What does tiny Norwich, Conn., have in common with that most super-sized of all metropolises, New York City?

A cathedral named for Ireland's most famous saint (feast: March 17).

From the moment I spotted the sparkling, white-gray exterior of the Northeast's “other” Cathedral of St. Patrick, I knew it was every bit as much of a jewel as its more-famous namesake.

This St. Patrick's Cathedral occupies a prominent but quiet place in the historic town of 36,000. It went up in 1879 as a church and only became a cathedral in 1953, when the Diocese of Norwich was formed. The Gothic lines, triple spires, 216-foot bell tower and Monson granite — 1,600 stones for the walls — tell you that, right from the cornerstone ceremony, this was to be no ordinary edifice.

Providence, R.I., architect James Murphy is credited with the design. He was clearly influenced by fabled 19th-century church architect Patrick Charles Keely. And why not? Murphy was the master-architect's brother-in-law; he worked for Keely until 1875.

Today this awe-inspiring façade, the stone and grass plaza before it and the parish's memorial park across the street make for one inspiring sight. They combine to give off a peace that seems to radiate outward like ripples on a lake.

Inside, the beauty reaches heavenly heights. Light from the rows of stained-glass windows — simple designs in pastel blues and pinks, except for the monumental transept windows — fills the interior with a soft glow. Overhead, the distinct Gothic-ribbed ceiling forms graceful archways that telescope toward the sanctuary.

“Votive candles” shaped by the ends of pews follow the archways in procession down the main aisle, toward the altar. Each carved-end piece curves gracefully to a top that looks like a wooden “flame.” I could do not other but to pause long and silent to admire this extraordinary embellishment, nor could I stop myself from drinking in the sight of intricate ribbed vaults decorated with a superabundance of rosettes.

There's ornamentation of other sorts, too, such as fluted Corinthian columns. A beautiful balance and symmetry is at work here; it succeeds in lifting your heart and mind up to the Lord. Mary helps: You can ask her intercession in the shrine altar dedicated to her.

Robes of Green

Although the sanctuary was remodeled after Vatican II, the reverent and regal environment of the original remains. A carved-wood baldacchino with gold trim is every inch a fitting canopy above the cream and verde marble main altar. The eye is drawn to the rood beam above the altar with a crucifix, the Blessed Mother and St. John. It floats midway between the altar and the top of the baldacchino.

Polychrome images on columns in the sanctuary direct the attention to some important intercessors. On one, St. Anne and her young daughter Mary appear under a carved canopy. On the opposite fluted column, St. Anthony stands under a canopy of his own. And, near the top of the baldacchino, the patrons of Ireland, Sts. Patrick and Bridget, get the all-gold treatment in place of the polychrome.

At the Blessed Mother altar, Mary is honored in a white marble statue framed by a lovely, intricately carved wood screen that's highly ornamented with gold. St. Thérèse stands in a nearby transept; she seems poised to take requests to, and intercede with, her Heavenly Mistress and Lord. In the opposite transept, St. Joseph appears similarly inclined. His image in white marble occupies an honored position to the side of the tabernacle altar. This altar is the comforting place of daily Eucharistic adoration.

The nave's stained-glass windows feature a color scheme of soothing pastels. These were installed to replace the originals, which were blown out by the devastating 1938 New England hurricane. But in the transepts are gorgeous stained-glass scenes and portraits thought to be the originals, albeit with some restoration work done after the hurricane.

One major scene in glorious colors presents the Annunciation. Mary, with her eyes cast down, wears an expression of absolute humility, providing a gentle lesson in that virtue at the same time. Gabriel projects the authority of a heavenly messenger. Slightly shorter windows flank this scene with portraits of Luke, who detailed the Annunciation in his Gospel, and John, who was entrusted with Mary's care.

The other transept window shows St. Patrick, robed in brilliant emerald green, preaching to the rulers and people at Tara. From either side window, Matthew and Mark ponder his sermon.

Marching Angels

The beauty and precision of these windows is such that they might owe their origins to one of the world-renowned German studios back then — Mayer in Munich — but it's difficult to say for sure. An expert told me that the scene with St. Patrick is just like ones in other “Mayer churches,” but someone here might have copied the stained-glass expert.

In any event, they're sumptuous. Next to both side altars, smaller windows are also attention-getters. They picture four great thinker-saints — Bonaventure, Gregory, Ambrose and Jerome.

If you're an observant visitor during a tour, you might already have the answer to a trivia question guides sometimes ask: How many angels can you count on the buttresses of the cathedral? I went back and found more than 20. (I won't say the exact number.) Whether you count or just contemplate, you'll find much to admire in these heavenly beings who stand atop the fancy Corinthian capitals, their hands folded in fervent prayer. They form a parade, supporting each buttress along the aisles. At each transept corner they become triplets holding scrolls.

The construction of this grand, holy place was a remarkable feat in the 1870s. Father Daniel Mullin, a Civil War chaplain, had a “10-cents-a-week plan” that enabled working families to raise the money. The poor immigrants came through, scraping together many tens of thousands of dimes to begin the building. Parishioners even dug out the foundation themselves using only picks and shovels.

The pastor died before the first Mass was held on St. Patrick's Day in 1879. The church was officially dedicated on Sept. 28 of that same year. In 1911 it was solemnly consecrated. Then, in 1953, this rare jewel of a church became a St. Patrick Cathedral second to none.

Thinking about the history of the church built by the hard work and sacrifice of so many poor immigrants who wanted something grand for God, I found myself wondering if, from the very start, Father Mullin didn't envision St. Patrick's as a cathedral someday. If not, the pleased patron saint must have been so happy with the results that he himself put in a special word.

Joseph Pronechen writes from Trumbull, Connecticut.