It is unhappily true that much insincere Literature and Art, executed solely with a view to effect, does succeed by deceiving the public.  But this is only because the simulation of truth or the blindness of the public conceals the insincerity.  As a maxim, the Principle of Sincerity is admitted.  Nothing but what is true, or is held to be true, can succeed; anything which looks like insincerity is condemned.  In this respect we may compare it with the maxim of Honesty the best policy.  No far-reaching intellect fails to perceive that if all men were uniformly upright and truthful, Life would be more victorious, and Literature more noble.  We find, however, both in Life and Literature, a practical disregard of the truth of these propositions almost equivalent to a disbelief in them.  Many men are keenly alive to the social advantages of honesty—­in the practice of others.  They are also strongly impressed with the conviction that in their own particular case the advantage will sometimes lie in not strictly adhering to the rule.  Honesty is doubtless the best policy in the long run; but somehow the run here seems so very long, and a short-cut opens such allurements to impatient desire.  It requires a firm calm insight, or a noble habit of thought, to steady the wavering mind, and direct it away from delusive short-cuts:  to make belief practice, and forego immediate triumph.  Many of those who unhesitatingly admit Sincerity to be one great condition of success in Literature find it difficult, and often impossible, to resist the temptation of an insincerity which promises immediate advantage.  It is not only the grocers who sand their sugar before prayers.  Writers who know well enough that the triumph of falsehood is an unholy triumph, are not deterred from falsehood by that knowledge.  They know, perhaps, that, even if undetected, it will press on their own consciences; but the knowledge avails them little.  The immediate pressure of the temptation is yielded to, and Sincerity remains a text to be preached to others.  To gain applause they will misstate facts, to gain victory in argument they will misrepresent the opinions they oppose; and they suppress the rising misgivings by the dangerous sophism that to discredit error is good work, and by the hope that no one will detect the means by which the work is effected.  The saddest aspect of this procedure is that in Literature, as in Life, a temporary success often does reward dishonesty.  It would be insincere to conceal it.  To gain a reputation as discoverers men will invent or suppress facts.  To appear learned they will array their writings in the ostentation of borrowed citations.  To solicit the “sweet voices” of the crowd they will feign sentiments they do not feel, and utter what they think the crowd will wish to hear, keeping back whatever the crowd will hear with disapproval.  And, as I said, such men often succeed for a time; the fact is so, and we must not pretend that it is otherwise.  But it no more disturbs the fundamental truth of the Principle of Sincerity, than the perturbations in the orbit of Mars disturb the truth of Kepler’s law.