or whatever you call it.  What I say is, if I order a book from a Library I ought to be able to get it, unless it has been confiscated by the police.  I didn’t pay my subscription in order to have my choice of books limited to such books as some frock-coated personage in Oxford Street thought good for me.  I’ve spent about forty years in learning to know what I like in literature, and I don’t want anybody to teach me.  I’m not a young girl, I’m a middle-aged man; but I don’t see why I should be handicapped by that.  And if I am to be handicapped I’m going to chuck Mudie’s.  I’ve already written them a very rude letter about Mr. de Morgan’s “It Never Can Happen Again.”  I wanted that book.  They told me they didn’t supply it.  And when I made a row they wrote me a soothing letter nearly as long as the Epistle to the Ephesians explaining why they didn’t supply it.  Something about two volumes and half a sovereign....  I don’t know, and I don’t care.  I don’t care whether a book’s in one volume or in a hundred volumes.  If I want it, and if I’ve paid for the right to have it, I’ve got to have it, or I’ve got to have my money back.  They mumbled something in their letter about having received many complaints from other subscribers about novels being in two volumes.  But what do I care about other subscribers?”

* * * * *

And he continues, after a deviation into forceful abuse:  “I don’t want to force novels in two volumes down the throats of other subscribers.  I don’t want to force anything down their throats.  They aren’t obliged to take what they don’t want.  There are lots of books circulated by Mudie’s that I strongly object to—­books that make me furious—­as regards both moral and physical heaviness and tediousness and general tommy-rot.  But do I write and complain, and ask Mudie’s to withdraw such books altogether?  If Mudie came along with a pistol and two volumes by Hall Caine, and said to me, ‘Look here, I’ll make you have these,’ then perhaps I might begin to murmur gently.  But he doesn’t.  I’ll say this for Mudie; he doesn’t force you to take particular books.  You can always leave what you don’t want.  All these people who are (alleged to be) crying out for a censorship—­they’re merely idle!  If they really want a censorship they ought to exercise it themselves.  Robinson has a daughter, and he is shocked at the idea of her picking up a silly sham-erotic novel by a member of the aristocracy, or a first-rate beautiful thing by George Moore....  Am I then to be deprived of the chance of studying the inane psychology of the ruling classes or of enjoying the work of a great artist?  Be d——­d to Robinson’s daughter!  I don’t care a bilberry for either her or her innocence.  I’m not going to be responsible for Robinson’s daughter.  Let Robinson, if he is such a fool as to suppose that daughters can be spoiled by bad books or good books—­let him look after her himself!  Let him establish his confounded censorship at his front door, or at