as this one, but I do not remember ever to have been so fascinated by superpositions and vertical effects. The endless upward reach of the great west front, the clear, silvery tone of its surface, the way three or four magnificent features are made to occupy its serene expanse, its simplicity, majesty, and dignity — these things crowd upon one's sense with a force that makes the act of vision seem for the moment almost all of life. Certainly there is an inexpressible harmony in the façade of Chartres. The doors are rather low, as those of the English cathedrals are apt to be, but (standing three together) are set in a deep framework of sculpture rows of arching grooves, filled with admirable little images, standing with their heels on each other's heads. . . . Above the triple portals is a vast round-topped window, in three divisions, of the grandest dimensions and the stateliest effect. Above this window is a circular aperture, of huge circumference, with a double row of sculptured spokes radiating from its centre and looking on its lofty field of stone as expansive and symbolic as if it were the wheel of Time itself. Higher still is a little gallery with a delicate balustrade, supported on a beautiful cornice and stretching across the front from tower to tower; and above this is a range of niched statues of kings-fifteen, I believe, in number. Above the statues is a gable, with an image of the Virgin and Child on its front, and another of Christ on its apex. In the relation of all these parts there is such a high felicity that while on the one side the eye rests on a great many large blanks there is no approach on the other to poverty. . . . The two great towers of the cathedral are among the noblest of their kind. They rise in solid simplicity to a height as great as the eye often troubles itself to travel, and then suddenly they begin to execute a magnificent series of feats in architectural gymnastics. This is especially true of the northern spire, which is a late creation, dating from the sixteenth century. The other is relatively quiet; but its companion is a sort of tapering bouquet of sculptured stone. Statues and buttresses, gargoyles, arabesques, and crockets pile themselves in successive stages, until the eye loses the sense of everything but a sort of architectural lacework.1 Compare this description with the picture, and study the choice of words - both those that give swift impressions of broad aspects and those that picture specific details. Note particularly the happy use of figures "the wheel of Time," "a tapering bouquet of sculptured stone,” "architectural lacework." When a landscape is extended or complicated, one of the best ways of indicating the relative position of details is to use what is called a fundamental image that is, a familiar figure which depicts the shape or form of a place. Look for a few moments at the picture of the Bay of Monterey and think of a good comparison which suggests its shape. Then read Stevenson's description and see how effective is General Sherman's figure of the bent fishing-hook, and how skillfully Stevenson arranges the details with reference to this image. The Bay of Monterey has been compared by no less a person than General Sherman to a bent fishing-hook; and the comparison, if less important than the march through Georgia, still shows the eye of a soldier for topography. Santa Cruz sits exposed at the shank; the mouth of the Salinas River is at the middle of the bend; and Monterey itself is cosily ensconced beside the barb. Thus the ancient capital of California faces across the bay, while the Pacific Ocean, though hidden by low hills and forests, bombards her left flank and rear with neverdying surf. In front of the town, the long line of sea-beach trends north and northwest, and then westward to enclose the bay. The waves which lap so quietly about the jetties of Mon 1 Henry James, "Chartres," in Portraits of Places. terey grow louder and larger in the distance; you can see the breakers leaping high and white by day; at night, the outline of the shore is traced in transparent silver by the moonlight and the flying foam; and from all round, even in quiet weather, the low, distant, thrilling roar of the Pacific hangs over the coast and the adjacent country like smoke above a battle. . . . Inshore, a tract of sand-hills borders on the beach. . . The crouching, hardy live-oaks flourish singly or in thickets the kind of wood for murderers to crawl among - and here and there the skirts of the forest extend downward from the hills with a floor of turf and long aisles of pine-trees hung with Spaniard's Beard.1 3 There are many examples of "fundamental image." Thoreau compares Cape Cod to a bended arm; 2 Wordsworth, the valleys of the Lake Country to the spokes of a wheel; Victor Hugo, the field of Waterloo to the letter A. Turn next to the picture of the Palace of Fine Arts at the San Francisco Exposition. Observe the details minutely, think out an effective order to use, then write a description with attention to order and vivid phrasing. Finally compare your description with this: Sweeping in a great arc around the western shore of the lagoon, the Palace, in the architect's view, is merely a background for the water, the trees and the plants on the terraced walls and pergolas. Certainly it is a beautiful setting to a beautiful So perfectly are the Palace and its foreground fitted to each other that the structure looks as though it might have stood there for twenty centuries, a well-preserved Roman villa, while generations of trees grew, and decayed, and were reproduced around its base. scene. 1 R. L. Stevenson, "The Old Pacific Capital," in Across the Plains. 2 See College Readings, page 352. 3 See College Readings, page 361. |