tion, 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, and because of it we
emulate them. We are influenced, not by the man who always wants to
preach a sermon at us, but by the one with whom we go for a holiday. Our
history-makers were great, joyous men, of fine spirit, fine imagination,
fine sensibility, and fine humour. They loved life; they loved their
fellow man; they loved all the beautiful, brave things of earth. When
you know them you can picture them scaling high mountains and singing
from the summits, or boating on fine rivers in the sunlight, or walking
about in the dawn, to the music of Creation, evolving the philosophy of
revolutions and building beautiful worlds. You get no hint of this from
the absurd propagandist play, yet this is what the heart of man craves.
When he does not get it, he cannot explain what he wants; but he knows
what he does not want, and he goes away and keeps his distance. The play
has missed fire, and the playwright and his hero are ridiculous. Let us
understand one thing: if we want to make men dutiful we must make them
joyous.

IV

It is because we must talk of grave things that we mus