Margaret dear, here is another so welcome letter from you. I am thankful you stand up so nicely under my fault-findings with your work. I was a little afraid to write. But you are so richly worth candor—even if it be rather ignorant criticism. I know so little of historic writing or methods, old or new. I only know that you can write, that you have the gift, and also the divine illumination. That is why I was so frank.

Remember, you will hardly ever find any criticism of your work that will be worth a tinker’s dam to you. Also never forget that I cannot possibly think of you with kindly superior amused toleration as a "young person". You are not. And I am not old in the sense of being sour and opinionated. I am as romantic as you—more confirmed on the idealism of the universe than modern youth is generally supposed to be—perhaps. But I don’t believe that modern youth is fundamentally cynical. It is only disgusted with the tom-fool twaddle of the churches and the lying greed of politics, and jeering it all. Quite properly. I agree wholly with the point of view.

There is only one thing worse than the falsehood and humbug of diplomacy of old men. And that is the sorry truth that most men like to fight. Now I believe that eventually we will have a real League of Nations.¹ But—when you think of the innumerable blessed souls in Canada who think it is all wrong to love the Americans—what can you say? Like Mr. Briand² I want brotherhood—not the silly violence and hatred of the Internationale.³

I am awfully sorry it happened. I would have managed some how to get down there—even to walking—if I had been sure he was there. But not hearing, I thought it might have been Woodstock, Vermont, or even New Brunswick, though I did not know at that time your very liberal views as to geography!

"It is only the giants I care about" says she on one page. And on the next "Write me a love letter."

Merciful Allah, woman, what would you? Margaret Queen of Afar, with a Fairy Prince in her court, wants a love letter from a poor minstrel! Margaret darling, pray exercise that cool post-war (or post-bellum sounds better) temperament, and do not fan this subtle tinder-tender heart to flame. "Have a heart!" Remember the incurable romantic youths of the Victorian and Edwardian age, and deal gently with the almost-only one in captivity, the last lemon on the tree!

When I am summoned to your service O most gracious Majesty, I only proffer one humble request,—that I be not asked to speed to your presence by air. To telegraph or telephone I am ever ready at need, but to travel on the witches broom-stick—I cannot. I would rather walk.

Sweet thing, do I not love you good and plenty already? Almost plenty enough? Can I take Leviathan in a net,⁵ or put my rope over the neck of Orion?⁶ And who shall turn a woman from her course, or persuade her into a way whither she will not? Alas for Merlin in the toils of Vivien!⁷

X          X          X          X          X

Never mind the jest, dear person. It is only your incorrigible, but incorrigibly your

Carman