When one looks at a scene the eye
passes from one object to another near it; similarly when one is recalling
the scene the image of one thing naturally recalls that of an adjoining
one. A skillful writer takes advantage of this habit of thinking, and
states the details in his description in the order in which we would
naturally see them if we were actually looking at them. By so doing he
most easily presents to our minds the image he wishes to convey.
[Illustration]
In the following paragraphs notice that we get first an impression of the
general appearance, to which we are enabled to add new details as the
description proceeds.
The companion of the church dignitary was a man past forty, thin, strong,
tall, and muscular; an athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant
exercise seemed to have left none of the softer part of the human form,
having reduced the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained
a thousand toils, and were ready to dare a thousand more. His head was
covered with a scarlet cap, faced with fur, of that kind which the French
call _mortier_, from its resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar.
His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and its expression was
calculated to impress a degree of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers.
High features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt
almost into negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun, and
might, in their ordinary state, be said to slumber after the storm of
passion had passed away; but the projection of the veins of the forehead,
the readiness with which the upper lip and its thick black mustache
quivered upon the slightest emotion, plainly intimated that the tempest
might be again and easily awakened.
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