February 1, 2007

• Reading Speed

  I have often been asked how many words per minute I read. I’m not sure. I wondered if others might be curious to know their reading speed as well, so I’ve put together a “test your reading speed” entry for today. You’ll need to have the speakers on your computer turned on, a word processing program which counts words (like Word), and about five minutes time.
  

  Instructions
  1. Highlight and print the reading selection. You can read it online, of course, but I find I read better if I have printed material in front of me.  It’s up to you. EDIT–I did a little research and found that reading from a screen will cut your speed by 25%.  In other words, most people read faster from a printed page.
  

  2. Once you are ready to read, click the music icon. (It’s the little, black triangle on the left in the box.) I have 1:15 of music. We’ll give you a few seconds to get started.
  

  3. When the music stops, mark where you are in the passage.  Highlight all the text you have read and paste it into a Word file (or other word processor). Click on “Word count. It can be found under “Tools.” 
  

  4. Multiply your number of words by .82, and you will have the number of words you read per minute!
  

  I’ve not done this “reading test” yet, but I will let you know my number once I have. It’s going to be another busy Thursday for me!

  The Reading Selection–A passage from Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
  

  
  Catherine listened with heartfelt satisfaction. It appeared
  that Blaize Castle
  had never been thought of; and, as for all the rest, there was nothing to
  regret for half an instant. Maria’s intelligence concluded with a tender
  effusion of pity for her sister Anne, whom she represented as insupportably
  cross, from being excluded the party.

  “She will never forgive me, I am sure; but, you know,
  how could I help it? John would have me go, for he vowed he would not drive
  her, because she had such thick ankles. I dare say she will not be in good
  humour again this month; but I am determined I will not be cross; it is not a
  little matter that puts me out of temper.”
  

  Isabella now entered the room with so eager a step, and a
  look of such happy importance, as engaged all her friend’s notice. Maria was
  without ceremony sent away, and Isabella, embracing Catherine, thus began:
  “Yes, my dear Catherine, it is so indeed; your penetration has not
  deceived you. Oh! That arch eye of yours! It sees through everything.”
  

  Catherine replied only by a look of wondering ignorance.
  

  “Nay, my beloved, sweetest friend,” continued the
  other, “compose yourself. I am amazingly agitated, as you perceive. Let us
  sit down and talk in comfort. Well, and so you guessed it the moment you had my
  note? Sly creature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can
  judge of my present happiness. Your brother is the most charming of men. I only
  wish I were more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother
  say? Oh! Heavens! When I think of them I am so agitated!”
  

  Catherine’s understanding began to awake: an idea of the
  truth suddenly darted into her mind; and, with the natural blush of so new an
  emotion, she cried out, “Good heaven! My dear Isabella, what do you mean?
  Can you – can you really be in love with James?”

  This bold surmise, however, she soon learnt comprehended but
  half the fact. The anxious affection, which she was accused of having
  continually watched in Isabella’s every look and action, had, in the course of
  their yesterday’s party, received the delightful confession of an equal love.
  Her heart and faith were alike engaged to James. Never had Catherine listened
  to anything so full of interest, wonder, and joy. Her brother and her friend engaged!
  New to such circumstances, the importance of it appeared unspeakably great, and
  she contemplated it as one of those grand events, of which the ordinary course
  of life can hardly afford a return. The strength of her feelings she could not
  express; the nature of them, however, contented her friend. The happiness of
  having such a sister was their first effusion, and the fair ladies mingled in
  embraces and tears of joy.
  

  Delighting, however, as Catherine sincerely did in the
  prospect of the connection, it must be acknowledged that Isabella far surpassed
  her in tender anticipations. “You will be so infinitely dearer to me, my
  Catherine, than either Anne or Maria: I feel that I shall be so much more
  attached to my dear Morland’s family than to my own.”
  

  This was a pitch of friendship beyond Catherine.
  

  “You are so like your dear brother,” continued
  Isabella, “that I quite doted on you the first moment I saw you.  But so it always is with me; the first moment
  settles everything.  The very first day
  that Morland came to us last Christmas — the very first moment I beheld him –
  my heart was irrecoverably gone.  I
  remember I wore my yellow gown, with my hair done up in braids; and when I came
  into the drawing-room, and John introduced him, I thought I never saw anybody
  so handsome before.”
  

  Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for,
  though exceedingly fond of her brother, and partial to all his endowments, she
  had never in her life thought him  handsome.
  

  “I remember too, Miss Andrews drank tea with us that
  evening, and wore her puce-coloured sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I
  thought your brother must certainly fall in love with her; I could not sleep a
  wink all right for thinking of it. 
  Oh!  Catherine, the many sleepless nights I have had on your brother’s
  account! I would not have you suffer half what I have done!  I am grown wretchedly thin, I know; but I
  will not pain you by describing my anxiety; you have seen enough of it.  I feel that I have betrayed myself
  perpetually — so unguarded in speaking of my partiality for the church!  But my secret I was always sure would be safe
  with you.”
  

  Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but
  ashamed of an ignorance little expected, she dared no longer contest the point,
  nor refuse to have been as full of arch penetration and affectionate sympathy
  as Isabella chose to consider her.  Her
  brother, she found, was preparing to set off with all speed to Fullerton,
  to make known his situation and ask consent; and here was a source of some real
  agitation to the mind of Isabella.   Catherine endeavoured to persuade her, as she
  was herself persuaded, that her father and mother would never oppose their
  son’s wishes.  “It is
  impossible,” said she, “for parents to be more kind, or more desirous
  of their children’s happiness; I have no doubt of their consenting
  immediately.”
  

  “Morland says exactly the same,” replied Isabella;
  “and yet I dare not expect it; my fortune will be so small; they never can
  consent to it.  Your brother, who might
  marry anybody!”
  

  Here Catherine again discerned the force of love.
  

  “Indeed, Isabella, you are too humble.  The difference of fortune can be nothing to
  signify.”
  

  “Oh!  My sweet
  Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would signify nothing; but we must
  not expect such disinterestedness in many. 
  As for myself, I am sure I only wish our situations were reversed.  Had I the command of millions, were I
  mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice.”
  

  This charming sentiment, recommended as much by sense as
  novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasing remembrance of all the heroines of her
  acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked more lovely than in
  uttering the grand idea.  “I am sure
  they will consent,” was her frequent declaration; “I am sure they
  will be delighted with you.”
  

  “For my own part,” said Isabella, “my wishes
  are so moderate that the smallest income in nature would be enough for me.  Where people are really attached, poverty
  itself is wealth; grandeur I detest: I would not settle in London
  for the universe.  A cottage in some retired
  village would be ecstasy.  There are some
  charming little villas about Richmond.”
  

  “Richmond!”  cried Catherine.  “You must settle near Fullerton.
  You must be near us.”
  

  “I am sure I shall be miserable if we do not.  If I can but be near you, I shall be
  satisfied.  But this is idle
  talking!  I will not allow myself to
  think of such things, till we have your father’s answer.  Morland says that by sending it tonight to Salisbury,
  we may have it tomorrow.  Tomorrow?  I know I shall never have courage to open the
  letter.  I know it will be the death of
  me.”
  

  A reverie succeeded this conviction — and when Isabella
  spoke again, it was to resolve on the quality of her wedding-gown.
  

  Their conference was put an end to by the anxious young
  lover himself, who came to breathe his parting sigh before he set off for
  Wiltshire.  Catherine wished to
  congratulate him, but knew not what to say, and her eloquence was only in her
  eyes.  From them, however, the eight
  parts of speech shone out most expressively, and James could combine them with
  ease.  Impatient for the realization of
  all that he hoped at home, his adieus were not long; and they would have been
  yet shorter, had he not been frequently detained by the urgent entreaties of
  his fair one that he would go.  Twice was
  he called almost from the door by her eagerness to have him gone.  “Indeed, Morland, I must drive you
  away.  Consider how far you have to
  ride.  I cannot bear to see you linger
  so.  For heaven’s sake, waste no more
  time.  There, go, go — I insist on
  it.”

  The two friends, with hearts now more united than ever, were
  inseparable for the day; and in schemes of sisterly happiness the hours flew
  along.  Mrs. Thorpe and her son, who were
  acquainted with everything, and who seemed only to want Mr. Morland’s consent,
  to consider Isabella’s engagement as the most fortunate circumstance imaginable
  for their family, were allowed to join their counsels, and add their quota of
  significant looks and mysterious expressions to fill up the measure of
  curiosity to be raised in the unprivileged

  younger sisters.  To
  Catherine’s simple feelings, this odd sort of reserve seemed neither kindly
  meant, nor consistently supported; and its unkindness she would hardly have  forborne pointing out, had its inconsistency
  been less their friend; but Anne and Maria soon set her heart at ease by the
  sagacity of their “I know what”; and the evening was spent in a sort
  of war of wit, a display of family ingenuity, on one side in the mystery of an
  affected secret, on the other of undefined discovery, all equally acute.
  

  Catherine was with her friend again the next day,
  endeavouring to support her spirits and while away the many tedious hours
  before the delivery of the letters; a needful exertion, for as the time of reasonable
  expectation drew near, Isabella became more and more desponding, and before the letter arrived, had worked
  herself into a state of real distress. 
  But when it did come, where could distress be found?  “I have had no difficulty in gaining the
  consent of my kind parents, and am promised that everything in their powershall be done to forward my happiness,” were the first
  three lines, and in one moment all was joyful security.  The brightest glow was instantly spread over
  Isabella’s features, all care and anxiety seemed removed, her spirits became
  almost too high for control, and she called herself without scruple the
  happiest of mortals.
  

  Mrs. Thorpe, with tears of joy, embraced her daughter, her
  son, her visitor, and could have embraced half the inhabitants of Bath
  with satisfaction.  Her heart was
  overflowing with tenderness.  It was
  “dear John” and “dear Catherine” at every word; “dear
  Anne and

  dear Maria” must immediately be made sharers in their
  felicity; and two “dears” at once before the name of Isabella were
  not more than that beloved child had now well earned.  John himself was no skulker in joy.  He not only bestowed on Mr. Morland the high commendation
  of being one of the finest fellows in the world, but swore off many sentences
  in his praise.
  

  The letter, whence sprang all this felicity, was short,
  containing little more than this assurance of success; and every particular was
  deferred till James could write again. 
  But for particulars Isabella could well afford to wait.  The needful was comprised in Mr. Morland’s promise; his honour was pledged to make
  everything easy; and by what means their income was to be formed, whether landed
  property were to be resigned, or funded money made over, was a matter in which
  her disinterested spirit took no concern. 
  She knew enough to feel secure of an honourable and speedy
  establishment, and her imagination took a rapid flight over its attendant
  felicities.  She saw herself at the end
  of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance at Fullerton,
  the envy of every valued old friend in Putney, with a carriage at her command,
  a new name on her tickets, and a brilliant exhibition of hoop rings on her
  finger.
  

  When the contents of the letter were ascertained, John
  Thorpe, who had only waited its arrival to begin his journey to London,
  prepared to set off.  “Well, Miss
  Morland,” said he, on finding her alone in the parlour, “I am come to
  bid you good-bye.”  Catherine wished
  him a good journey.  Without appearing to
  hear her, he walked to the window, fidgeted about, hummed a tune, and seemed
  wholly self-occupied.
  

  “Shall not you be late at Devizes?” said
  Catherine.  He made no answer; but after
  a minute’s silence burst out with, “A famous good thing this marrying
  scheme, upon my soul!  A clever fancy of Morland’s
  and Belle’s.  What do you think of it,
  Miss Morland?  I say it is no bad
  notion.”
  

  “I am sure I think it a very good one.”
  

  “Do you?  That’s
  honest, by heavens!  I am glad you are no
  enemy to matrimony, however.  Did you
  ever hear the old song ‘Going to One Wedding Brings on Another?’  I say, you will come to Belle’s wedding, I
  hope.”

  “Yes; I have promised your sister to be with her, if
  possible.”
  

  “And then you know” — twisting himself about and
  forcing a foolish laugh — “I say, then you know, we may try the truth of
  this same old song.”
  

  “May we?  But I
  never sing.  Well, I wish you a good
  journey.  I dine with Miss Tilney today,
  and must now be going home.”
  

  “Nay, but there is no such confounded hurry.  Who knows when we may be together again?  Not but that I shall be down again by the end
  of a fortnight, and a devilish long fortnight it will appear to me.”
  

  “Then why do you stay away so long?”  replied Catherine – finding that he waited
  for an answer.
  

  “That is kind of you, however — kind and
  good-natured.  I shall not forget it in a
  hurry.  But you have more good nature and
  all that, than anybody living, I believe. 
  A monstrous deal of good nature, and it is not only good nature, but you
  have so much, so much of everything; and then you have such — upon my soul, I
  do not know anybody like you.”
  

  “Oh!  dear, there
  are a great many people like me, I dare say, only a great deal better.  Good morning to you.”
  

  “But I say, Miss Morland, I shall come and pay my
  respects at Fullerton before it is
  long, if not disagreeable.”
  

  “Pray do.  My
  father and mother will be very glad to see you.”
  

  “And I hope — I hope, Miss Morland, you will not be
  sorry to see me.”
  

  “Oh!  dear, not
  at all.  There are very few people I am
  sorry to see.  Company is always
  cheerful.”

  • 12:41 pm
  • 36 Comments