mpets held downwards, so that their blast goes round the
world and through it; and the dead are rising between the robes of the
angels with their hands many of them lifted to heaven; and above them and
below them are deep bands of wrought flowers; and in the vaulting of the
porch are eight bands of niches with many, many figures carved therein;
and in the first row in the lowest niche Abraham stands with the saved
souls in the folds of his raiment. In the next row and in the rest of
the niches are angels with their hands folded in prayer; and in the next
row angels again, bearing the souls over, of which they had charge in
life; and this is, I think, the most gloriously carved of all those in
the vaulting. Then martyrs come bearing their palm-boughs; then priests
with the chalice, each of them; and others there are which I know not of.
But above the resurrection from the dead, in the tympanum, is the reward
of the good, and the punishment of the bad. Peter standing there at the
gate, and the long line of the blessed entering one by one; each one
crowned as he enters by an angel waiting there; and above their heads a
cornice takes the shape of many angels stooping down to them to crown
them. But on the inferno side the devil drives before him the wicked,
all naked, presses them on toward hell-mouth, that gapes for them, and
above their heads the devil-cornice hangs and weighs on them. And above
these the Judge showing the wounds that were made for the salvation of
the world; and St. Mary and St. John kneeling on either side of Him, they
who stood so once at the Crucifixion; two angels carrying cross and spear
and nails; two others kneeling, and, above, other angels, with their
wings spread, and singing. Something like this is carved in the central
porch at Amiens.

Once more forgive me, I pray, for the poor way in which I have done even
that which I have attempted to do; and forgive me also for that which I
have left undone.

And now, farewell to the church that I love, to the carved
temple-mountain that rises so high above the water-meadows of the Somme,
above the grey roofs of the good town. Farewell to the sweep of the
arches, up from the bronze bishops lying at the west end, up to the belt
of solemn windows, where, through the painted glass, the light comes
solemnly. Farewell to the cavernous porches of the west front, so grey
under the fading August sun, grey with the wind-storms, grey with the
rain-storms,