duces into the story matter which has only a very remote connection with it. Thus Victor Hugo gives in Les Misérables a full account of the battle of Waterloo, forty to fifty pages in length, the sole thread of connection being the circumstance that the father of the young hero, Marius, was wounded in the battle. Even Macaulay, who usually keeps closely to his subject, digresses occasionally, e. g., in the essay on Warren Hastings. Here he devotes three or four long paragraphs to considering the question whether Philip Francis was the author of the Junius letters, although the question has no bearing whatever upon the quarrel between Francis and Hastings.

29. Episode. This term is not easily defined, and has often been misapplied. A genuine episode depends upon two conditions: the actors in it are not the principal persons of the story, but minor characters; the action, although growing out of the main story, is not an essential part. Furthermore, the episode is narrated continuously, i. e., it is given all in one place, without interruption, and is readily detached from the main narrative.

The Battle of Beal' an Duine (Lady of the Lake, canto vi.) is an episode. Also the trial and execution of Constance and the Monk (Marmion, canto ii.); in the Eneid, - the adventure of Nisus and Euryalus (book ix.); in Swift's satire of The Battle of the Books, the episode of Bentley and Wotton, modelled to some extent after Nisus and Euryalus. Matthew Arnold has called his Sohrab and Rustum an episode because it commemorates a minor incident in the protracted struggle between the Tartars and Persians. Note the abrupt beginning: "And the first gray of morning filled the east."

There are not very many genuine episodes in the books, ancient or modern, commonly read. The passages frequently termed episodes are in reality incidents of the main narrative expanded to disproportionate length: thus, the parting of Hector from Andromache and Astyanax

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(Iliad, vi.); the meeting of Odysseus and Nausikaa (Odyssey, vi.). It may also be noted that these two passages, and others like them in other books, are famous for beauty of style and conception. Their authors have evidently bestowed upon them more than usual care. The trialscene in The Heart of Midlothian, the very different trialscene in the Pickwick Papers, the death of Judge Pyncheon in The House of the Seven Gables, display each the peculiar gift of the author at its best.

30. Intercalated Narrative.-Occasionally we find inserted in the body of the main narrative a story quite independent of, and yet bearing upon it, e. g., the story told by Wandering Willie in Red Gauntlet (I., letter xi.). This, probably Scott's most brilliant short story, might with perfect ease be detached from its present place and printed as a separate narrative. Nevertheless, it plays a part in the main narrative by giving a vivid sketch of Darsie Latimer's ancestry. Better still is the story of Alice Pyncheon in The House of the Seven Gables (ch. xiii.). The narrator, Holgrave, introduces it as a story which he means "to publish in a magazine;" and in truth it might very well have been printed in the Godey or Graham of 1851. But no one can read it in its actual place without instantly perceiving that it has a direct, almost organic, connection with the main story. The tale of the Elfin Knight (Marmion, iii. 19-25) has also its bearing upon Marmion's fortunes. But The Stroller's Tale, The Convict's Return, A Madman's Manuscript, foisted into the Pickwick Papers (chs. iii., vi., xi.), have nothing whatever to do with the adventures of Mr. Pickwick and his friends; they are mere "padding."

31. Retarded and Accelerated Movement.—In every long narrative the action moves in one place more rapidly, in another more slowly. This accelerated or retarded movement is usually the result of design on the part of the writer.

The movement may be retarded either by dwelling upon descriptive details or by introducing a number of minor actions. Thus, in The House of the Seven Gables (ch. ii.), the description of the shop and its contents, and the mixed narrative-description of Hepzibah's clumsy attempts to put her wares in order, intensify our sense of her misery. In chapter iii. the visits of Holgrave and Dixey, kindhearted callers rather than customers, contrast with, and, by the feeling of suspense which they produce, give emphasis to, the coming of the first real customer, the small boy in quest of gingerbread. Also the first half of ch. xvi. is retarded narrative. The interval from Hepzibah's leaving Judge Pyncheon until her return to the parlor is actually only a few minutes, but the visions of terror that crowd her imagination make it seem an hour. In The Lady of the Lake (vi. 1-7) the description of the guardroom and its rude soldiers after a night of revelry enhances the effect of Ellen's unexpected appearance. In the Merchant of Venice (iv. 1, the trial scene), every appeal for mercy is exhausted by the Duke, Bassanio, Portia. This brings out Shylock's character and intensifies our suspense, until the turn comes abruptly with Portia's

Tarry a little; there is something else.

On the other hand, movement may be accelerated by suppressing descriptive details and giving only the essential features of the action in short, nervous phrases, or by summing up the incidents in brief. Even the youngest reader will not fail to detect the difference, e. g., in Gulliver's Travels, when the voyage from Lilliput back to England is narrated.

- One of the best specimens of alternate retarded and accelerated movement is in De Quincey's The English MailCoach, the section called The Vision of Sudden Death. The writer is giving an incident of his own experience; he tells how the heavy mail-coach on which he was a passenger

nearly ran down, while tearing along by night at full gallop, a slight gig in which were two lovers. As it was, the swingle-bar, or perhaps the haunch of the near leader, struck the gig and almost overturned it. The concluding paragraphs give the scene as viewed by De Quincey looking back from his seat on the coach-box:

Here was the map of the passion that now had finished. The horse was planted immovably, with his fore feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He, of the whole party, might be supposed untouched by the passion of death. The little cany carriage-partly, perhaps, from the violent torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it—as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man trembled not, nor shivered. He sat like a rock. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round, for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. But the lady—

But the lady-Oh, heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing? Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstances of that unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night-from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight-from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love-suddenly as from the woods and fields—suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in revelation-suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice.

The moments were numbered; the strife was finished; the vision was closed. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle ; at the right angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever.-— DE QUINCEY: Mail-Coach, xiii. 317.

Observe in the first paragraph the map of the passion, the immobility of the young man. In the second, observe the frantic movements of the lady, then the quiet, leisurely

enumeration of the elements of the situation, ending in the rush and roar of Death. In the third, note the intense rapidity, how each phrase seems to imitate the hoof-beats of the flying horses.

Without presuming to rival De Quincey, the young writer should at least test occasionally his ability to accelerate and retard in narrating. The effort is well worth making. It will perhaps help to cure the faults of monotony and stiffness. But to this end one must study closely the manner of the best writers, noting the devices by which they keep us in suspense or hurry us on.

For Vivacity in narrating, see Historical Present, § 97.

32. Narration Supported by Description.—A narrative may be restricted to the mere statement of what has been done or said. But usually it is accompanied by description-viz. of the place of action (scene), of the persons taking part, and the like.

In narrating an event in nature, e. g., a storm or an earthquake, some description of the place is necessary. And this holds good of the narration of real life, i. e., biography and history. An account of the life of Washington would scarcely be intelligible without some description of Virginia and the other colonies in the eighteenth century. The story of the discovery of America by Columbus would lose much of its fascination were the narrator to omit all description of the vessels in which the voyage was made and of the crews who manned them.

In fiction the story-teller may exercise his discretion. Usually description is omitted from a short story, for the sake of condensation, or is introduced very sparingly. Yet even in short stories the practice varies. Contrast the lack of description in Irving's story of The Wife with the wealth of description in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

When properly used, description gives a touch of reality, a bodily substance, to the action and the characters. This may be verified by trying to imagine what The Legend