ndon to-day and admit without a blush that he has not
seen ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Monarchs and princes have seen it. Archbishops
have seen it. Statesmen without number have seen it. An ex-Lord
Chancellor told me that he had journeyed out into the said wilds and
was informed at the theatre that there were no seats left. He could
not believe that he would have to return from the wilds unsatisfied.
But so it fell out. West End managers have tried to coax the play from
Hammersmith to the West End. They could not do it. We have contrived
to make all London come to Hammersmith to see a play without a
love-interest or a bedroom scene, and the play will remain at
Hammersmith. Americans will more clearly realize what John Drinkwater
has achieved with the London public if they imagine somebody putting
on a play about the Crimean War at some unknown derelict theatre round
about Two Hundred and Fiftieth Street, and drawing all New York to Two
Hundred and Fiftieth Street.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN has pleased everybody, and its triumph is the best
justification of those few who held that the public was capable of
liking much better plays than were offered to the public. Why has
ABRAHAM LINCOLN succeeded? Here are a few answers to the question:
Because the author had a deep, practical knowledge of the stage.
Because he disdained all stage tricks. Because he had the wit to
select for his hero one of the world's greatest and finest characters.
Because he had the audacity to select a gigantic theme and to handle
it with simplicity. Because he had the courage of all his artistic and
moral convictions. And of course because he has a genuine dramatic
gift. Finally, because William J. Rea plays Lincoln with the utmost
nobility of emotional power.

Every audience has the same experience at ABRAHAM LINCOLN, and I laugh
privately when I think of that experience. The curtain goes up on a
highly commonplace little parlour, and a few ordinary people chatting
in a highly commonplace manner. They keep on chatting. The audience
thinks to itself: "I've been done! What is this interminable small
talk?" And it wants to call out a protest: "Hi! You fellows on the
stage! Have you forgotten that there is an audience on the other
side of the footlights, waiting for something to happen?" (Truly the
ordinary people in the parlour do seem to be unaware of the existence
of any audience.) But wait, audience! Already the author is winding
his chains about you. Though you may