tomical Gradgrind would shrink appalled from the attempt to measure the capacity and trace the shape of the various resonance chambers—chest, throat, mouth, and nose, with the many intricate little passages and cave-like spaces communicating with the latter—yet the slightest difference in the form, size, or material structure of any of these parts must have its effect in modifying the voice to some extent.
It is a curious fact that singers, who are often rather unwilling to believe that the voice is formed solely in the larynx, are yet generally surprised to be told that the true nature of the voice can not be certainly determined by examination of that organ. From what has been said as to the extraordinary number of the component parts of the vocal machine, it will be evident that it would be almost as rash to pronounce on the nature of the voice from the appearance of the larynx as it would be to take the shape of the nose as an index of moral character. It can only be said in a general way that, other things (notably, the resonance chambers) being equal, one expects a large, roomy larynx, with thick, powerful cords, to yield a deep, massive voice, and a small organ, with slender cords, to send forth a shrill, high-pitched voice. These two types represent the male and female voice respectively; that of the child belongs to the latter category. It must be understood that the difference in size between the largest larynx and the smallest is, after all, very trifling in itself. For instance, the vocal cords in women are but a fraction of an inch shorter than in men, and the other dimensions vary in much the same proportion. A like difference prevails throughout the resonant apparatus, the re-enforcing chambers being larger in men, and their walls (which are built up of bone, gristle, and muscle) denser and more solid.
The voice varies in compass no less than in quality. A priori long vocal cords should indicate great range of tone, but so much depends on the management of these vibrating reeds that comparatively little significance can be attached to mere length. The average compass of the singing voice is from two to three octaves, the latter limit being seldom exceeded. The artistic effect produced with this small stock of available notes is as wonderful in its way as the marvelous results that can be got out of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet. In singing up the scale, the vocalist feels that at a certain point he has to alter his method of production in order to reach the higher notes. This point marks the breaks between the so-called "chest" and "head" registers, or what I may call the lower and upper stories of the voice.
The subject of the registers has been much debated by the learned, and still more perhaps by the unlearned; it is the "Eastern question" of vocal physiology. Quite a considerable literature has gathered round it; philosophers have lost their tempers
