important alteration was in the interview with the spirits. In the
old versions they spoke and sang. I remembered that the effect of
this ghostly dialogue was dreadfully human, so I arranged that no
voice but Rip's should be heard. This is the only act on the stage in
which but one person speaks while all the others merely gesticulate,
and I was quite sure that the silence of the crew would give a lonely
and desolate character to the scene and add its to supernatural
weirdness. By this means, too, a strong contrast with the single
voice of Rip was obtained by the deathlike stillness of the "demons"
as they glided about the stage in solemn silence. It required some
thought to hit upon just the best questions that could be answered by
a nod and shake of the head, and to arrange that at times even Rip
should propound a query to himself and answer it; but I had availed
myself of so much of the old material that in a few days after I had
begun my work it was finished.

In the seclusion of the barn I studied and rehearsed the part, and by
the end of summer I was prepared to transplant it from the rustic
realms of an old farmhouse to a cosmopolitan audience in the city of
Washington, where I opened at Carusi's Hall under the management of
John T. Raymond. I had gone over the play so thoroughly that each
situation was fairly engraved on my mind. The rehearsals were
therefore not tedious to the actors; no one was delayed that I might
consider how he or she should be disposed in the scene. I had by
repeated experiments so saturated myself with the action of the play
that a few days seemed to perfect the rehearsals. I acted on these
occasions with all the point and feeling that I could muster. This
answered the double purpose of giving me freedom and of observing the
effect of what I was doing on the actors. They seemed to be watching
me closely, and I could tell by little nods of approval where and when