As he tramped through the snow with the hatchet under his
blouse, it suddenly occurred to him that it was a Saint's Day.
Instantly he dropped on his knees in the snow, crossed himself
violently with trembling hands, and in a guilty voice implored God
to forgive him for his evil intention. Then he rose up, refreshed
and forgiven, postponing the murder till the next night.
Undoubtedly, I fear, the devotion of priest-ridden countries, which
evokes so spectacular an effect on the stranger of unbalanced judgment,
is largely a matter of superstition; how many prayers are inspired by a
lottery, how many candles lighted by fear of a ghost?
But Father Knox, whose aesthetic nature had early responded with a vital
impulse to Gothic architecture and the pomp and mystery of priestly
ceremonial, felt in Bruges that the spirit of the Chapel of the Sacred
Blood must be introduced into the Church of England "to save our country
from lapsing into heathenism." What, I wonder, is his definition of that
term, heathenism?
Bruges had a decisive effect, not only on his aesthetic impulses, but on
his moral sense. His conduct as an Anglican priest was frankly that of a
Roman propagandist. I do not know that any words more damning to the
Romish spirit have ever been written than those in which this most
charming and brilliant young man tells the story of his treachery to the
Anglican Church.
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