Of Choice in Reading (William Godwin)

A difficulty which frequently presents itself in the private and domestic intercourse of parent and child, is that of determining what books it is proper that children should read, and what books they should not read.

It frequently happens that there are books read by the parent, which are conceived improper for the child. A collection of books, it may be, is viewed through glass doors, their outsides and labels are visible to the child; but the key is carefully kept, and a single book only at a time, selected by the parent, is put into his hands. A daughter is prohibited from the reading of novels; and in this prohibition will often commence a trial of skill, of quick conveyance on the part of the child, and of suspicious vigilance on the part of the parent. Ought children to be thus restrained? Is it our duty to digest for our offspring, as the church of Rome has been accustomed to digest for her weaker members, an Index Expurgatorius, a catalogue of those books in the reading of which they may be permitted to indulge themselves?

Various are the mischiefs that inevitably flow out of such a precaution.

First, a wall of separation is thus erected between children and adults. They are made prisoners, and subjected to certain arbitrary regulations; and we are constituted their jailors. All generous reciprocity is destroyed between the two parties. I cannot ardently love a person who is continually warning me not to enter his premises, who plants a hedge about my path, and thwarts me in the impulses of my heart. I cannot understand the reasons that dictate his judgments; it is well if he understand them himself. I cannot therefore regard him as my friend. Friendship requires that the man in whose bosom it reigns, should act, and appear to act, for the interest of the object of his friendship. It is essentially hostile to all mystery. What I do not understand, cannot excite my affections. The man who shuts against me the secrets of his heart, cannot be unreservedly beloved by me. Friendship requires that the hearts of the persons should, as it were, be amalgamated into one substance, that their thoughts should be transparent to each other, and their communications entire. This perhaps can never be effected in its utmost extent. But it is of the most unfavourable effect, where the division and reserve pertinaciously force themselves upon observation.

Secondly, the despotism which is thus exercised, is peculiarly grating to a mind of generosity and spirit. Curiosity is one of the strongest impulses of the human heart. To curiosity it is peculiarly incident, to grow and expand itself under difficulties and opposition. The greater are the obstacles to its being gratified, the more it seems to swell, and labour to burst the mounds that confine it. Many an object is passed by with indifference, till it is rendered a subject of prohibition, and then it starts up into a source of inextinguishable passion. It may be alleged, that "this uneasiness and impatience in a young person are capable of being corrected." But is this any thing more than saying in other words, that the finest springs of the human mind may be broken, and the whole reduced to a chaos of dishonourable lumber? As long as the fiery grandeur of the soul remains, that will not be controlled, and cannot be moulded by the frigid dictates of another's will, the kind of prohibitions here spoken of, will be felt with exquisite indignation, and, though involuntarily, will be registered as examples of a galling injustice.

Thirdly, the trial of skill thus instituted between the parent and child, is of the most pernicious tendency. The child is employed in doing that, in which it is his endeavour not to be detected. He must listen with anxious attention, lest he should be burst in upon before he is aware. He must break off his reading, and hide his book, a thousand times upon a false alarm. At length, when the interruption really occurs, he must rouse his attention, and compose his features. He imposes imperious silence upon the flutterings of his heart; he pitches to the true key of falsehood the tone of his voice; the object of his most anxious effort, is to appear the thing that he is not. It is not possible to imagine a school of more refined hypocrisy.

The great argument in favour of this project of an Index Expurgalorins, is derived from the various degrees of moral or immoral tendency that is to be found in literary compositions.

One of the most obvious remarks that offer themselves under this head, is, that authors themselves are continually falling into the grossest mistakes in this respect, and show themselves superlatively ignorant of the tendency of their own writings. Nothing is more futile, than the formal and regular moral frequently annexed to Esop's fables of animals. Examine the fable impartially, and you will find that the lesson set down at the foot of it, is one of the last inferences that would have occurred to you. It is in a very different temper that the book-maker squeezes out what he calls his Use, from that in which the reader becomes acquainted with the circumstances of the fable.

To ascertain the moral of a story, or the genuine tendency of a book, is a science peculiarly abstruse. As many controversies might be raised upon some questions of this sort, as about the number six hundred and sixty six in the book of Revelations.

What is the tendency of Homer's Iliad? The author seems to have designed it, as an example of the fatal consequences of discord among political allies. One of the effects it appears most conspicuously to have produced, is that of enhancing the false lustre of military achievements, and perpetuating the noxious race of heroes in the world.

What is the tendency of Gulliver's Travels, particularly of that part which relates to the Houyhnmhns and Yahoos? It has frequently been affirmed to be, to inspire us with a loathing aversion to our species, and fill us with a frantic preference for the society of any class of animals, rather than of men. A poet of our own day [Hayleyi], as a suitable remuneration for the production of such a work, has placed the author in hell, and consigned him to the eternal torment of devils. On the other hand it has been doubted whether, under the name of Houyhnmhns and Yahoos, Swift has done any thing more than exhibit two different descriptions of men, in their highest improvement and lowest degradation; and it has been affirmed that no book breathes more strongly a generous indignation against vice, and an ardent love of every thing that is excellent and honourable to the human heart.

There is no end to an enumeration of controversies of this sort. Authors themselves are no more infallible in this respect, than the men who read them. If the moral be invented first, the author did not then know where the brilliant lights of his story would fall, nor of consequence where its principal power of attraction would be found. If it be extracted afterwards, he is often taken at a disadvantage, and must extricate himself as he can.

Otway seems to have pursued the last method. The moral to his tragedy of the Orphan is thus expressed:

'Tis thus that heav’n its empire does maintain;

It may afflict: but man must not complain.

Richardson pursued the opposite method. He has drawn in Lovelace and Grandison models of a debauched and of an elevated character. Neither of them is eminently calculated to produce imitation; but it would not perhaps be adventurous to affirm that more readers have wished to resemble Lovelace, than have wished to resemble Grandison. Milton has written a sublime poem upon a strange story of the eating an apple, and of the eternal vengeance decreed by the Almighty against the whole human race, because their progenitor was guilty of this detestable offence. The object of his poem, as he tells us, was:

To justify the ways of God to men. (B. I., ver. 26.)

But one of the most memorable remarks that suggest themselves under this branch of the subject, is, that the true moral and fair inference from a composition has often lain concealed for ages from its most diligent readers. Books have been handed down from generation to generation, as the true teachers of piety and the love of God, that represent him as so merciless and tyrannical a despot, that, if they were considered otherwise than through the medium of prejudice, they could inspire nothing but hatred. It seems that the impression we derive from a book, depends much less upon its real contents, than upon the temper of mind and the preparation with which we read it.

An instance of this kind, that perhaps deserves to be mentioned, may be adduced from a strain of pious gratitude and exultation in Dr. Watts's Divine Songs for Children.

Not more than others I deserve,

Yet God has given me more:

for I have food; while others starve

And beg from door to door!

Thus far we have considered moral and tendency as if they were two names for the same thing. This is however by no means the case. The moral of any work may be defined to be, that ethical sentence to the illustration of which the work may most aptly be applied. The tendency is the actual effect it is calculated to produce upon the reader, and cannot be completely ascertained but by the experiment. The selection of the one, and the character of the other, will in a great degree depend upon the previous state of mind of the reader.

Let the example be the tragedy of the Fair Penitent. The moral deduced from this admirable poem by one set of readers will be, the mischievous tendency of unlawful love, and the duty incumbent upon the softer sex to devote themselves in all things to the will of their fathers and husbands. Other readers may perhaps regard it as a powerful satire upon the institutions at present existing in society relative to the female sex, and the wretched consequences of that mode of thinking, by means of which, in a woman, "one false step entirely damns her fame." They will regard Calista as a sublime example of a woman of the most glorious qualities, struggling against the injustice of mankind;—capable, by the greatness of her powers, and the heroism of her temper, of every thing that is excellent; contending with unconquerable fortitude against an accumulation of evils; conquered, yet not in spirit; hurried into the basest actions, yet with a soul congenial to thenoblest. It is of no consequence whether the moral contemplated by the author, were different from both of these. The tendency again may be distinct from them all, and will be various according to the various tempers and habits of the persons by whom the work is considered.

From the distinctions here laid down it seems to follow, that the moral of a work is a point of very subordinate consideration, and that the only thing worthy of much attention is the tendency. It appears not unlikely that, in some cases, a work may be fairly susceptible of no moral inference, or none but a bad one, and yet may have a tendency in a high degree salutary and advantageous. The principal tendency of a work, to make use of a well known distinction, may be either intellectual or moral, to increase the powers of the understanding, or to mend the disposition of the heart. These considerations are probably calculated to moderate our censures, against many of the authors whose morality we are accustomed to arraign. A bad moral to a work, is a very equivocal proof of a bad tendency. To ascertain the tendency of any work is a point of great difficulty. The most that the most perfect wisdom can do, is to secure the benefit of the majority of readers. It is by no means impossible, that the books most pernicious in their effects that ever were produced, were written with intentions uncommonly elevated and pure.

The intellectual tendency of any book is perhaps a consideration of much greater importance, than its direct moral tendency. Gilblas is a book not very pure in its moral tendency; its subject is the successes and good fortune of a kind of sharper, at least, of a man not much fettered and burdened with the strictness of his principles; its scenes are a tissue of knavery and profligacy, touched with a light and exquisite pencil. Shakespear is a writer by no means anxious about his moral. He seems almost indifferent concerning virtue and vice, and takes up with either as it falls in his way. It would be an instructive enquiry to consider what sort of devastation we should commit in our libraries, if we were to pronounce upon the volumes by their moral, or even by their direct moral tendency. Hundreds of those works that have been the adoration of ages, upon which the man of genius and taste feeds with an uncloyed appetite, from which he derives sense, and power, and discernment, and refinement, and activity, and vigour, would be consigned to the flames for their transgressions, or to the lumber-room for their neutrality. While our choicest favours and our first attention would often be bestowed upon authors, who have no other characteristic attribute but that of the torpedo, and the principal tendency of whose literature is to drive all literature and talent out of the world.

If we suffer our minds to dwell upon the comparative merit of authors, if we free ourselves from the prejudices of the nursery, and examine the question in the liberal spirit of scholars and philosophers, we shall not long hesitate where to bestow our loudest approbation. The principal praise is certainly due to those authors, who have a talent to "create a soul under the ribs of death;”ii whose composition is fraught with irresistible enchantment; who pour their whole souls into mine, and raise me as it were to the seventh heaven; who furnish me with "food for contemplation even to madness;”iii who raise my ambition, expand my faculties, invigorate my resolutions, and seem to double my existence. For authors of this sort I am provided with an ample licence; and, so they confer upon me benefits thus inestimable and divine, I will never contend with them about the choice of their vehicle, or the incidental accompaniments of their gift. I can guess very nearly what I should have been, if Epictetus had not bequeathed to us his Morals, or Seneca his Consolations. But I cannot tell what I should have been, if Shakespear or Milton had not written. The poorest peasant in the remotest corner of England, is probably a different man from what he would have been but for these authors. Every man who is changed from what he was by the perusal of their works, communicates a portion of the inspiration all around him. It passes from man to man, till it influences the whole mass. I cannot tell that the wisest mandarin now living in China, is not indebted for part of his energy and sagacity to the writings of Milton and Shakespear, even though it should happen that he never heard of their names.

Books will perhaps be found, in a less degree than is commonly imagined, the corrupters of the morals of mankind. They form an effective subsidiary to events and the contagion of vicious society: but, taken by themselves, they rarely produce vice and profligacy where virtue existed before. Every thing depends upon the spirit in which they are read. He that would extract poison from them, must for the most part come to them with a mind already debauched. The power of books in generating virtue, is probably much greater than in generating vice. Virtue is an object that we contemplate with a mind at peace with itself. The more we contemplate it, the more we find our fortitude increase, enabling us to contend with obstacles, and even to encounter contempt. But vice is an object of a peculiarly unfavourable sort. The thought of entering into a vicious course, is attended with uneasiness, timidity and shame; it disarms, still more strongly than it excites us; and our reluctance to a life of profligacy can scarcely be overcome but by the stimulus of bold and impudent society.

Another observation of considerable importance in deciding on the subject we are here examining, relates to an error that too often pervades the whole course of an attentive and affectionate education. The regard of a parent to his child will frequently rise to the most extravagant height. He considers him as a prodigy. He thinks no labour too great to be expended on him. He scarcely suffers the idea of him at any time to escape from his recollection. He regards him with the fondness of an enthusiastic lover for his mistress; and treats him as the child himself would treat some precious toy, which he will not suffer to be put out of his sight. He protects him with as much anxiety, as if a rude shock would dash him to pieces, or a rough blast wither the very essence of his frame.

This is essentially wrong. The true end of human existence, is not to serve as a toy and amusement to another. Man can never appear in his genuine dignity, but so far as he is capable of standing alone. A child is not to be reared as that precious thing, that no wind may blow, and no sun may scorch. Let us never forget that our child is a being of the same nature with ourselves; born to have passions and thoughts and sentiments of his own; born to fill a station, and act a part; with difficulties that he ought to surmount, and duties that he is bound to discharge.

Such is the genuine vocation of man. In the remembrance of this vocation he ought to be bred. The man ought to descend upon the child by insensible degrees, till his whole bosom swells with the generous freight. He should begin to stand by himself, and respect his own dignity, as soon as he is able to utter an articulate sound.

For this purpose there is always a portion of confidence which it is our duty to repose in him. He should neither be bred apart from the world, nor in ignorance of what passes in the world. He should be accustomed to behold the faces of his species. He should know something of the story of their passions, their singularities, and even of their vices. He should be suffered to stand where their inclinations may sometimes interfere and jostle with his. It is much to be feared, if we breed him in indolent effeminacy to a certain age, that his whole life will bear the marks of it. The human mind is never so ductile and pliant as in early youth. Whatever therefore we should wish to find it at years of maturity, we should endeavour to begin in it at the tenderest years.

These remarks are obviously applicable to the subject of choice in reading. As, relative to the question of social intercourse, the child should early begin in some degree to live in the world, that is, with his species; so should he do as to the books he is to read. It is not good, that he should be shut up for ever in imaginary scenes, and that, familiar with the apothegms of philosophers, and the maxims of scientifical and elevated morality, he should be wholly ignorant of the perverseness of the human heart, and the springs that regulate the conduct of mankind. Trust him in a certain degree with himself. Suffer him in some instances to select his own course of reading. There is danger that there should be something too studied and monotonous in the selection we should make for him. Suffer him to wander in the wilds of literature. There is a principle in the human mind by which a man seems to know his own time, and it will sometimes be much better that he should engage in the perusal of books at the period of his own choice, than at the time that you may recollect to put them in his hands. Man is a creature that loves to act from himself; and actions performed in this way, have infinitely more of sound health and vigour in them, than the actions to which he is prompted by a will foreign to his own.

There is only one further remark to be added on this subject. It has already been shewn that the impression we derive from a book, depends much less upon its real contents, than upon the temper of mind and preparation with which we read it. Hence it should seem to follow that a skilful preceptor need be under little apprehension respecting the books which his pupil should select for his perusal. In this sense a celebrated maxim of the apostle Paul may be admitted for true, To the pure all things are pure. Nothing is more common than to see a man who labours under certain prepossessions, exclaiming upon the most demonstrative arguments as flimsy and superficial, and reading the most incoherent and ridiculous rhapsodies with unmingled reverence. This however is not always to be trusted to. Truth is powerful, and, if not instantly, at least by slow degrees, may make good her possession. Gleams of good sense may penetrate through the thickest clouds of error. But we are supposing in the present case that truth is the object of the preceptor. Upon that assumption it would be strange indeed, if he were not able to triumph over corruption and sophistry, with the advantage of being continually at hand, of watchingiv every change and symptom as they may arise, and more especially with the advantage of real voice, of accommodated eloquence, and of living sympathies, over a dead letter. These advantages are sufficient; and, as the true object of education is not to render the pupil the mere copy of his preceptor, it is rather to be rejoiced in, than lamented, that various reading should lead him into new trains of thinking; open to him new mines of science and new incentives to virtue; and perhaps, by a blended and compound effect, produce in him an improvement which was out of the limits of his lessons, and raise him to heights the preceptor never knew.

i Triumphs of Temper

ii Milton

iii Rowe

iv No reader perhaps can need to be reminded of the difference between this watchfulness and disingenuous vigilance spoken of In a previous chapter. A philosophical perspicacity is highly beneficial, but not that sort of observingness which is so sensitive as to subvert our tranquility, or so unscrupulous as to blast our honor.