pressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood for some moments, each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly and with great caution to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modern fencer's, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his small glittering eyes from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly, when Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the retiarius threw himself forward and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the gladiator from the deadly snare. He uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed upon Niger; but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists with a swiftness which the persecutor in vain endeavored to excel. The people laughed and shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered gladiator to overtake the flying giant. "A Sporus! a Sporus!" shouted the populace, as Niger, having now suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this time with sufficient agility, — the sword of Sporus had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman. His great height and length of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable advantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled him successfully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by great rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost his caution, he advanced too near to the giant, raised his arm to strike, and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his breast! He sank on his knee. In a moment more the deadly net was cast over him, he struggled against its meshes in vain. Again, again, again he writhed. mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident! His blood flowed fast through the net and redly over the sand! He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of defeat. -BULWER: Last Days of Pompeii, Bk. V, chap. ii. C. Make a plot for a story from one of the following combina tions: 1. A careless lawyer, a lost will, two misdirected letters. 2. A fighting dog, a small boy, an organ-grinder with monkey, a policeman. 3. An auction, a picture, a tramp, a rich buyer. 4. A school fire at night, a class flag, a venturesome boy. 5. A school club with nothing to do, a poor widow, a house with leaky roof, a boy, a speech. The Point of the Story. 89. Every good narrative has a "point," a meaning, a central idea, which is its reason for coming into existence and its excuse for being told at all. Sometimes the point is obvious, as in the fable, where it takes the form of a moral plainly stated at the close. But in most cases the point is not stated; the reader is left to draw it out as best he can from the incidents of the narrative. still other cases the writer takes pains to conceal the point of his story because he fears that too plain an exhibition of it will check the reader's interest. 90. Assignment on the Point of the Story. In What is the point of the following story of the Man and the Good People? State it in a single brief sentence. Alan was the first to come round. He rose, went to the border of the wood, peered out a little, and then returned and sat down. 66 Well," said he, "yon was a hot burst, David." I said nothing, nor so much as lifted my face. I had seen murder done, and a great, ruddy, jovial gentleman struck out of life in a moment; the pity of that sight was still sore within me, and yet that was but a part of my concern. Here was murder done upon the man Alan hated; here was Alan skulking in the trees and running from the troops; and whether his was the hand that fired or only the head that ordered, signified but little. By my way of it, my only friend in that wild country was blood-guilty in the first degree; I held him in horror; I could not look upon his face; I would have rather lain alone in the rain on my cold isle, than in that warm wood beside a murderer. "Are ye still wearied?" he asked again. 66 "No," said I, still with my face in the bracken; "no, I am not wearied now, and I can speak. You and me must twine," I said. "I liked you very well, Alan; but your ways are not mine, and they're not God's; and the short and the long of it is just that we must twine.” ye "I will hardly twine from ye, David, without some kind of reason for the same," said Alan, gravely. "If ye ken anything against my reputation, it's the least thing that should do, for old acquaintance' sake, to let me hear the name of it; and if ye have only taken a distaste to my society, it will be proper for me to judge if I'm insulted.” "Alan," said I, "what is the sense of this? Ye ken very well yon Campbell-man lies in his blood upon the road.” He was silent for a little; then, says he, “Did ever ye hear tell of the story of the Man and the Good People?". by which he meant the fairies. 66 "No," said I, "nor do I want to hear it." "With your permission, Mr. Balfour, I will tell it you, whatever," says Alan. "The man, ye should ken, was cast upon a rock in the sea, where it appears the Good People were in use to come and rest as they went through to Ireland. The name of this rock is called the Skerryvore, and it's not far from where we suffered shipwreck. Well, it seems the man cried so sore, if he could just see his little bairn before he died! that at last the king of the Good People took peety on him, and sent one flying that brought back the bairn in a poke1 and laid it down beside the man where he lay sleeping. So when the man woke, there was a poke beside him and something into the inside of it that moved. Well, it seems he was one of those gentry that think aye the worst of things; and for greater security, he stuck his dirk throughout that poke before he opened it, and there was his bairn dead. I am thinking to myself, Mr. Balfour, that you and the man are very much alike." - R. L. STEVENSON: Kidnapped, chap. xviii. Character and Plot. Their 91. Not less interesting than the suspense of the plot is the revelation of striking traits of character. The insides of men's minds are hidden from us. words give us but a faint idea of their real thoughts and feelings and motives. We are always eager to probe the mystery. Now comes the novelist, a Thackeray or a George Eliot, and with a stroke lays bare the inmost recesses of his hero's mind. The effect is startling. It is like looking into the depths of the sea and finding there unsuspected beauties and horrors. Certain characters lend themselves more readily to the purposes of plot construction than do other characters. Certain qualities of mind bring people into conflict with their fellow-men. For example, a cautious, unam 1 Bag. bitious man with all his wits about him will manage to slip through the world and into his grave without a single adventure; but a highly ambitious, impulsive, mettlesome person, with some striking defects of character, will make out of life one long Donnybrook Fair. A good illustration of this latter type of character is seen in Alan Breck, the friend of David Balfour, in Stevenson's Kidnapped. No matter what company he is in, he is always on the verge of a quarrel. The springs and impulses to action on the part of the characters are known as their motives. It is important that the motives and the acts should coincide. If the character does something without reason, we say that a motive is lacking. For example, to make a character say something funny just because you happen to think of something funny that you want to put into the story; to make another commit a crime just because you want a crime committed in that part of the story, is to disregard the motives. Sometimes, however, the motives are concealed throughout the course of the narrative, and come to light only at the close. This is illustrated in a rather amusing way by the following selection : Mr. W. H. Hudson writes agreeably in Longman's of Selborne Revisited, and tells incidentally an owl story which Gilbert White himself need not have shamed to own. Mr. Hudson, verifying an admiration of the author of Selborne, went out at dusk to see Alton Church. A shower came as he stood in the churchyard. "By and by a vague figure appeared out of the clouds, travelling against the wind towards the spire, and looking more like a ragged piece of newspaper whirled about the heavens than any living thing. It was a white owl, and |