Clasped with a triple border, white and bright.
A silver belt hung from it, and its folds
Were five; a crowd of figures on its disk
Were fashioned by the artist's passing skill,
For here he placed the earth and heaven, and here
The great deep and the never-resting sun

And the full moon, and here he set the stars
the Pleiades,

That shine in the round heaven,

The Hyades, Orion in his strength,

And the Bear near him, called by some the Wain,
That, wheeling, keeps Orion still in sight,

Yet bathes not in the waters of the sea.

"There placed he two fair cities full of men.
In one were marriages and feasts; they led
The brides with flaming torches from their bowers
Along the streets, with many a nuptial song.
There the young dancers whirled, and flutes and lyres
Gave forth their sounds, and women at the doors
Stood and admired. Meanwhile a multitude
Was in the forum, where a strife went on,
Two men contending for a fine, the price
Of one who had been slain. Before the crowd
One claimed that he had paid the fine, and one
Denied that aught had been received, and both
Called for the sentence which should end the strife.
The people clamored for both sides, for both
Had eager
friends; the heralds held the crowd
In check; the elders, upon polished stones,
Sat in a sacred circle. Each one took,

In turn, a herald's sceptre in his hand,
And, rising, gave his sentence. In the midst
Two talents lay in gold, to be the meed

Of him whose juster judgment should prevail.
"Around the other city sat two hosts

In shining armor, bent to lay it waste,

Unless the dwellers would divide their wealth, –
All that their pleasant homes contained, - and yield
The assailants half. As yet the citizens

Had not complied, but secretly had planned

An ambush. Their beloved wives meanwhile,

And their young children, stood and watched the walls, With aged men among them, while the youths Marched on, with Mars and Pallas at their head,

Both wrought in gold, with golden garments on,
Stately and large in form, and over all
Conspicuous, in bright armor, as became

The gods; the rest were of an humbler size.

And when they reached the spot where they should lie
In ambush, by a river's side, a place

For watering herds, they sat them down, all armed
In shining brass. Apart from all the rest

They placed two sentries, on the watch to spy

The approach of sheep and hornèd kine. Soon came
The herds in sight; two shepherds walked with them,
Who, all unweeting of the evil nigh,

Solaced their task with music from their reeds.
The warriors saw and rushed on them, and took
And drave away large prey of beeves, and flocks
Of fair white sheep, whose keepers they had slain.
When the besiegers in their council heard
The sound of tumult at the watering-place,
They sprang upon their nimble-footed steeds,
And overtook the pillagers. Both bands
Arrayed their ranks and fought beside the stream,
And smote each other. There did Discord rage,
And Tumult, and the great Destroyer, Fate.
One wounded warrior she had seized alive,
And one unwounded yet, and through the field
Dragged by the foot another, dead. Her robe
Was reddened o'er the shoulders with the blood
From human veins. Like living men they ranged
The battle-field, and dragged by turns the slain.

"Last on the border of that glorious shield He graved in all its strength the ocean-stream." 1

A similar device is employed by Anacreon when he represents an artist in the act of painting a beautiful woman; by Schiller, in "The Song of the Bell;" by Longfellow, in "The Building of the Ship." Akin to this method is that which Scott uses in the following descrip tion he represents the boats and all that they carry

1 Homer: The Iliad, xviii. 601. Bryant's translation.

not as they would look in a picture, but as they would look to one who saw them gradually approaching: -

"Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied
Four darkening specks upon the tide,
That, slow enlarging on the view,
Four mann'd and masted barges grew,
And, bearing downwards from Glengyle,
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle;
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd,
And, to the windward as they cast,
Against the sun they gave to shine
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine.
Nearer and nearer as they bear,
Spear, pikes, and axes flash in air.
Now might you see the tartans brave,
And plaids and plumage dance and wave:
Now see the bonnets sink and rise,
As his tough oar the rower plies;
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke,
The wave ascending into smoke;
See the proud pipers on the bow,

And mark the gaudy streamers flow."1

Another example of description in the form of a narrative is Mr. Rudyard Kipling's "City of Dreadful Night."2 Still another example is the following extract from one of Mr. Crawford's romances:

“And with all that, and with the certainty that those things were gone for ever, arose the great longing for one more breath of liberty, for one more ride over the boundless steppe, for one more draught of the sour kvass, of the camp brew of rye and malt.

"The longing for such things, for one thing almost unattainable, is in man and beast at certain times. In the distant northern plains, a hundred miles from the sea, in the midst of the Laplander's village, a young reindeer raises his broad muzzle to the north wind, and stares at the limitless distance while a man may count a

1 Scott: The Lady of the Lake, canto ii. stanza xvi.

hundred. He grows restless from that moment, but he is yet alone. herd look up, from the cropping of Then the Laps nod to one another,

The next day, a dozen of the the moss, snuffing the breeze. and the camp grows daily more unquiet. At times, the whole herd of young deer stand at gaze, as it were, breathing hard through wide nostrils, then jostling each other and stamping the soft ground. They grow unruly, and it is hard to harness them in the light sledge. As the days pass, the Laps watch them more and more closely, well knowing what will happen sooner or later. And then at last, in the northern twilight, the great herd begins to move. The impulse is simultaneous, irresistible, their heads are all turned in one direction. They move slowly at first, biting still, here and there, at the bunches of rich moss. Presently the slow step becomes a trot, they crowd closely together, while the Laps hasten to gather up their last unpacked possessions, their cooking utensils and their wooden gods. That great herd break together from a trot to a gallop, from a gallop to a break-neck race; the distant thunder of their united tread reaches the camp during a few minutes, and they are gone to drink of the polar sea. The Laps follow after them, dragging painfully their laden sledges in the broad track left by the thousands of galloping beasts a day's journey, and they are yet far from the sea, and the trail is yet broad. On the second day it grows narrower, and there are stains of blood to be seen; far on the distant plain before them their sharp eyes distinguish in the direct line a dark, motionless object, another and then another. The race has grown more desperate and more wild as the stampede neared the sea. The weaker reindeer have been thrown down, and trampled to death by their stronger fellows. A thousand sharp hoofs have crushed and cut through hide and flesh and bone. Ever swifter and more terrible in their motion, the ruthless herd has raced onward, careless of the slain, careless of food, careless of any drink but the sharp salt water ahead of them. And when at last the Laplanders reach the shore their deer are once more quietly grazing, once inore tame and docile, once more ready to drag the sledge whithersoever they are guided. Once in his life the reindeer must taste of the sea in one long, satisfying draught, and if he is hindered he perishes. Neither man nor beast dare stand between him and the ocean in the hundred miles of his arrow-like path.

66

Something of this longing came upon the Cossack, as he sud denly remembered the sour taste of the kvass, to the recollection of which he had been somehow led by a train of thought which had begun with Vjera's love for the Count, to end abruptly in a camp kettle." 1

It is not always easy to draw the line between descriptions in narrative form and narratives proper; but usually the reader can reach a decision by asking himself what the writer's purpose is.2 If his purpose is to present a person or a scene to the reader's imagination, the result may safely be called description; if his purpose is to tell of acts or events, the result may safely be called narration.

1 F. Marion Crawford: A Cigarette-Maker's Romance, chap. vii.

2 With this question in mind, the student may profitably examine the citations on pages 270, 271.

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