First million for University library

Press, 7 August 1985, Page 17

First million for University library

By

ERIC BEARDSLEY,

University of Canterbury

information officer,

A great library, it is said, is the memory of a nation. Past neglect may have created patches of amnesia in the University of Canterbury library, but it has become one of the country’s major libraries; and today it will reach a significant milestone when the millionth item is added to the collection. The millionth item — the library now' has 708,854 books and periodicals and 291,146 items in microform — is a notable aesthetic and scholarly acquisition. It is one of a limited edition of “The Ruskin Art Collection at Oxford: Catalogue of the Rudimentary Series,” published by the Lion and Unicorn Press at the Royal College of Art, London, and is much more attractive than the title suggests. Handsome and beautifully illustrated, it provides access to the works of art John Ruskin presented to Oxford University when he was elected the first Slade professor of fine art there in 1869. That was not the sort of book envisaged when the- library was first established at Canterbury College in 1879. Initially the collection grew very slowly and it was threequarters of a century before the first 100,000 volumes were acquired. But since then there has been real and rapid growth. The second 100,000 took only 12 years, that total doubled in seven years, and eight years later it doubled again. Costs have risen even more dramatically. A century ago the annual provision for the library was the equivalent of $3O. By 1923, it had risen to $790, by 1948 to 57542, by 1971 to $216,000, and this year to $l.B million. Inflation may make the figures suspect, but there can be no argument about growth. In its early days the library spent all its income on books. Today, subscriptions to some 7500 periodicals, many of them scientific journals, account for 60 per cent of expenditure. The major strengths of the library are the engineering and forestry collections and the Macmillan Brown collection of books and journals about the Pacific as

well as New Zealand literature and history. The major strengths of its archives are New Zealand labour history and Canterbury literary and social history. If the library’s major functions are to support the University’s teaching and research and to develop a collection to meet future needs, it is also a major centre for study. There are nearly 1500 desks and seats in the three libraries — engineering, physical sciences, and the main library in the James Hight building — which make up the library system at Ham and they are in use from 8.30 a.m. until 11 p.m. Gone are the days when the library was full only in the third term as students prepared for final examinations. Year-long assessment means that it is in constant use almost from the first day of lectures each year. The miserable provision for a library in the early days of Canter-

bury College seems almost criminal today. The college was founded in 1873, but there was no real home for the tiny collection of books for 43 years. They were locked in glass cases in the hall initially and were later moved to a gloomy little room under the Worcester Street clock tower. But the college governors can scarcely be blamed for the deplorable neglect. The board was saddled with the Canterbury Public Library as well as with the Canterbury Museum and the secondary schools and it no doubt regarded its book purchases for the general public as adequate for student needs also. It was not until 1906 that the

Professorial Board established a committee on the library and its report requested that books be arranged and put in order and that the equivalent of $2OO a year be used for purchases. There was little action, and in 1912 it was reported that Canterbury had a total of only 4378 books, the lowest among the four colleges. That stung parochial pride. The professors capitalised on it by making a public appeal — much of the burden fell on Arnold Wall — and in 1916 a library (now the Centre Gallery in the Arts Centre) designed by Collins and Harman and costing only about $7OOO was completed. It was described 18 years later as an architectural gem

but an impossible library, and consisted of one floor of 60ft by 30ft with four alcoves on each side, each containing a reading desk with four chairs. Books on the same subject were shelved in each alcove, but that was the extent of the classification. The alcoves did provide a quiet place for study, but they also had an unexpected social significance. The little desks, a deux, seemed to promote study of a different nature. Few institutions, it was said, could surpass Canterbury in the rate of intermarriage among graduates. One librarian thought a thesis should be written on the beneficient of the alcove in the libraries of coeducational institutions. In the 1930 s the Carnegie Foundation, to which a number of New Zealand libraries owe their development, offered grants of $5OOO a year for three years for the library provided adequate accommodation for the books the grants would buy was provided and a trained librarian was appointed. There was no trained librarian at that stage. Students cared for the collection and they were followed by a retired teacher, W. D. (“Diggles”) Andrews, in 1916, and in 1926 by C. D. Hardie, a retired school inspector, who gave up his seat on the board of governors so he could take over the library. Both men were scholarly and well read. Like Charles Lamb they loved the look, the smell, and the feel of old books; but they had no idea of records, catalogues, or classifications and relied simply on their knowledge. Without them, the library was a treasure house without a key. Denis Glover recalled Hardie as a venerable, learned gentleman, “who before issuing a book would weigh it carefully in his hand, expatiate on its virtues, inform you of its shortcomings, and send you away after an interminable time with his blessings.” Student assistants recorded all loans in a massive ledger. A young classics graduate

changed all that. Clifford Collins intended to go teaching, but was persuaded by J. H. E. Schroder (subsequently assistant editor of “The Press” and Director of Broadcasting) that librarianship offered a brighter future. Collins accepted a Carnegie fellowship to the University of Michigan. A gentle but determined man, he gained a degree in library science and left some delightful memories at Ann Arbor. He was, of course, desperately short of money — the Depression was at its depths — and he overcame the problem of swotting on humid summer days by sitting in the library with his feet in a bucket of cold water. By pinching and scraping — and washing dishes in a restaurant — he saved enough to buy a Model A Ford and drove it about America inspecting libraries. He sold .the car in New York — he did not, as legend has it, push it off the dock — sailed to Europe, and continued his inspection of libraries by motor-bike. He returned full of missionary zeal to put order into the library confusion. But Clifford Collins was a frustrated reformer. The Depression cut the college’s income from its endowed lands to almost ludicrous levels and there could be no library extension. So the Carnegie grant could not even be accepted. Eventually a basement was renovated and ventilated and the grant was finally paid 14 years after it was offered. On his return, Collins had suggested adoption of the Library of Congress classification as the least unsatisfactory scheme available and the collection was finally classified and catalogued. Several years later plans were drawn for a new library fronting Hereford Street and capable of accommodation 100,000 books. The Second World War put paid to that proposal; and until the spacious new building opened at Ilam in 1974, the library staggered from crisis to crisis as the student roll inexorably rose. A mezzanine floor was put into the old building. The School of Fine

Arts and later much of the Engineering School were taken over as those faculties moved to Ilam. Collins found 40 different places — one of them an attic entered only by a manhole — in which to store books. He also took up hammer and saw along with other staff members to build a library workroom when all else failed. It was not merely student numbers which turned Canterbury from a small liberal arts college into a large modern university. It was also the determination of the academic staff, some of whom had been deeply influenced by the philosopher, Sir Karl Popper, to make research an integral part of the University. The library had an important role in that aim; and an influential Professorial Board committee on the well-being of the library in 1959 ensured that an adequate portion of the university’s resources was used for the library. By this time the University had also rid itself of responsibility for secondary schools, the Museum, and the Public Library, and was able to concentrate on its own needs. As the roll grew and the move to Ilam progressed, it became increasingly clear that the planners of a new library would need to think big. They did. The 12-storey James Hight building, all of which the library will eventually occupy, punctuates the city’s western skyline and provides a far better home for a far better library than the University has ever had. It is not only a repository for books and journals. Computers have much improved library routines and procedures and they

have also provided fast and almost limitless access to databanks in Australia and the United States by way of satellite. The result is a whole new world of information for users. Under the present Librarian, Dick Hlavac, the library is shortly to take another major step forward by linking with the National Library’s database, which will eventually enable .inquirers to ascertain immediately what J)ooks on any subject are held' in 'which libraries in New For practical purposes it will 'become an important part of one New Zealand-wide library, with its’catalogue available to all users. The next step will be the introduction of a computer-based circulation system, which will provide rapid and varied access to a collection that will rise very rapidly beyond the first million. The library at present occupies only the four lower floors of the James Hight building, but it is an impressive library. Before it was opened in 1974 the then chairman of the University Grants Committee, Sir Alan Danks, asked me to take him on a tour of the new buildings at Ilam which he had seen only as pieces of paper, plans, and documents passing over his desk in Wellington. We climbed the first flight of steps to the library, entered the vestibule and climbed the next flight. The books stacks were not yet in place and before us lay a vast green-bronze carpet, stretching, it seemed, to infinity. Even Sir Alan was impressed. “Caddy,” he said, with a chuckle, “hand me my driver.”