The following has been prepared by counsel, with full appreciation of the fact that the book under review must, in the last analysis, speak for itself, and that every book makes its different impression on each mind that it reaches. The only possible aid to reflection which this writing can constitute therefore, lies in such suggestion as it fairly may convey, that Mr. Cabell’s book is literature, in the accepted sense of that term, which is, as the foregoing brief shows, the legal sense as well. It presents a theme and its object is to stimulate reflection.

The book in question is a criticism of life. It treats with satire certain of the thoughts so current among us. It is Matthew Arnold and Carlyle in different guise. But the guise adopted is not new or novel. In the Sixteenth Century Erasmus put forth his comments on the ruling ideas of his time by writing a book “In Praise of Folly”. Mr. Cabell has adopted the same method of treatment. To his book can be applied the words which Professor Wells spoke of a book which our Court of Appeals has recently held not to be within the condemnation of the statute invoked in the present case: “With a springboard of fact in the seventeenth century to start from, he * * * transfers the adventures from the real world to a sort of forest of Arden, where the Rosalind of Shakespeare might meet a Watteau shepherdess and a melancholy Jacques.” (Halsey v. N. Y. Society, 234 N. Y. 1, 5.)

But that is not the only motive of the book. It deals also with aspirations for the unattainable, aspirations which it falls to the lot of some men to feel,—aspirations whose portrayal finds expression in books ranging from Goethe’s “Faust” to Sinclair Lewis’s “Babbitt”. These are things which, to use the words of Magistrate Simpson in the recent (and still unreported) case of People v. Seltzer, are not “naturally calculated to excite in the susceptible impure imaginations”. And if we want a moral lesson, we have it, because these desires are shown to be useless. The conventional cannot be escaped by fleeing to sin, for wickedness itself is conventional.

And may we observe in passing that the author, Mr. Cabell, is no radical? He makes no plea for reform by way of sociological experiment. Indeed, as expressed in “Beyond Life”, his contempt for sociology has been condemned by one of the apostles of the new Reign of Science and a lecturer in the Rand School (Robinson, “The Mind in the Making”, page 208). “What we want”, said Mr. Gradgrind, “are facts”. Mr. Cabell’s book now under attack deals with things not within the spectrum of the Gradgrind School,—eternal things which continue whether the world happens to be of the “New Philosophy” mode of thinking, or to have returned to the Age of Faith. How well he succeeds with what he has undertaken is quite another matter; in law it is sufficient that he has assumed the task. And with this in mind, the following undertakes to tell what one reader, at least, may think that “Jurgen” is about.

Jurgen’s name is “derived from jargon, a confused chattering such as birds give forth at sunrise” (183).[5] He is a pawnbroker, and he lives in Poictesme, but it might just as well be Kennaquhair. In his youth he had been in love with a Lady Dorothy; at forty-four we find him a pawnbroker, settled down to business, with a wife who has all the virtues of the good wife; somewhat henpecked, longing, like Sinclair Lewis’ Babbitt, for he knows not what. He has not the culture of Faust, he is not a Ph.D.; but, like the doctor of Leipzig whose venturings as set forth in legend attracted Marlowe and then Goethe, Jurgen yearns for “the distant land”, where he shall be able “to grasp infinite nature”. He thinks that he is a “monstrous clever fellow”;—so did Faust, the learned doctor,—in the end he reaches his salvation through a return to the routine from whence he came. Like Faust he assumes to unravel a tangled knot. Life is a riddle, nature is a mystery, justice has an indefinable basis. The learned man in Goethe’s poem seeks to find out why these things are so; Mr. Cabell’s hero is a man of ordinary station, but he, too, pursues the quest.

Jurgen passes from his routine of life, as Faust does, through communion with spirits that partake of the power of darkness. It all starts with one night when, on his way home from a day of trafficking in his shop, Jurgen passes a Cistercian monk who, having stumbled over a stone, is cursing the devil that had placed it there. “Fie, brother”, says this wordly wise, this all sufficient Jurgen, “have not the devils enough to bear as it is?” (1) This attracts the attention of an earth spirit, one Koshchei, “who made things as they are”.

For that reason this spirit, Koshchei, has his limitations. To him love is impossible—not carnal love, but the love of God, such love as never enters into Hell (257); such love as Jurgen’s grandmother, instructed by the priest, has for God (299, 302). Also to this earth spirit, Koshchei, is pride impossible (303). Of heavenly love the earth spirit cannot conceive, because he “made things as they are, and day and night he contemplates things as they are”. “How then”, says God Himself, “can Koshchei love anything?” (303). Pride, as the philosophical Satan tells Jurgen, is impossible to whoever it was that made things as they are, because he has to look at them, having nothing else to look at, so how can he be proud? (257). Almost, having in mind a certain treatise, De Civitate Dei, we can imagine St. Augustine speaking. The things of this world, the things as they are, are not to be loved, and he who made them, assuredly not the real God, finds love foreign to his breast.

Anyhow, this Koshchei, “monstrously pleased” with Jurgen’s defense of the devils against the Cistercian monk, puts himself in Jurgen’s way. Appearing to the hero in the shape of a small black gentleman, the earth spirit promises Jurgen a reward (10–11).

What that reward is to be soon develops. Arriving home, Jurgen finds his wife has vanished. She has gone to a cave, of evil magic, across Amneran Heath. On Walpurgis night, that night renowned in the calendar of demonology, Jurgen follows her there; but first, at her bidding he must remove from his neck a cross which had hung there, the gift of his dead mother (13).

Then comes a medley of classic, of Russian, and of Norse mythology. Jurgen finds in the cave a centaur, who gives him a Nessus-shirt (16)—“an old poet, loaned at once a young man’s body and the Centaur’s shirt” (131)—the young man’s body which Faust desired, but the Nessus-shirt which even Hercules could not wear for long. Jurgen is now off for his tour of the infinite.

And yet it is not the real Jurgen who makes this voyage. The real Jurgen, where is he? There are, in fact, many Jurgens. One of these is a little boy in Heaven. “That boy”, says God, “is here with me as you yourself have seen. And today there is nothing remaining of him anywhere in the man that is Jurgen” (297). Another Jurgen is “a young man barely come of age” (23) who had loved the young girl Dorothy, and who sees the Jurgen of today only “as one might see the face of a dead man drowned in muddy water” (31). Then there is the Jurgen of today, the Jurgen who “retains his shop and a fair line of business”, the Jurgen whose confiteor is that Koshchei, the earth spirit “who made things as they are”, has dealt with him very justly. “And probably his methods are everything they should be; certainly I cannot go so far as to say that they are wrong; but still, at the same time—” (368). And, separate from all these Jurgens, the little boy who loved God, the youth who cherished the normal things of youth, and the Jurgen of middle age who worships things as they are, is yet another Jurgen—the Faust-Jurgen, who, by favor of the powers of darkness, goes careering on his voyage of the world of fancy, the world of vision, the world of regrets, the world of disillusion.

The sequence of his adventures may easily be traced.

In the first episode Jurgen visits a garden between dawn and sunrise. It is a garden where “each man that has ever lived has sojourned for a little while, with no company save his illusions” (20). And the spirit of it all is shown forth in the people whom he first encounters. For they are a small boy and a girl who forever walk in the glaze of a mustard jar (19),—forever, that is, like the youth and the maid on the Grecian urn which drew the immortal gaze of Keats. The glance sweeps forward soon, however, and hence presently in this garden of memory Jurgen meets the girl Dorothy, meets her and talks with her (24–33). When she had gone all was gone and so, when the sun rose, it was simply “another workday” (34). The Philistine spirit blew upon the garden, it was to be remodelled and all the gold was to be rubbed away (36–7).

Then follows a visit to a character of many names, but always the same. Jurgen calls her Sereda, after the manner of Russian mythology, but she corresponds with the Roman Cybele, the Goddess of Earth (210, 316) and in the Norse she is called Æsred (176–7). Goddess of Earth, she takes the color out of all things. The Fates spin the glowing threads and weave them into curious patterns; but when she is done with them there is no more color, beauty or strangeness apparent “than in so many dishrags” (40), for she bleaches where others have colored. Naturally enough she refers Jurgen back to Koshchei, the spirit who made things as they are. Once more, through his intervention, Jurgen meets Dorothy. For in his attempt to answer life’s riddle, he must perforce return to the girl whom he had loved while young. If but they two could be together again in youth, would not the failures of his life, the disappointments of the middle years, be but as things that never had happened? (See 55.)

While the glamour still holds its spell, to Jurgen this is the young Dorothy, the girl who has not yet married; and so, on the moonlit ramp of her father’s castle they talk of many things as young lovers would. To them soon comes the girl’s future husband, but to Jurgen the magic makes it the appearance simply of a rival suitor; and, the magic having not yet exhausted its force, the conventional will have it that, in the words of the old stage directions, “they fight, and the rival is slain”. Then the conqueror turns to the lady, but dawn is coming and the magic is spent. Jurgen finds that this is not the Dorothy whom he had seen in the garden between dawn and sunrise (47–60). She is now repulsive, and he repels her. It is meet and right, therefore, that the next place to which Jurgen comes is a cave where are the bodies of many whom he had formerly known (60–65).

Winding his way through this cave he comes to Guenevere. She is held by the power of a giant; and from that giant does Jurgen rescue her (66–78).

Guenevere, of course, is the lady, charming but of errant fancy, to whom the chronicles Morte d’Arthur and Mabinogion were devoted, and of whose vagaries speak Tennyson’s “Idyls of the King.” At this time her marriage to Arthur has been arranged, and Lancelot is coming as his master’s envoy to arrange the details of the wedding. In the end Lancelot captures the heart of Guenevere (147) but, meanwhile her inclinations have their way with Jurgen. For Jurgen abides with her father in the latter’s city of Cameliard, which, of course, is but another name for Camelot (78–146). It is, to use the words of our time, a house party; and, like many house parties, it brings forth various events. To the guest Jurgen it befalls to do things ancient and modern, to rescue a princess from a giant, after the fashion of Sir Thomas Malory (82–3), to converse with ghosts in a haunted bed room (145–9) and to carry on with the fickle Guenevere, whose outstanding trait is “her innocence, combined with a certain moral obtuseness” (108). Her worldlywise father learns of the affair, talks it over with Jurgen, and reminds him of the duty apparent in the circumstances, that, if necessary, Jurgen should lie like a gentleman (93). The matter, however, comes to nothing, for the time of Guenevere’s marriage to Arthur is at hand. So she and Jurgen part, she with her mind already full of Lancelot (147) and Jurgen being taken with the charms of a new person of the play, of whom presently. In short, Jurgen leaves Guenevere where Tennyson takes her up, the stage being thus cleared for the drama of Lancelot.

Jurgen leaves Cameliard with one who is called Anaitis (147). But even as Guenevere typifies innocence combined with obtuseness (108) Anaitis is the personification of a capital sin. Like the earth goddess Sereda, known also to men as Cybele and Æsred (of whom supra) this Anaitis bears different names in different places. But always she is the same. In the Arthurian legend she is the Lady of the Lake (109), in classic lands she was Venus, on Eastern soil she was Ashtoreth. She serves the moon (150), she is the sun’s daughter (173); and in all lands from Paphos to Babylon do men rear temples in her honor (341–3). But the breath of evil nevertheless goes forth from her; and in her train follows Alecto, whose quality is retribution (178).

With this Venus, this Anaitis in her land of Cocaigne, Jurgen lives for a time. But he is not the only guest of whom legend bears record, not the only visitor of whom contemporary literature and art have spoken. Mr. Cabell, however, preserving that balance of humor which always in this book is kept level, has given this situation a new color. Tannhäuser is tempted to return to the Venusberg; Jurgen leaves Anaitis with never a glance behind.

But while he stays there, things of black magic happen. Nor is that strange. Anyone familiar with the legend embodied in “Tannhäuser” might expect to find that all things abhorred by Christians are practiced in the land of Venus, the Cocaigne of Anaitis.

And so we are able truly to understand the episode, occurring while Jurgen abides in this country of Cocaigne, to which so much attention has been directed by Mr. Sumner (chap. 22, pp. 151–158). This Moon Goddess (159) “who ruled not merely in Cocaigne but furtively swayed the tides of life everywhere the Moon keeps any power over tides” (159) had but one mission, “to divert and to turn aside and deflect” (159). Goethe puts into the mouth of Mephistopheles the tremendous words, “I am the spirit that always denies”. The episode in the present book simply shows forth the action of the spirit that denies, for to deflect is to deny. What occurs in the passage to which Mr. Sumner objects is nothing but a repetition of the mediæval practice of the Black Mass, the Devil’s Mass. It is certainly not against the dictates of literature to publish what the author conceives as a detail of the mysterious Black Mass; for if so then the novel, “Black Diamonds”, by the famous Hungarian novelist of a generation ago, Maurice Jokai, would never have been allowed in translation. And that the ceremony in question was a Black Mass is clear after we read, not merely the words describing the ceremony itself, but the references to it that follow.

In the inner sanctuary we find a toad nailed to a cross (157). The incident occurred “on the eve of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist” (159), in other words Midsummer Night’s Eve, at which time, according to mediæval tradition, the powers of darkness are allowed abroad.[6] Let us remember that in the country of Venus “the Church is not Christian”, and the law is “do that which seems good to you” (161). The very goddess herself was “created by perversity, and everyone knows that it is the part of piety to worship one’s creator in fashions acceptable to that creator” (165). That goddess, whose mission it was to divert, to deny, naturally enjoyed “the ceremony of God-baiting” as Jurgen calls it (157). Tannhäuser abode in the Venusberg, and nobody has dreamed of forbidding Wagner’s opera based on that. Jurgen lived in precisely the same place, but simply described with more cynicism. Really, we have nothing but “Tannhäuser” as it would have been written by Heine, if he had happened to take up the German legend in the spirit of his own cynical wit. Wagner took it seriously, and Mr. Cabell does not take it seriously; that is all the difference.

It will probably be advisable at this point to explain the details of the lance and the veil as used in this Devil’s Mass. The explanation, fortunately, can be shortly put. The lance was a real lance, which the hooded man handed to Jurgen (153). The veil was also real. It hung before the adytum (Gr. = inner part of a temple) and inside this adytum, beyond the veil, was the cross with a toad nailed upon it (157). The tip of the lance was red (154) and with it the veil was pierced that concealed the cross, but upon the cross hung the disgusting figure of a toad. The whole thing was, as Jurgen called it on the spot, a piece of “God-baiting”, a mockery, after the manner of the mediæval necromancers, of the mystery of the Passion of the Cross, of the lance that pierced a sacred Side, of the veil of the Temple that broke with a certain event which changed all the tides of history.

Taking it by itself this incident is not obscene or lewd; for mockery of sacred belief does not, as matter of law, fall into that class. An attack on religious belief cannot be indictable as an obscenity under Section 1141 of the Penal Code; if prosecuted, it must be indicted as a libel (People v. Eastman, 188 N. Y. 478). But we will not allow the defendants, nor Mr. Cabell, the author, to remain for a moment solely under that protection. This book puts forth the attack upon the Christian belief, not to support the attack, but to deride the attack itself. It is a matter of common observation that infidelity itself partakes of a religious fervor, and it is of that fervor that Jurgen makes fun. “Well, well!” says Jurgen, “but you are a little old fashioned, with all these equivocal mummeries” (157). Being “skeptical” (165) he denies that “death is going to end all for him” (171). And so Cocaigne “does not satisfy him” (172), he expresses his discontent at length (163–170) until Anaitis, in wrath, calls him “irreverent” (167), and that leads to their parting.

Surely that is a moral ending! Jurgen leaves Anaitis, his heart and mind not going along with the beliefs and practices of a goddess who enjoys every “far-fetched frolic of heathenry”, and who goes forth into the world to tempt people like St. Simeon Stylites and the hermits of the Thebaid (176). If it is unlawful to say that in print, then we must suppress Flaubert’s “Temptation of St. Anthony”, and we should certainly never permit “Tannhäuser” or “Thais” to be sung at the Metropolitan.

Then what survives all of this? What indeed but the words of one of the goddess’ friends, the Master Philologist, who says: “The Jewish mob spoke louder than He Whom they crucified. But the Word endures” (182). Jurgen, in short, tires of this place, a place where “it appears that their notion of felicity is to dwell eternally in a glorified brothel” (187).

He is now looking for Helen of Troy. Of course it is not criminal to think about her, since otherwise the second part of Faust should not be allowed in print, nor should Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women”. So it is lawful for Jurgen to look for her, and he does look. But on his way comes another episode.

In the domain of Leuke (192) he meets a hamadryad named Chloris. Leuke is the land of conventionality where nobody ever does anything except what he has been accustomed to do, and would never dream of doing a thing which nobody ever heard of doing (203–204). Consequently the wisest person among them is the god Silenus, the god of drunkenness, and he is always drunk in order to escape the conventional (208–9). That of course is not right, but the indictment is not drawn under the Volstead Law. Jurgen stops among these people and marries a little hamadryad, who is all that a wife should be (215) and who puts up a lunch for him when he goes for a walk (215). So conventional is Leuke, be it noted, that even a stroll is out of keeping. In this country of conventionality the people have never taken a holiday, nobody ever having heard of such a thing (206). It is the Utopia of the Podsnaps of Dickens’ time, of the Rotarians of our own. But his life in this happy place, where nothing out of the ordinary ought in nature’s course to happen, does not last long. War is threatened by the Philistines.

Be it observed, from what has already been said, that the Philistines and the people of Leuke were made by the same creator, the power that made things as they are, and consequently it does not much matter who will win, because all it will amount to is that “dullness will conquer dullness” (209). Yet in the matter of dullness the balance is with the Philistines. Fire is their means of sacrifice, not because of the glow, but because it ends in ashes, and the gray of ashes is their favorite color (230). They are Realists (231) and they believe that there is no art except it “teach something” (241). Their high priests claim to have read every book ever written, and denounce those who doubt the assertion (244). Knowing everything, believing in nothing that is not practical, they have a summary way of dealing with those who presume to disagree. All such recalcitrants are sent to Hell, “relegated to Limbo” (242).

Against the people of Leuke, the ordinary conventionalists, came these Philistines, the militant Realists. Naturally the Philistines conquered, and the people of Leuke were condemned to death. Jurgen’s wife, the little hamadryad whose life was bound up with that of her tutelary tree (215) perished with its felling. The Philistine Queen took a fancy to Jurgen, but he, “coming of morbid ancestry” (247) declined to abide in Philistia; and so they sent him to the limbo which they call Hell (250).

A better fate befalls the allied city of Pseudopolis. There live those of the Grecian spirit, of that spirit of Hellenism which, according to Matthew Arnold, wars always with the genius of Philistia. There abides Helen of Troy. Her Jurgen sees (224–9) the occasion being much the same as that which is pictured in Keats’ “St. Agnes Eve”. These people the Philistines could not slay, for “when the Philistines shouted in their triumph, Achilles and all they who served him rose from the ground like gleaming clouds and passed above the heads of the Philistines, deriding them” (231). But Jurgen and the people of ordinary conventionality perished, and thus our next view of Jurgen finds him in Hell.

The Hell to which he has gone is the Hell of his forefathers, being in truth but a monument to their egotism. They built it “out of the pride which led them to believe that what they did was of sufficient importance to merit punishment” (253). There Jurgen sees his father standing calmly in the midst of an especially tall flame, and very well satisfied with it, because of his confidence that he is important enough to deserve a special place in Hell. Therefore he is angry when the attendant devil does not sufficiently tend his furnace (254, 260–7).

It is not obscene, at least at common law, to speak lightly of Hell. If it were otherwise a great many books would be condemned. Every lawyer knows what was said about Lord Hatherley, when he, sitting in the Privy Council, held that the calvinistic idea of Hell was not part of the religion of the Church of England. It was said that Lord Hatherley had dismissed Hell with costs and had deprived thousands of their hope of everlasting damnation. Nor is it obscene to represent that there are people whose sense of personal importance rules even in death, people who think that their sins are greater than the sins of anybody else, not because of their quality as sins but because of the persons who commit them. And, pausing yet further at this point, let us suggest that if it is lewd to make fun of Philistia, then all of Matthew Arnold’s books should be burned by the hangman; and certainly Whistler’s book, “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies”, should never have been allowed in public print. Indeed it was Arnold, the father-in-law of a late most respectable member of this Bar, who invented the term Philistines as used in the present connection. Mr. Cabell has simply put in another form the protest that can be made against this point of view. At least it is open to protest.

Of course, we may not be able to agree with all of Mr. Cabell’s classifications as to what pertains to Philistia. Many of us are citizens of that country without knowing it. But it is not obscene or lewd for some one else to call us Philistines because of the views we may happen to hold dear. Legally we cannot object; practically we conserve our energies by not doing so. Like the famous Bishop Bonner of Queen Mary’s time, we may do well to laugh at the caricatures which the heretics make of us.

With this in mind we might get enjoyment out of Jurgen’s observations as to the real issue between Heaven and Hell. The war between them is not as Milton saw it. Rather, the war is between autocracy and democracy; and Hell is fighting to make the universe safe for democracy (287). Everybody knew how Satan came to be the chief magistrate of Hell, he was elected to that office, and he has continued in office so long simply because elections are inadvisable in war time (278–9). And while Hell used vigorous methods against dissenters, that was only because of necessary war time legislation (278–9). But Heaven was indisputably an autocracy, because nobody knew how God derived his power. He had been there through the ages, and He proposed to have no successor (286). Such, then, was the issue. Of its outcome, the shrewd Jurgen was inclined to favor Heaven, because of its superior military efficiency (287). And so, although Jurgen’s friends in Hell try to dissuade him (288), although he has married in Hell a vampire who is quite conventional, and life there is conventional also—“Hurry”, says his wife, “for we are spending the evening with the Asmodeuses” (277)—Jurgen leaves Hell and visits Heaven.

At that moment the mood of the author changes. Jurgen ascends to Heaven leaving irreverence behind, and the pictures now uncovered are of different tone and motive. The first person whom he sees is a little boy who was once Jurgen himself. When Jurgen meets God he says, “Once very long ago I had faith in you”; to which the reply is, “No, for that boy is here with me as you yourself have seen, and today there is nothing remaining of him anywhere in the man that is Jurgen” (297).[7] Heaven contains children, mothers and grandmothers. Logic cannot lead one to it, because logic does not exist there. Therefore, children, mothers and grandmothers can ascend to Heaven where people like Jurgen cannot. Taking Heaven as an illusion, Jurgen finds none of his own illusions there, and hence he must “return to such illusions as are congenial, for one must believe in something” (306). And yet he has stood motionless for thirty-seven days in that place, “forgetful of everything save that the God of his grandmother was love” (306–7). Nobody else, he is told, has willingly turned away so soon, and it is supposed that this is due to some evil wrought in the Nessus shirt he was wearing, the like of which was never seen in Heaven (307). And finally this wayfarer, this man of modern philosophy, says that he turned away from Heaven because he seeks for justice and he cannot find it in the eyes of God, “but only love and such forgiveness as troubled him” (307). To which archangels reply that because of that very fact he should rejoice (307).

If that is obscene, then “The Little Flowers” of St. Francis D’Assisi should at once be suppressed by Mr. Sumner. If it is lewd to teach that none of us would go to Heaven if we had justice done us, Christianity once more should betake itself to the catacombs.

We are let down from these heights by way of an interview between Jurgen and St. Peter. The Saint has something to say about prohibition (311–313) with which, theoretically speaking, many might disagree. But as the defendants are not indicted under the prohibition laws, it is needless to go into this discussion. The Saint also represents Heaven as pacifistic (312–313); but Mr. Cabell wrote after the Armistice, and pacifism is not, legally speaking, obscene or lewd, whatever else it undoubtedly is.

The travels of Jurgen now draw near to their end, the rest of the book simply rounding out the ideas suggested. Returning to earth, he meets once more the earth goddess Sereda, and the pith of their talk is the conclusion, not that “there is no meaning in anything”,—that, both agree, nobody really could face,—but that the lower god, Koshchei, who made things as they are, “is in turn the butt of some larger jest, * * * that all of us take part in a moving and a shifting and a reasoned use of things * * * a using such as we do not comprehend and are not fit to comprehend” (317). The quest of Jurgen ends, fitly enough, with a return to this lower power (329), this power that made things as they are, but is controlled, however rebellious, by a higher force beyond him (333).

We then have a return, in pageant form, of the women with whom, in this year of pilgrimage just ended (319), Jurgen has foregathered. First there is Guenevere (335) who is now ready to be his wife, Arthur being gone into Avalon and Lancelot being turned monk (335); Anaitis follows (340), then Helen of Troy (345). But all of them he refuses. “For I am transmuted by time’s handling. I have become the lackey of prudence and half measures” (348). Then appears to him his wife (350) who disposes of Koshchei “casually, for she believed him to be merely Satan” (353). After ordering Jurgen to be sure to be home in time for supper and to stop on the way to get a half pound of butter, she passes out “neither as flame nor mist, but as the voice of judgment” (355). Jurgen follows her (356), but on the way he sees Dorothy, Dorothy as she is and not as she had lived in either memory or imagination (364). He arrives home recollecting that he had forgotten to do the errand his wife told him to perform, but reflecting that after all things were just about as well with him as could be. He has his wife, he has his business, and the god of things as they are has probably dealt with him very justly. “And probably his methods are everything they should be; certainly I cannot go so far as to say that they are wrong; but still at the same time—Then Jurgen sighed and entered his snug home” (368).

Doubtless we have erred in many ways in our interpretation of the book under attack: we are quite sure that we have not done it justice. After all, it must speak for itself, for everyone has his own reading of whatsoever comes to his notice. But of one thing we are sure, that it fills the test of literature as distinct from pornography; that it has a theme, sustains a thought, criticises life. It attempts, among other things, to show the futility of escaping from conventionality by way of seeking sin, for sin itself has its conventions. It pictures sin in this spirit, and in doing so it perforce speaks of sin. But it must be judged as a whole, not by a sentence here, or even by a page there (Halsey v. N. Y. Society, 234 N. Y. 1). And, as decided in the case just cited, a publication can be lawful even if it should happen to contain indecent passages.