It was arranged, during our walk, that Ellesmere should come and stay a day or two with me, and see the neighbouring cathedral, which is nearer my house than Milverton’s. The visit over, I brought him back to Worth-Ashton. Milverton saw us coming, walked down the hill to meet us, and after the usual greetings, began to talk to Ellesmere.
Milverton. So you have been to see our cathedral. I say “our,” for when a cathedral is within ten miles of us, we feel a property in it, and are ready to battle for its architectural merits.
Ellesmere. You know I am not a man to rave about cathedrals.
Milverton. I certainly do not expect you to do so. To me a cathedral is mostly somewhat of a sad sight. You have Grecian monuments, if anything so misplaced can be called Grecian, imbedded against and cutting into Gothic pillars; the doors shut for the greater part of the day; only a little bit of the building used: beadledom predominant; the clink of money here and there; white-wash in vigour; the singing indifferent; the sermons not indifferent but bad; and some visitors from London forming, perhaps, the most important part of the audience; in fact, the thing having become a show. We look about, thinking when piety filled every corner, and feel that the cathedral is too big for the Religion which is a dried-up thing that rattles in this empty space.
Ellesmere. This is the boldest simile I have heard for a long time. My theory about cathedrals is very different, I must confess.
Dunsford. Theory!
Ellesmere. Well, “theory” is not the word I ought to have used—feeling then. My feeling is, how strong this creature was, this worship, how beautiful, how alluring, how complete; but there was something stronger—truth.
Milverton. And more beautiful?
Ellesmere. Yes, and far more beautiful.
Milverton. Doubtless, to the free spirits who brought truth forward.