intellectual life prevails through the land. The proletaire have risen
and are thumbing their nose at the gods. Brander Matthews has sent in
a five years' subscription to the Little Review. The Comstocks
overcome with the vision of their ghastly complexes are appealing to
Sigmund Freud for advice and relief. But the argument is superficial.
"Victory!" cry the iconoclasts grinding their teeth at the absence of
a foe.

But it is a victory that rankles in the soul. The foe is not
vanquished but, seemingly, bored to death has fallen asleep. It is, in
any event, a phenomenon. Many generalizations offer themselves as
solace.

The first paradox of this phenomenon is that Puritanism, beaten to a
pulp by an ever-increasing herd of first, second, third, and fourth
rate iconoclasts, has triumphed completely in the legislatures of the
country. With every new volume exposing the gruesome mainsprings of
the national virtue, further taboos and restrictions crowd themselves
into the statute books.

In a sense it would seem as if the _bete populaire_, becoming
increasingly drunk with the consciousness of its own power, is
elatedly preoccupied in cutting off its own nose, tying itself up into
knots, and kicking itself in the rear, proclaiming simultaneously and
in triumphant tones, "Observe how powerful I am. I can pass laws
making ipecac a compulsory diet."

Whereupon the laws are passed and the noble masses with heroic
grimaces fall to devouring ipecac, to the confusion of all free-born
stomachs. In fact this species of ballot flagellatism, this diverting