Does it not seem absurd, that, when within a few days'
journey of what has been the long-desired dream of my heart, I should
feel so--that I should actually feel that I had rather take some more
of our pleasant walks about Andover, than to see all that Europe has
to offer?
This morning we went to the Cologne Cathedral. In the exterior of both
this and Strasbourg I was disappointed; but in the interior, who could
be? There is a majesty about those up-springing arches--those columns
so light, so lofty--it makes one feel as if rising like a cloud. Then
the innumerable complications and endless perspectives, arch above
arch and arch within arch, all lighted up and colored by the painted
glass, and all this filled with the waves of the chant and the organ,
rising and falling like the noise of the sea; it was one of the few
overpowering things that do not _satisfy_, because they transport
you at once beyond the restless anxiety to be satisfied, and leave you
no time to ask the cold question, Am I pleased?
Ah, surely, I said to myself, as I walked with a kind of exultation
among those lofty arches, and saw the clouds of incense ascending, the
kneeling priests, and heard the pathetic yet grand voices of the
chant--surely, there is some part in man that calls for such a
service, for such visible images of grandeur and beauty.
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