days was the only occupation left to me. There was some
shelter to be had under the walls, and the empty, vast
interior would seem almost cosy on coming in from the wind.
At service my due feet never failed, while morning, noon, and
evening I paced the smooth level green by the hour, standing
at intervals to gaze up at the immense pile with its central
soaring spire, asking myself why I had never greatly liked it
in the past and did not like it much better now when grown
familiar with it. Undoubtedly it is one of the noblest
structures of its kind in England--even my eyes that look
coldly on most buildings could see it; and I could admire,
even reverence, but could not love. It suffers by comparison
with other temples into which my soul has wandered. It has
not the majesty and appearance of immemorial age, the dim
religious richness of the interior, with much else that goes
to make up, without and within, the expression which is so
marked in other mediaeval fanes--Winchester, Ely, York,
Canterbury, Exeter, and Wells. To the dry, mechanical mind of
the architect these great cathedrals are in the highest degree
imperfect, according to the rules of his art: to all others
this imperfectness is their chief excellence and glory; for
they are in a sense a growth, a flower of many minds and many
periods, and are imperfect even as Nature is, in her rocks and
trees; and, being in harmony with Nature and like Nature, they
are inexpressibly beautiful and satisfying beyond all
buildings to the aesthetic as well as to the religious sense.

Occasionally I met and talked with an old man employed at the
cathedral. One day, closing one eye and shading the other
with his hand, he gazed up at the building for some time, and