On Books and The Housing of Them | Page 5

criticism of this or that method of
classification will be found to lie a subtler question -- whether the
arrangement of a library ought not in some degree to correspond with
and represent the mind of the man who forms it. For my own part, I
plead guilty, within certain limits, of favoritism in classification. I am
sensible that sympathy and its reverse have something to do with

determining in what company a book shall stand. And further, does
there not enter into the matter a principle of humanity to the authors
themselves? Ought we not to place them, so far as may be, in the
neighborhood which they would like? Their living manhoods are
printed in their works. Every reality, every tendency, endures. Eadem
sequitur tellure sepultos.
I fear that arrangement, to be good, must be troublesome. Subjects are
traversed by promiscuous assemblages of 'works;' both by sizes; and all
by languages. On the whole I conclude as follows. The mechanical
perfection of a library requires an alphabetical catalogue of the whole.
But under the shadow of this catalogue let there be as many living
integers as possible, for every well-chosen subdivision is a living
integer and makes the library more and more an organism. Among
others I plead for individual men as centres of subdivision: not only for
Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, but for Johnson, Scott, and Burns, and
whatever represents a large and manifold humanity.
The question of economy, for those who from necessity or choice
consider it at all, is a very serious one. It has been a fashion to make
bookcases highly ornamental. Now books want for and in themselves
no ornament at all. They are themselves the ornament. Just as shops
need no ornament, and no one will think of or care for any structural
ornament, if the goods are tastefully disposed in the shop-window. The
man who looks for society in his books will readily perceive that, in
proportion as the face of his bookcase is occupied by ornament, he
loses that society; and conversely, the more that face approximates to a
sheet of bookbacks, the more of that society he will enjoy. And so it is
that three great advantages come hand in hand, and, as will be seen,
reach their maximum together: the sociability of books, minimum of
cost in providing for them, and ease of access to them.
In order to attain these advantages, two conditions are fundamental.
First, the shelves must, as a rule, be fixed; secondly, the cases, or a
large part of them, should have their side against the wall, and thus,
projecting into the room for a convenient distance, they should be of
twice the depth needed for a single line of books, and should hold two

lines, one facing each way. Twelve inches is a fair and liberal depth for
two rows of octavos. The books are thus thrown into stalls, but stalls
after the manner of a stable, or of an old-fashioned coffee-room; not
after the manner of a bookstall, which, as times go, is no stall at all, but
simply a flat space made by putting some scraps of boarding together,
and covering them with books.
This method of dividing the longitudinal space by projections at right
angles to it, if not very frequently used, has long been known. A great
example of it is to be found in the noble library of Trinity College,
Cambridge, and is the work of Sir Christopher Wren. He has kept these
cases down to very moderate height, for he doubtless took into account
that great heights require long ladders, and that the fetching and use of
these greatly add to the time consumed in getting or in replacing a book.
On the other hand, the upper spaces of the walls are sacrificed, whereas
in Dublin, All Souls, and many other libraries the bookcases ascend
very high, and magnificent apartments walled with books may in this
way be constructed. Access may be had to the upper portions by
galleries; but we cannot have stairs all round the room, and even with
one gallery of books a room should not be more than from sixteen to
eighteen feet high if we are to act on the principle of bringing the
largest possible number of volumes into the smallest possible space. I
am afraid it must be admitted that we cannot have a noble and
imposing spectacle, in a vast apartment, without sacrificing economy
and accessibility; and vice versa.
The projections should each have attached to them what I rudely term
an endpiece (for want of a better name), that is, a shallow and
extremely light adhering bookcase (light by reason of the shortness of
the shelves), which both increases the accommodation, and makes one
short side as well as the two