How to plan a library building for library work — Themes and Context
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How to plan a library building for library work — Themes and Context can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 100,351 words, 7 hr 17 min estimated reading time, and 26 detected text sections.
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s, with a carrel from one stanchell of the window to another.
This use of windows suggested to me a new convenience for research in our modern “stack,” which is described in a later chapter as the “stack carrel.”[4]
The growth of libraries slowly followed the development of monastic orders. The systematic care and use of books began with the precepts of S. Benedict in the sixth century, followed by similar rules in other brotherhoods. At the same time secular libraries and library buildings were devastated by the barbarians, while the Arabs, who developed large libraries, appeared to have housed them in mosques, so that library building science slumbered through the Dark Ages.
In the sixth and seventh centuries learning followed the first steps of Christianity into the British Isles. The earliest English “library movement” began in the monasteries of Ireland and Great Britain.
From that era onward, libraries all over Christianized Europe grew with the prosperity of religious brotherhoods. Of progress toward building, however, there is little record until the Cistercians moved theirs from the cloisters to other rooms in their monasteries, although some use of cloisters elsewhere lingered until the beginning of the seventeenth century. These rooms were at first directly over the cloisters, where alcoves first appeared, on the window side only. Still later libraries were assigned to the upper stories of separate buildings, the first put to this use since the time of the Cæsars in Rome.
These first mediæval libraries, of which several pictures are preserved, send to us the precedent of ample and aptly applied daylight admitted through long windows directly into each alcove. The exteriors remind us of our stack rooms. This arrangement of library rooms passed by imitation in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries from the monasteries to the colleges, and still survives in the older libraries of Oxford and Cambridge,—for instance, Merton College, a long, narrow room with bookcases between the windows, at right angles with the walls, forming well-lighted alcoves.
All of the earliest library rooms were long and narrow. Clark has preserved the measurements of several thus:—
A.D. 1289. Zutphen (Holland): A solid building separated from others (in case of fire): 120 feet long, 36 feet broad: 19 uniform windows east and west, “that plenty of daylight might fall upon the desks and fill the whole length and breadth of the library.”
A.D. 1422. The Franciscan House in London, “Christ’s Hospital” (the first building in England built expressly for a library?) founded by Sir Richard Whittington; 129 feet long by 31 feet broad, with 28 desks and 28 double settles.
A.D. 1508. At Canterbury: the library over the Prior’s Chapel was 60 feet long by 20 feet broad, and had 16 bookcases, each 4 shelves high.
A.D. 1517. At Clairvaux: in the cloister are 14 studies, where the monks write and study, and over it the new library, 180 feet long by 17 wide (probably this narrowness followed the shape of the cloister) with 48 benches, “excellently lighted on both sides by large windows.”
It will be noted that these bookshelves were about four feet “on centers,” and that great emphasis was laid on ample daylight.
From the thirteenth century comes this warning for us—“the press in which books are kept ought to be lined inside with wood that the damp of the walls may not moisten or stain them,” which is singularly like a caution in a recent American manual against leaving unpainted brick walls at the back of wall cases.
It seems singular that wall shelving, which was certainly used in Assyrian libraries and in the classical period, disappears in the monkish era and yields to “presses” or closed bookcases; to appear as a new device in the library of the Escorial in Spain in the year 1583. Sir Christopher Wren thought so much of this feature that he followed it in Trinity College (Cambridge) library in 1695, saying, “The disposition of the shelves both along the walls and breaking out from the walls must prove very convenient and gracefull: A little square table in each cell with two seats.”
The fifteenth century had been a library era throughout. In the sixteenth came the Reformation, which swept away “papistical” libraries. More than eight hundred libraries of monastic orders, in England alone, were dispersed or destroyed by this iconoclastic whirlwind. In 1540 the only libraries left were at Oxford and Cambridge and in the cathedrals. But at the same time, the invention and rapid spread of printing had superseded the slow processes of making manuscript books, and had opened a new life for libraries. The first library built under these new conditions was that of St. John’s College, which brought over from the monastic and early college era the alcove arrangement.
Charles C. Soule opens his 1912 manual with a verse prelude that distills his philosophy: 'Build it for use, not show; for now, not for ever.' This couplet, along with the epigraph from Vitruvius—'Firmitas, Utilitas, Venustas'—signals a practical approach to library architecture grounded in classical principles. Soule, a publisher and longtime American Library Association member, positions himself as a mediator between librarians and architects, insisting that the librarian's expertise must guide planning. The excerpts show him attending to mundane but critical details: underdraining to prevent 'book-tuberculosis,' the placement of water pipes away from shelves, and the need for separate plumbing plans. His tone is direct, even admonitory, as when he warns architects against yielding to ignorant committee-men on sanitary matters.
A Publisher’s Credentials in Library Design
The editorial preface notes that Soule was described by President Hill at the 1906 A.L.A. Conference as the person who 'has given the subject of Library Architecture more thought and attention, probably, than any other member.' Despite being a publisher and bookseller, not a professional librarian, Soule had served as a library trustee, vice-president of the A.L.A., and author of the 1890 'Points of Agreement among Librarians on Library Architecture.' His 1892 newspaper series criticizing the Boston Public Library’s building and management shows his willingness to challenge established institutions. The excerpts do not reveal whether his advice was heeded, but they establish his authority through documented service rather than academic credentials.
Sanitation as a Design Priority
Soule devotes substantial attention to heating, ventilation, plumbing, and drainage, arguing that these should be 'provided for satisfactorily before any money is allotted to frills.' He uses vivid language: a damp basement leads to 'book-tuberculosis,' and bursting pipes threaten 'damage and disaster to books.' He advises librarians to act as 'housekeeper' and scrutinize the architect’s plans, watching for 'loose joints, careless workmanship, and downright dishonesty.' The excerpts also mention dust exclusion through vestibules and air-inlet filters, as well as the need for separate, catalogued plumbing plans. This level of detail suggests the book is a technical manual rather than a theoretical treatise.
The Librarian’s Role as Expert Adviser
Soule repeatedly asserts that the librarian must be the driving force in planning. He quotes an unnamed architect’s 'ringing words' about refusing to execute work dangerous to health, then applies them to librarians: 'How much more do they apply to the librarian who is the expert adviser not only as to effective methods of work, but also as to the comfort and health of all his staff.' The excerpts show Soule advocating for the librarian to insist on proper arrangements, even against ignorant committee-men with limited budgets. This advocacy aligns with his 1890 'Points of Agreement,' which aimed to unify librarians’ opinions on architecture. The text does not provide examples of successful collaborations, but it consistently frames the librarian as the essential authority.
Soule’s manual is best approached as a period document that reveals early twentieth-century debates about library functionality. Readers interested in the history of library science will find his detailed prescriptions for plumbing and dust control as revealing as his arguments for librarian-led design. The excerpts do not cover the book’s later sections on specific room layouts or furniture, but the consistent emphasis on utility over show suggests a work that prioritizes the librarian’s operational needs over architectural fashion.
Soule’s insistence on plumbing and dust control over ornament feels almost tender now—those quiet, stubborn details that keep a place alive. It reminds me of wandering into Canterbury: A Sketch Book — Reading Notes and finding the same patient attention to everyday stone and light. Some books simply hold space for what matters. I keep thinking about that.
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