other? Horace, he of Rome, sang in flaming verse the praises of his young slave; Virgil chaunts the feeling of the shepherd Corydon for the handsome Alexis, Plutarch paints the heroic prowesses of the Theban legion.
Are all these famous authors to be regarded as Artists, faithful cinematographs of the scenes depicted, or as Apostles, seeking to propagate the practices of their characters? Must their works be therefore destroyed and themselves for ever held in reprobation, the mock of little men without a hundredth part of their lordly genius?
Because Molière described Harpagon, was he himself a miser? Because Cervantes pourtrayed mad Don Quixote, is he himself to be considered mad? Because the Bard of Avon created Othello, was he a jealous maniac? Or, for the sake of Falstaff, a merry-Andrew? Or, because of the witches in "Macbeth," a benighted sorcerer?
The questions are absurd, we know: but Eekhoud was accused of "preaching pederasty"—(although the story is one of passional affection and in nowise physiological i. e. uranism, a vastly different thing)—because of "Escal Vigor." His enemies, it is true, were unable to produce passages from the book in support of their
