Library Essays; Papers Related to the Work of Public Libraries

by Arthur E. Bostwick

Now, we may consider three things, belonging to a given institution, that every employee of that institution has in his care. If they are properly conserved the institution will be efficiently administered, and the visible machinery for conserving them constitutes system. They are time, property and reputation. A large part of the system under which any institution is conducted has for its object the utilization of every bit of time. We Americans, with all our hustling are great wasters of time. Workers do nothing, not so much in periods of actually shirking or laziness as in getting started, in passing from one task to another, in fruitless pottering about, in endeavoring to decide some unimportant question of detail and in one or another of a thousand different ways when they seem to themselves to be at work, while they really are doing nothing useful. As for talking, it is the bane of many different kinds of work. I am inclined to think that all work should be done in silence. Possibly, however, this would be a mistake, for an occasional word keeps workers alive and in good humor where absolute silence is not necessary. It is, however, difficult to stop with a word. Words group themselves into phrases, phrases into sentences and sentences into conversation, and the workers who assert convincingly that they get on exactly as well while they are talking, succeed in cutting in half, not only their own sum total of useful achievement, but that of the annoyed toilers anywhere within earshot. System surely requires close conservation of valuable time; by promptness, by quickness, by keeping the cobwebs from one’s brain, and above all, by silence, relative if not absolute.

The property that the librarian is expected to conserve consists of books—the material in which he works and with which he is expected to produce his effects, and of money and objects—buildings, furniture and utensils—intended to aid him in handling the books properly and in getting them and the users together. The Philadelphia alderman who proposed to do away with the buildings, furniture and staff of the library altogether, spend the money for books, dump these on the city-hall floor, and let the public choose, may have been somewhat crude in his ideas; but he at least understood that books are the basis of a library and that librarians and buildings are but subsidiary. His attitude was vastly more intelligent than that of some persons who appear to think that a good librarian in a fine building ought to produce satisfactory results without any books at all. The librarian, then, must provide above all for the care and preservation of the books. If his library is on open shelves it must assure careful watch against thievery; it must insure, by an adequate charging system, the due return of borrowed volumes; it must see that the physical structure of the book is protected, and repaired when needful; it must watch and count the books at intervals to see that they are all on the shelves. This last means the taking of a regular and careful inventory—the bane of the average librarian. Yet how can he shirk it? Books are valuable property entrusted to his care. If he were custodian of money or funds he would not be let off year after year with the statement that the labor of ascertaining how much remained in his possession was greater than it was worth. One may omit to inventory his private collection, just as he may omit to count the money in his purse, if he chooses, not that of others. And if it is his duty to see that the quantity of his collection remains unimpaired, it is equally so to see to the quality. A library system that counts the books carefully, but esteems a torn and filthy volume as good a unit as one in proper condition, will no longer pass muster.

There are dirty books on too many library shelves. Such libraries are deficient in the kind of system that preserves property efficiently. As for the mechanical plant of the library, the building that houses it, with its fittings and furniture, a proper system, of course, requires that these be kept constantly in good condition. Now, we Americans are impatient of detail: we like to do things in a large way and then let them take care of themselves. While the Frenchman or the Englishman watches his roads or pavements day by day and never allows them to get out of repair, we build expensive roadways and leave them alone until they are in disgraceful condition—whereupon we tear them up and rebuild them. While the foreigner builds his cities, stone by stone and street by street, so that they are picturesque and beautiful, we let ours spring up as they will, slum jostling palace, and factory elbowing church, until finally we form grandiose projects of reconstruction, cutting avenues here and making parts there—projects which may be carried out and may remain on paper. So I have seen tasteful and expensive library buildings allowed to grow grimy and dilapidated day by day through lack of a systematic plan for renovation and repair. Some day the authorities will wake up and there will be reconstruction and redecoration in plenty—to be followed by another era of slow decay.

The third entity that an efficient system must enable the librarian to conserve is evanescent and almost indefinable. It is difficult to bring system to bear upon it at all, and yet its preservation is of the very highest importance of all, because without it the librarian cannot do the work in his community that every good librarian is trying to do. Reputation is a fickle thing, indeed. Gained sometimes in a happy moment, it may persist for long years, successfully defying all assaults; achieved elsewhere by decades of strenuous application and scrupulous observance, it may vanish in a day as the result of some petty act of forgetfulness or of the stupidity of a passing moment. None the less is it the duty of the head of every great institution to strive continually to attain and maintain it; to increase it if possible and to guard it jealously. There he is in the hands of his subordinates and such system as he may bring to bear may and should be directed toward creating and keeping alive within them a proper esprit de corps. The library that succeeds in creating a public impression that it and all connected with it are honestly trying to be of public service, to win public esteem, and to gain a place in the public heart, has two-thirds of its work done already. Its burden is rolled down hill instead of up.

We boast that in our country public opinion is all powerful; but we are often apt to regard public opinion as we do the weather. Its balmy gales and its destructive vortices, its gentle dews and its devastating torrents, are alike, we think, beyond our power to regulate. Yet, though public opinion may be unjust or capricious, it is usually level-headed. So the library that covets that good reputation which public opinion alone can give it, must so act as to deserve that good opinion. And as one broken cog will throw a whole machine out of gear, so one assistant who does not realize his or her responsibilities in this matter may mar a library’s reputation, otherwise well-earned. It is hard luck, indeed, that a librarian, who with the majority of his staff has striven long and well to earn the public good-will, should see it forfeited by the thoughtlessness or ill-temper of some one of his staff. This, however, is the way of our world with its multiple connections. None of us may live for himself alone; we stand or fall with others, and the smallest bit of orange peel may bring down the mightiest athlete to the pavement.

How may the librarian, or anyone else, bring system to bear on such an evanescent thing as this? It is a hard matter, indeed. But can it be denied that a well-oiled library machine, one that is quickly responsive to direction and control, one whose parts are as perfect in themselves and as perfectly connected as may be, is least likely to suffer from unfortunate accidents? A librarian whose bad judgment—or whose kindness of heart, perhaps—has misled him into admitting into his machine one false cog may find to his sorrow that this will slip at the critical time, betraying both him and the whole engine that he had hoped to wield for good. Here no one kind of system, no particular detail, alone suffices, but every detail, every series, every combination renders the whole fabric of reputation more solid and more secure. I sometimes think that we Anglo-Saxons are in greater need of the inspiration and aid that we get from records of past intellectual achievement than are some other races. For our intellectual heritage does not come at all from our physical ancestry. We are the intellectual heirs of the Greeks, the Romans and the Hebrews, not of our own Teutonic fathers. We can, therefore, not only rely on heredity to maintain our intellectual level; we must continually drink from the same fountains through which our fathers drew inspiration. We sometimes think a little contemptuously of what we call the veneer of modern civilization that the Japanese have put on, forgetting that our own civilization is in great part also acquired, although the acquisition is of earlier date. Moreover, the Japanese have, and retain, intellectual ideals and achievements of their own, having learned from the West hardly more than its mechanics and engineering. On the other hand, our mechanical achievements are our own, our intellectual and esthetic standards are borrowed. Our intellectual status may thus be compared to the electrical condition of the trolley wire, which in order that it may furnish its useful energy to the motor below must itself be supplied at intervals with this energy from an adjacent feed wire communicating directly with the source of electrical power. The feed wire in our case is the library—a collection representing the intellectual energy of all past ages, springing directly from the powerful brains of the masters of mental achievement throughout the centuries. Unless we supply our minds from this, we shall not maintain our intellectual position. Is this the reason why the popular library has attained with us a development that it has never reached in Latin countries, whose inhabitants possess through heredity many of the mental standards of value that our ancestors borrowed and that we must borrow ever and again from the records of the past? We may be sure that this is at least a possibility; and we may be equally sure that the adoption of system, both external and internal, will facilitate both this and all other functions of the library. The statement that “the letter killeth and the spirit giveth life” was never intended to mean that we are to neglect formal and systematic methods of work. The letter kills only when it is spiritless, with the spirit to give it life it does well its part, ensuring that the institution to which it applies shall produce its results, surely, quietly and effectively, with a minimum of noise and effort and with a maximum of output. Let no one, then, deride or decry the formation or the operation of a library machine; we live in an age of machinery—of machines formed by effective human co-operation, as well as by interlocking gears and interacting parts. Rudyard Kipling makes his Scotch engineer see in the relentless motion of his links and pistons something of that “foreknowledge infinite” in which his Calvinistic training had taught him to believe and trust. So may we see in library machinery an aid to the accomplishment of that “far-off divine event” toward which our whole modern library creation has been and is still silently, but no less powerfully moving—the bringing into intellectual relationship of each living human brain within our reach with every other companionable or helpful human brain, though physically inaccessible through death or absence. This is the comprehensive ideal of the librarian; no machinery that may work toward its attainment is superfluous or inept.

THE EXPLOITATION OF THE PUBLIC LIBRARY[11]

Two and a half years ago; or, to be more exact, on January 22, 1909, in an address at the dedication of the Chestnut Hill Branch of the Free library of Philadelphia, the present writer used the following words:

“I confess that I feel uneasy when I realize how little the influence of the public library is understood by those who might try to wield that influence, either for good or for evil.... So far there has been no concerted, systematic effort on the part of classes or bodies of men to capture the public library, to dictate its policy, to utilize its great opportunities for influencing the public mind. When this ever comes, as it must, we must look out!...

“Organizations ... civil, religious, scientific, political, artistic ... have usually let us severely alone, where their influence, if they should come into touch with the library, would surely be for good ... would be exerted along the line of morality, of more careful book selection, of judicial mindedness instead of one-sidedness.