y, because it faced the common sex problem of the middle aged
spinster and the very young man, because it did not ignore the peril
which everybody knows to be lurking within a mile of Charing Cross. _The
Yoke_ enjoyed a large sale at 6s. and was not interfered with,
presumably because those who can afford 6s. may be abandoned to the
scarlet woman. It was then published at a shilling. Soon after, the
secret combination of common informer, purity group, and police forced
the publisher into a police court, compelled him to express regret for
the publication, and to destroy all the remaining copies and moulds.
That is a brief tragedy, and it in no wise involves the library system.
Another tragedy may be added. In 1910 Sudermann's novel, _Das Hohe
Lied_, was published under the title of _The Song of Songs_. It is not a
very interesting novel; it is long, rather crude, but it relates
faithfully enough the career of a woman who lived by the sale of
herself. The trouble was that she made rather a success of it, and it
was shown in a few scenes that she did not always detest the incidents
of this career, which is not unnatural. In December, 1910, two
inspectors from the Criminal Investigation Department called on the
publisher and informed his manager that a complaint had been made
against the book; it was described as obscene. The officers apparently
went on to say that their director, Sir Melville Macnaghten, did not
associate himself with that opinion, but their object was to draw the
publisher's attention to the fact that a complaint had been made.
Thereupon, without further combat, the publisher withdrew the book.
Nobody can blame him; he was not in business to fight battles of this
kind, and I suppose that few British juries would have supported him.
They would, more likely, have given the case against him first and tried
to get hold of a private copy of the book after, presumably to read on
Sunday afternoons. The interesting part of the business is that the
accusation remained anonymous, that the police did not associate itself
with it, but came humbly, helmet in hand, to convey the displeasure of
some secret somebody with some secret something in the book. And there
you are! That is all you need to snuff out the quite good work of a
novelist with a quite good European reputation.

Once upon a time, I thought I might myself have a taste of the purity
medicine. In 1910 I had ready for publication a novel called _A Bed of
R