Of all known architectural forms the Gothic corresponds more nearly to the finest impulse in nature itself--that is, to produce the floreated form. The aisles of the trees are no more appealing artistically than those of a great cathedral, and the overhanging branches through which the light falls have not much more charm than some of these perfect Gothic ceilings sustained by their many branching arms of stone. Much had happened, apparently, to the magnificent stained-glass windows which must have filled the tall-pointed openings at different periods, and many of them have been replaced by plain frosted glass. Those that remain are of such richness of color and such delightful variety of workmanship that, seen at the end of long stretches of aisles and ambulatories, they are like splotches of blood or deep indigo, throwing a strange light on the surrounding stone. I presently fell in tow of a guide. It is said to-day that Americans are more like the Germans than like the English; but from the types I encountered in England I think the variety of American temperaments spring naturally from the mother country. Four more typical New England village specimens I never saw than these cathedral ushers or guides. They were sitting on the steps leading up to the choir, clad in cap and gown, engaged in cheerful gossip. “Your turn, Henry,” said one, and the tallest of the three came around and unlocked the great iron gates which give into the choir. Then began, for my special benefit, a magnificent oration. We were joined, after we had gone a little way, by a party of ladies from Pennsylvania who were lurking in one of the transepts; and nothing would do but my guide must go back to the iron entrance-way to the choir and begin all over. Not a sentence was twisted, not a pause misplaced. “Good heavens,” I thought, “he does that every day in the year, perhaps a dozen times a day.” He was like a phonograph with but one record, which is repeated endlessly. Nevertheless, the history of the archbishops, the Black Prince, the Huguenot refugees, the carving of the woodwork and the disappearance of the windows was all interesting. After having made the rounds of the cathedral, we came out into the cloister, the corridors of which were all black and crumbling with age, and he indicated the spot and described the manner in which Becket had been stabbed and had fallen. I don’t know when a bit of history has moved me so much. It was the day--the gentle quality of it--its very spring-like texture that made it all so wonderful. The grass in this black court was as green as new lettuce; the pendants and facets of the arches were crumbling into black sand--and spoke seemingly of a thousand years. High overhead the towers and the pinnacles, soaring as gracefully as winged living things, looked down while I faced the black-gowned figure of my guide and thought of the ancient archbishop crossing this self-same turf (how long can be the life of grass?).