qualities of voice constituting the Orotund in the following words:—
By a fullness of voice, is meant the grave or hollow volume, which approaches to hoarseness.
By a freedom from nasal murmur and aspiration.
By a satisfactory loudness and audibility.
By smoothness, or a freedom from all reedy or guttural harshness.
By a ringing sonorous quality of voice resembling certain musical instruments.
The possession of the power of this voice is greatly dependent on cultivation and management, and experiments have proved that more depends on cultivation than on natural peculiarity. Much care and labour are necessary for acquiring this improved condition of the speaking voice, the lungs must be kept well supplied with breath, there must be a full expansion of the chest, causing the abdomen gently to protrude, the throat and the mouth must be kept well open so as to give free course to the sound. Never waste the breath, every pause must be occupied in replenishing the lungs, and the inhalation should be done as silently as possible, and through the nostrils as well as by the mouth.
Excellence in this quality of voice depends on the earnest and frequent practice of reading aloud with the utmost degree of force. The voice may be exerted to a great extent without fatigue or injury, but should never be taxed beyond its powers, and as soon as this strong action can be employed without producing hoarseness, it should be maintained for half an hour at a time.
This practice is very beneficial to the health, especially if prosecuted in the open air, or in a large, well ventilated room, and if pursued regularly, energetically, and systematically, the pupil will be surprised and delighted at his rapid progress in this art, and his voice, from a condition of comparative feebleness, will soon develop into one of well- marked strength, fullness, and distinctness.
1.
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain—
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet!—
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!—
And they, too, have a voice—yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Coleridge.
2.
The hoarse, rough voice, should like a torrent roar.
3.
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies—upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest,
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Macaulay.
4.
"Up drawbridge, grooms!—What, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."—
Lord Marmion turned—well was his need!—
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
Sir Walter Scott.
5.
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!
Shakespeare.
6.
And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king? and to enrage the more Thy King and Lord! Back to thy _pun_ishment, _False fu_gitive, and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt before.
Milton.
7.
These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good!
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair!—Thyself how wondrous, then!
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
Midst these, thy lowest works!
Yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought,
And power divine!
8.
An hour passed on:—the Turk awoke:—
That bright dream was his last;—
He woke—to hear his sentries shriek,
