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A Vision Of The Burden Of Man
by
“The ideas are good. But what a pity you are not a poet!” said my friend the Poet.
But, though I recognise that prejudice in the deepest sense supplies the matter of judgment, while logic is only regulative of the form, yet in the more work-a-day sense of the word in which prejudice is taken to mean an opinion formed without reasoning and maintained in despite of it, I claim to write absolutely without prejudice. The syllogism is my lord and king. A kind-hearted lady said I had a cruel face. It is true. I am absolutely remorseless in tracking down a non sequitur, pitiless in forcing data to yield up their implicit conclusions. “Logic! Logic!” snorted my friend the Poet. “Life is not logical. We cannot be logical.” “Of course not,” said I; “I should not dream of asking men to live logically: all I ask is that they should argue logically.”
But to be unprejudiced does not mean to have no convictions. The superficial confuse definiteness with prejudice, forgetting that definite opinions may be the result of careful judgment. Post-judiced I trust I am. But prejudiced? Heaven forfend! Why, ’tis because I do not wish to bind myself to anything that I may say in them that I mark these personal communications “Without Prejudice”! For I do not at all mind contradicting myself. If it were some one of reverend years or superior talents I might hesitate, but between equals—-! Contradiction is the privilege of camaraderie and the essence of causerie. We agree to differ–I and myself. I am none of your dogmatic fellows with pigeon-holes for minds, and whatever I say I do not stick to. And I will tell you why. There is hardly a pretty woman of my acquaintance who has not asked for my hand. Owing to this passion for palmistry in polite circles, I have discovered that I possess as many characters as there are palmists. Do you wonder, therefore, if, with such a posse of personalities to pick from, I am never alike two days running? With so varied a psychological wardrobe at command, it would be mere self-denial to be faithful to one’s self. I leave that to the one-I’d who can see only one side of a question. Said Tennyson to a friend (who printed it): “‘In Memoriam’ is more optimistic than I am”; and there is more of the real man in that little remark than in all the biographies. The published prophet has to live up to his public halo. So have I seen an actress on tour slip from a third-class railway carriage into a brougham. Tennyson was not mealy-mouthed, but then he did not bargain for an audience of phonographs. Nowadays it is difficult to distinguish your friends from your biographers. The worst of it is that the land is thick with fools who think nothing of a great man the moment they discover he was a man. Tennyson was all the greater for his honest doubt. The cocksure centuries are passed for ever. In these hard times we have to work for our opinions; we cannot rely on inheriting them from our fathers.
I write with a capital I at the risk of being accused of egotism. Apparently it is more modest to be conceited in the third person, like the child who says “Tommy is a good boy,” or in the first person plural, like the leader-writer of “The Times,” who bids the Continent tremble at his frown. By a singular fallacy, which ought scarcely to deceive children, it is forgotten that everything that has ever been written since the world began has been written by some one person, by an “I,” though that “I” might have been omitted from the composition or replaced by the journalistic “we.” To some extent the journalist does sink his personality in that imaginary personality of his paper, a personality built up, like the human personality, by its past; and the result is a pompous, colourless, lifeless simulacrum. But in every other department of letters the trail of the “I” is over every page and every sentence. The most impersonal essays and poems are all in a sense egoistic. Everything should really be between inverted commas with an introductory Thus say I. But as these are omitted, as being understood, they come at last to be misunderstood.