| The Art of Public Speaking by Dale Carnegie and J. Berg Esenwein onlineV EFFICIENCY THROUGH CHANGE OF PACE
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When you and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh but the long, long while the world shall last,
Which of our coming and departure heeds,
As the seven seas should heed a pebble cast.
Note: In the following selections the passages that should be given a fast tempo are in italics; those that should be given in a slow tempo are in small capitals. Practise these selections, and then try others, changing from fast to slow tempo on different parts, carefully noting the effect.
2. No MIRABEAU, NAPOLEON, BURNS, CROMWELL, NO _man_ ADEQUATE _to_ DO ANYTHING _but is first of all in_ RIGHT EARNEST _about it--what I call_ A SINCERE _man. I should say_ SINCERITY, _a_ GREAT, DEEP, GENUINE SINCERITY, _is the first_ CHARACTERISTIC _of a man in any way_ HEROIC. _Not the sincerity that_ CALLS _itself sincere. Ah no. That is a very poor matter indeed_--A SHALLOW, BRAGGART, CONSCIOUS _sincerity, oftenest_ SELF-CONCEIT _mainly. The_ GREAT MAN'S SINCERITY _is of a kind he_ CANNOT SPEAK OF. _Is_ NOT CONSCIOUS _of_.--THOMAS CARLYLE.
3. TRUE WORTH _is in_ BEING--NOT SEEMING--_in doing each day that goes by_ SOME LITTLE GOOD, _not in_ DREAMING _of_ GREAT THINGS _to do by and by. For whatever men say in their_ BLINDNESS, _and in spite of the_ FOLLIES _of_ YOUTH, _there is nothing so_ KINGLY _as_ KINDNESS, _and nothing so_ ROYAL _as_ TRUTH.--_Anonymous_.
4. To get a natural effect, where would you use slow and where fast tempo in the following?
_FOOL'S GOLD_
See him there, cold and gray,
Watch him as he tries to play;
No, he doesn't know the way--
He began to learn too late.
She's a grim old hag, is Fate,
For she let him have his pile,
Smiling to herself the while,
Knowing what the cost would be,
When he'd found the Golden Key.
Multimillionaire is he,
Many times more rich than we;
But at that I wouldn't trade
With the bargain that he made.
Came here many years ago,
Not a person did he know;
Had the money-hunger bad--
Mad for money, piggish mad;
Didn't let a joy divert him,
Didn't let a sorrow hurt him,
Let his friends and kin desert him,
While he planned and plugged and hurried
On his quest for gold and power.
Every single wakeful hour
With a money thought he'd dower;
All the while as he grew older,
And grew bolder, he grew colder.
And he thought that some day
He would take the time to play;
But, say--he was wrong.
Life's a song;
In the spring
Youth can sing and can fling;
But joys wing
When we're older,
Like birds when it's colder.
The roses were red as he went rushing by,
And glorious tapestries hung in the sky,
And the clover was waving
'Neath honey-bees' slaving;
A bird over there
Roundelayed a soft air;
But the man couldn't spare
Time for gathering flowers,
Or resting in bowers,
Or gazing at skies
That gladdened the eyes.
So he kept on and swept on
Through mean, sordid years.
Now he's up to his ears
In the choicest of stocks.
He owns endless blocks
Of houses and shops,
And the stream never stops
Pouring into his banks.
I suppose that he ranks
Pretty near to the top.
What I have wouldn't sop
His ambition one tittle;
And yet with my little
I don't care to trade
With the bargain he made.
Just watch him to-day--
See him trying to play.
He's come back for blue skies.
But they're in a new guise--
Winter's here, all is gray,
The birds are away,
The meadows are brown,
The leaves lie aground,
And the gay brook that wound
With a swirling and whirling
Of waters, is furling
Its bosom in ice.
And he hasn't the price,
With all of his gold,
To buy what he sold.
He knows now the cost
Of the spring-time he lost,
Of the flowers he tossed
From his way,
And, say,
He'd pay
Any price if the day
Could be made not so gray.
_He can't play._
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