to the thorax or box that encloses the lungs.  This is called “the diaphragmatic method.”  Now, since God has furnished us with both methods, He evidently intended that we should use both, as we use our two eyes or our two ears.  They are given, not as alternative, but as simultaneous instruments of action.  The weakness in many a speaker’s voice, its want of volume and its failure when a sustained effort is demanded, is due to the fact that he breathes by means of his ribs alone, throwing all the pressure on the upper portion of the lungs, not asking the large areas to contribute anything.  He thus robs himself of breathing capacity, and consequently of voice power.

[Side note:  Diaphragmatic breathing]

To get a perfect mastery over the “diaphragmatic” method and make it as serviceable as possible, practise breathing while lying on your back, filling the lungs to the utmost, and exhausting them as completely as possible.  Inhale rapidly and exhale slowly.  Then reverse the order; inhale slowly and exhale rapidly.  Again let “slow” and “rapid” alternately make both movements.

By this exercise you acquire flexibility of the midriff muscles, you enlarge the cubic dimensions of the breathing area, you distribute the burden generally; and when the occasion comes to send your voice over four thousand heads you will discover that the reserve fund of voice and strength acquired by this practice is at your service.  This plan bears that highest and safest sanction—­in practical experience it has proved a genuine success.

[Side note:  A clergyman’s sore throat]

The ailment known as “a clergyman’s sore throat” is too common and too serious to be passed over—­the raucous, husky voice sawn across the throat, the congested blood-vessels, the strained muscles, the throat lining as raw as a beefsteak.  Here you have evident results of some unnatural effort.  What is it?  In ordinary conversation we employ the throat, back of the mouth and vocal chords mainly:  very little demand is made on the lungs.  The voice we use is the “head voice.”  Now, when called on to fill a large building, the centre of stress should instantly be shifted from the mouth and throat to the lungs.  On them the whole weight should be flung—­then you produce the “chest voice.”  It is the want of this transference of strain from the throat to the lungs that causes the misery called “a clergyman’s sore throat.”  Men endeavour to fill a large building with precisely the same set of organs that they use when speaking by the fireside.  The strain intended for the broad-based, strong-fibred lungs is kept on the delicate vocal chords, palate and throat.  These were never built for that purpose, and nature kicks against the outrage.  The throat becomes congested, parched, torn and raw; the voice grows husky, cracked, and finally ends in a scream.  Here is the genesis of the fatal “clergyman’s sore throat” explained.

[Side note:  An illustration]