tant man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.

"Well-who are they?—Name them.”

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's Nicholas Vedder?"

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too."

"Where's Brom Dutcher?”

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war: some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point-others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know-he never came back again.”

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”

"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is now in congress."

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war-congress-Stony Point; —he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?"

6. Read from Poe's The Pit and the Pendulum the extract that follows:

THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM

As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the chamber broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed that, although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and indefinite. These colors had now assumed, and were momentarily assuming a startling and most intense brilliancy, that gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures an aspect that might have thrilled even firmer nerves than my own. Demon eyes,

of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been visible before, and gleamed with the lurid luster of a fire that I could not force my imagination to regard as unreal.

Unreal!-Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the breath of the vapor of heated iron! A suffocating odor pervaded the prison. A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes and glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors-oh, most unrelenting! oh, most demoniac of men! I shrank from the glowing metal to the center of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced-it wrestled its way into my soul—it burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. Oh, for a voice to speak!-oh, horror!-oh, any horror but this! With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands-weeping bitterly.

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second change in the cell-and now the change was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vain that I at first endeavored to appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long was I left in doubt. The inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my twofold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute-two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! might I not have known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I resist its glow? or if even that, could I withstand its pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its center, and of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back-but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink-I averted my eyes—

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as

I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

b. Young readers and speakers are cautioned against depending too much upon force for emphasis. Many think that force and emphasis are synonymous. That this is not true will be seen when one reads the section in this book on emphasis.

RATE

99. Rate is rapidity of utterance. Reduced to mathematical terms, it means the number of words a minute spoken. An experienced teacher of public speaking used to say, "If I were permitted to teach a speaker but one thing, I would teach him how to speak at a proper rate." Not only is it true that physiological and psychological facts are usually disregarded when speakers fix their rate of delivery, but it is likewise true that many speakers have no knowledge of the hearing powers of their audiences.

In answer to the question, "How fast can a good stenographer write?" a court stenographer recently replied: "About 100 to 120 words a minute of new matter."

"But I supposed that there were shorthand writers who could write 200 words a minute," interposed the questioner.

"Yes, there are; but not 200 words of new material. To reach that speed they must know what is coming. The difficulty is not with their fingers. They can make the word-signs fast enough, but

they cannot hear an average of over 100 or 120 unfamiliar words a minute."

They cannot hear an average of over 100 to 120 words a minute; and these are stenographers,— men and women trained by careful instruction and constant practice, to hear and understand. If this is true of shorthand writers, what may be said of the hearing power of the ordinary class of pupils or of the average audience such as is found in a church, in a court room, at a political meeting, or at a lecture?

100. Exercise. To find out what this means, try the following experiment: Read one minute by your watch from a book or paper. Then count the number of words you have read. You will perhaps be surprised to discover that instead of 100, the count has reached nearer 200, if it does not exceed that number.

This must not be taken to mean that all speaking should be done at a rate not to exceed 100-120 words a minute. It means that ordinary new material should not average more than that. Some kinds of passages-light, running conversation, rapid, concrete narrative, and the like, will let the rate hurry and the words fall rapidly, and for two reasons: first, because the thread of the thought by its very concrete nature is easily followed; and, second, because the words used in such passages are ordinarily the short, crisp, homely ones of the language. On the contrary, when the material under discussion is abstract and unfamiliar, the reasoning close and complex, the