It is fact, beyond dispute, that every year numbers of books appear which strain the average reader’s intelligence and sensibilities to an unendurable extent; books whose speculations are totally unsuited to normal thinking powers; books which contain views of morality divergent from the customary, and discussions of themes unsuited to the young person; books which, in fine, provide the greater Public with no pleasure whatsoever, and, either by harrowing their feelings or offending their good taste, cause them real pain.

It is true that, precisely as in the case of Plays, the Public are protected by a vigilant and critical Press from works of this description; that, further, they are protected by the commercial instinct of the Libraries, who will not stock an article which may offend their customers—­just as, in the case of Plays, the Public are protected by the common-sense of theatrical Managers; that, finally, they are protected by the Police and the Common Law of the land.  But despite all these protections, it is no uncommon thing for an average citizen to purchase one of these disturbing or dubious books.  Has he, on discovering its true nature, the right to call on the bookseller to refund its value?  He has not.  And thus he runs a danger obviated in the case of the Drama which has the protection of a prudential Censorship.  For this reason alone, how much better, then, that there should exist a paternal authority (some, no doubt, will call it grand-maternal—­but sneers must not be confounded with argument) to suppress these books before appearance, and safeguard us from the danger of buying and possibly reading undesirable or painful literature!

A specious reason, however, is advanced for exempting Literature from the Censorship accorded to Plays.  He—­it is said—­who attends the performance of a play, attends it in public, where his feelings may be harrowed and his taste offended, cheek by jowl with boys, or women of all ages; it may even chance that he has taken to this entertainment his wife, or the young persons of his household.  He—­on the other hand—­who reads a book, reads it in privacy.  True; but the wielder of this argument has clasped his fingers round a two-edged blade.  The very fact that the book has no mixed audience removes from Literature an element which is ever the greatest check on licentiousness in Drama.  No manager of a theatre,—­a man of the world engaged in the acquisition of his livelihood, unless guaranteed by the license of the Censor, dare risk the presentment before a mixed audience of that which might cause an ‘emeute’ among his clients.  It has, indeed, always been observed that the theatrical manager, almost without exception, thoughtfully recoils from the responsibility that would be thrust on him by the abolition of the Censorship.  The fear of the mixed audience is ever suspended above his head.  No such fear threatens the publisher, who displays his wares to one man at a time.  And for this very reason of the mixed audience; perpetually and perversely cited to the contrary by such as have no firm grasp of this matter, there is a greater necessity for a Censorship on Literature than for one on Plays.