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