But chiefly I find it
justified by the form and substance of his utterances since he became a
Roman Catholic--fighting and most challenging utterances which for me at
any rate are belied, and tragically belied, by a look in his eyes which
is unmistakably, I am forced to think, the look of one who is still
wrestling with doubt, one, I would venture to hazard, who may even
occasionally be haunted by the dreadful fear that his fortress is his
prison.
On the day that Newman entered that fortress the triumphant cry of St.
Augustine rang in his ears, _Securus judicat orbis terrarum_; but later
came the moan _Quis mihi tribuat_, and later still the stolen journey to
Littlemore and that paroxysm of tears as he leaned over the lych-gate
looking at the church.
Not long ago I went one Sunday evening to Westminster Cathedral. It was
winter, and the streets of tall and sullen houses in that gloomy
neighbourhood were darkening with fog. This fog crept slowly into the
cathedral. The surpliced boy who presented an alms-dish just within the
doors was stamping his feet and snuffling with cold. The leaves of
tracts and pamphlets on the table blew up and chattered in the wind
every time the door was thrust open.
The huge building was only half filled, perhaps hardly that. Through the
fog it was not easy to see the glittering altar, and when three priests
appeared before it their vestments so melted into the cloth that they
were visible only when they bowed to the monstrance.
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