through seven or eight broad bands of varying tints of red and vermilion, to the broad yellowish-gray at the top.

One of the smaller of these many geologic temples is called the temple of Isis. How it seems to be resisting the siege of time, throwing out its salients here and there, and meeting the onset of the foe like a military engineer! It is made up of four stories, and its height is about 2,500 feet. The finish at the top is a line of heavy wall probably one hundred feet high. The lines of many of these natural temples or fortresses are still more lengthened and attenuated, appearing like mere skeletons of their former selves. The forms that weather out of the formation above this, the Permian, appear to be more rotund, and tend more to domes and rounded hills.

One's sense of the depths of the cañon is so great that it almost makes one dizzy to see the little birds fly out over it, or plunge down into it. One seemed to fear that they, too, would get dizzy and fall to the bottom. We watched a line of tourists on mules creeping along the trail across the inner plateau, and the unaided eye had trouble to hold them; they looked like little red ants. The eye has more difficulty in estimating objects and distances beneath it than when they are above or on a level with it, because it is so much less familiar with depth than with height or lateral dimensions.

IV

NARRATION

1. NATURE OF NARRATIVE WRITING

BROADLY Speaking, narration may be defined as that kind of composition in which the main purpose is to set forth action manifesting itself in a succession of events. It is, perhaps, the commonest kind of writing. In fact, it may be regarded as the typical literary form. It is the oldest of all literary forms, and it seems to have a much greater hold upon man's interest than any other form. For some reason or other, we are more interested in what men do than in what they say. The works which have held men's attention longest, and have probably had the most influence, have been works which have dealt mainly with action, with what has happened to man, either in the world of actuality or in that scarcely less real world, the world of imagination; and it is hardly too much to say that no work wherein action plays but a small part can have much chance of being permanently interesting.

ous.

The forms which narration may assume are numerMost representative of the type nowadays, perhaps, is the novel, under which term we may include all those narratives which deal with imaginary events

and characters, or which do not profess to be bound to any strict observance of literal truth. When the events set forth are such as have actually happened and the characters are real, we have, of course, either history or biography.

In its essential nature, however, narration is the same whether it deals with fact or with fiction. The method of treating events depends in a very slight degree upon whether those events are real or imaginary. A novel, for instance, may take the form of a biography and be indistinguishable from it except on the score of conformity to fact. History and biography can be differentiated from fiction only by their aim or purpose. Their purpose being, in the main, to convey information, they must give an exact account of what has happened, and can adapt facts only in so far as such adaptation is consistent with a truthful presentation of the events recorded. In fiction there is no such limitation. Here the writer's facts are, or may be, purely imaginary, and can be adapted at will, provided they are kept in harmony with each other. The novelist appeals not so much to the understanding as to the imagination and the emotions. His aim is to please, and he is bound only by the laws of consistency and of beauty, the observance of which is for him a necessity if he would please. In short, while the historian and the biographer are bound to the observance of specific truth, the writer of fiction is bound to the observance of general truth only.

The simplest kind of narration is that of the chronicle or diary kind. Here the interest is expected

to be centered in the events themselves, and not in any particular sequence or arrangement of them. Narration of this kind, however, can usually pretend to little or no artistic quality. When we speak of narration as a form of art, we have in mind those writings wherein the events recorded are connected in a series so as to form a unified whole, in which, rather than in the separate events, the interest of the reader centers itself. For narration of this higher or more artistic kind, three things are necessary,-characters, action leading to some definite end, and setting.

2. SETTING

Strictly speaking, setting should, perhaps, be classed as description in narration, rather than as an element of narration proper, whose concern is primarily with character and action. Setting in a narrative is simply the background or scene in which the characters are placed. A character must have a local habitation and a name, even if it be only a general one; and events must happen in time and space. Whatever the narrative writer tells us about the environment of his characters, or about the time, place, or circumstances of the action, constitutes the setting of his narrative.

The usefulness of setting in a narrative is apparent. Without it, there would be an air of unreality about everything in the story. Setting serves to give definiteness to the narrative, and to throw the characters into relief. A certain amount of it is necessary in every narrative; but it should always be

strictly subordinated to the action and characterization, since these are the things of fundamental importance in narration. Long descriptions of scenery are apt to prove tedious to the reader, and should therefore be avoided.

The most natural place for the setting of a narrative is at the beginning, though it may be placed anywhere, according as the occasion demands. A passage from the opening of Poe's Gold Bug will illustrate the use of setting at the beginning of the narrative:

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortifications consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen