thinner, more sparkling than the sky elsewhere? Does Cambridge burn not
only into the night, but into the day?

Look, as they pass into service, how airily the gowns blow out, as
though nothing dense and corporeal were within. What sculptured faces,
what certainty, authority controlled by piety, although great boots
march under the gowns. In what orderly procession they advance. Thick
wax candles stand upright; young men rise in white gowns; while the
subservient eagle bears up for inspection the great white book.

An inclined plane of light comes accurately through each window, purple
and yellow even in its most diffused dust, while, where it breaks upon
stone, that stone is softly chalked red, yellow, and purple. Neither
snow nor greenery, winter nor summer, has power over the old stained
glass. As the sides of a lantern protect the flame so that it burns
steady even in the wildest night--burns steady and gravely illumines the
tree-trunks--so inside the Chapel all was orderly. Gravely sounded the
voices; wisely the organ replied, as if buttressing human faith with the
assent of the elements. The white-robed figures crossed from side to
side; now mounted steps, now descended, all very orderly.

... If you stand a lantern under a tree every insect in the forest
creeps up to it--a curious assembly, since though they scramble and
swing and knock their heads against the glass, they seem to have no
purpose--something senseless inspires them. One gets tired of watching
them, as they amble round the lantern and blindly tap as if for
admittance, one large toad being the most besotted of any and
shouldering his way through the rest. Ah, but what's that? A terrifying
volley of pistol-shots rings out--cracks sharply; ripples spread--
silence laps smooth over sound. A tree--a tree has fallen, a sort of