I was not consoled. I wanted simply the spectacle, the
picture, and I didn't care in the least for the classification. Old
Roman fragments exposed to light in the open air, under a southern sky,
in a quadrangle round a garden, have an immortal charm simply in their
general effect; and the charm is all the greater when the soil of the
very place has yielded them up.

[Illustration]

Chapter xxi

[Toulouse: Saint-Sernin]

My real consolation was an hour I spent in Saint-Sernin, one of the
noblest churches in southern France, and easily the first among those of
Toulouse. This great structure, a masterpiece of twelfth-century
romanesque and dedicated to Saint Saturninus--the Toulousains have
abbreviated--is, I think, alone worth a journey to Toulouse. What makes
it so is the extraordinary seriousness of its interior; no other term
occurs to me as expressing so well the character of its clear grey nave.
As a general thing, I favour little the fashion of attributing moral
qualities to buildings; I shrink from talking about tender cornices and
sincere campanili; but one feels that one can scarce get on without
imputing some sort of morality to Saint-Sernin. As it stands to-day, the
church has been completely restored by Viollet-le-Duc. The exterior is
of brick, and has little charm save that of a tower of four rows of
arches, narrowing together as they ascend. The nave is of great length
and height, the barrel-roof of stone, the effect of the round arches and
pillars in the triforium especially fine. There are two low aisles on
either side. The choir is very deep and narrow; it seems to close
together, and looks as if it were meant for intensely earnest rites. The
transepts are most noble, especially the arches of the second tier. The
whole church is narrow for its length and is singularly complete and
homogeneous. As I say all this I feel that I quite fail to give an
impression of its manly gravity, its strong proportions, or of the
lonesome look of its renovated stones as I sat there while the October
twilight gathered. It is a real work of art, a high conception. The
crypt, into which I was eventually led captive by an importunate
sacristan, is quite another affair, though indeed I suppose it may also
be spoken of as a work of art. It is a rich museum of relics, and
contains the head of Saint Thomas Aquinas wrapped up in a napkin and
exhibited in a glass case. The sacristan took a lamp and guided me
about, pre