of initiative. Here I think our training is somewhat at fault. I can
almost pick out at sight the library assistants whose training has been
in schools where obedience has been the chief thing inculcated, the
following of rules and formulas, the reverence for standards and
authority. They are of the greatest value in certain positions, but they
can not advance far. They are afraid to go beyond the beaten path--to
take chances, not, as in the case just considered, because they distrust
themselves or their judgment, but because they have been trained not to
adventure. Now adventuring is the only way in which mankind has ever got
anywhere. There are conditions in which chance-taking is criminal, as it
usually is when much is staked for little. The engineer who risks the
lives of a train-load of passengers in order that he may avoid losing a
minute on schedule time, is a criminal chance-taker. He may have done it
once before with success, and the belief that he is “lucky” may induce
him to do it again. The trouble with the over-cautious worker is that
because he feels that this kind of adventuring is wrong, it is also
wrong for him to stake his personal comfort against a possible great
advance in the quality of service that he is doing. Perhaps I have put
it awkwardly. It is not so much personal comfort that is at stake,
though that is an element, as the feeling that doing things well “in the
way that we have always done them” is better than disorganizing them for
the purpose of shuffling them into a better combination.
I have on more than one occasion, in Library School lectures, urged this
point of view, and I have advised more stimulation to venturesomeness,
less pointing out of old paths and more opportunities to break new ones.
No one ever reached a new place by following an old path. The
path-breakers may be “lucky” or “unlucky”. I agree that the
“unlucky”--the congenital blunderers--ought to be kept out of the
adventuring class--but how shall we tell who they are except by trying?
I have thought, possibly without justification--that I have detected a
slight attitude of disapproval on the part of Library School authorities
when such advice as this has been given. “Let the student first learn
the standards, to do things by rule, to obey authority--then he can
branch out into initiative.” But can he? My fear, somewhat justified by
experience, is that he can not. The standards must be taught. The rules
must be known and followed, but if along with this there is no
stimulation to initiative and the continual instilment of a feeling that
progress depends on the divine curiosity of the explorer--we shall be
training only routine workers and for our advances we shall have to
depend on those whom we stigmatize as untrained. They will be the “lucky
ones”.
Here are cases where luck is a function of attitudes of mind and may be
reversed if a change can be made in that attitude. There are other such.
Take for instance the case of the grouchy man--the man who has a quarrel
with the world. He is sure that he is unlucky--and sure enough, he is!
He does not expect to be advanced, and no one would think of advancing
him. His attitude and its natural results react on each other until he
becomes a confirmed misanthrope. Then there is the man without interest
in what he is doing. Who would be so foolish as to intrust an important
task to a man who, it is quite evident, does not care whether it is done
well or ill, or whether it is done at all? These persons betray their
lack of interest in ways that are familiar to us all. They utterly lack
initiative, but for other reasons than the persons whose cases have been
discussed above. They have no objections to adventure, but a venture
presupposes interest. No one ever set out to find the North Pole who was
utterly indifferent to its location or the character of its
surroundings. All true success is built on a foundation of lively
interest. Hence persons of this sort are peculiarly unlucky. They watch
subordinates and newcomers pass them in the race, and they are perfectly
certain that this is due to favoritism, or to luck. They themselves are
unlucky, and of course they will always remain so, unless they can alter
their neutral attitude.
In thinking over the lack of initiative of which I have complained above
and the failure of our training to supply it, it occurs to me that we
carry this lack over into our work. We are apt to complain of the
difficulty of finding persons who are fitted for positions of command
and responsibility. What do we do to elicit the qualities that make one
fit for such posts?
We have in our own library a system of efficiency reports, which are
filled out by department-heads yearly, one for each assistant. These
give needed information about the work of members of the staff, and they
also sometimes reveal quite clearly the state of mind of those who make
them out.
Two of the questions are, “In what did the assistant fall short?” And
“What did you like most about the assistant?” It strikes me, on running
over these reports, as I have just done, that the qualities most valued
when present and most lamented when absent, are those of a good
subordinate--the assistant who goes quietly, efficiently and quickly
about doing what she is told to do, is pleasant about it and does not
shirk. Here are some of the things that our department-heads like best:
“earnestness, industry and intelligence”
“alertness; readiness to take suggestion”
“excellent standards of work”
“close application to business”
“absolute dependability”
“persistence”
“excellent worker; steady; reliable”
“enthusiasm and eagerness to learn”
“close attention to business”
“tenacity and faith in herself”
“minds her own business”
“fine spirit in work”
“obliging, willing and ready service”
“industry and intelligence”
“general information”
“calm, cheerful nature”
“honesty of purpose”
“patience under criticism”
“politeness and willingness to oblige”
“loyalty, faithfulness and goodness”
“accuracy and systematic methods”
“neat and ambitious”
All these things are fine, I agree, but there is not one of them that
suggests the possibility of advancement to a position of command where
administrative ability and initiative will count. I do not suggest that
these qualities are absent, but I think the record shows that we are not
on the lookout for them and possibly do not value them as we ought. Only
once in a while do I find a suggestion that a tendency toward such
qualities is of interest, as when, one assistant is commended for
“independence and good judgment” and another for “resourcefulness”.
And when we come to the “weak points” reported, the same facts stand
out. Here are some of them:
“lack of accuracy and system”
“too sensitive”
“too reserved”
“often thoughtless”
“not sufficiently painstaking”
“too deliberate”
“tries to work too fast”
“lack of poise”
“rather slow”
“hesitates to ask for needed help”
“lack of system”
“impractical and idealistic”
“not very responsive”
“so eager that she is a bit aggressive at times”
Here, too, the deficiencies reported are predominantly those that would
make a bad subordinate; although here and there we may detect one of
the other kind; for instance,
“does not know how to find and develop the best in her assistants”
“not self-reliant”
“disinclined to assume responsibility” These are all faults of poor
executives.
We shall never be able to pick good officers if we do not know how to
detect in our privates the qualities that would fit them to command and
how to encourage the development of such qualities when there is
anything on which to base it.
Luck may not only be “in” but “of” the library. The whole institution
may be in the lucky or unlucky class. I think you have known both kinds.
The former seem to prosper, to do good work and to win golden opinions
by the very fact of their existence. The latter have small
appropriations, a poor standing in the community, and are finally
destroyed by fire. Now personal ill-luck is and remains personal, but
the ill-luck of an institution may be of various kinds. It may reside in
a person or persons, or in a system, or in a building--or in all three.
If the Jonestown Public Library is unlucky, the ill-luck may be that of
its librarian, or of his staff, or he may be operating an unlucky
system, or his building may be unlucky. I am an especial believer in
unlucky buildings. Some there are in which it appears to be as
impossible to run a successful library as it would be to grow vegetables
in an ash-bin. Sometimes one can pick out the trouble with half an eye,
although the same degree of astuteness seems to have been beyond the
architect, or the board, or the librarian who co-operated to produce it.
But in many cases we know the trouble only by its fruits; its roots are
hidden, and the best we can do is to recognize that the library’s
ill-luck comes from an unlucky building, and leave it at that.
There are so many sources of this kind of general library ill-luck, that
it is a wonder we do not see more unlucky libraries. There are not so
very many lucky ones either, except so far as this proceeds from the
possession of a staff whose members are individually lucky.
The statistician knows that the way to eliminate chance is to multiply
instances. The insurance actuary does not know when you will die, but he
knows that of a million men of your age, very nearly so many will die
within the next year. It is because he deals with a large number of
cases that he can put his system on a business footing. There may be
only one white ball in a bushel of black ones; you might conceivably
draw that white ball at the first trial, but if you did you would
properly refer to it as “luck”. If, however, you could multiply the
number of trials, you would bring up the white ball sooner or later.
There may be only one good way of accomplishing a result among thousands
of bad ones. If you should hit on the right one at the first trial you
would be “lucky”, but, luck or no luck, you will get it if you keep on
long enough. Patience is always a winner in the long run.
This is the way in which much of our knowledge is collected. Edison
found the right substance for his first carbon filament by sending for
all sorts of materials from all over the world, carbonizing them, and
trying them out. The right one proved to be a kind of bamboo. If Edison
had hit on this at the first trial it would have been so “lucky” a
chance as almost to be counted a miracle; as it was, he eliminated
chance by multiplication. Nothing annoys an executive so much as to be
told that the adoption of this or that course will result in a specified
way, when no one has ever tried it. This was a common attitude in the
time of Galileo, when the idea that anything could be found out by
observation or experiment was regarded as a public scandal. That was the
time when a man refused to look through the newly-invented telescope for
fear that he might see something contrary to the teachings of Aristotle.
These people are not all dead by any means. I have heard them assert
that a proposed change would ruin the library and then object to trying
it because they were afraid the result would be contrary to their own
predictions. The medieval philosophers at least had Aristotle to fall
back on; their modern successors would appear to be posing as Aristotles
themselves.
A housemaid recently said to her mistress “I’ve told everybody to-day ye
weren’t at home; now don’t sit in the window and make me a liar.” No
discovery; no falsehood, you see. So if we librarians can be prevented
from trying experiments, the false predictions of some of our advisers
will not be false in their own eyes, simply because they will not be
exposed.
My advice to librarians, and to everyone else is to keep on trying
experiments. If you get a satisfactory result the first time, you may
stop, and ascribe it, if you please, to your good luck. If the result is
unsatisfactory, however, you need not stand pat on your ill luck.
“If at first you don’t succeed
Try, try again”.
There is more philosophy in that than in all Aristotle. It is also a
practical exposition of the doctrine of chances. Somewhere is the
combination that you want. You will find it, if you only keep on long
enough.
Libraries that are afraid of being victimized by chance, or, as we may
put it, becoming martyrs to bad luck, should ponder somewhat more
closely the possibilities of relief from insurance. Of course here I am
using the word “luck” in its simpler meaning of unforeseen occurrence.
Take the case of the library that suffers from the fact that an
influential member of the committee that fixes the amount of its annual
appropriation has eaten something indigestible for breakfast. Such an
unforeseeable occurrence, such a “piece of bad luck”, might cost a
library anywhere from two to twenty thousand dollars, according to the
usual size of its appropriation.
Equally injurious might be the illness of the president of the Board,
throwing upon an incompetent member the duty of presenting the library’s
claims and needs. It is surely unjust that a public-service institution
should be at the mercy of such trivial chances. In some states,
including my own, the library is removed from such ill-luck as this by a
statutory provision fixing its public income, subject to proper checks
and taking away the ability of an individual’s illness or indisposition
to lower it. But where this ill-chance is still in its baleful working
order, why should not the library be protected against it by insurance?
Such protection would be analogous to the corporation insurance taken
out by large industrial companies to offset the loss likely to result
from the death of an officer on whose administrative ability much of the
company’s earning power depends, or to the payment of death duties by
insurance, now being advocated by many companies, and adopted on a huge
scale by Mr. J.P. Morgan. Insurance is the great equalizer; it
multiplies instances, enlarges the field of possibilities and abolishes
ill-luck. We are availing ourselves of it in case of possible damage by
fire or storm, or of loss through our liability as employers. We may in
future use it to cut out chance and luck in other fields also and to
make our resources so dependable that we may devote to the extension and
betterment of service the ingenuity now often spent solely in devising
means “to get along”.
I am afraid that you will compare this address very unfavorably with the
celebrated chapter on snakes in Iceland, because whereas the author of
that was able to announce the non-existence of his subject in six words,
it has taken me a good many thousand. You will do me an injustice,
however, if you think that I have simply been demonstrating the
non-existence of luck. I believe that when we say a man is lucky, we
mean something definite, and that thing surely has an existence. It may
not be the Goddess Fortuna, or her modern successor, but it is very real
and it is worth investigating and taking into account. If you are told
that one of your assistants is “lucky”, do not laugh it away. Find out
the facts, and if they indicate that she is unusually successful in what
she undertakes, be thankful that you have a lucky person on your staff.
Cherish her and promote her. And if you can find such a person outside
of your library, with the other necessary qualifications, prefer him, or
her, in making an appointment, to one of the “unlucky” variety. It is of
the lucky kind that the world’s geniuses are made--inventors like Bell,
Edison and Marconi, captains of industry like Carnegie, Rockefeller and
Henry Ford, soldiers like Napoleon, Grant, and Moltke, statesmen like
Lincoln, Gladstone and Bismarck, poets like Shakespeare, Dante and
Goethe. We have had too few of these in the library profession. They
were all lucky and what we need, especially in the present emergency, is
plenty of “Luck in the Library”.
THE LIBRARY AS A MUSEUM
Boundary regions are always interesting. Close to the line separating
two regions of fact or of thought cluster the examples that fascinate
us. Kipling’s stories of India are so interesting because they tell of
the meeting points of two civilizations--the boundary along which they
come into contact, interact and fuse. The same is true of all tales of
the white man and the red Indian, of the stories of early explorers, of
the narratives of Spanish _conquistadores_ in the south and French
Jesuits in the north. The student of mathematical physics will tell you
that it is not in homogeneous regions, but along boundary lines that the
application of his equations becomes difficult, and at the same time
interesting. Our whole human life is conditioned by boundaries. It is
possible only on a surface separating the earth’s mass from its
atmosphere. It is limited by narrow conditions of temperature,
nourishment, light, and so on. So we need not be astonished when we find
that two related subjects of any kind acquire new vitality and new
interest when we study the region along the line where they touch. This
is especially true of the library and the museum.
I do not intend to dwell on the case where the books in a library are
themselves treated as museum objects, although possibly this is the one
that may first occur to the mind in this connection. Books that are
curiosities on account of their rarity or for other reasons are limited
usually to very large libraries. The Lenox Library in New York, now part
of the Public Library, was almost entirely a book-museum and was so
intended by its founder. The private libraries of great collectors, such
as J. Pierpont Morgan, or the Huntingtons, are often largely
book-museums, and in general, a book that brings a high price, brings it
for its value as a curiosity, not as a book. The freer a book is the
more value it has as a book; the more restricted it is the greater its
value as a curiosity. Of course, even a small library may have one or
two books that are worth display as curiosities, because they are old,
or rare, or have interesting local associations either through the
author, or the owner, or in some other way. The Hawthorne and Longfellow
room in the Bowdoin College Library is an example of this latter case.
But a book, or anything else, owned and displayed as a mere curiosity,
is of not much real value, no matter what price it may bring at auction.
The things that make a good museum what it is are not curiosities at
all, in the vulgar sense. They illustrate some science or art and make
its study easier and more interesting; they throw light on geology or
history or sculpture. Once in a while we see a museum collection of
books made for this object, to illustrate the art of binding or the
history of printing, or the depredations of book-eating insects. The
value of specimens like these has nothing to do with their rarity.
Sometimes the smallest library may have books or pamphlets that may be
displayed with this object, especially where the subject is local. It
may for instance gather a collection of early pamphlets from local
printing offices, or of books once the property of some eminent citizen.
These things belong to a museum pure and simple, which is the reason why
I am mentioning them at first, to get them out of the way before
treating my real subject, which is the debateable ground between
library and museum. There is nothing debateable about a book-museum any
more than about any other kind of a museum--a collection of historical
or geological specimens, for instance, that often finds place in a
library building, not because it is a library, but because it is a
convenient place, or because it has been thought best to build a library
and a museum under one roof, as has been done in Pittsburgh.
There is however a real debateable ground between library and museum,
with somewhat hazy boundaries which I believe that either is justified
in overstepping whenever such an act supplies an omission and does not
duplicate. In other words, there is a boundary region between library
and museum that may be occupied by either, but should not be occupied by
both.
I shall try briefly to define this region and indicate how the library
may occupy parts of it without legitimate criticism when the necessity
arises.
Descriptive and illustrative material is to be found in both library and
museum. Speaking generally, the former is of primary importance in the
library and the latter in the museum. Many books consist of descriptive
text alone, without pictures or diagrams, and on the other hand a museum
might contain specimens without labels, although they would not be of
much use. In general, text with illustrations belongs in a library and
specimens with labels in a museum. The mere statement of the distinction
as it has just been given, however, shows that it may be very difficult
to draw a line between the two kinds of collections. A museum has been
defined as “a collection of good labels accompanied by illustrative
specimens.” Here the value of the descriptive text is emphasized, even
in the museum collection. When descriptive treatises are shelved in
connection with the specimens, as in some modern museums, we have an
expansion of the label into the book; and the museum, in this one
particular at least, crosses the dividing line between it and the
library. No one would blame it for so doing.
Similarly the library may occasionally cross the line in the other
direction without incurring blame. Let me repeat that both library and
museum may contain descriptive and explanatory text and illustrative
material. In the museum the text is usually in the form of labels,
attached to the specimens, and these are generally material objects. In
the library the text is in book form and the “specimens,” if we may so
call them, are plates bound into the book.
The first step taken by the library toward the line that separates it
from the museum is when the plates, instead of being bound into a book,
are kept separately in a portfolio. The accompanying text, corresponding
to the “labels” of museum collections, may be on the same sheet as the
plates (often on the reverse side) or on separate sheets, which may be
bound into a book even when the plates are separate.