That huge edifice with the cupola of bronze was the Cathedral of Shadows, where prayers were said in darkness and never a lamp was lit. The street which led to its very steps, that was called the Street of Sighs. Here, in a lighter part of the city, approached to its silent doors by Tight Street, was the Bat’s Theatre, where you could hear, but never see the performance as it progressed. A little further on there was Blind Alley—a cul-de-sac, terminating in a tiny building, the Chapel of Disappointment. There was the Avenue of Progress, the Church of Whispers, the Bridge of Stones and a thousand other places, the names of which went from me no sooner than they crossed my mind.
It may be possible to build a wonderful city in a night. I only know how utterly impossible it is to name all its streets and its palaces in one day.
And then, while I was still thus employed, I saw the man returning with a jug of beer.
I nodded to the vessel which he carried in his hand.
“You don’t need to think about that,” said I, “to understand it.”
A broad grin spread across his face. He had found me sane after all. I had talked about beer in terms of bodily comfort.
“I need to drink it,” said he with a laugh.
“You do,” said I.
Then, as if to appease me for the moment e’er he passed on his way, he returned to our former subject and, with a serious voice, he said—