LESSON LXXIV.

DESCRIPTION.

Composition that presents a picture of an object or a place is called description.

The three classes of objects that we most frequently desire to describe are (1) material objects, as buildings, (2) natural scenery, and (3) persons.

THE LEADING PRINCIPLES OF DESCRIPTION.

1. A general plan of the whole should be included with the enumeration of the parts. The form and magnitude of objects often furnish this plan.

2. The object or scene should be described from the most favorable point of view.

3. The most striking and interesting features should be selected and arranged so that they will easily combine into a whole. Aim to give the reader a distinct and vivid picture of the subject.

MODELS.

I. THE POND IN THE WOOD.

As soon as you get inside the belt of wood, and begin to go down to the pond, the damp, and the dusk, and the scent of the dead leaves make you feel as if you were in a very old church. Plenty of wake-robin also grows in the wood, with its leaves like spotted spearheads, and its stumpy red and purple pencils wrapped up in faded green satin (“lords and ladies,” I think we used to call them when I was a youngster). The sweet flag grows all about the pond, and in it too. The corn-flag brightens up its banks with great yellow flowers; and the iris nods its purple blossoms on them, looking a great deal nicer than it smells. Big tangled sheaves of bright green forget-me-not, dotted with tiny stars of blue and gold, bulge over and into, and straggle along, the water. A great part of the pond is choked and carpeted with crow-silk and water-flannel, and moor-ball, spangled with glassy air-bubbles and bright-backed little beetles. White water-lilies, and yellow water-lilies spread a splendid service of china and gold on glossy green table-cloths, for the water-fairies to take supper off by moonlight; and yet, for all that, the great pond is a melancholy place. Big fish mope motionless in its corners, as if they had something on their minds. Little fish leap through its duck-weed, almost covered with the green scum, not as if they did it for the fun of the jump and splash, but to keep for a moment out of the jaws of the shark-like pike that is waiting for them. The pond’s great pike—it has only one, according to village report—is said to have dragged into its waters a dog that came to lap them. No one ever bathes in the pond. Steel-blue dragon-flies zig-zag over the water on their gauzy wings, and two or three kingfishers flash backwards and forwards across it like streaks of variegated lightning.—Anon.

II. SUNSET ON DERWENTWATER.

Then we went down to Derwentwater. It was a warm and clear twilight. Between the dark green lines of the hedges we met maidens in white, with scarlet opera cloaks, coming home through the narrow lane. Then we got into the open, and found the shores of the silver lake, and got into a boat and sailed out upon the still waters, so that we could face the wonders of a brilliant sunset.

But all that glow of red and yellow in the north-west was as nothing to the strange gradations of colour that appeared along the splendid range of mountain-peaks beyond the lake. From the remote north round to the south-east they stretched like a mighty wall; and whereas, near the gold and crimson of the sunset they were of a warm, roseate, and half-transparent purple, as they came along into the darker regions of the twilight they grew more and more cold in hue and harsh in outline. Up there in the north they had caught the magic colors, so that they themselves seemed but light clouds of beautiful vapor; but, as the eye followed the line of twisted and mighty shapes, the rose color deepened into purple, the purple grew darker and more dark, and greens and blues began to appear over the wooded islands and shores of Derwentwater. Finally, away down there in the south, there was a lowering sky, into which rose wild masses of slate-colored mountains, and in the threatening and yet clear darkness that reigned among these solitudes we could see but one small tuft of white cloud that clung coldly to the gloomy summit of Glaramara.

That strange darkness in the south boded rain; and, as if in anticipation of the wet, the fires of the sunset went down, and a gray twilight fell over the land. As we walked home between the tall hedges, there was a chill dampness in the air; and we seemed to know that we had at last bade good-bye to the beautiful weather that had lit up for us the blue water and green shores of Grasmere.—William Black.

EXERCISE I.

Examine each of these selections for the leading principles of description.

EXERCISE II.

Describe the scene in a picture hanging in your school-room, or an incident that it suggests.

EXERCISE III.

Write a description of one of the following:—

1.Sunrise at Sea.
2.Evening.
3.A Wet Day in the Country.
4.The Phases of the Sky.
5.A Waterfall.
6.A Moonlight Scene.
7.Night.
8.A Snowstorm.
9.A Scene in Autumn.
10.An Inland Lake.

A plan for the first subject:—

Introduction.{The occasion, vessel, party, arrangements the night before.
{Coming on deck next morning.
{Sky and water before dawn.
Details.{Indications that the eye of day is coming.
{The sun appears.
{Sky and water afterwards.
Conclusion.{General effect of scene.

MODELS—(Continued).

III. SLEEPY HOLLOW.

Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow; and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere.

Certain it is that the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions. Stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country; and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to dream dreams, and see apparitions.—Washington Irving.

IV. VIEW OF LISBON.

Lisbon, like ancient Rome, is built on at least seven hills. It is fitted by situation to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Seated, or rather enthroned, on such a spot, commanding a magnificent harbor, and overlooking one of the noblest rivers of Europe, it might be more distinguished for external beauty than Athens in the days of her freedom. Now, it seems rather to be the theatre in which the two great powers of deformity and loveliness are perpetually struggling for the mastery. The highest admiration and the most sickening disgust alternately prevail in the mind of the beholder. Never was there so strange an intermixture of the mighty and the mean—of the pride of wealth and the abjectness of poverty—of the memorials of greatness and the symbols of low misery—of the filthy and the romantic. I will dwell, however, on the fair side of the picture; as I envy not those who delight in exhibiting the frightful or the gloomy in the moral or natural world. Often after traversing dark and wretched streets, at a sudden turn, a prospect of inimitable beauty bursts on the eye of the spectator. He finds himself, perhaps, on the brink of a mighty hollow, scooped out by nature amidst hills, all covered to the top with edifices, save where groves of the freshest verdure are interspersed; or on one side a mountain rises into a cone far above the city, tufted with woods, and crowned with some castellated pile, the work of other days. The views fronting the Tagus are still more extensive and grand. On one of these I stumbled a few evenings after my arrival, which almost suspended the breath with wonder. I had labored through a steep and narrow street almost choked with dirt, when a small avenue on one side, apparently more open, tempted me to step aside to breathe the fresher air. I found myself on a little plot of ground, hanging apparently in the air, in the front of one of the churches. I stood against the column of the portico absorbed in delight and wonder. Before me lay a large portion of the city—houses descended beneath houses, sinking almost precipitously to a fearful depth beneath me, whose frameworks, covered over with vines of delicate green, broke the ascent like prodigious steps, by which a giant might scale the eminence. The same “wilderness of buildings” filled up the vast hollow, and rose by a more easy slope to the top of the opposite hills, which were crowned with turrets, domes, mansions, and regal pavilions of a dazzling whiteness. Beyond the Tagus, on the southern shore, the coast rose into wild and barren hills, wearing an aspect of the roughest sublimity and grandeur, and in the midst, occupying the bosom of the great vale, between the glorious city and the unknown wilds, lay the calm and majestic river, from two to three miles in width, seen with the utmost distinctness to its mouth, on each of which the two castles which guard it were visible, and spread over with a thousand ships—onward, yet further, far as the eye could reach, the living ocean was glistening, and ships, like specks of purest white, were seen crossing it to and fro, giving to the scene an imaginary extension, by carrying the mind with them to far distant shores. It was the time of sunset, and clouds of the richest saffron rested on the bosom of the air, and were reflected in softer tints in the waters. Not a whisper reached the ear. “The holy time was quiet as a nun breathless with adoration.” The scene looked like some vision of blissful enchantment, and I scarcely dared to stir or breathe lest it should vanish away.—Talfourd.

V. PEN-PICTURE OF THE SCENE AT ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL.

June 22nd, 1897.

Riding three-and-three, came a kaleidoscope of dazzling horsemen, equerries, aides-de-camp, attaches, ambassadors and princes, all the pomp of all the nations of the earth—scarlet and gold, azure and gold, purple and gold, emerald and gold, white and gold—always a changing tumult of colors that seemed to live and gleam with a light of their own. It was enough. No eye could bear more gorgeousness. No more gorgeousness could there be, unless princes are to clothe themselves in rainbows and the very sun.

The prelude was played, and now the great moment was at hand. Already carriages were rolling up full of the Queen’s kindred, full of her children and children’s children, but we hardly looked at them. Down there, through an avenue of eager faces, through a storm of white, waving handkerchiefs, through roaring volleys of cheers, there was approaching a carriage drawn by eight cream-colored horses. The roar surged up the street, keeping pace with the eight horses. The carriage passed the barrier; it entered the churchyard; it wheeled left and then right. It drove up to the very steps of the Cathedral.

We all leaped up. Cheers broke into screams, and the enthusiasm swelled to delirium. The sun, watery until now, shone out suddenly, clear and dry, and there was a little, plain, flushed old lady, all in black, with a silver streak under her black bonnet, and with a simple white sunshade, sitting quite still, with the corners of her mouth drawn tight, as if she was trying not to cry; but that old lady was the Queen and you knew it. You did not want to look at the glittering uniforms now, nor yet at the bright gowns and young faces in the carriages, nor yet at the stately princes, though by now all these were ranged in a half-circle round her. You could not look at anybody but the Queen, so very quiet, so very grave, so very punctual, and so unmistakably every inch a lady and a Queen.

It was almost pathetic, if you will, that small, black figure, in the middle of these shining cavaliers, this great army, this roaring multitude, but it was also very glorious. When other kings of the world drive abroad, an escort rides close at the wheels of their carriages. The Queen drove through her people quite plain and open, with just one soldier at the curbstone between her and them. Why not? They are quite free. They have no cause to fear her. They have much cause to love her. Was it not all for her; gala trappings of the streets, men, horses, guns and the living walls of British men and women? for the Queen summed up all that had gone before—all the soldiers and sailors, the big-limbed colonials, and the strange men from unheard-of islands over the sea. We know now what that which had come before all stood for. We know as we had never known before what the Queen stands for. The Empire had come together to revere and bless the mother of the Empire; the mother of the Empire had come to do homage to the one Being more majestic than she.

There were the archbishops, bishops and deans, in gold and crimson caps, and white, orange and gold embroidered vestments, waiting on the steps. There, through gaps in the pillars and scaffoldings, you could see all her Ministers and great men, a strange glimpse of miniature faces, as in some carefully labored picture, where each face stands for an honored name.

All stood, and the choir sang the Te Deum. Next rose up a melodious voice intoning prayers. The Queen bowed her head, and then the whole choir and the company outside the Cathedral and the whole company in the stands, at the windows, on the house tops, and away down the street, all standing, all uncovered, began to sing the One Hundredth Psalm: “Come ye before Him and rejoice.” The Queen’s lips were tight, and her eyes, perhaps it was fancy, looked dim; but then, “Three cheers for the Queen,” and the Dean, pious man, was wildly waving that wonderful crimson cap, and the pillars and roofs were ringing as if they must come down. Then “God Save the Queen,” a lusty peal, till you felt drowned in sound.

The Queen looked up and smiled, and the Queen’s smile was the end of it all—a smile that broke down the sad mouth—a smile that seemed half-reluctant, so wistful, yet so kind, so sincere, so motherly.—G. W. Steevens in London Daily Mail.

EXERCISE I.

Examine each of the foregoing passages for principles of description. Notice the way in which the theme is introduced, the selection and arrangement of details, and the effective conclusion.

EXERCISE II.

Write a description of one of the following:—

1.A Funeral in the Country.
2.A Shipwreck.
3.Trusty—Our Dog.
4.A Pasture Field.
5.A Castle in Ruins.
6.Laying the Foundation-stone of a Church.
7.A Village Churchyard.
8.Arbor Day.
9.An Old Man.
10.Early Settlement Life in Canada.

A plan for the first subject:—

Introduction.{A brief account of the dead.
{The gathering of the people at the house.
{Leaving the house.
{The procession to the village church.
Details.{The service in the church.
{Scene at the grave.
{How the people withdrew.
Conclusion.{Reflections on life and death.