inspiration of the Catholic Church.  They are indeed hoary monuments, petrified mysteries, a “passion of stone,” as Michelet speaks of the marble histories which will survive his rhapsodies.  They alike show the pilgrimage of humanity through gloomy centuries.  If their great wooden screens were removed, which separate the choir from the nave, the cathedrals doubtless would appear to more advantage, and especially if they were filled with altars and shrines and pictures, and lighted candles on the altars,—­filled also with crowds of worshippers, reverent before the gorgeously attired ministers of Divine Omnipotence, and excited by transporting chants, and the various appeals to sense and imagination.  The reason must be assisted by the imagination, before the mind can revel in the glories of Gothic architecture.  Imagination intensifies all our pleasures, even those of sense; and without imagination—­yea, a memory stored with the pious deeds of saints and martyrs in bygone ages—­a Gothic cathedral is as much a sealed book as Wordsworth is to Taine.  The Protestant tourist from Michigan or Pennsylvania can “do” any cathedral in two hours, and wonder why they make such a fuss about a church not half so large as the New York Central Railroad station.  The wonders of cathedrals must be studied, like the glories of a landscape, with an eye to the beautiful and the grand, cultured and practised by the contemplation of ideal excellence, when the mind summons the imagination to its aid, with all the poetry and all the history which have been learned in a life of leisure and study.  How different the emotions of a Ruskin or a Tennyson, in surveying those costly piles, from those of a man fresh from a distillery or from a warehouse of cotton fabrics, or even from those of many fashionable women, whose only aesthetic accomplishment is to play languidly and mechanically on an instrument, and whose only intellectual achievement is to have devoured a dozen silly novels in the course of a summer spent in alternate sleep and dalliance!  Nor does familiarity always give a zest to the pleasure which arises from the creations of art or the glories of nature.  The Roman beggar passes the Coliseum or St. Peter’s without notice or enjoyment, as a peasant sees unmoved the snow-capped mountains of Switzerland or the beautiful lakes of Killarney.  Said sorrowfully my guide up the Rhigi, “I wish I lived in Holland, for there are men there.”  Yet there are those whom the ascent of Rhigi and the ruined monuments of ancient Rome would haunt for a lifetime, in whose memory they would be perpetually fresh, never to pass away, any more than the looks and the vows of early love from the mind of a sentimental woman.

The glorious old architecture whose peculiarity was the pointed arch, flourished only about three hundred years in its purity and matchless beauty.  Then another change took place.  The ideal became lost in meaningless ornaments.  The human figure peoples the naked walls.  “Man places his own image everywhere....  The tomb rises like a mausoleum in side chapels.  Man is enthroned, not God.”  The corruption of the art keeps pace with the corruption of the Papacy and the discords of society.  In the fourteenth century the Mediaeval has lost its charm and faith.