The Cathedrals of Southern France

TOO often—it is a half-acknowledged delusion, however—one meets with what appears to
be a theory: that a book of travel must necessarily be a series of dull, discursive, and entirely
uncorroborated opinions of one who may not be even an intelligent observer. This is mere
intellectual pretence. Even a humble author—so long as he be an honest one—may well be
allowed to claim with Mr. Howells the right to be serious, or the reverse, "with his material as
he finds it;" and that "something personally experienced can only be realized on the spot
where it was lived." This, says he, is "the prime use of travel, and the attempt to create the
reader a partner in the enterprise" ... must be the excuse, then, for putting one's observations
on paper.
He rightly says, too, that nothing of perilous adventure is to-day any more like to happen "in
Florence than in Fitchburg."
A "literary tour," a "cathedral tour," or an "architectural tour," requires a formula wherein the
author must be wary of making questionable estimates; but he may, with regard to
generalities,—or details, for that matter,—state his opinion plainly; but he should state also
his reasons. With respect to church architecture no average reader, any more than the average
observer, willingly enters the arena of intellectual combat, but rather is satisfied—as he
should be, unless he is a Freeman, a Gonse, or a Corroyer—with an ampler radius which shall
command even a juster, though no less truthful, view.