Chapter VI: Articulation Exercises (2)

_Gloucester._ Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys ...
Unmannered dog! stand thou, when I command:
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

—SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

_Brutus._ What, Lucius! ho!—
I cannot, by the progress of the stars,
Give guess how near the day.—Lucius, I say!—
I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly.—
When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius!

_Lucius._ Call’d you, my lord?

_Brutus._ Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:
When it is lighted, come and call me here.

_Lucius._ I will, my lord.

—SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

Note: The following is good for the direct question and direct answer:

_Question._ Hold you the watch to-night?

_Answer._ We do, my lord.

_Question._ Arm’d, say you?

_Answer._ Arm’d, my lord.

_Question._ From top to toe?

_Answer._ My lord, from head to foot.

_Question._ Then saw you not his face?

_Answer._ O, yes, my lord; he wore his beaver up.

_Question._ What, look’d he frowningly?

_Answer._ A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

_Question._ Pale, or red?

_Answer._ Nay, very pale.

_Question._ And fix’d his eyes upon you?

_Answer._ Most constantly ...

_Question._ Stay’d it long?

_Answer._ While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred....

_Question._ His beard was grizzled? no?

_Answer._ It was, as I have seen it in his life,
A sable silver’d.

—SHAKESPEARE (dialogue between Hamlet, Marcellus and Bernardo).

* * * * *

“Yo ho, my boys!” said Fezziwig. “No more work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up, before a man can say Jack Robinson!”

You wouldn’t believe how those two fellows went at it! They charged into the street with the shutters—one, two, three—had ’em up in their places—four, five, six—barred ’em and pinned ’em—seven, eight, nine—and came back before you could have got to twelve, panting like race-horses.

“Hilli-ho!” cried old Fezziwig, skipping down from the high desk, with wonderful agility. “Clear away, my lads, and let’s have lots of room here! Hilli-ho! Dick! Chirrup, Ebenezer!”

—DICKENS.

* * * * *

What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

* * * * *

I thank thee, good Tubal!—good news, good news! ha, ha!—Where? In Genoa?

EXERCISES DEVELOPING FORCE AND RATE OF SPEECH

The Problem

Here is a classification of people who speak peculiarly, or incorrectly, _as far as voice is concerned_, with exercises for correction.

1. There are those who speak too fast.

2. There are those who speak too slow.

3. There are those who speak too low.

4. There are those who speak too loud.

5. There are those who speak too short with no melody of tone.

Yet all of these may enunciate and pronounce their words well. Besides developing distinctness, we must gain _control_ and _adaptability_ of speech. It is strange, yet true, that many speakers never increase the force or volume of their voices when addressing a large assembly. They use the same quiet, even tone appropriate in addressing a single person. What is the result? They generally bore the audience, even though their thoughts may be brilliant. There is no excuse for this, as a few hours’ study and practice will change it. Above all things one who attempts public speaking must speak so that he can be heard. It is essential, therefore, to give ourselves actual practice exercises which demand force of utterance. Each student should demand of himself daily oral drill upon certain exercises until he has mastered his own particular difficulty.

The best means of accomplishing this is to use material from good literature. In the following pages, under several heads, is a variety of splendid exercises for practice. Commit all, or at least a part, to memory. Thus, while developing your speaking power, you will be cultivating a taste for the best that our literature affords.

_To Develop Rapid Speech_

Note: In developing rapid speech be careful to retain clearness and precision of utterance.

Now clear, pure, hard, bright, and one by one, like hail-stones,
Short words fall from his lips fast as the first of a shower,
Now in two-fold column Spondee, Iamb, and Trochee,
Unbroke, firm-set, advance, retreat, trampling along,—
Now with a sprightlier springingness, bounding in triplicate syllables,
Dance the elastic Dactylics in musical cadences on;
Now their voluminous coil intertangling like huge anacondas,
Roll overwhelmingly onward the sesquipedalian words.

—BROWNING.

(The above should be rendered in not less than eighteen seconds.)

* * * * *

You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile—
You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp—
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,
And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
_I_ travel with the cooking-pots and pails—
_I_’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork—
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!
With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!”
(Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!)
So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop;
So I play ’em up to water and to bed.

—KIPLING.

* * * * *

Under his spurning feet, the road,
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow’d
And the landscape sped away behind
Like an ocean flying before the wind;
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire.
But, lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire;
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

—READ.

* * * * *

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

—BROWNING.

* * * * *

A hurry of hoofs in the village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

—LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!—
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

—SCOTT.

* * * * *

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!

—BROWNING.

* * * * *

_To Develop Slow Speech_

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all the pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

—KIPLING.

* * * * *

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade—
Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo?
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade
When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through?
It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes,
To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know—
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

He must go—go—go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue!
‘Send the road is clear before you when the Springfret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!

—KIPLING.

* * * * *

Who hath desired the Sea?—the sight of salt water unbounded—
The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber
wind-hounded?
The sleek-barreled swell before storm, gray, foamless, enormous, and
growing—
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing—
His Sea in no showing the same—his Sea and the same ’neath each showing—
His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills!

—KIPLING.

* * * * *

Slowly the mist o’er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.

—OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

* * * * *

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

—ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

* * * * *

On a quiet autumn morning, in the land which he loved so well, and, as he held, served so faithfully, the spirit of Robert Edward Lee left the clay which it had so much ennobled, and traveled out of this world into the great and mysterious land.

* * * * *

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

—BROWNING.

* * * * *

Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!

—WILLIAM COWPER.

* * * * *

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

—TENNYSON.

* * * * *

Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All rivers seaward wend.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s friend.

Every home and hall was shrouded,
Every thoroughfare was still;
Every brow was darkly clouded,
Every heart was faint and chill.

...

Oh! the inky drop of poison
In our bitter draught of grief!
Oh! the sorrow of a nation
Mourning for its murdered chief!

Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Bound is the reaper’s sheaf—
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All mortal life is brief.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s chief!

—CARMICHAEL.

* * * * *

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river
Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the
moonlight,
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.

—LONGFELLOW.

_To Develop Loud Speech_

The great bell swung as ne’er before:
It seemed as it would never cease;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue
Was “War! _War!_ _WAR!_”

—T. B. READ.

* * * * *

Katherine, Queen of England, come into the court.
Where is that infernal boy?
As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse.
Jove with us, Jove with us!
Forward, the Light Brigade.
A light! A light! A light! A light!

* * * * *

The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”

* * * * *

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry “halt”? What are tempests to him?
The Service admits not a “but” or an “if.”
While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.

—KIPLING.

* * * * *

Ye crags and peaks, I’m with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome home again!
Hail! Hail! Oh, sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are! how mighty, and how free!
...
Ye are the things that tower, that shine,—whose smile
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine, whose subject never kneels
In mockery, because it is your boast
To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty,
I’m with you once again! I call to you
With all my voice! I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free!

—KNOWLES (“William Tell”).

* * * * *

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered.

—TENNYSON.

* * * * *

Hurrah! the land is safe, is safe; it rallies from the shock!
Ring round, ring round, ye merry bells, till every steeple rock!
Let trumpets blow and mad drums beat! let maidens scatter flowers!
The sun bursts through the battle smoke! Hurrah! the day is ours!

* * * * *

Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head:
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves.
A thousand hearts are great within my bosom:
Advance our standards, set upon our foes!
Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!
Upon them! Victory sits on our helms.

_To Develop Melody of Speech_

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference,—as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,
“This is no flattery: these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.”
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

—SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

I dip and I surge and I swing
In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
On the horns of death I ride.
A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
Fretted and bound I bide
Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(_Shoal! ’Ware shoal!_) Not I!

—KIPLING (“The Bell Buoy”).

* * * * *

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.

* * * * *

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.”

—POE.

* * * * *

Heigh, ho! heigh, ho! unto the green holly: most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: then, heigh, ho! the holly! this life is most jolly.

—SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

Waken, lord and ladies gay,
On the mountains dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they,
Waken, lords and ladies gay.

—SCOTT.

* * * * *

And the humming-bird, that hung
Like a jewel up among
The tilted honey-suckle-horns,
They mesmerized, and swung
In the palpitating air,
Drowsed with odors strange and rare,
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away,
And left him hanging there.

...

By the brook with mossy brink
Where the cattle came to drink,
They thrilled and piped and whistled
With the thrush and bobolink,
Till the kine, in listless pause,
Switched their tails in mute applause,
With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes,
And bubble-dripping jaws.

—RILEY.

* * * * *

It was a lover and his lass
With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!
That o’er the green cornfield did pass
In the spring-time, the only pretty ring-time,
When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
Sweet lovers love the Spring.

—SHAKESPEARE.

* * * * *

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’er-run
With the deluge of summer it receives.

—LOWELL.

* * * * *

O wonderful! How liquid clear
The molten gold of that ethereal tone,
Floating and falling through the wood alone,
A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!

—VAN DYKE.

* * * * *

Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.

The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I.

—CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.

If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.

If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.

—VAN DYKE.

* * * * *

When May bedecks the naked trees
With tassels and embroideries,
And many blue-eyed violets beam
Along the edges of the stream,
I hear a voice that seems to say,
Now near at hand, now far away,
“_Witchery—witchery—witchery._”

—VAN DYKE.

* * * * *

Oh, the throb of the screw and the beat of the screw
And the swinging of the ship as she finds the sea.
Oh, the haze of the land as it sinks from view,
The land that is dear since it harbors you.

* * * * *

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men.

Wee folks, good folks,
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!

* * * * *

Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?

I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb’d I would sing and say,
“Who is it loves me? who loves not me?”
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
Springing alone
With a shrill inner sound,
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleep in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.

Who would be
A merman bold,
Sitting alone,
Singing alone
Under the sea,
With a crown of gold,
On a throne?

I would be a merman bold,
I would sit and sing the whole of the day;
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;
But at night I would roam abroad and play
With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;
And holding them back by their flowing locks.
I would kiss them often under the sea,
And kiss them again till they kissed me
Laughingly, laughingly;
And then we would away, away
To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,
Chasing each other merrily.

—TENNYSON.