gumption. But we treat our favourite dogs and horses better than our gifted man.
He has sinned, has he? Then, by Christ, he shall pay for it! He has been found out, has he? Then, by the God that lives, we'll proclaim his sins to the earths four winds, blazon the nauseous thing in the newspapers, incarnadine the story of his shame on the fair skies themselves with the very blood wrung from the wretched man's soul. Hypocrites, whited sepulchres, pharisees, avaunt! Were your own secret misdeeds inscribed upon your every smooth forehead what edifying ornaments ye would all prove!
"Escal Vigor," like many another virile book, was prosecuted at law. What an honour! One day, (the novel had been out some time and was indeed practically unknown,) some little-minded juge d'instruction was inspired to seize it, in some inconsiderable bookseller's shop hidden away in the gentle, little town of Bruges. The book had been published in Paris and was merely by hazard, on sale in this quiet, old-world city. The seizure was doubtless due to some private vengeance. Or, did the Prosecution imagine that a hostile verdict could be more easily cajoled out of a jury in this clerical stronghold of Western Flanders than elsewhere?
