into a sunlit world, where the zephyrs fan your cheek like a benediction
and the brooks tinkle through the gracious landscape and melody is on every
bough and joy and peace are all about you--the idyllic world where the
marvellous child, Mozart, reigns like an enchanter. What though the tale of
_The Magic Flute_ is foolish beyond words. Who cares for the tale? Who
thinks of the tale? It is only the wand in the hand of the magician. Though
it be but a broomstick, it will open all the magic casements of earth and
heaven, it will surround us with the choirs invisible, and send us forth
into green pastures and by the cool water-brooks.
That was Mozart's vision of the world in his brief but immortal journey
through it. Perhaps it was only a dream world, but what a dream to live
through! And to him it was as real a world as that of Mr. Gradgrind, whose
vision is shut in by what Burns called "the raised edge of a bawbee." We
must not think that our world is the only one. There are worlds outside our
experience. "Call that a sunset?" said the lady to Turner as she stood
before the artist's picture. "I never saw a sunset like that." "No, madam,"
said Turner. "Don't you wish you had?" Perhaps your world and mine is only
mean because we are near-sighted. Perhaps we miss the vision not because
the vision is not there, but because we darken the windows with dirty
hangings.
"I'M TELLING YOU"
The other day I went into the Law Courts to hear a case of some interest,
and I soon became more interested in the counsel than in the case. They
offered a curious contrast of method. One was emphatic and dogmatic. "I'm
not asking you," he seemed to say to the judge and jury, "I'm telling you."
The other was winning and conciliatory. He did not thrust his views down
the jury's throats; he seemed to offer them for their consideration, and
leave it at that. He was not there to dictate to them, but to hold his
client's case up to the light, as it were, just as a draper holds a length
of silk up before his customer. Now, as a matter of fact, I think the
dogmatic gentleman had the better case and the stronger argument, but I
noticed next day that the verdict went against him. He won his argument and
lost his case.
That is what commonly happens with the dogmatic and argumentative man. He
shuts up the mind to reason. He changes the ground from the issue itself to
a matter of personal dignity. You are no longer concerned with whether the
thing is right or wrong. You are concerned about showing your opponent that
you are not to be bullied by him into believing what he wants you to
believe. Even Johnson, who was, perhaps, the most dogmatic person that ever
lived, knew that success in the argument was often fatal to success in the
case. Dr. Taylor once commended a physician to him, and said: "I fight many
battles for him, as many people in the country dislike him." "But you
should consider, sir," replied Johnson, "that by every one of your
victories he is a loser; for every man of whom you get the better will be
very angry, and resolve not to employ him; whereas if people get the better
of you in argument about him, they'll think, 'We'll send for Dr. ----,
nevertheless.'"
But Johnson fought not to convince, but for love of the argumentative
victory. A great contemporary of his, whom he never met, and whom, if he
had met, he would probably have insulted--Benjamin Franklin, to
wit--preferred winning the case to winning the argument. While still a boy,
he tells us, he was fascinated by the Socratic method, and instead of
expressing opinions asked leading questions. He ceased to use words like
"certainly," "undoubtedly," or anything that gave the air of positiveness
to an opinion, and said "I apprehend," or "I conceive," a thing to be so
and so.
"This habit," he says, "has been of great advantage to me when I have had
occasion to inculcate my opinions and persuade men into measures that I
have been engaged from time to time in promoting. And as the chief ends of
conversation are to _inform_ or to be _informed_, to _please_ or to
_persuade_, I wish well-meaning and sensible men would not lessen their
power of doing good by a positive assuming manner, that seldom fails to
disgust, tends to create opposition and to defeat most of those purposes
for which speech was given us. In fact, if you wish to instruct others, a
positive dogmatical manner in advancing your sentiments may occasion
opposition and prevent a candid attention. If you desire instruction and
improvement from others, you should not at the same time express yourself
fixed in your present opinions. Modest and sensible men, who do not love
disputation, will leave you undisturbed in the possession of your errors."
It is really, I suppose, our old friend "compulsion" again. We hate
Prussianism in the realm of thought as much as in the realm of action. If I
tell you you've got to believe so-and-so, your disposition is to refuse to
do anything of the sort. It was the voluntary instinct that breathes in all
of us that made Falstaff refuse to give Prince Hal reasons: "I give thee
reasons? Though reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would not give
thee reasons _on compulsion_--I."
I was once talking to a member of Parliament, who was lamenting that he had
failed to win the ear of the House. He was puzzled by the failure. He was a
fluent speaker; he knew his subject with great thoroughness, and his
character was irreproachable; and yet when he rose the House went out. He
was like a dinner-bell. He couldn't understand it. Yet everybody else
understood it quite well. It was because he was always "telling you," and
there is nothing the House of Commons dislikes so much as a schoolmaster.
Probably the most successful speaker, judging by results, who ever rose in
the House of Commons was Cobden. He was one of the few men in history who
have changed a decision in Parliament by a speech. He did it because of his
extraordinarily persuasive manner. He kept the minds of his hearers
receptive and disengaged. He did not impress them with the fact that he was
right and they were wrong. They forgot themselves when they saw the subject
in a clear, white light, and were prepared to judge it on its merits rather
than by their prejudices.
One of the few persuasive speakers I have heard in the House of Commons in
recent years is Mr. Harold Cox. Many of his opinions I detest, but the
engaging way in which he presents them makes you almost angry with yourself
at disagreeing with him. You feel, indeed, that you must be wrong, and that
such open-mindedness and such a friendly conciliatory manner as he shows
must somehow be the evidence of a right view of things. As a matter of
fact, of course, he is really a very dogmatic gentleman at the bottom--none
more so. As indeed Franklin was. But he has the art to conceal the emphasis
of his opinions, and so he makes even those who disagree with him listen to
his case almost with a desire to endorse it.
It is a great gift. I wish I had got it.