holds from twelve to fourteen thousand people, and one can literally hear a pin fall. When I was in the Temple, with some other travelers, in 1882, the functionary corresponding to the verger of ordinary churches stood at the farthest end and dropped a pin into his hat. The sound of its fall was most distinctly audible to all present. The scratching of the pin against the side of the hat was also plainly heard across the whole breadth of the building. The Temple was designed by Brigham Young, who professed to have been directly inspired by the Almighty in the matter, as he knew nothing of acoustics. The resonance of the building is so loud that branches of trees have to be suspended from the ceiling in several places in order to diminish it. It is likely enough that Brigham Young's inspiration had a not very recondite and purely terrestrial source, for his Beehive is only a slight modification of the whispering-gallery in St. Paul's. The bad acoustic properties of buildings may be remedied by what doctors call "palliative treatment." Charles Dickens's experience as a public reader made him a man of ready resource in meeting such difficulties. On one occasion, when he was going to lecture at Leeds, Mr. Edmund Yates, who had spoken in the same hall the evening before, sent him word that the acoustic conditions of the place were very bad. Dickens at once telegraphed instructions that curtains should be hung round the walls at the back of the gallery; by this means he was able to make himself more easily heard.
The speaker should take the greatest care of his voice, which is the instrument both of his usefulness and of his fame, but of course it is not always easy for him to do so. Still, he should, if possible, make it a rule not to speak when his voice is hoarse or fatigued, and, when he has a great oratorical effort to make, he should reserve himself for it. Tobacco, alcohol, and fiery condiments of all kinds are best avoided by those who have to speak much, or at least they should be used in strict moderation. I feel bound to warn speakers addicted to the "herb nicotian" against cigarettes. Like tippling, the effect of cigarette-smoking is cumulative, and the slight but constant absorption of tobacco juice and smoke makes the practice far more noxious in the long run than any other form of smoking. Our forefathers, who used regularly to end their evenings under the table, seemed to have suffered little of the well-known effects of alcohol on the nerves, while the modern tippler, who is never intoxicated, is a being whose whole nervous system may be said to be in a state of chronic inflammation. In like manner cigarette-smokers (those at least who inhale the smoke, and do not merely puff it "from the lips outward," as Carlyle would say) are often in a state of chronic narcotic poisoning. The old jest about the slowness of the poison may seem applicable here, but, though the process may be slow, there can be
