Ye who hold that the power of eloquence is a thing of the past and the
orator an anachronism; who believe that the trend of political events
and the results of parliamentary action are determined by committees
in cold consultation and the machinations of programmes in holes and
corners, consider the ascension of Bryan and be wise. A week before the
convention of 1896 William J. Bryan had never heard of himself; upon his
natural obscurity was superposed the opacity of a Congressional service
that effaced him from the memory of even his faithful dog, and made him
immune to dunning. Today he is pinnacled upon the summit of the tallest
political distinction, gasping in the thin atmosphere of his unfamiliar
environment and fitly astonished at the mischance. To the dizzy
elevation of his candidacy he was hoisted out of the shadow by his own
tongue, the longest and liveliest in Christendom. Had he held it--which
he could not have done with both hands--there had been no Bryan. His
creation was the unstudied act of his own larynx; it said, "Let there
be Bryan," and there was Bryan. Even in these degenerate days there is
a hope for the orators when one can make himself a Presidential peril by
merely waving the red flag in the cave of the winds and tormenting the
circumjacence with a brandish of abundant hands.
To be quite honest, I do not entirely believe that Orator Bryan's tongue
had anything to do with it. I have long been convinced that personal
persuasion is a matter of animal magnetism--what in its more obvious
manifestation we now call hypnotism. At the back of the words and the
postures, and independent of them, is that secret, mysterious
power, addressing, not the ear, not the eye, nor, through them,
the understanding, but through its matching quality in the auditor,
captivating the will and enslaving it That is how persuasion is
effected; the spoken words merely supply a pretext for surrender. They
enable us to yield without loss of our self-esteem, in the delusion that
we are conceding to reason what is really extorted by charm. The words
are necessary, too, to point out what the orator wishes us to think,
if we are not already apprised of it. When the nature of his power is
better understood and frankly recognized, he can spare himself the toil
of talking. The parliamentary debate of the future will probably be
conducted in silence, and with only such gestures as go by the name of
"passes." The chairman will state the question before the House and
the side, affirmative or negative, to be taken by the honorable member
entitled to the floor. That gentleman will rise, train his compelling
orbs upon the miscreants in opposition, execute a few passes and exhaust
his alloted time in looking at them. He will then yield to an honorable
member of dissenting views. The preponderance in magnetic power and
hypnotic skill will be manifest in the voting. The advantages of the
method are as plain as the nose on an elephant's face. The "arena" will
no longer "ring" with anybody's "rousing speech," to the irritating
abridgment of the inalienable right to pursuit of sleep. Honorable
members will lack provocation to hurl allegations and cuspidors.
Pitchforking statesmen and tosspot reformers will be unable to play at
pitch-and-toss with reputations not submitted for the performance. In
short, the congenial asperities of debate will be so mitigated that the
honorable member from Hades will retire permanently from the hauls of
legislation.