Our acknowledgments as visitors having now been made by the highest authority among us, it is not for the purpose of merely enlarging them that I am assigned a place upon the program. It is rather, I understand, with the view to an expression in behalf of the community of interest represented by this gathering as a whole; and some definition as to what we are, what we aim at, and wherein, if at all, we differ from our predecessors.

Our aim is in terms a simple one. It is to bring a book to a reader, to lead a reader to a book. The task may indeed vary in proportion as the book is obvious or obscure, the reader expert or a novice, so that our service may be as the shortest distance between two simple points; or as the readiest point between two distances. But its main and ultimate end is the same.

And it remains so in spite of organization grown elaborate, apparatus and mechanism grown complex. For the organization is merely to respond to a larger and more varied demand, and with a view to a more ample and diversified response.

What then is the difference between the library of today and the library of a few centuries—a single century—ago?—Is it merely in the development of this organization, the introduction of this apparatus and mechanism?—Is it to such matters that our efforts are directed?—Is it they which require incessant gatherings such as this for explanation, exploitation and discussion, and the innumerable reams of written contribution in our professional journals? They are indeed accountable for a large percentage of it: but back of them, beneath them, is a change which is fundamental, a change in attitude which is essential as no mere form or method can be. It consists in the birth and development—not indeed of a new characteristic in either book or reader, or the discovery of new potencies in the one or new sensibilities in the other—but of a new sense of responsibility on the part of the library in the utilization of the one for the benefit of the other. It is an incident of democracy.

Now, so far as democracy means the participation of the community as a whole in the conduct of its affairs the form of it has existed with us in the United States for generations; and the substance of it has existed throughout the Anglo-Saxon world. But democracy ought to mean something more: it ought to mean the participation of every individual in its opportunities. And a constitution of society which still left the resources for power and intellectual direction in the hands of the few was in effect an aristocracy, and no complete democracy. Among these resources a chief is education. And the practical monopoly of education—and of books as an element in it—meant a monopoly of influence also,—a monopoly which survived after limitations of caste were removed and the opportunities for wealth became widely diffused. Against it the free public school, the easily available college, the cheaply procurable newspaper and magazine, and the free public library fought and are fighting their fight in the interest of the prerogative of the individual, in the endeavor to equip him as an independent and co-equal unit, so that the actual constitution of society shall accord with its political form, and indeed assure the efficiency and the permanence of the form.

So, having provided for the mass the interest has of late centred upon the individual.

Meantime, with the evolution from homogeneity to heterogeneity the individual himself has become more and more diversified in trait, aptitude and need; so that the treatment of him by the agencies acting for the community as a whole has also had to become varied. Not merely that, but pursuing its responsibilities, to become affirmative, where before, so far as it existed, it was merely responsive.

Now the service of school and college furnishing definite instruction and perhaps training, to an organized body of youth, within a limited age, and under control, can be reasonably systematized and standardized. But the library is to furnish not merely education but enlightenment, and even culture, to the community at large—without respect to age, and without subordination to control. It cannot impose, it does not control. It may recommend, but it cannot direct. It must still respond to a need voluntarily expressed; but its duty is held to go further: it must remind that the need exists,—it must even inspire the need,—that is to say, the consciousness of it. In this way it is engaged in creating the very demand which later it seeks to satisfy.

Now this duty upon it accounts for the prodigious energy in the effort itself, and the activity and range of the discussion, which are the characteristics of the modern library movement, particularly in English speaking America. It accounts for the incessant repetition of explanation, of exhortation, of recited experience, which give to a present-day library conference something of the aspect of a revival meeting.

To librarians of the older school these are somewhat distasteful; to librarians of the more modern school already convinced and experienced, they may be tedious; but they seem necessary still for the enlightenment and encouragement of others newly entering upon the problem, of a public not yet fully familiar with the relations of it to their own welfare, and to the helpful solution of local problems where the idea meets conditions still impeding: for the field is vast and conditions are still very unequal.

The efforts, still inchoate, include also many devices which are crude and of doubtful expediency: especially many designed chiefly to attract—in which the library seems to compete with other enterprises courting popularity in a way scarcely dignified for a public institution maintained by government. They shock the conservative in somewhat the same way as an advertisement by a lawyer or physician shocks the traditions of those reticent professions: and they include not merely schemes of advertising—which might seem to impair the dignity of the book, but auxiliaries for attracting attention such as savor of the devices of a business house in exploiting its goods. The ultimate aim is, of course, the commendation of the book itself,—and the justification lies—or is sought—in this. But the means,—well, the means often afflict the conservatives in the profession, and even cause uneasiness to certain of us among the progressives.

The compensating assurance is that they are the promptings of an enthusiasm in itself meritorious; that they are experiments; that they may prove to be expedients merely temporary, and that later they may be dispensed with after they have served their purpose. They are to rouse the dormant, stir the stagnant: but there are also other agencies at work to rouse and to stir; and the time may well come when the operation of these in combination will have achieved the creation of a spirit in the community safe to act upon its own initiative.

Apart from the portions of our programs devoted to the discussion of such methods and devices—which concern the direct action of a particular library upon its own constituents, is the portion—a large one—devoted to schemes of co-operation among our institutions as such in the interest of economy and therefore of efficiency—in their administration. These are necessarily technical, and their immediate interest is to the librarian rather than to the reader. But their ultimate benefit is to reach the reader,—particularly in freeing to his use a larger measure of the direct personal service of the administration, in interpreting the collections to his need. In proportion as they succeed in this they will achieve a reversion to that service held precious in the library of the older type,—which, lacking the modern apparatus, and with an imperfect collection, at least put the reader into direct contact with what it had, and gave him also the inspiring personal touch with an enthusiast already saturated with its contents: and which accordingly sent him forth with a grateful glow, too little, alas! evident in one relegated to the mere mechanism of modern library practice.

The mechanism became inevitable: the increase of the collections, the increase of the constituency, the greater diversity of the need, and the demand that this should be met promptly, have required it. This isn't so apparent to the public, who think of the problem—of getting the right book to the individual reader—in only its simplest terms. But to us librarians it is not merely apparent but urgent. And accordingly we expend upon it a length and a zest of discussion that quite mystify the portions of our audiences outside of the craft.

What impels us is that the mechanism is not merely elaborate: it is expensive. It is the more so in proportion as it is variant in form and involves a multiplication of expense by each library acting independently in its own behalf. Our effort, and the purpose of our discussions, is therefore to promote a standardization of the form and a co-operative centralization of the work itself, in which our libraries as a whole may secure a participating benefit.

Now the mechanism consists of certain apparatus necessarily independent with each library—administrative records, charging systems, etc.; but also of classification, catalog and bibliography. All of these may be standardized,—but the opportunity for a co-operation which may save expense occurs chiefly in the three last named. The extravagance, the needless extravagance, of an absence of it represented by the old conditions was little apparent to the general public or to boards of control. It becomes obvious when one considers that thousands of libraries receiving hundreds of identical books,—and hundreds of libraries receiving thousands of identical books—were each undertaking independently the expense of cataloging and classifying these: thus multiplying by exactly their number the total cost of the community. As against this, the economy of a system under which a particular book shall be cataloged—and perhaps classified—at some central point once for all, and the result made available in multiple form to all libraries receiving copies of it—needs only to be stated to be convincing. A condition of it is, in the case of classification, identity in the basic scheme and notation, in the case of catalog identity in the form, and uniformity in the practice. The general availability of bibliographic lists does not depend upon either, though convenienced by both.

Identity in classification seems still remote, nor does the undoubted vogue of the Decimal scheme assure it: for this is chiefly among the smaller libraries. In the larger, the Decimal scheme, where adopted, is apt to be accompanied by variations of detail, which mean a variation in the place and symbol assigned to a particular book, and thus bar the general adoption of a decision in the classification of it made at any central bureau. So far as this variance affects the direct administration of a particular library it may be unimportant: for the arrangement of its own books upon its own shelves—provided this is based on a subject scheme, consistently carried out—may be sufficiently effective for its own purposes, even though purely individual with itself. What it implies, however, in multiplication of an expense that might be avoided by the adoption of an identical scheme, is of an import very serious. The construction of a scheme which should suit equally all libraries and all librarians is not to be expected. The best that can be hoped for is a scheme sound in its fundaments and upon which the concessions of individual preference necessary will be only as to detail. The reluctance—of librarians—to make such concessions is due, I think, to an exaggerated estimate of the importance of classification as such—that is to say, of the precise location of a particular book in a given collection; a failure to realize—what experience should have taught—that in many groups no location can be absolutely permanent, owing to changes in the literary output and in the subject relation of that group to the rest. This reluctance is, I fear, one of the conservatisms least creditable to the profession. It induces tenacity in adhesion to systems adopted, and it leads to the adoption of new systems devised to accord with supposed idiosyncrasies of a particular collection—or pursuant to the ingenious inventiveness of a particular librarian. I can express myself the more frankly because in this latter respect the Library of Congress has itself been a sinner;—and one not yet come to repentance. For at the outset of its problem it found the Decimal classification in considerable vogue, the Expansive in considerable favor. And it adopted neither, but proceeded to devise a scheme of its own. It did this out of declared necessity, with regard to its supposed interests; and considering those interests alone the results have seemed a justification. They are even being utilized in certain other institutions, and though not proffered as a model for general adoption, they render even now a general service in proving the economy of centralizing the process of classification, as well as that of cataloging, at some central point or points from which the decisions may radiate.

The general availability of a catalog entry depends of course upon uniformity in cataloging practice as well as identity in size and form of the card itself,—if the result takes the form of a card. Agreement in this has fortunately been rapid, and we have now in English speaking American a set of decisions, embodied in a code of rules—substantially accepted among our own libraries and even substantially acceptable to the libraries of Great Britain. Between continental practice and our own variances still exist, and bar the complete interchange of results. One cannot doubt, however, that time will eradicate, or adjust these also.

Between bibliography as distinguished from classification and cataloging, there exist, however, no such impediments; and the centralization of bibliographic work—co-operation in it—is progressing apace.

The prospect is, therefore, fairly cheerful that librarians will be able in the near future to free themselves and their funds from undue attention to the mere mechanism of their craft, and more completely to devote their resources and personal service to the book as literature, and the reader as a human being.

The spirit for this is ardent. It is manifest in our two countries as nowhere else in like degree. As regards the reader it calls itself proudly "the missionary spirit"; it seeks him, appraises him, sympathizes with him, counsels him. It does not doubt its duty in this to be an affirmative one. But as regards the book itself it is not yet so decisive. For in the selection of what it is to offer it still concedes much to what is called the "popular taste"—which means the popular fancy of the moment, ignoring in doing so its prerogative as an "educational" institution to assert standards, and to abide by them. Its hope is to improve the taste itself; and the need of this—its appropriateness as a function of the library, and the means of effecting it—are to be a main feature of the program of this conference. They are justly so,—even though they are matters of concern chiefly for that type of library which is engaged in serving the public at large. It is, however, precisely that type of library with which also the duty should lie of representing the standards established by time, and the taste represented by the more refined rather than by the average instincts of the community. And as the temptation—to make concessions is also peculiarly theirs—the responsibility is particularly upon them, their librarians, their trustees, and the conservative in public opinion—to assert this duty and to conform to it. The assertion of it may cause resentment; but this will prove merely individual; it is not likely to organize into formidable resistance. And in time it will become merely sporadic. It will tend to diminish in proportion as associations such as this, in conferences such as this, declare solidly for the authority of the library in such decisions—while clearly distinguishing it from any censorship of literature as such.

The temptation to court "popularity"—natural in institutions maintained at the public expense and therefore dependent upon the favor of city councils—has another phase which I hope may prove but transitory. It is in the exploitation of the service done by the books which are the "tools of trade" as against those making for general information, or general culture. The supposition is that the service of the first named is one which will convince certain important opinion as a "practical" service, and particularly that it will appeal to those who are just now insistent upon vocational studies as the studies to be given right of way in the education of youth. The temptation is the greater because the service of a book of this sort is a service whose results are readily demonstrable, it is concrete and objective;—while that of general literature is but subjective.

Its importance cannot be questioned, nor the duty of the library to perform it, nor the success of our public libraries in the actual performance of it. The only criticism might be lest in the emphasis upon it, our libraries may seem to underestimate, if not to disparage, that other service which in its ulterior benefit to the community may prove of even greater importance; that service which reminds the public that livelihood is not the main purpose of life, nor the present, the local and the particular, the only era, the only place, the only thing worthy of consideration and regard. The books which achieve this may have their greatest value in offsetting the tendencies of mere industry. This is not to say, however, that they may not advance industry itself; for though they may not improve the mere dexterity of a particular individual in a profession, art or trade, they may aid to that sense of proportion, that larger view of a worldwide relation which will advance the art itself; and they cultivate the imagination which is the essential of modern industry in its larger relations.

As, therefore, our colleges still stand for the utility of the general studies even in a career looking to vocation, so our libraries may well stand for the utility of the general literature. Particularly is this duty upon them since the opportunity—in its relation to the community at large—is uniquely theirs: for no other agency—not even the museum, or the art gallery, or the theatre, the opera house, or the concert hall—potent as may be the influence of these—matches the book in power and availability in this service of quickening the sensibilities, refining the taste, enlarging the understanding, diversifying the experience, warming the heart and clarifying the soul.

And this service—understood everywhere—is nowhere—save perhaps in England—quite so completely followed into its consequences as in Canada and the United States. The conviction of it grounds our libraries upon a public opinion assuring permanent support; and inspires among individuals enthusiasm for gift and endowment. The greater, therefore, the responsibility of librarians and trustees to see to it that this conviction, this enthusiasm and the resources which they provide shall be so utilized as to effect not merely the most showy but the most substantial results.

And the responsibility should include not merely a zeal for the general reader, but a regard for the scholar: since a benefit to the general reader may end with himself, but a benefit to the scholar becomes amplified and diffused through him. He is not, be it understood, a class by himself. He includes the specialist whose vocation is research in a particular field; but he includes also the reader for whom research is but an avocation. He is the unusual man, but he is also the usual man in his unusual moments. What is the conscious aim of the one may be the incidental achievement of the other—to advance knowledge. And the aid rendered by the library to either may be of a consequence to the community more far reaching than the mere diffusion of ascertained knowledge among a multitude of individuals.

If the effort of our libraries in this direction has not kept pace with their efforts in the others, the explanation is obvious in the emphasis necessary upon the others during the past fifty years. But the time has come when the obligation to the scholar should resume its due place—in our programs, as well as in our practice.

And with the resumption of that interest may we not hope for a recognition—a recognition—in our organizations also of that type which gave personality to the libraries of old?—I mean the type represented by the Panizzis, the Garnetts, the Winsors, Pooles, Cutters and Spoffords. For however indifferent such men may have been, or might be today, to the mere mechanism which of late we have been exalting, and which we must hold to be necessary under modern conditions, they succeeded in producing an atmosphere which had a potency of its own, which no mere mechanism can reproduce, and for which the zeal of routine personal service, however "missionary" in spirit, cannot be a substitute. For the mechanism gives the impression of intervening between the reader and the book; and the routine personal service fails from the very nature of its effort. The reader reached out to may be pleased and aided: but he loses the lesson and the penetrating suggestion afforded by the mere absorption of the old-time librarian in the book itself. It was that which once took the visitor out of himself, away from affairs, and gave him touch with a different world, a sense of different values. Does he not miss it now? I think he does; and that, however he may respect the mere efficiency of the modern librarian, as administrator, his really affectionate admiration turns back to the librarian of the old school whose soul was lifted above mere administration, or the method of the moment, or the manner of insistent service, and whose passionate regard was rather for the inside of a book than for the outside of a reader,—even the librarian to whom a reader seemed indeed but an interruption to an abstraction that was privileged.

I for one, should be sorry to think that this type has passed finally. There is need for it; there should be a place. I trust that it will be restored to us; and I deplore the influence upon the younger generation in our profession of referring to it with condescension if not with contempt.

"Our profession." I use the term because it is current. We have assumed it, and no one has challenged it. There are grounds on which it might, I suppose, be challenged. "The word implies," according to the Century Dictionary, "professed attainments in special knowledge, as distinguished from mere skill; a practical dealing with affairs, as distinguished from mere study or investigation; and an application of such knowledge to uses for others as a vocation, as distinguished from its pursuit for one's own purposes." The latter two requirements are certainly met: we are engaged in practical affairs, and to the use of others. But the "professed attainments in special knowledge, as distinguished from mere skill," while certainly represented in individuals among us, are not with us conditions of librarianship as a vocation or as an office, nor have we in America, as they have in Germany, the conventional preparation, the preliminary examination as to qualifications, and the license which by law or usage are requirements in the professions strictly so-called. A profession should imply uniform standards in such qualifications: but the qualifications of persons accepted among us for library posts of importance,—even among persons who have made notable successes in such posts, vary extraordinarily in both kind and degree. A profession should imply a certain homogeneity in ideals, methods and relations; while among us there is still a notable diversity. The modern library with its large establishment and organization, and the responsibility of large funds, has, like the modern university, created a demand in its administrators for the traits necessary in business rather than characteristic of the professions or expected of them. (This demand, and the vogue of woman in our work—a vogue which finds its completest recognition at this meeting—are indeed the most notable of recent phenomena affecting our personnel.) As yet the conventional training has not attracted a sufficiency of men and women with such traits to meet the need; nor has it, on the other hand, attracted a sufficient number of men and women grounded in special branches of the sciences and the arts to fill the positions in our research libraries which administer, and should interpret, the literature of these. The actual personnel of our association includes therefore the utmost diversity in trait, education and experience.

A considerable such diversity exists among teachers, and does not disentitle them to the claim of constituting a profession; and we are sometimes called educators. But we cannot claim to be, for we lack the didactic authority, purpose and method.

The final characteristic of a profession is its influence upon the community as such. Now, our lack of such an influence as a body is in part due to the lack of that homogeneity in ideal method and personnel—but in part also to the necessary limitations of our office. We are necessarily non-partisan. We are to furnish impartially the ammunition for both sides of every issue. The moment we become identified with a single side merely, we lose our influence and our authority. And it matters not whether the issue be political, or theological or economic or social. If it be scientific, or merely literary, we have more freedom, since the subject matter is more nearly academic and less emotional. But even here we must avoid the charge of faddism. In a contest of morality we may indeed take side against the baser, because with this we have no influence and no need to court one. But there are today few moral issues clearly distinguishable as such in which there is need or temptation for us to engage.

The result of this neutrality is an attitude which to the world at large must seem somewhat colourless; but also a habit of mind which insensibly in itself becomes neutral. We are content to be observers. We avoid becoming contestants. Such characteristics do not go to the solidification of opinion in a profession, nor to the assertion of it in an aggressive way.

The sum total of all of which (observations upon us) is that in spite of our numbers, in spite of the momentous aggregate that our "establishment" represents, in spite of the assured place which it occupies in the community and the social system, we are at present, and in many ways must continue to be, an aggregate of individuals rather than a body politic. But even as the Devil's advocate I would not so conclude in a deprecatory sense, for we may find and show many reasons for complacency—and special opportunities for service—in the relations which this situation implies.

My original invitation was a large one: no less than to estimate the place of the library in English-speaking America. I have not attempted to comply with it: for it seemed too large for my fraction of this program. But as a theme it was enticing. And so would have been the reverse of it,—that is, the place of English-speaking America in the development of the library. That also will perhaps be worthy of treatment at some large opportunity. One particular aspect of it is suggested by a letter of Francis Lieber to General Halleck, fifty-seven years ago. It runs—

"... Have you laid the foundation of a great public library in California? Your state, above all others, ought largely to provide public funds for a library,—say $20,000 a year for the first five years, and then, permanently so much a year. We cannot do in our days without large public libraries, and libraries are quite as necessary as hospitals or armies. Libraries are the bridges over which Civilization travels from generation to generation and from country to country, bridges that span over the widest oceans; and California will yet be the buttress of the bridge over which encircling civilization will pass to Asia, whence it first came...."[1]

[1] From "Life and letters of Francis Lieber." Edited by Thomas Sergeant Perry. Boston. 1882.