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Updated: June 8, 2025
I keep my books at the British Museum and at Mudie's, and it makes me very angry if anyone gives me one for my private library. I once heard two ladies disputing in a railway carriage as to whether one of them had or had not been wasting money. "I spent it in books," said the accused, "and it's not wasting money to buy books."
Is there nothing, the Pretty Preacher asks us solemnly, to be said against our own? And the sun is hot, and we are speechless. It was shameful of us to put down the Spanish Gipsy, and let it return unfinished to Mudie's! Never did rebuke so fill us with shame at our want of imagination and of poesy. But already the Preacher has passed to politics, and is deep in Mr.
"Half Inkston goes to town every day, sir, and the rest three times, twice, or once a week. I called her particular attention to the bag, and told her it was for books from Mudie's!" "Positive statements like that are a mistake." Mr. Saffron spoke with a sudden sharpness, in pointed rebuke. "If I form a right idea of that woman, she's quite capable of going to Mudie's to ask about us."
Moreover, in those directions he was a good deal of a student, and he knew more of his own library than of the world outside it. So he shook his head again. "Life!" he said. "You don't mean to say that you think those things" he pointed a half-scornful finger to a pile of novels which had come in from Mudie's that day "really represent life?" "What else?" demanded Miss Penkridge.
For this was the night of nights, when the purchases were made for the festival, and great ladies of the West, leaving behind their daughters who played the piano and had a subscription at Mudie's, came down again to the beloved Lane to throw off the veneer of refinement, and plunge gloveless hands in barrels where pickled cucumbers weltered in their own "russell," and to pick fat juicy olives from the rich-heaped tubs.
Hammond wants to see the Red Tarn, and you are dying to show him the way. Go, and joy go with you both. Climbing a stony hill is a form of pleasure to which I have not yet risen. I shall stroll home at my leisure, and spend the afternoon on the billiard-room sofa reading Mudie's last contribution to the comforts of home. 'What a Sybarite, said Hammond.
I laze about during the heat of the day, and have a two hours' spin after tea; I never appear until eleven, and I rest in my own room between lunch and tea, so you won't have too much of my society, but I've a big box of new books from Mudie's for you to read, and there's a pony-cart at your disposal, so I dare say you can amuse yourself.
Mudie's subscribers. If the Irish peasants are so impatient to assume their rights that they will not wait for the "Hatt-Houmaïoun," or Bill in Parliament that is to endow them, I suspect a little further show of energy might save us a debate and a third reading. I am, however, far more eager for news from Therapia.
The statistics of crime and insanity testify eloquently to the reality of love, arithmetic teaching the same lesson as history and grammar. Consider, too, the piles of love at Mudie's! A million story-tellers in all periods and at all places cannot have all told stories, though they have all, alas! told the same story.
Allusion has already been made to New Oxford Street. It extends from Tottenham Court Road to Bury Street, and is lined by fine shops and large buildings, chiefly in the ornamental stuccoed style. At the corner of Museum Street, once Peter Street, is Mudie's famous library. The founder, who died in 1890, began a lending library in King Street in 1840, and in 1852 removed to the present quarters.
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