The most wonderful and sublime things in nature and art are rarely appreciated at first view. Every visitor is disappointed at the first sight of Niagara. Mountains are not appreciated till we have dwelt long among them. Goethe was at first disturbed and confused by the impression which Switzerland produced on him. Only after repeated visits, he said, only in later years, when he visited those mountains as a mineralogist merely, could he converse with them at his ease. The sea is but a dead, monotonous waste, till we come to feel its immensity and power. London is but a great town till we have wandered in it, lost ourselves in it, studied it, in fine, till we have found it too great to be comprehended, when its marvelous proportions are expanded into a nation, and it is accepted as one of the great powers of the world. "The longer one stays in London," said a temporary resident, "the more it seems a mockery to say anything about it." "I remember," says an American traveler, "having read a glorious description of Milan cathedral, and a few days later I saw the temple myself. To my first view it was only a large marble church, fronting on an unpleasant square, and adorned with indistinct spires. I was shocked with disappointment. But when I spent a fortnight at Milan, and studied the cathedral in every light and through every part, I then saw that the description was far inadequate to the actuality." "When the visitor," says Hillard, "has passed into the interior of St. Peter's, and so far recovered from the first rush of tumultuous sensations which crowd upon him as to be able to look about him, he will be struck with, and, if not forewarned, disappointed at, the apparent want of magnitude." But he will find that the windows of the church are never opened, it is so immense as well as so complete; that it has its own atmosphere, and needs no supply from the world without; that the most zealous professor of ventilation would admit that there was no work for him to do here. "When we dream of the climate of heaven, we make it warmth without heat, and coolness without cold, like that of St. Peter's." It has been mentioned as a remarkable quality in Coleridge's mind that edifices excited little interest in him. "On his return from Italy, and after having resided for some time in Rome, I remember," says Cottle, "his describing to me the state of society; the characters of the popes and the cardinals; the gorgeous ceremonies, with the superstitions of the people; but not one word did he utter concerning St. Peter's, the Vatican, or the numerous antiquities of the place. I remember to have been with Mr. Coleridge at York on our journey into Durham, to see Mr. Wordsworth. After breakfast at the inn, perceiving Mr. C. engaged, I went out alone, to see the York minster, being in the way detained in a bookseller's shop. In the meantime, Mr. C., having missed me, set off in search of me. Supposing it probable