By the Ven. Archdeacon Diggle, M.A.

Reading aloud is good for ourselves both physically and morally. It is good morally, for if we never read anything unfit for reading aloud we shall not be likely to read anything morally deteriorating. And physically, reading aloud is a benignant exercise. It widens the chest, opens the lungs, strengthens the throat, and does good to all the breathing organs. It is a mistake to suppose that using the voice weakens it. Abuse or misuse of the vocal organs, as of any other organs, injures them; but by proper use and exercise they are strengthened and improved. Speakers and preachers have bad throats not because they use their throat too much, but because they use it badly. They force and torment it, instead of training it to natural action and giving it free, full play. And who shall blame them? At school they were taught to spell and mind their stops; but how to breathe and manage the voice when reading, they probably were not taught a single rule. In many instances teachers themselves are wholly ignorant of the art and therefore incapable of teaching it. And so it comes to pass that, unless either outward circumstance or innate common-sense turn our attention in later life to the management of the vocal organs, we never learn to read aloud without weariness and with pleasure. It is mainly through lack of early training that, of all useful and delightful accomplishments, the art of reading aloud is one of the least practised and most rare.

Yet it is an art which, in some degree, may be acquired by the majority of people; very many could, by a little training and perseverance, even excel in it. Of course, the art admits of many degrees of excellence. But without reaching the splendid summits of the art, attainable only by the highly gifted few, ordinary persons may learn to read sufficiently well to gratify both themselves and others, if they will take pains to learn and practise a few simple rules.

The first requirement is to master the physics of the art: to learn to breathe in through the nostrils and out through the mouth, never to speak on an inflowing breath, quickly to fill the lungs and slowly to empty them, never to gasp or strain after sound, not to attempt the higher notes until the lower have been completely mastered, to rely more on the lower than the higher notes, to teach the lips and front portion of the mouth to do their fair share of work equally with the larynx and the vocal cords. A moustache is an impediment to easy and distinct reading. It hinders the air from passing in free, full flow up the nostrils, and it troubles the waves of sound as they issue from the mouth; causing indistinctness, more or less flat and thick, in enunciation.

Clearness of enunciation ranks next in importance after easy, natural, flexible production of voice, and largely depends on it, for there can be no clear, crisp, distinct enunciation of words, unless the tools by which words are made, viz. the organs of voice, are kept sharp and well burnished. Moreover, for the attainment of limpid and finely articulated enunciation careful training is required both in the melody and modulation of sounds.

Precision and beauty of enunciation are much assisted by habitual practice of the graduated series of all the tones from the keynote to its octave. Do not sing when you are reading, but, in order to read well, first learn to sing; otherwise your reading will be flat and monotonous, without light and shade, instead of being fresh, richly modulated, and melodious.

The next requirement of good reading is to learn the relative value of the letters, and the right handling of the syllables, of which words are composed.

This study is both interesting and attractive, for, as Plato observes, letters themselves have a clear significance. The letter r is expressive of motion, the letters d and t of binding and rest, the letter l of smoothness, n of inwardness, the letter e of length and the letter o of roundness.[2] Letters run in families, and each family has its own characteristic significance of sound. Some letters belong to the lips, others to the throat, others employ the whole mouth. Vowels and final consonants are the letters which demand most care and support in good reading. For the most part, vowels should be rich and full, and the final consonant well sustained.

If letters in themselves are expressive and significant, collocations of letters in syllables and words are clearly more significant still. "By various degrees of strength or weakness, emphasis or pitch, length or shortness, they become the natural expressions both of the stronger and the finer parts of human feeling and thought." To read well, therefore, it is necessary to give intelligent and ready heed to the relative weight of words, to notice whether consonants are massed together to increase their density, or vowels are freely interspersed to leaven and make them light. True enunciation largely depends on a careful study of the natural formation of words and a right appreciation of the proportionate value of their several syllables.

Reading, however, is frequently spoiled by pedantry and exaggerated minuteness. In seeking to avoid slovenliness readers often fall into foppery. Good reading goes at an easy pace, it is neither too fast nor too slow; it neither counts the letters nor omits them, neither jumbles syllables together nor anatomises words. The good reader reads so that intelligent listeners can spell his words, but he does not read as if spelling them himself. He avoids the extremes both of negligence and nicety, and constantly remembers that whatever is overdone is badly done. Avoid ostentation. No rule in reading is more fundamental than this.

Near akin to ostentation is the taint of false and histrionic emphasis. Colourless reading, bad though it be, is better than tawdry reading. Especially in all reading of a religious or sacred character should affectation and dramatic artifices be reverently avoided.

To read the Bible in church as if playing a part on the stage is as inappropriate and irreligious as to read like one in haste to catch a train.

Each kind of subject demands its own proper style in reading. Prose should not be read like poetry; nor all kinds either of prose or poetry alike. As in writing, each species should be dressed in language from its own wardrobe; so in reading, each several kind should receive its own appropriate tone, and travel at its own appropriate speed. To read everything alike is to read nothing—or at most only one thing—well.

Great authors are by no means invariably good readers, even of their own productions. Lord Tennyson read some of his own glorious poems beautifully; but others he read either droningly or with too much singsong. Dickens read his own works with wonderful power and realisation. Wordsworth read his own verse admirably; but we are told that neither Coleridge nor Southey could read verse well: "They read as if crying or wailing lugubriously."

Reading, therefore, is an art which doubtless requires, for the attainment of excellence, some degree of histrionic gifts—imagination, imitation, fervour, and passion.

Similarly with oratory and authorship. Both these arts are distinct from that of reading; as each of these again is distinct from the other.

It is curious, indeed, how few among great authors are great orators; or, among great orators, great authors. The gifts which tell in writing—condensation, terseness, finish—are not the gifts which tell most in speaking. In speaking, the essentials are clearness of enunciation, sympathy with the audience, copiousness of illustration, directness of statement, uninvolved reasoning. The merits which impart value to a book—wealth of fact, niceness in balancing opposing considerations, delicacy of assertion, depth and sweep of argument—may easily become ineffective in the delivery of a speech. Hence, therefore, whereas a good speaker is occasionally a good writer, owing to his rare combination of different orders of talent, it more frequently happens that the one set of talents is given to one man to enrich them in seclusion, and the other to another man to use them with publicity.

In like manner with reading; it is an art by itself. It is natural to suppose that no one could possibly read an author's works so well as the author's self, because no one can understand them so intimately as their own creator. Yet experience proves this to be not the case; and for a reason which at first sight is not wholly apparent. It is just because they are his own that, as a rule, he cannot read them well. He may have a richly cultivated voice, clear enunciation, a varied power of modulation; he may even be able to read the works of others well, yet be a failure in reading what he himself has written. Why is this? Partly, perhaps, it is due to an unavoidable self-consciousness in reading his own works; and self-consciousness is the ruin of good reading. "Forget thyself" is a necessary condition of good reading. Partly, perhaps, it is due to over-absorption in the memory of sensations and sentiments which overpowered him when he wrote in the solitude of his chamber, but which are somewhat unnatural and overstrained for exhibition before a concourse of auditors. But probably the principal reason is that one of the greatest charms of good reading arises from the co-operation of two spirits toward one end—the spirit of the author and the spirit of the reader. The reader of another's works seeks actively to express the spirit of his author, yet unintentionally he is expressing his own spirit also. The author enters into him and he throws himself into the author; his reading, therefore, is the union, the marriage, the interpenetration and expression of two spirits—the author's and his own. However interesting, therefore, and delightful it may be to hear an author read his own works, yet is there always lacking the dash and force and suggestiveness produced when a great author is interpreted by a great reader. The author merely reproduces his original meaning in what he wrote; the reader, through the agency of his own independent personality, idealises and diversifies that meaning.

Idealisation is one of the most beautiful effects of the fine art of reading. The most ordinary poem or piece of prose, when idealised by an accomplished artist in reading, grows lovely and sweet. And one way of learning to read well ourselves is to sit at the feet of some of these great masters of reading. Until we have heard a great reader read it is next to impossible to conceive what a fine and noble art true reading is. On the other hand, we can never become good readers by merely listening to others, any more than we can become good musicians by hearing others play.

In the art of reading, others may be our models; none but ourselves can be our makers. Listening to others may show us how the thing can best be done, but without doing the thing ourselves the thing can never be truly learned by us. Sometimes, indeed, listening to others has an effect quite the opposite of a model for imitation. "Pausanias tells us of an ancient player on the harp who was wont to make his scholars go to hear one who played badly that they might learn to hate his discords and false measures." In like manner, one way of learning to read well is to hear others read badly.

The art of reading aloud culminates in the expression of the spiritual through the medium of the physical. As sculpture aspires to express its ideals in stone, and painting in colour, and music in sound, so reading embodies its ideals in uttered words. A well-trained voice, clearness of enunciation, rhythm and flexibility of articulation—these are the physical framework of the art of reading aloud. Without first acquiring these the reader is as impotent as the painter without colour or the sculptor without stone. But the physics of reading are nothing more than its material framework. Unless the reader is inspired with ideals, reading will never rise to the dignity and glory of an art with him. He may be as a house-painter with his brush, or a mason with his stone—an industrious and useful artificer, but not an artist in his work.