ch as of loyalty to conscience; a foolish
consistency, possibly "a hobgoblin to little minds," but,
nevertheless, one to be weighed in the consideration of the story's
artistic merits.

Whatever the outcome of the conflict between conscience and
inclination, whether the old conception of duty is confirmed or is
abandoned for a new one, there remains the same difference of opinion.
Is the man weak or strong? Is his decision in conformity with the
familiar facts of human nature? Is it natural that his love for his
church should outweigh his passion for the woman? And is the woman
likely to acquiesce in the destruction of her hopes?

* * * * *

It is discouragingly seldom that a book comes to the reviewers' hands,
which, by its virility and its honest merit as literature, in the old
and true sense of the word, rises as high above the average as does
"The Garden of Allah," which Robert Hichens publishes through the
Stokes Company; and it is because it truly possesses these qualities
that it gives promise of a life of appreciation which will outlast
many other volumes in the year's crop of fiction.

In the consideration of such a book the motive power, the plot, is
hardly of moment--it is the workmanship, and what one might term the
self-conviction of the novelist, that counts. After all, the story of
the renegade monk and his earthly love, culminating in marriage, is
not unusual; one foresees the ultimate solution of this problem--his
renunciation of the world and his return to his monastery. It is a
theme which has engaged the pen of writers time out of mind--but it is
safe to say that never has the theme been handled with such mastery,
with such keenly sympathetic character delineation and analysis, as
that with which Mr. Hichens has handled it. His craftsmanship, his
insight into and understanding of human nature and the forces that
mold it--the intangible forces of the earth and air, the minute
happenings of one's daily life that, in themselves, are too likely to
pass unregarded, but work so powerfully and well-nigh irresistibly
upon the spirit of men and women--all this is superb and thorough.

His literary generalship amounts almost to genius approaching that of
the great masters of fiction. Indeed, if any fault can be found with
the book, it is that it is too painstakingly complete; nothing is left
to the imagination--or, rather, the imagination is forced by the
essence of eternal