The first sign of sanctity that we saw, as we came out at the end of a
street, was the mass of churches built on the rising ground above the
river. Imagine first a great oval of open ground, perhaps two hundred by
three hundred yards in area, crowded now with groups as busy as ants,
partly embraced by two long white curving arms of masonry rising
steadily to their junction; at the point on this side where the ends
should meet if they were prolonged, stands a white stone image of Our
Lady upon a pedestal, crowned, and half surrounded from beneath by some
kind of metallic garland arching upward. At the farther end the two
curves of masonry of which I have spoken, rising all the way by steps,
meet upon a terrace. This terrace is, so to speak, the centre of gravity
of the whole.

For just above it stands the flattened dome of the Rosary Church, of
which the doors are beneath the terrace, placed upon broad flights of
steps. Immediately above the dome is the entrance to the crypt of the
basilica; and, above that again, reached by further flights of steps,
are the doors of the basilica; and, above it, the roof of the church
itself, with its soaring white spire high over all.

Let me be frank. These buildings are not really beautiful. They are
enormous, but they are not impressive; they are elaborate and fine and
white, but they are not graceful. I am not sure what is the matter with
them; but I think it is that they appear to be turned out of a machine.
They are too trim; they are like a well-dressed man who is not quite a
gentleman; they are like a wedding guest; they are _haute-bourgeoise_,
they are not the nobility. It is a terrible pity, but I suppose it could
not be helped, since they were allowed so little time to grow. There is
no sense of reflectiveness about them, no patient growth of character,
as in those glorious cathedrals, Amiens, Chartres, Beauvais, which I had