should be interested in his own story; the
poet should make his song for the love of the song and his comedy for
the fun of the thing.

VI

We naturally think of the Abbey Theatre when we speak of these things,
and as the Abbey work has certainly suffered from overpraise we may
correct it by comparison with Shakespeare. Before the Abbey we were so
used to triviality that when clever and artistic work appeared we at
once hailed it great. We _did_ get one or two great things, a fact to
note with hearty pleasure and pride. But the rest was merely clever; and
now that we are getting nothing great we must insist, and keep on
insisting, that 'tis merely clever. But let us remember that value of
the word great. Let it be kept for such names as Shakespeare and
Moliere; and lesser men may be called brilliant, talented or
able--anything you will but great. Consider the scenes from the supreme
plays of Shakespeare and compare with them the innumerable plays now
coming forth and note a vital difference. These give us excitement,
where Shakespeare gave us vision. We may be reminded of Shakespeare's
duels and brawls and battles and blood; his generation revelled in
excitement. Yes, they craved it, and he gave it to them, but shot
through with wonder, subtlety, ecstasy; and his splendid creations, like
mighty worlds, keep us wondering for ever. We must get back that supreme
note of blended music and wonder, that makes the spirit beautiful and
tempts it to soar, till it rise over common things and mere commotion,
spreading its wings for the finer air where reason faints and falls to
earth.

VII

A dramatist cannot make a great play out of little people. His chief
characters at least must be great of heart and soul--the great hearts
that fight great causes. When such are caught, in the inevitable
struggle of affections and duties and the general clash of life their
passionate spirits send up all the elements that make great literature.
The writer who cannot enter into their battles and espouse their cause
cannot give utterance to their hearts; and we don't want what he thinks
about them; we want what they think about themselves. He who is in
passionate sympathy with them feels their emotion and writing from the
heart does great things. The artist who is in mortal dread of being
thought a politician or suspected of motives cannot feel, and will as
surely fail, as the one who sits down to play the role of politician
disguise