I did not know they were furniture-vans;at the first glance and in the smoky distance I thought they were a row of cottages.A low stone wall cut off the wheels,and the vans were somewhat of the same colour as the yellowish clay or stone of the buildings around them.I had come across that interminable Eastern plain which is like the open sea,and all the more so because the one small hill and tower of Lincoln stands up in it like a light-house.I had climbed the sharp,crooked streets up to this ecclesiastical citadel;just in front of me was a flourishing and richly coloured kitchen garden;beyond that was the low stone wall;beyond that the row of vans that looked like houses;and beyond and above that,straight and swift and dark,light as a flight of birds,and terrible as the Tower of Babel,Lincoln Cathedral seemed to rise out of human sight.
As I looked at it I asked myself the questions that I have asked here;what was the soul in all those stones?They were varied,but it was not variety;they were solemn,but it was not solemnity;they were farcical,but it was not farce.What is it in them that thrills and soothes a man of our blood and history,that is not there in an Egyptian pyramid or an Indian temple or a Chinese pagoda?All of a sudden the vans I had mistaken for cottages began to move away to the left.In the start this gave to my eye and mind I really fancied that the Cathedral was moving towards the right.The two huge towers seemed to start striding across the plain like the two legs of some giant whose body was covered with the clouds.Then I saw what it was.
The truth about Gothic is,first,that it is alive,and second,that it is on the march.It is the Church Militant;it is the only fighting architecture.All its spires are spears at rest;and all its stones are stones asleep in a catapult.In that instant of illusion,I could hear the arches clash like swords as they crossed each other.The mighty and numberless columns seemed to go swinging by like the huge feet of imperial elephants.The graven foliage wreathed and blew like banners going into battle;the silence was deafening with ail the mingled noises of a military march;the great bell shook down,as the organ shook up its thunder.The thirsty-throated gargoyles shouted like trumpets from all the roofs and pinnacles as they passed;and from the lectern in the core of the cathedral the eagle of the awful evangelist clashed his wings of brass.
And amid all the noises I seemed to hear the voice of a man shouting in the midst like one ordering regiments hither and thither in the fight;the voice of the great half-military master-builder;the architect of spears.I could almost fancy he wore armour while he made that church;and I knew indeed that,under a scriptural figure,he had borne in either hand the trowel and the sword.
I could imagine for the moment that the whole of that house of life had marched out of the sacred East,alive and interlocked,like an army.
Some Eastern nomad had found it solid and silent in the red circle of the desert.He had slept by it as by a world-forgotten pyramid;and been woke at midnight by the wings of stone and brass,the tramping of the tall pillars,the trumpets of the waterspouts.On such a night every snake or sea-beast must have turned and twisted in every crypt or corner of the architecture.And the fiercely coloured saints marching eternally in the flamboyant windows would have carried their glorioles like torches across dark lands and distant seas;till the whole mountain of music and darkness and lights descended roaring on the lonely Lincoln hill.So for some hundred and sixty seconds I saw the battle-beauty of the Gothic;then the last furniture-van shifted itself away;and I saw only a church tower in a quiet English town,round which the English birds were floating.
