sion seemed preferable to the cathedral which
Michael Angelo, and all the great architects, had built; because, of
the dream edifice, she had said, "How vast it is!" while of the real St.
Peter's she could only say, "After all, it is not so immense!" Besides,
such as the church is, it can nowhere be made visible at one glance.
It stands in its own way. You see an aisle, or a transept; you see the
nave, or the tribune; but, on account of its ponderous piers and other
obstructions, it is only by this fragmentary process that you get an
idea of the cathedral.

There is no answering such objections. The great church smiles calmly
upon its critics, and, for all response, says, "Look at me!" and if you
still murmur for the loss of your shadowy perspective, there comes no
reply, save, "Look at me!" in endless repetition, as the one thing to
be said. And, after looking many times, with long intervals between, you
discover that the cathedral has gradually extended itself over the whole
compass of your idea; it covers all the site of your visionary temple,
and has room for its cloudy pinnacles beneath the dome.

One afternoon, as Hilda entered St. Peter's in sombre mood, its interior
beamed upon her with all the effect of a new creation. It seemed an
embodiment of whatever the imagination could conceive, or the heart
desire, as a magnificent, comprehensive, majestic symbol of religious
faith. All splendor was included within its verge, and there was space
for all. She gazed with delight even at the multiplicity of ornament.
She was glad at the cherubim that fluttered upon the pilasters, and of
the marble doves, hovering unexpectedly, with green olive-branches
of precious stones. She could spare nothing, now, of the manifold
magnificence that had been lavished, in a hundred places, richly enough
to have made world-famous shrines in any other church, but which
here melted away into the vast sunny breadth, and were of no separate
account. Yet each contributed its little all towards the grandeur of the
whole.

She would not have banished one of those grim popes, who sit each over
his own tomb, scattering cold benedictions out of their marble hands;
nor a single frozen sister of the Allegoric family, to whom--as, like
hired mourners at an English funeral, it costs them no wear and tear of
heart--is assigned the office of weeping for the dead. If you choose to
see these things, they present themselves; if you deem them unsuitable
an