A library at Lancaster, Pa., reported the almost incredible incident of a thief having hidden under his coat, and carried off, a Webster's Unabridged Dictionary!
In most cases of detected theft or mutilation of books, strong appeals are made by the culprit or his friends to save exposure by public prosecution. These are commonly, in the case of persons in very respectable circumstances in life, not so much to avoid paying fines imposed by law as to avoid the disgrace attached to publicity, and the consequent damage done to the character of the individual. It is probably true that in a majority of cases, such influences have been strong enough to overcome the determination of the librarian or library authorities to let the law take its course. Now, while it must be admitted that there is no rule without some valid exception that may be made, it is nevertheless to be insisted upon that due protection to public property in libraries demands the enforcement of the laws enacted to that end. The consequence of leniency to the majority of book thieves would be not only an indirect encouragement to the culprits to continue their depredations, but it would also lead to a lax and dangerous notion of the obligations of readers, and the sacredness of such property, in the public mind. Enforcement of the penalties of wrong-doing, on the other hand, tends unquestionably to deter others, both by the fear of publicity which must follow detection, and by terror of the penalty which is or may be imprisonment for a considerable term, besides the imposing of a fine.
At the Worcester, Mass., Public Library, a young man of twenty-two was detected in stealing a book, obliged to confess, and prosecuted. Much pressure was brought to bear by his family and friends, very respectable people, to save him from the penalty. The Court, however, imposed a fine of thirty dollars, and it being represented that his relatives would have to pay the amount, though innocent parties, the judge suspended the sentence until the young man should pay it in instalments from his own earnings, one of the family giving bail. The valuable lesson was in this way not lost, either to the offender or to the community; the law was enforced, and the young man perhaps saved from a life of wrong-doing, while if he had been let off scot-free, in deference to the influence exerted to that end, he might have gone from bad to worse.
At the Pratt Institute Free Library in Brooklyn, books had been disappearing from the reference department at intervals of about a week, and a watch was instituted. After some weeks' fruitless watching, a young man who came frequently to consult books was singled out as the probable offender, and the eyes of the library staff were centered upon him. The janitor watched his movements for some days, from a concealed post of observation, as the young man walked back and forth between the book stacks, and one day caught him in the act of slipping a book into his pocket, and arrested him as he was leaving the building. He had stolen a dozen books from the library, all but three of which were recovered. He claimed to be a theological student, and that he had taken the books merely for the purposes of study. Much sympathy was expressed for him by people who believed that this was his motive, and that it was some partial atonement for his offense. The grief of his relatives at his disgrace was intense. The Court sentenced him to eight years in the penitentiary, but suspended the sentence in view of the fact that it was a first offense, by a youth of twenty-one years. He was put under police surveillance for his good behavior (equivalent to being paroled) but the sentence becomes active upon any further transgression of the law on his part.
It may be gathered from these many cases of library depredations, that they are very common, that perpetual vigilance is the price of safety, that punishment in nearly all cases is wiser than pardon, and that the few exceptions made should be mostly confined to offenders who steal books under desperate necessity or actual want.
CHAPTER 7.
Pamphlet Literature.
What is a pamphlet? is a question which is by no means capable of being scientifically answered. Yet, to the librarian dealing continually with a mass of pamphlets, books, and periodicals, it becomes important to define somewhere, the boundary line between the pamphlet and the book. The dictionaries will not aid us, for they all call the pamphlet "a few sheets of printed paper stitched together, but not bound." Suppose (as often happens) that you bind your pamphlet, does it then cease to be a pamphlet, and become a book? Again, most pamphlets now published are not stitched at all, but stabbed and wired to fasten the leaves together. The origin of the word "pamphlet," is in great doubt. A plausible derivation is from two French words, "paume," and "feuillet," literally a hand-leaf; and another derives the word from a corruption of Latin—"papyrus," paper, into pampilus, or panfletus, whence pamphlet. The word is in Shakespeare: