall set up the 'abomination that wreaks desolation'."
My father seemed unsurprised by my hurried recitation and went on to elaborate on the rest of Daniel, describing the evils that would be perpetrated on the Jews (the people of the Holy Covenant), the military exploits of the Wolf, and so forth. He stopped when he noticed that my mind was again straying. Looking me directly in the eye, he asked me to describe Daniel's dream of the beasts.
"There were living beasts," I answered quickly, "each one different from the other." Again, miraculously, from somewhere in the back of my mind came whole sections of scripture. "The first was a lion with the wings of an eagle, and the wings were torn off . . . "
"And what is the meaning of this?" my father interrupted.
"This beast represents the Empire. The lion is the symbol of England and the eagle is the symbol of America."
My father nodded in approval as I went on with my memorised speech.
"The second beast in the dream was a bear . . . "
"Explain the meaning."
"The bear is the symbol of Russia," I said slowly, my voice beginning to falter somewhat.
Looking at me with eyebrow lifted, my father took over at this point, proceeding right into a description of the final beast: "The last beast shall appear on the earth, and it shall be different from all the other kingdoms." My father's deep voice intensified. "It shall devour the whole earth, trampling it down and crushing it. The Antichrist shall speak against the Most High and oppress His chosen people. They shall be handed over to him for a time, times a time and a half. This is the beast to be feared. And what is this beast, Harry?" my father boomed.
"The beast is a wolf who shall devour the sheep," I rattled off.
I had redeemed myself. Father was pleased. A tiny smile formed on his lips. Looking directly at me with those piercing eyes he said firmly, "The Wolf can only be distinguished from the Lamb of God by the fruit which he shall produce . . . not by what he speaks. Remember - this is the test!"
Then, something strange took place. Before my eyes my father was transfigured into a very old man, with hair as white as snow. A light radiated from him. On the other hand, I was aware that I was no longer a young boy, but my proper age. I sat rooted to my chair, mesmerised.
"Harry - it is time!"
I was now in my bed; the voice was no longer my father's, but that of Sipho, enquiring after my health. As I awoke from the dream that had been my life I saw my pocket-watch on the bedside table. It confirmed that the time was a quarter to eleven the following morning.
Links: Adventist theology Sect-1901-Catholic Apostolic Church Antichrist/Wolf
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anonymous
non-member comment
Charles Freer Andrews & Catholic Apostolic Church
His travel journal is also a good read and is on the net!