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