instincts which, were it not for the compensatory satisfaction to our vanity, would be unendurable. But, having given it, we expect the dear creatures to be happy. Many of them are-just as happy as their grandmothers used to be in their nice comfy little gift prisons-though even the most earnestly modern young women sometimes find the vast freedom of all outdoors a little chilly. And as long as they're happy, and realize that we have given them their heart's desire, we're satisfied. But if they are going to be discontented now, what can we do? We cannot-and I speak confidently for all males in this matter-we simply cannot stand it to see women unhappy! When we find we cannot make them happy, we beat them, take to drink, and

run away.

And this new discontent which your book of poems presages is one which we cannot remedy. For it is a demand by women, not upon us, but upon themselves! And if they are not to be cajoled into playing at life, if they are going to throw over pleasure as a career just as they threw over duty, what are we to do?

1919

XXXI. Dolls and

O

Abraham Lincoln

NCE upon a time I played with dolls; not the kind of dolls that little girls played with, of course, but dolls just the same. They were pictures carefully scissored out from the pages of magazines; pictures of people and animals and ships and mountains. I kept them in a cigarbox, and on rainy days I would take them out and sit in a corner and make up stories about them. Only it would be more true to say that they made up stories about themselves; for as I gazed at them they became alive; they moved and spoke, and the room about me vanished, and they and I were alone in an enchanting land of dreams. One of these picture dolls was the figure of a man with a sword, for at that early age I was an ardent militarist. Another was a lady lightly clad, indeed scarcely clad at all, cut from the pages of a fashion magazine. And still another was a picture of Abraham Lincoln.

What was there in that old woodcut to fascinate me so? I had heard the story of Lincoln's life

how he was born in a log cabin and became President, set free the slaves and was assassinated. I knew that he told funny stories, and pardoned tired soldiers who fell asleep at their posts. I thrilled to the cadence of words of his which I did not understand: "with malice toward none and charity for all"; "let us here highly resolve"; "of the people, by the people, and for the people."

What was there in these things to kindle my childish love and admiration? I had been taught a conventional reverence for Washington and Franklin and Grant, and Lincoln was handed to me along with these. But they were only Great Men, and Lincoln was in some strange way my friend. I do not know why I believed in him; but something in me wanted to, and was obscurely nourished by the simple and poignant story of his life and death.

Later, when I had learned to be sceptical, and questioned everything in heaven and earth, I still did not question the Lincoln story. I knew that there were details of his political career which did not jibe with my conception of him-but I did not care to follow up the matter. And only recently, when I had been reading Lytton Strachey's iconoclastic book about certain "Eminent Victorians," and was moved to ask myself how Lincoln would survive such treatment, the question was an unwelcome one. "What! Lincoln as the Great Compromiser? the last of a long series of American

politicians who had tried to bridge with eloquent words the widening economic chasm in our national life? the Talker, ever hesitating to act, preferring always words to deeds? another Kerensky? or (terrible thought, almost akin to blasphemy) another Woodrow Wilson, only deified in the nick of time by the accident of martyrdom?" But, even as this strange fantasy engaged my mind, I looked up and met the sad gaze of Boardman Robinson's Lincoln above my mantel, the sensitive, brooding, troubled, patient face, not of the American politician of my sceptical fancy, but of the Lincoln of my boyhood love. I remembered that the boys in Fort Leavenworth (imprisoned there and tortured for refusing to take up arms and fight, as Mr. Wilson might happen to dictate, in Flanders or in Siberia, for a conception of "democracy" which they did not share)-I remembered that on May Day they had marched, in the prison yard, singing the International, behind Boardman Robinson's picture of Lincoln, torn from the cover of a Socialist magazine and fastened to a broomstick. Lincoln had put conscientious objectors like themselves in prison (and pardoned them out again, it is true!)-but he was their Lincoln.

Theirs, yes; but not theirs alone! He belongs to all America-that is just the trouble. I do not like my hero to be also the hero of my banker.

It was in such a disturbed state of mind that I

went, on the opening night, to see John Drinkwater's play about Abraham Lincoln. I was disturbed, because the play had been a great success in London; cabinet ministers had gone to see it. I was in danger of losing my hero by too much sharing of him. It is bad enough to know that Lincoln is admired by Woodrow Wilson; but that he should be applauded by Lloyd George is too much. It needed only a wreath from Clemenceau to make him a sort of patron saint of the Peace Conference. My hero was keeping decidedly bad company. I feared the effect of evil communications upon his simple democratic manners. Would he hobnob with the Rulers of Earth until he forgot that he was one of us? Perhaps, indeed, he was merely one of them, and we had been fooled about him all the time. Such things have happened.

I hated to go and see that play. But I said to myself: "Face the facts! See what your Lincoln is like after his trip abroad. That is the acid test!

There is nothing like the applause of the British aristocracy to search out the hidden weaknesses of a man." So I bravely went. It was a cold, raw night, and I hurried in the teeth of an icy wind toward the electric sign which blazoned the name of the play-hurried into the lobby and bought my tickets-hurried up to my warm seat. I had barely settled myself in my place in anticipation of a spiritual adventure, when the orchestra struck up a