But the book-thief is not by any means one of the numerous penalties of modern civilization. He has an antiquity which almost makes him respectable. Hearne, in his 'Johannes Glastoniensis,' states that Sir Henry Saville once wrote a warning letter to Sir Robert Cotton, who had offered some additions to the library of the founder of the Bodleian. An appointment had been made with Sir Robert to give Bodley an opportunity of inspecting the treasures on his shelves, and it was in anticipation of this that Saville thought it his duty to warn his friend in the following terms: 'And remember I give you faire warning that if you hold any booke so deare as that you would bee loath to have him out of your sight, set him aside beforehand.' On the authority of the above extract, Gough has charged Bodley with being a suspicious character—or, in other words, a thief; but the complete letter puts a very different complexion on the extract. He tars with the same brush Dr. Moore, Bishop of Ely, Dr. Rawlinson, and his friend Umfreville. In connection with the first-named, Gough repeats an anecdote which crops up every now and then as authentic, for these half-truths have an extraordinary vitality. The anecdote runs as follows: 'A gentleman calling on a friend who had a choice library, found him unusually busy in putting his best books out of sight; upon asking his view in this, he answered, "Don't you know that the Bishop of Ely dines with me to-day?"' There can be only one inference, of course. As a matter of fact, we do not believe that there is any truth in either rumour. So far as Dr. Moore, 'the Father of Black-letter Collectors,' is concerned, there can be no doubt that he had a fairly elastic conscience in the matter of book-collecting. He is said to have collected his library by plundering those of the clergy of his diocese, justifying himself by the cynical remark, Quid illiterati cum libris? We do not vouch for the truth of this anecdote, any more than for the graver charge, but probably there is some foundation for it. In the Harleian MSS. there is an interesting account of the several libraries, public and private, which existed in London during the earlier part of the last century. From this source we learn that 'in the days of Edward VI., in the chapel adjoining to the Guildhall, called my Lord Maiors Chapell, was a library well furnisht, being all MSS. Stow says the Duke of Somerset borrowed them, with a design never to return them, but furnisht his own study in his pompous house in the Strand; they were five cartloads.'
Horace Walpole expressed his opinion to the effect that virtuosi have been long remarked to have little conscience in their favourite pursuits. A man will steal a rarity, who would cut off his hand rather than take the money it is worth. Yet in fact the crime is the same. He tells us of a 'truly worthy clergyman, who collects coins and books. A friend of mine mentioning to him that he had several of the Strawberry Hill editions, this clergyman said, "Aye, but I can show you what it is not in Mr. Walpole's power to give you." He then produced a list of the pictures in the Devonshire, and other two collections in London, printed at my press. I was much surprised. It was, I think, about the year 1764, that, on reading the six volumes of "London and its Environs," I ordered my printer to throw off one copy for my own use. This printer was the very man who, after he had left my service, produced the noted copy of Wilkes's "Essay on Woman." He had stolen one copy of this list; and I must blame the reverend amateur for purchasing it of him, as it was like receiving stolen goods.'
The number of book-thieves has increased with the extension of public (or free) libraries. Here, the accumulated ingenuity of the literary thief has an ample scope, and he is not the man to let an opportunity escape. Some of the tribe have a mania for old directories; but novels are the most popular. The clerical thief with a thirst for sermons and theological literature is a by no means infrequent customer—and truly the indictment of a thief of this description ought to bear the fatal endorsement continued almost up to our own times, sus. per coll.—'let him be hanged by the neck.'
At one time nearly all the volumes in the very useful Bohn's Library series were kept in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but they so frequently disappeared that the authorities decided upon their permanent sequestration to a less handy part of the building. Last year Mr. C. Trice Martin's new 'Record Interpreter' was so highly appreciated both at the Record Office and at the Reading-room, that the copy at each institution was stolen from the shelves within twenty-four hours of its being placed there.
Women more or less respectably dressed are often objects of suspicion to public librarians; they are also a class infinitely more difficult to deal with than men, for, whilst the receptivity of their cloaks is infinite, their 'feelings' have to be considered. Whether guilty or innocent, the suspected party is bound to create a 'scene,' probably hysterics—and what is a public librarian, or, indeed, any other man, to do under such circumstances?
Libri was unquestionably the most accomplished and wholesale book-thief that ever lived. As Inspector-General of French Libraries under Louis Philippe, he had special facilities for helping himself—his known thefts have been valued at £20,000. We mention him here because his collections were sold at Sotheby's in 1860. One of the most interesting illustrations of this man's depredations was exposed in 1868, when Lord Ashburnham issued a translation of the Pentateuch from a Latin MS. which had been purchased by a previous holder of the title from Libri, who sold it under the condition that it was not to be published for twenty years. It had been stolen in 1847 from the Lyons Library, and the clause in the agreement, therefore, is easily understood. Libri evidently was not one of those whom Jules Janin describes as 'people who don't think it thieving to steal a book unless you sell it afterwards.'
Unfortunately, education has knocked all the virtue out of charms and incantation. Madame de Genlis is said to have fenced the greater part of her library with the following lines:
'Imparibus meritis pendent tria corpora ramis;
Dismas, et Gesmas, media est Divina Potestas;
Alta petit Dismas, infelix infima Gesmas.