And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride.
The weary to sleep and the wounded to die.

When preparing to read a selection, it is of great importance to make the leading thoughts stand out clearly in the mind so that we may be able to present them one by one. The poem Barbara Frietchie (p. 113.) could be divided into paragraphs with some such titles as the following: (1) the town of Frederick and its surroundings, (2) the approach of the army, (3) the tearing down of the flags, (4) the raising of Barbara Frietchie's flag, (5) Stonewall Jackson and his men, and so on. Each of the paragraphs is a complete section of the poem, and requires a well-marked pause before passing on to the next one.

Grouping. In the extract from The Glove and the Lions, used above to illustrate pause, the mental pictures and important ideas are suggested in nearly every ease by a single word. Ideas are, however, suggested as often by groups of words as by single words. These groups are treated as single words, and may take pauses before or after them as the case may be. The reader, who is thinking as he reads, will group together words that express one idea, or symbolize one picture, presenting these ideas and pictures to himself and to the listener one by one, and separating by a pause, of greater or less length, those not closely connected.

A slouched leather cap|| half hid his face| bronzed by the sun and wind| and dripping with sweat.|| He wore a cravat twisted like a rope|| coarse blue trousers| worn and shabby| white on one knee| and with holes in the other;|| an old ragged gray blouse| patched on one side with a piece of green cloth| sewed with twine;|| upon his back| was a well-filled knapsack,|| in his hand| he carried an enormous knotted stick;|| his stockingless feet| were in hobnailed shoes;|| his hair was cropped|| and his beard long.

Here the double vertical lines mark off groups of words which express one idea or symbolize one picture, and which are therefore each separated from the other by a well-marked pause. The single vertical lines indicate a shorter pause between the subdivisions of each group. The phrase "an old ragged gray blouse patched on one side with a piece of green cloth sewed with twine" presents one picture by itself, and is separated from the context by a long pause, but each detail in this picture is presented in turn to the mind's eye, hence the shorter pauses after "blouse," "cloth," and "twine."

The reader should be careful not to allow pause and grouping to produce a jerky effect, thus interfering with the rhythm. This applies especially to poetry, which demands, in order to preserve the rhythm, that the caesural pause should not be slighted, and that there should be a more or less marked pause at the end of each line:

And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on either side

To pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropped and died.

In the second line, the caesural pause occurs after "spot," but the phrase "from the spot where he had dropped and died" expresses one idea and must be given as a whole. The rhythm and the grouping appear to be at variance; but the difficulty is easily overcome by making the caesural pause shorter than the pause after "heather" which introduces the group, and at the same time, by not allowing the voice to fall on the word "spot."

The following affords another instance where the grouping appears to interfere with the rhythm:

If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

"Of this gifted well" is evidently not connected in thought with "husband." It must be separated from "husband" by a pause and attached to "shall drink" at the beginning of the next line. To do this, it is not, however, necessary to omit the pause at the end of the line; for this would mar the effect of the rhythm. The difficulty is again overcome by making the pause at the end of the line shorter than the pauses which mark the grouping, and by not allowing the voice to fall on "well."

Time is the rate at which we read. It is fast or slow according to the number and the length of the pauses between words and phrases, and also according to the length of time the reader dwells on the words themselves. There is perhaps no more frequent criticism made on reading than that it is too fast. What does this mean? It means that the reader is not doing enough thinking as he repeats the words. Consequently, he does not dwell on words that are full of meaning, nor pause before and after words and phrases to make the mental picture and to grasp the thought more fully. Moreover, for the benefit of the listener, the reading should be slower than is required by the reader for himself. The reader, with his eye on the page, can allow his eye and mind to run ahead of his voice, and can thus realize the thought in less time than the listener. The following line calls for a comparatively small amount of thinking:

High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they bore.

Here, there is little except what is on the surface, and the thoughts suggested by the words are of the kind to make the mind think rapidly. Hence the line is read in faster time than the average rate. Reading may, accordingly, be fast from one or both of two causes. First, when there is no background of thought for the mind to dwell upon, and second when the nature of the thoughts themselves, such as the narration of the rapid succession of events, impels to quick mental action. The following lines from Pibroch of Donuil Dhu (p. 61) will serve as an illustration:

Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! etc.

So, too, reading may be slow from the exact opposite of these two reasons. First, when there is a great back-ground of thought suggested by the words, and second, when the reflective and meditative nature of the thought leads to slow action on the part of the mind. In some selections both of these conditions are present; in others only one of them. In The Day is Done (p. 63) there is little thought below the surface; but the reading is slow because the quiet, meditative nature of the thought tends to slow mental action:

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

Both conditions, however, exist in the lines from Barbara Frietchie which describe the effect produced on Stonewall Jackson by Barbara Frietchie's heroic action and daring speech:

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came.

A great many thoughts are suggested by these two lines. The heart of the gallant Southerner is touched at the sight of this weak, decrepit old woman with the courage and boldness of youth, ready to die for her principles. His stern features relax and a look of sadness passes over his face. The taunting words "spare your country's flag" have struck home. The tragic side of civil war is forced upon him—father fighting against son, and brother against brother, the sons of freedom firing at their own star-spangled banner. The sorrow and the shame of it all rise before him, and the crimson flush mounts to his brow. With this undercurrent of thought in the mind, it is impossible to read rapidly. Besides, the reflective nature of the thoughts themselves tends to make one repeat the words slowly.

Sometimes, again, reading is faster than the moderate rate because of the unimportance of the events or facts:

He spoke of the grass, the flowers and the trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

Note the lightness with which the unimportant details of conversation are skimmed over.

Inflection. If we listen to the speech of the people around us, we can easily detect an upward slide of the voice on some words, a downward slide on others, and on others again a combination of the two. This slide of the voice on words—generally on the accented syllable of an emphatic word—is called inflection, and the various inflections are known as rising (/), falling (\), rising circumflex (\/), and falling circumflex (/\).

Each inflection has a definite and fixed meaning recognized by every one, and it is because of the laws of inflection that we can tell what meaning a speaker intends to convey when he uses certain words; for often the same words may carry two or three different meanings according to the inflection. The simple word "Yes," with an abrupt downward slide, expresses decided affirmation. When spoken with an upward slide, it expresses interrogation and is equivalent to "Is that really so?" When it has a combination of the downward and upward slide or a rising circumflex inflection, the meaning is no longer simple but complex. There is an assertion combined with doubt. It is equivalent to saying: "I think so but I am not really sure." In such a sentence as: "Do not say 'yes,'" where the idea "but say 'no,'" is merely implied, but not formally expressed, the word "yes" has a combination of the upward and downward slide or a falling circumflex inflection.

If we take an idea for its own sake, if it is independent and complete in itself, the voice has the downward slide or falling inflection on the words which stand for the central idea:

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel.

Each statement is complete in itself and has the falling inflection.

Sometimes there is a slight downward slide before the statement is completed, because the mind feels that the ideas already expressed are of sufficient force to give them the value of completeness:

My strength is as the strength of tèn, Because my heart is pure.
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and còld, And the pikes were all broken or bènt, and the powder was all of it spènt; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side.

Note the momentary completeness on "ten," "cold," "bent," and "spent," requiring the falling inflection.

If on the other hand an idea is incomplete, either pointing forward to some other idea or being subordinate, the voice has the upward slide or rising inflection. The rising inflection, like the falling, may be long or short, more or less abrupt, according to the importance of the thought:

Shé, with all a monarch's príde, Felt them in her bosom glow.

"She" points forward to the predicate "felt" and because of the importance of the idea it takes a long rising inflection; "with all a monarch's pride" being subordinate and incomplete also requires the voice to be kept up, but takes a shorter rising inflection.

It is of the greatest importance to know the exact purpose of the thought, so that the voice may, of itself, give the corresponding inflection:

And you may gather garlánds thére Would grace a summer quèen.

The sense is evidently not complete in the first line, the intention being to emphasize the beauty of the garlands to be gathered, and not merely to state that they may be gathered there. When the reader understands the exact meaning he will convey it by keeping the rising inflection on "garlands."

Similar to the foregoing is the following:

There is not a wífe in the wést cóuntry But has heard of the Wèll of St. Kèyne.

The sense is not complete until we read the second line. The rising inflection on "country" indicates this and connects the first line with the second, bringing out the meaning, that every wife in the west country has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

Sometimes we have a series of rising inflections, all pointing forward to the leading statement which is to follow and which is necessary to complete the sense, for example:

Of man's first disobédience and the frúit Of that forbidden trée, whose mortal táste Brought déath into the wórld, and all our wóe, With loss of Éden, till one greater mán Restóre us, and regáin the blissful séat, Sing, heàvenly Mùse.

Incompleteness may be suggested by a negative statement or its equivalent:

Nót from the grand old másters, Nót from the bárds sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.
I do not know what I was pláying, Or what I was dréaming thén, But I struck one chord of music Like the sound of a great Amen.

Note the rising inflection on these negative clauses.

On the same principle the rising inflection is used on the negative statements of persuasive argument as in the Apology of Socrates (p. 145).

But I thought that I ought not to do anything common or mean, in the hour of danger: nor do I now repent of the manner of my defence.

For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of escaping death.

Not so; the deficiency which led to my conviction was not of words—certainly not.

Doubt and hesitation also imply incompleteness:

He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!

Note the rising inflection on the first two lines where the lady is still in doubt as to what shall be the test of De Lorge's love, and the falling inflection on the last one when she has reached a decision.

Pleading and entreaty also convey a sense of incompleteness and take the rising inflection:

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny.   Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die!

A direct interrogation, that is, one that can be answered by "Yes" or "No", implies incompleteness in the mind of the questioner and requires a decided rising inflection:

Is your name Shýlock?   May you stéad me? Will you pléasure me? Shall I knów your ánswer?

Questions that require an explanatory answer and cannot be answered by "Yes" or "No," do not convey an idea of incompleteness, being merely equivalent to the statement of a desire for certain information. Consequently they take the falling inflection:

Flav. Speàk, whàt tràde art thòu? 1st Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter. Mar. Where is thy leather àpron, and thy rùle? What dost thou with thy best appàrel òn?— You, sir, whàt tràde are yoù?

The purpose or motive of a question must be considered. We must know whether the question is asked for information, or whether its purpose is to give information; that is, whether it is only another way of making an assertion—what is sometimes called a question of appeal. When Shylock asks Portia: "Shall I not have barely my principal?" he does so with the direct purpose of learning his sentence. His question can be answered by "Yes" or "No" and the rising inflection is used. But when he asks: "On what compulsion must I?" he means simply to give the information that there is no power on earth to compel him. This is a complete thought, hence the falling inflection. Other examples are:

Have you e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?
What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?

The opposite inflections on antithetical words or phrases are also due to this law of completeness and incompleteness. The first part of the antithesis usually has the rising inflection marking incompleteness, and the second, the falling, marking completeness.

Hís blast is heard at merry mórn, And mìne at dèad of nìght.

For this thy brother was déad, and is àlive again; and was lóst, and is foùnd.

Similarly, in a series of words or phrases parallel in construction, all have the rising inflection but the last:

As Cæsar lóved me, I wéep for him; as he was fortúnate, I rejóice at it; as he was válíant, I hónour him; but as he was ambìtious, I slèw him! There is teárs for his lóve; jóy for his fórtune; hónour for his válour; and deàth for his ambìtion.

Cráfty men contémn studies; símple men admíre them; and wìse men ùse them.

If one part of the antithesis is a negation, it takes the rising inflection, whether it comes first or second. This is owing to the fact that, as illustrated above, a negation implies incompleteness. The other part then takes the falling inflection:

Fall into the hands of Gòd, not into the hands of Spáin.
I come to bùry Cæsar, not to práise him.
I said an èlder soldier, not a bétter.

Often only one part of the antithesis is expressed, the contrast being implied. In such a case, the voice brings out the contrast by placing a combination of the two inflections of the regularly expressed antithesis on the one word which does duty for both parts: Cassius says: "I said an elder soldier, not a better" in reply to Brutus' speech—"You say you are a better soldier." The antithesis is fully expressed, and the voice places the falling inflection on "elder" and the rising inflection on "better." If Cassius had omitted the words "not a better," the very same meaning could have been conveyed by placing a combination of the rising and the falling inflection or a falling circumflex on the word "elder," thus—"I said an êlder soldier." In the next line he goes on to say "Did I say bĕtter?" Here, there is an implied contrast with "elder," which is expressed by a combination of the falling and the rising inflection or a rising circumflex. From these two examples, we can see that the law of completeness and incompleteness holds good with the compound or circumflex inflection, just as it does with the simple inflection, and determines whether the circumflex shall be rising or falling.

A very common mistake in reading is to use the circumflex inflection in emphasizing a word, thus making a contrast where none is intended. "Ramped and roared the lions" with a falling circumflex inflection on "lions," instead of a simple falling inflection, suggests that the tigers or some other animals did not ramp and roar. For similar reasons, avoid the circumflex when emphasizing "hand" and "feet" in "put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet."

As has already been stated, it is necessary to know the motive behind the words. When Shylock says: "O wise and upright judge," his intention is evidently to bestow sincere praise. The reader, knowing this, instinctively gives a straight slide. Later, when Gratiano says: "O upright judge, O learned judge!" his intention is to taunt and hold up to ridicule; there is a double meaning conveyed, which finds its natural expression in a curved inflection.

Compare the curved inflections in the cobbler's speeches in Act I. Scene I, of Julius Cæsar (p. 133) when he is fencing with Marullus, with the straight inflections of his final speech when he has thrown aside his raillery and speaks with sincerity:

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself
in more work. But, indeèd, sir, we make hòliday to
 
see Caèsar, and to rejoìce in his triùmph.

One writer has said: "Where there is simple and genuine thought, deep and sincere feeling, wherever the eye is single, the inflections of the voice are straight; a crook in the mind however is indicated by a crook in the voice."

Pitch is the key of the voice. A change of pitch is a leap from one key to another during silence. Inflection, as we have seen, is a gradual change in the key while the voice is speaking. The pitch or key depends upon the muscular tension of the vocal chords, which act like the strings of a musical instrument: the greater the tension, the higher the key. Muscular tension implies nervous tension and this is dependent upon the mental state. If the mind is calm, the nervous and muscular tension is normal, and the speaker uses the key habitual to him in his ordinary speech. If the mental state is one of excitement, the key is higher because of greater nervous and muscular tension. If, on the other hand, the mental state is one of depression, the key is lower because of relaxed muscular tension.

In The Defence of the Bridge (p. 206) the Romans, seeing the danger of the heroes, are wrought up to a high state of nervous tension which finds its natural expression in the high-pitched voice:

"Come back, come back Horatius!"  Loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! back Herminius!  Back, ere the ruin fall!"

Contrast with this the lower key of Horatius, who is calm and self-controlled:

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!"

Observe the gradual rise in pitch with the increase of tension or excitement in the following:

And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, Borne by the joyous crowd.

In the following lines, where the Douglas holds communion with himself, the tension is low chiefly because of his great mental depression, and, consequently, he speaks in a low key:

Yes! all is true my fears could frame; A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, And fiery Roderick soon will feel The vengeance of the royal steel. I, only I, can ward their fate,— God grant the ransom come not late. The abbess hath her promise given. My child shall be the bride of Heaven:— Be pardoned one repining tear! For he, who gave her, knows how dear, How excellent! but that is by, And now my business is—to die.

The low pitch is also partly due to the fact that the Douglas is speaking to himself, and has no desire to communicate his thoughts to another; for the effort to communicate thought causes increased tension.

Again, it requires greater effort to address a person who is at a distance than one close at hand, or to address a large audience than a small one. Observe the comparatively high pitch in which Antony (p. 225) begins his oration:

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

If the reader wishes to give prominence to a thought, the effort put forth causes muscular tension, resulting in a higher pitch. On the other hand, a thought, which the reader regards as not of special importance to the listener, finds expression in lower pitch, more as if he were addressing himself:

Bold words!—but, though the beast of game The privilege of chase may claim, Though space and law the stag we lend, Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, Who ever recked, where, how, or when, The prowling fox was trapped or slain?

Observe the lower pitch of the subordinate clauses in the first four lines, and the higher pitch in the last two lines which project the leading thought.

"I think, boys," said the schoolmaster, when the clock struck twelve, "that I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon."

Similarly, the narrative clause "said the schoolmaster" which interrupts the direct speech is read in lower pitch and is separated by a marked pause before and after.

Parenthetical expressions, also for the same reason, are read in lower pitch.

She had not perceived—how could she until she had lived longer?—the inmost truth of the old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sorrow, though a sorrow borne willingly.

He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was influenced by human passions, and human feelings, (cheers)—possibly by human weaknesses—(loud cries of "No"); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in preference, effectually quenched it.

Passages which are collateral or co-ordinate in construction, and equally balanced, will find their natural vocal expression in the same pitch and, of course, the pitch varies as the attitude of the mind changes:

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down and saw not one.

The first two lines have the same pitch, because there is no difference in intensity of feeling or in the mental conception. There is, however, an entire change of thought beginning with "the sun." This is accompanied by a change of pitch.

Force. Force is vocal energy; in other words, it is the power or volume of the voice, and is determined by the amount of physical and mental energy exerted by the speaker.

The language of everyday conversation, when not marked by intensity of feeling or purpose, requires only a moderate amount of physical and mental energy and is expressed by moderate force. Intensity of feeling or purpose, on the other hand, is accompanied by a great expenditure of energy, and finds its natural outlet in strong force. In the following lines, (p. 132) the king's emphatic approval of De Lorge's action and his vehement condemnation of the lady's vanity find expression in strong force:

"In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat:

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

Compare the moderate amount of energy expended in uttering the narrative clauses "cried Francis," "and he rose from where he sat," and "quoth he," which should be read with moderate force.

More physical energy is expended in making one's self understood at a distance than near at hand, and in addressing a large audience than a small one; hence strong force is used in the following where it is accompanied by a loud tone of voice:

"Come back, come back Horatius!"  Loud cried the Fathers all.

But strong force does not necessarily imply a loud tone of voice:

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town!"

Here Sextus gives vent to his concentrated hate for Horatius and speaks with strong force, but not in a loud tone of voice.

The effort to influence the mind and action of others draws on a great fund of mental energy; hence commands, persuasion, and argument, all find their vocal expression in strong force. Hervé Riel, urging the captains to allow him to pilot the ships, speaks with strong force:

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!

Only let me lead the line,

When the mental or physical energy is at a low ebb we speak with weak force:

But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home, and my folks were growing old. Take me out, sink me deep in the green profound, To sway with the long-weed, swing with the drowned, Where the change of the soft tide makes no sound, Far below the keels of the outward bound.

For the same reason such poems as The Day is Done, (p. 63) and Part IV, of The Lady of Shalott, (p. 200) are read with gentle force.

A change in force often accompanies a change in pitch. The lower pitch of parenthetical expressions, and narrative clauses which interrupt direct discourse, is accompanied by weaker force, and the higher pitch resulting from the efforts to make one's self heard at a distance is accompanied by stronger force.

Stress is force applied to the vowel sound. When we are taken by surprise and give expression to it by means of the one word "Oh," we apply the force or volume of the voice to the beginning of the vowel sound. This is called initial or radical stress (>) to a statement, or to insist on a refusal to some persistent request we say "No," gradually increasing the force of the voice to the last part of the vowel sound. This is called final or vanishing stress (<). Again, if our minds are uplifted with wonder and delight at something we have heard or seen, we exclaim "Oh" applying the force to the middle of the vowel sound. This swell of the vowel sound is called median stress (<>).

It has already been pointed out that force depends upon the amount of energy. The above examples show that stress or the location of force depends upon the kind of mental energy, or the attitude of mind, whether it be that of abruptness, of insistence, or of uplift.

All speech has a slight tendency toward initial stress, because the effort made by the vocal chords to articulate sound is characterized by abruptness. If, in addition, the mental energy of the speaker possesses abruptness through sudden impulse or emotion, or through unconscious imitation of sound or movement, the initial stress is very prominent:

Where is thy leather apron, and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on?— You, sir, what trade are you?
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

If the speaker desires to impress on others his own feelings or convictions, the final stress is the result. Such insistence is found in the expression of anger, scorn, indignation, and determination:

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there's a way!

In the first two lines Hervé Riel wishes to make others feel his own indignation at the thought of burning the fleet. In the last two, he tries to impress them with his conviction that there is a way out of the difficulty. Hence the final stress in each case.

Sometimes the speaker tries to enforce his own opinion by peevishness, whining, or complaining, with the result that he uses the final stress:

Lady Teazle. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?

Sir Peter. Madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me?

Lady Teazle. Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?

If the mental energy or mental attitude is one of uplift or exaltation, expressing itself in adoration of the Deity, or in admiration and love of the beautiful, or in sympathy and tenderness toward mankind, the median stress is used:

Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean—roll!

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries.

Determination and settled conviction in the speaker's mind, especially when accompanied by a marked degree of dignity, calmness, and self-control, cause equal stress on every part of the vowel sound. This is called thorough stress:

If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

It is the stress of quiet strength and great reserve force:

Though the water flashed around them, Not an eye was seen to quiver; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, Not a man relax'd his hold.

In a more marked degree, it is also the stress used in calling:

Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before:

"The current's strong,—the way is long,—they'll never reach the shore!

See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!

Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!"

If the speaker's attitude of mind is not straightforward and sincere, if he speaks with a double meaning, in irony or sarcasm, the stress is a combination of the radical and final, known as compound stress (><). This is analogous to the compound inflection. See page 21.

Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome.

Accordingly, the compound stress is used when the intention is to taunt or to ridicule:

Sir Peter. Ay—there again—taste! Zounds! Madam, you had no taste when you married me!

Lady Teazle. That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow.

Emphasis—The importance of an idea, whether this idea is expressed by a single word, or by a phrase or clause, is indicated by a variation of pitch, force, or time. This change in pitch, force, or time, by attracting attention to that idea, is a means of emphasis. It is the new idea, or the idea which is important through contrast either expressed or implied, which will attract the reader's attention and which he will make prominent in this way:

Brutus. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well: for mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cassius. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus; I said, an elder soldier, not a better:

"better soldier," "appear," and "true" are central ideas; they express important ideas not mentioned before. When Cassius replies he at once throws the idea of "soldier" in the back-ground and emphasizes "better" by contrasting it with "elder." He also introduces the new idea "wrong" which he makes still more emphatic by repetition. Brutus also introduces the new idea "please me well" which he makes emphatic by repeating it in the word "glad." Other examples of words and phrases becoming more emphatic through repetition are:

Faster come, faster come; Faster and faster,      .     .     .      .     . Fast they come, fast they come;
"Jump—far—out boy into the wave, Jump, or I fire," he said, "This chance alone your life can save: JUMP, JUMP."

In the case of a climax, the emphasis grows stronger on each member of the series:

"Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.

 

It is enthronéd in the hearts of Kings,

It is an attribute to God himself.

 

When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,

And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,

And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,

And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags.

However, if a word is repeated, it is not necessarily emphatic each time:

The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;

The German foot goes seldom back where armèd foemen throng.

In the phrase "The German heart" the chief emphasis is on "heart," with a slighter emphasis on German. The emphasis is then transferred to "arm" and "foot" through contrast with "heart." To emphasize "German" again would weaken the effect.

Compare the repetition, in the following, of the syllable "un," also of the phrase "this year":