When we judge literature we do so by reference to the eternal truth, not by what the writer considers the present phase of truth; and if literature so tested is found guilty of suppression, evasion or misinterpretation, we call the work insincere, though the author may have written in perfect good faith.  That is a necessary distinction to keep in mind.  If you call a man’s work insincere, the superficial critic will take it as calling the man himself insincere; but the two are distinct, and it needs to be emphasised, for sincere men are making these propagandist plays, of which the manifest and glaring untruth is working mischief to the national mind.  A type of such a play is familiar enough in these days when we like to ridicule the West Briton.  We are served up puppets representing the shoneen with a lisp set over against the patriot who says all the proper things suitable to the occasion.  Now, such a play serves no good purpose, but it has a certain bad effect.  It does not give a true interpretation of life; it enlightens no one; but it flatters the prejudices of people who profess things for which they have no zeal.  That is the root of the mischief.  Many of us will readily profess a principle for which we will not as readily suffer, but when the pinch comes and we are asked to do service for the flag, we cover our unwillingness by calling the man on the other side names.  Where such a spirit prevails there can be no national awakening.  If we put a play before the people, it must be with a hope of arresting attention, striking their imagination, giving them a grip of reality, and filling them with a joy in life.  Now, the propagandist play does none of these things; it has neither joy nor reality; its characters are puppets and ridiculous; they are essentially caricatures.  This is supposed to convert the unbeliever; but the intelligent unbeliever coming to it is either bored or irritated by its extravagant absurdity, and if he admits our sincerity, it is only at the expense of our intelligence.

III

A propagandist play for a political end is even more mischievous—­at least lovers of freedom have more cause for protest.  It makes our heroes ridiculous.  No man of imagination can stand these impossible persons of the play who “walk on” eternally talking of Ireland.  Our heroes were men; these are poseurs.  Get to understand Davis, Tone, or any of our great ones, and you will find them human, gay, and lovable.  “Were you ever in love, Davis?” asked one of his wondering admirers, and prompt and natural came the reply:  “I’m never out of it.”  We swear by Tone for his manly virtues; we love him because we say to ourselves:  “What a fine fellow for a holiday.”  A friend of Mitchel’s travelling with him once through a storm, was astonished to find him suddenly burst out into a fine recitation, which he delivered with fine effect.  He was joyous in spirit.  For their buoyancy we love them all,