HE was eighteen when he raided a Connecticut saloon and
spilled the liquor on the ground. At seventy-one he died
as the result of "over-doing in a purity convention."
Anthony Comstock led a life of eager adventure.

"It was but the work of a moment to break down these
doors, and then get out of the back window, run across the
roofs of two houses and into a hotel. --"

"As I came forward there were cries of 'Bring him out!'
'Shoot him!' 'Hang the -- --!"

"While he was talking, in most pathetic tones, he plunged
his dirk into my face, severing four arteries. . . . Just here
everybody asks: Did he get away? Did you shoot him?
Neither. My orders were to take that man to jail.
I took him to jail."

The quotations, including the dashes which take the place
of profanity, are from the works of Mr. Comstock. Some-
what after the manner of James Branch Cabell, Anthony
Comstock in his narrative writing is often compelled to draw
back from the very edge of some precipice and let it go as
"a thing too vile to be mentioned." Occasionally his
scruples may seem to some excessive, as when he writes,
"Take for instance a well-known book written by Boccaccio
(which I do not purpose to advertise by naming) . . . ."

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