AN OCTOBER ABEOAD 159 



building. Next day I came back, but there can be 

 only one first time, and I could not again surprise 

 myself with the same feeling of wonder and intoxi- 

 cation. But St. Paul's will bear many visits. I 

 came again and again, and never grew tired of it. 

 Crossing its threshold was entering another world, 

 where the silence and solitude were so profound and 

 overpowering that the noise of the streets outside, 

 or of the stream of visitors, or of the workmen en- 

 gaged on the statuary, made no impression. They 

 were all belittled, lost, like the humming of flies. 

 Even the afternoon services, the chanting, and the 

 tremendous organ, were no interruption, and left 

 me just as much alone as ever. They only served 

 to set off the silence, to fathom its depth. 



The dome of St. Paul's is the original of our 

 dome at Washington; but externally I think ours 

 is the more graceful of the two, though the effect 

 inside is tame and flat in comparison. This is 

 owing partly to the lesser size and height, and partly 

 to our hard, transparent atmosphere, which lends no 

 charm or illusion, but mainly to the stupid, unim- 

 aginative plan of it. Our dome shuts down like an 

 inverted iron pot; there is no vista, no outlook, no 

 relation, and hence no proportion. You open a 

 door and are in a circular pen, and can look in only 

 one direction, — up. If the iron pot were slashed 

 through here and there, or if it rested on a row of 

 tall columns or piers, and was shown to be a legiti- 

 mate part of the building, it would not appear the 

 exhausted receiver it does now. 



