Rosamond. Mother, I dare say I have some reason, too, if I could find it out; but I never thought about it. Mother. I advise you to think about it, and find it out. Silly people sometimes like, or take a fancy, as they call it, at first sight, to persons who do not deserve to be liked-who have bad tempers, bad characters, bad qualities. Sometimes silly people take a dislike, or an antipathy, as they call it, to those who have good qualities, good characters, and good tempers.

Rosamond. That would be unlucky, unfortunate. Mother. Yes, unlucky, unfortunate, for the silly people; because they might, if they had their choice, choose to live with the bad, instead of the good— choose to live with those who would make them unhappy, instead of those who would make them happy.

Rosamond. That would be a sad thing indeed, mother, very sad. Perhaps the lady to whom I took a dislike, or what do you call it?-an antipathy, may be a very good woman.

Mother. She is a very good woman, Rosamond. Rosamond. I will not be one of the silly people, mother. I will not have an antipathy. What is an antipathy, mother?

Mother. It is a feeling of dislike for which we can give no sufficient reason.

Rosamond stood still and silent, considering deeply, and then suddenly burst out a-laughing. She laughed for some time without being able to speak. At last she composed herself.

Rosamond. Mother, I am laughing at the very silly reason I was going to give you for disliking that lady—only because she had an ugly, crooked pinch in the front of her black bonnet.

Mother. Perhaps that was a sufficient reason for disliking the bonnet, but not quite sufficient for disliking the person who wore it.

Rosamond. No, mother; because she does not always wear it, I suppose. She does not sleep in it, I dare say; and, if I were to see her without it, I might like her.

Mother. Possibly you might.

Rosamond. But, mother, there is another reason why I dislike her; and this, perhaps, is a bad reason; but still I cannot help disliking her. The thing which makes me dislike her, she cannot take off when she pleases. I cannot see her without it, mother. This is a thing I must always dislike. I wonder whether you took notice of that shocking thing?

Mother. When you have told me what that shocking thing is, I shall be able to tell you. What do you mean, Rosamond?

Rosamond. Then, mother, you did not see it?
Mother. It?

What?

Rosamond. When her glove was off, did you not see the shocking finger, mother-the stump of a finger and a great scar over all the back of her hand? I am glad she did not offer to shake hands with me. think I could not have touched her hand. I should have held mine back.

I

Mother. She would not have offered that hand to

you; she knows it is disagreeable. Did you observe she gave me her other hand?

Rosamond. That was right. So she knows it is disagreeable. Poor woman! How sorry and ashamed she must be!

Mother. She has no reason to be ashamed: it does her honor.

Rosamond. Does her honor! Tell me why, mother; you know all about it; do tell me, mother.

Mother. She burned her hand in saving her little granddaughter from being burned to death. The child, going too near the fire, when she was in a room by herself, set fire to her frock; the muslin was in flames instantly as she could not put out the fire, she ran screaming to the door; the servants came; some were afraid, and some did not know what to do. Her grandmother, hearing the child scream, ran up stairs, and saw her clothes all on fire. She instantly rolled her up in a rug, which lay before the hearth, and that extinguished the fire.

Rosamond. Extinguished! What is that, mother? Mother. To extinguish a fire is to put it out. When it is put out by throwing water upon it, it is quenched; when, by covering it up, as in this instance, with the rug, it is smothered. So here this good lady extinguished the fire by smothering it. She, however, did not escape unhurt, though she did not at that time know that she was burnt. But when the surgeon had dressed the child's burns, then she showed him her own hand. It was so terribly burned that it was found necessary to cut off one joint of

the finger. The scar which you saw is the mark of that burn.

Rosamond. Dear, good woman! O mother, if I had but known this! Now I know it, how differently I feel! How unjust, how foolish, to dislike her for a pinch in her black bonnet, and for that scar! Mother, I wouldn't draw back my hand if she were to shake hands with me now. I wish to go and see her now. Will you take me with you to her house

in the country?

Mother. I will, my dear.

LESSON XXXIX.

Sensible (not sensible) terrible, horrible, terribly, horribly, diversity, university, perversity, merrily, cheerily, happily.

Emphasis and Pauses.

By emphasis is meant that stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which, in reading or speaking, we distinguish the accented syllable of some word, on which we design to lay particular stress, in order to

Note to Teachers." The letter i, in the unaccented terminations ible, ity, and at the end of other syllables not under the accent, ought to have the sound of e, and this sound to be preserved distinct and pure, as if written senseble, &c." - WALKER.

show how it affects the rest of the sentence. On the right management of the emphasis depends the whole life and spirit of every discourse. If no emphasis be placed on any word, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning is often left ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. To give a

common instance; such a simple question as this, "Do you ride to town to-day?" is capable of no fewer than four different acceptations, according as the emphasis is differently placed on the words. If it be pronounced thus: Do you ride to town to-day? the answer may naturally be, No: I send my servant in my stead. If thus: Do you ride to town to-day? Answer, No: I intend to walk. Do you ride to town to-day? No: I ride out into the fields. Do you ride to town to-day? No: but I shall to-morrow.

In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great rule, and indeed the only rule possible to be given, is, that the speaker or reader study to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of those sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the greatest trials of a true and just taste; and must arise from feeling delicately ourselves, and from judging accurately of what is fittest to strike the feelings of others.

Next to emphasis, the pauses in speaking de