Statistics as to the number of men and women of good standing in the
world who cannot read might have a certain interest. There are probably
more persons laboring under that disability than is usually supposed,
and this with no reference to unfortunates who in early life have missed
the opportunity of learning their A B C, but thinking only of those who
have never found the way to utilize a knowledge of letters,--of persons,
in short, who do not know what to do with a book. Trustworthy
statistics, however, would not be easily obtained: there is too strong a
prejudice in favor of books for any one to be very forward in confessing
a distaste for them. Now and then such an admission is made, but, for
the most part, people like to think that under auspicious conditions--if
they had time, or quiet, or health, or what not--they should be great
readers. It is a point on which it is quite possible to deceive one's
self and almost impossible to deceive others.
You are acquainted, perhaps, with some lady on whose table lies the book
that every one is talking about: it is not a novel, we will suppose.
"Ah, you have that!" you say to her. Yes, and she expects to enjoy it
_immensely_. She lifts the cover and casts a caressing glance upon its
pages, for all the world as if she could not wait to be at it. You know
the feeling, and sympathize with her. The next time you are there,
seeing the book again reminds you to ask how she liked it. "Why,
positively," she says, "I haven't had _a single minute_ in which I could
take it up!" But she still cherishes the same agreeable anticipations as
before with regard to it. After a considerable lapse of time, on the
occasion of another call you may notice a mark protruding in the region
of the first chapter, and if mischief or malice or any other inborn
propensity to evil prompts you to allude to the subject once more and
inquire if the book pleases her, on the whole, she will probably say
that it does _as far as she has read_, only there is an unconscious
plaintiveness about this statement which betrays that enthusiasm has
waned: the fact is, everybody is talking of another book now, and she
has the uncomfortable feeling of being behind-hand. But all the same she
may be just as intimately persuaded that it is only a concatenation of
adverse circumstances which has prevented her finishing the book long
ago, as you are that she will never finish it.
However, as already said, there may sometimes be found among non-readers
a clear apprehension of the state of their case. Thus, a lady once
avowed, when a conversation had turned upon the profit and pleasure of
reading, that she had not the least liking for books and never had had.
She regretted it extremely; she felt when she saw any one absorbed in
reading that she had missed something; there were times when if she
could forget herself in a book she should be very glad, but she could
not; she had never been taught to care for reading when she was a child,
and it was too late to learn now. Still, on being persuaded to think
that she might at least try, she expressed an ambition to enjoy
Thackeray, and asked to have his best novel recommended. "Vanity Fair"
was accordingly suggested as most likely to please her, and, it being
procured, she announced on the following evening that she had read
_thirty pages_ that day, and meant to continue at the same rate. Her
admiration, alas! was plainly more for her own achievement than for that
of her author; nevertheless, the literary adviser talked encouragingly,
as the medical adviser often must, in spite of bad signs, and for a few
nights the number of pages kept pretty well up to the mark, then
steadily declined, and, after an hiatus or two, "Vanity Fair" was
mentioned no more. It was, as the lady herself had thought, too late.
But on another point also she may have been right,--namely, in the
implied belief that childhood was the time when she might have learned
to like reading.
There is certainly a wide-spread impression that children ought to
display some taste for literature, so that to say a child does not care
for his book is rather a damaging statement: it is made with reluctance:
one is "_afraid_ Charlie does not like to read;" one always adds, if
possible, that "he likes to be read to, however," and in any case the
obliging by-stander hastens to say, "Oh, well, perhaps he will take to
reading as he grows older," which remark, on the principle that one
never knows what may happen, is incontrovertible as far as it goes. No
one would wish to assert dogmatically that Charlie will not ripen into a
reader, but at the same time no one very seriously supposes that he
will. "As the twig is bent the tree's inclined" is felt to be peculiarly
applicable in his case.
And still one ought not to be fatalistic about the twig: for the tree,
indeed, it is too late, but that means nothing, if not that for the twig
it is yet time. In certain ways this idea is recognized and acted upon,
as, for instance, when a taste for music is to be cultivated children
are held to practise daily on the piano, even though they hate it; if
dancing is necessary to secure a graceful carriage, they must learn to
dance, notwithstanding that they might prefer to swarm up and down the
sidewalk on roller-skates. And so, when a relish for books is to be
awakened, why should it not follow that children must read? Why content
one's self with anything short of that? To read to a child, otherwise
than occasionally and with the occult purpose of giving a lesson in ease
of utterance, is evidently pernicious. It may sound well to say that
Charlie likes to be read to, but the real sense of the statement is that
he considers reading laborious, and that we are doing our best to
strengthen him in that opinion. To be sure he is right,--reading _is_
more or less laborious at the outset; but then the obvious deduction
from this would seem to be that the more seriously he applies himself to
it the better.
To some persons such an axiom will have a brain-feverish sound: children
are heard of who are devoted to books to the injury of their health, and
so it is assumed that to incite any child to read may be a tempting of
Providence. This is a groundless supposition. Even in the few authentic
cases of precocious development efficient parents may easily take
measures to check the ravages of intellect, while in the far greater
number of instances where the mental and physical qualities are pretty
evenly balanced, parental efficiency would be well displayed in
cherishing rather than in repressing a love for literature. If one
thinks what a companion a book may be in hours of loneliness, what a
comforter in weary illness or in sorrow, and, above all, what a blessing
in the temporary escape it offers from the every-day trials of
existence, which tend to take on huge proportions if one settles down
among them, but will look of a very reasonable size to one who comes
back to them with sight refreshed after a judicious absence,--if one
thinks of all this, the art of playing on the piano or of dancing sinks
greatly in importance as compared with the art of reading. Even
considering only the respective duration of advantage, one would have to
decide for reading if a choice must be made, for girls generally give up
music when they marry, and at some not quite so definitely fixed period
dancing is renounced by both sexes, while books remain appropriate to
every age and condition of life.
Happily, however, there is no need to choose: reading may be cultivated
side by side with more florid accomplishments. To provide an interesting
book and appoint an hour for its perusal may just as easily be done as
to set apart an hour for the piano,--indeed, in some cases more easily,
since there would be no bills coming in for the reading-lessons. And who
will say that a child might not learn to like reading, might not
insensibly get into the spirit of the art, by this simple method when
duly insisted on? Perhaps it would fail sometimes; there may be persons
absolutely incapable of the prolonged attention required for reading;
but one cannot help thinking that in most minds this power of attention
could be aroused and fostered, and that, therefore, if a child does not
like books at the start, that need not be accounted a fatal sign. People
who have detested their music-lessons at first have been known to come
finally to the enjoyment of music through those very means.
When children should begin to read, and how they should learn, are
questions which lie rather outside the scope of this paper and concern
those who "take to reading" as well as those who "like to be read to;"
but, stating the case broadly, one might say that they can begin at any
time and learn anyhow. It has been seriously advocated that children be
not taught to read until they are ten years old; and certainly it would
be quite possible to prevent their reading before then. On the other
hand, as an actual fact, they do read at seven and eight years of age,
and used to read at five or even earlier. Regarded by the light of
modern theory, what they used to do was, of course, deplorable; still,
the fact remains, and is mitigated by circumstances, for the children
were not considered prodigies at that time, and a due proportion of them
lived to grow up, and may be seen to-day, as men and women, walking
about the world in tolerable health and spirits.
With respect to methods of learning to read, the difference must appear
even greater to one who has ever seen or who dimly remembers an
old-fashioned _primer_. There was the alphabet to begin with, then some
syllables and little words neatly arranged in columns, and directly upon
that the reading-lesson, introduced, it may be, by the picture of a
child in long pantalettes contemplating a shrub which, figuratively
speaking, lent color to a few conventional remarks upon the rose,--as
that it is red and smells sweet. Such was the whole system. We are
aware now that to storm the citadel of letters in that fashion was
absurd; that, on the contrary, it should be scientifically approached in
the taking of outworks; and nevertheless here also is the fact to be
reckoned with that children did learn by the old system, and that they
learned with what looks in these days like marvellous celerity is a
mitigating circumstance which has even yet a certain charm for some
minds. There was a precision, too, about acquirements under the ancient
method which is not always found under the new. At present the very
mother of a child of eight years may not be quite clear as to her
daughter's attainments; she _can_ read, but still, "you know, they teach
them now to write first," and it appears eventually that Nellie writes
so well and reads so ill as to be obliged to copy off her lessons for
the advantage of learning them from her own handwriting.
But all this is simply in support of the proposition that children can
learn to read anyhow, and, assuming thus much to be demonstrated, we may
pass to something else. _What_ is a weightier consideration in the
matter of reading than either _how_ or _when_. As a question, it would
be differently answered in different ages of the world. We know that Dr.
Johnson once took a little girl on his knee and put her directly down
again because she had not read "Pilgrim's Progress." The great
lexicographer might take up and put down a good many children nowadays
before he found the right one; and we need not think the worse of them
on that account. We feel that even a child who had the advantage of Dr.
Johnson's acquaintance ought not to be required to comprehend the
Immortal Allegory. It is true he may have expected her to enjoy it
without comprehending it, and that gives the case a different aspect.
Considering how few books the little maid had of her own, and especially
if it was an illustrated edition of Bunyan's works which, lying on the
table, prompted the good doctor's question, one is half inclined to
agree with him that the demons in the Valley of the Shadow of Death and
the angelic forms which meet the Pilgrim as Two Men of the Land of
Beulah ought to have enticed her imagination into reading, whether she
understood or not.
Certain it is, at all events, that comprehension is not necessary to the
appreciation of masterpieces. In an age less remote than Dr. Johnson's,
although still antediluvian with respect to the now prevailing flood of
juvenile literature, children often read and liked what they did not
understand. There were fairy-tales, to be sure, even then, and tales
popular and moral, also a few such books as "Amy Herbert" and "Laneton
Parsonage," but children who were fond of reading soon had those by
heart, and would then browse, perchance, in their elders' pastures, by
which means it happened that one child used to derive no little
satisfaction from the "True Account of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal to
Mrs. Barlow." Told as it is with Defoe's inimitable circumstantiality,
she was so far from understanding it as to rather more than half believe
it. She knew well that ghosts at night-time, robed in white, were
fabulous and never to be thought of, especially when one was alone in
the dark; but a ghost that paid visits in broad daylight, dressed in
bonnet and shawl like anybody else, and whose proceedings were gravely
chronicled for grown persons and labelled _true_,--what were you to
think of that? It may be remembered that when Mrs. Barlow asks Mrs. Veal
any question the answering of which would seem to be inconsistent with
her ghostly state, Defoe says, "However, she waived that;" and, _waive_
not being at that time in the vocabulary of the young reader, she always
imagined Mrs. Veal putting the question away from her, as it were, with
a motion of her hand, and gazing the while in stony silence at Mrs.
Barlow. This dramatic situation was calculated to have a certain effect
upon the nerves, and in fact it was then that the profound silence of
the room, accentuated by the ticking of the clock, used to seem fraught
with the possibility of a ghost abroad with her visiting-list, who
might presently be _waiving_ such courtesies as even an unwilling
hostess would feel constrained to offer.
Rather unhealthy reading, one would say, but yet not so bad as it
sounds; for the book was no sooner shut than the whole impression
dissolved, though it might be renewed at will, as it often was. It was
in the same family that all the children at an early age took possession
of "Oliver Twist" as a juvenile book. They wept over little Dick's
farewell to Oliver, and shuddered when Nancy saw coffins, enjoying it
all extremely, and taking in so little of it that it has appeared to
them since as not one of the least of Dickens's glories that he could
write a book about the scum of London which children may read and
re-read well into their young girlhood without receiving even the shadow
of an impression of any evil beyond pocket-picking and house-breaking
and general hard-heartedness.
And so it might not be far from the truth to say that children can read
anything. They can, and do, even now when they have a literature of
their own; for persons who would be shocked at the idea of turning a
child loose in an adult library, where things unsuitable might pass
harmlessly over its head, think nothing of taking a book off a counter
and presenting it to their little ones, they themselves knowing no more
than the man in the moon what it contains, although certain that the
contents, whatever they may be, will be readily assimilated by the
youthful mind. Suppose simply that such a book is full of slang and bad
grammar, the antediluvians had an advantage there: if you want that sort
of thing to amuse children with, the language of thieves is peculiarly
suitable, in so far that if ever the young people who devoured "Oliver
Twist" had over among themselves any of the Dodger's and Charley Bates's
racy expressions it was with a wholesome sense of its being highly
improper; whereas one cannot imagine the little folk of to-day seeing
any impropriety in an equally debased decoction of English--albeit
somewhat more mildly drawn--when put into the mouths of children like
themselves. Then, again, the ancient young people used to read Scott's
and Cooper's novels, and found there much that was entirely beyond them,
which they knew was only for grown persons, and therefore, though they
read of love, courtship, and marriage, they remained as unsophisticated
as before. But how is a child to be unsophisticated nowadays, when all
these topics are manipulated for its especial benefit?--when there is a
devoted boy in the story, and, in due course of time, proposal,
engagement, and the wedding? In the same way one can affirm without fear
of contradiction that the lads who formerly enjoyed pirates and Red
Rovers from their parents' book-shelves had a healthier mental food than
those who at present are provided with Rovers of their own, carefully
adapted to their mental capacity, in the shape of small boys who meet
the world single-handed and make their way to fame and fortune. Then,
finally, were not the kings and courtiers, the Crusaders and Saracens,
the Indians and pioneers of former days better training for the
imagination than descriptions of picnics, skating-parties, and
children's balls, enlivened with such small squabbles or adventures as
are incident thereto? Realism has invaded even the children's
department, and to that extent that there seems to be nothing left for
fancy but to go off on a tangent in frantic imitation of Jules Verne or
feeble copies of "Alice in Wonderland."
Of course this is not to deny that there are gems in children's
literature which they may be thankful to possess and we may be glad to
share with them: indeed, the foregoing observations should be taken
simply to the effect that there is room for a choice among juvenile
books, and very little choosing. We started out with the happy idea that
reading-lessons cost nothing, and are come round to the conviction that
it is a pity they are not expensive, that there is not some one who, for
a consideration, would take the children in hand,--not only those who
are expected to read by and by, but also the born readers,--and, through
a judicious selection of what is within their range, gradually educate
them up to a correct literary taste. For there is something sadder even
than being totally unable to read, and that is reading a great deal and
never anything worth while. What is worth while includes, naturally,
much besides novels; but, then, a person who appreciates a good novel
usually reads other good things; and, at all events, children must begin
with fiction, and, even were they to end there, that this should be
excellent of its kind is a step in the right direction. It would not be
a bad aim to have in view that they should come by degrees to a just
appreciation of Thackeray and his compeers. And where parents are
unwilling--or, by reason of being themselves no readers, unable--to plan
a course of reading to that effect, why, in all seriousness, should they
not place the matter in the hands of some sound-minded family
counsellor, who would thenceforward look after the children's literary
taste, as the dentist looks after their teeth?
That would put an end to the singular anomaly by which parents, who
doubtless mean to guard their sons and daughters from evil society as
they would from the plague, know, as a matter of fact, nothing at all of
their inmost companions. When the novel-devouring period is reached,
this is especially remarkable: a mother may then look at her young
daughter sitting apart, silent, entranced, drinking in what she takes
for the true philosophy of life from some romance of modern society
which has been recommended to her as "splendid" by the girls at school,
and find no more appropriate reflection to make upon this spectacle than
that "Mary is never so happy as when she is buried in a book." But one
imagines the family counsellor, under similar circumstances, interesting
himself or herself to discover what sort of a book it is that Mary is
buried in, and, if it should prove to be a tissue of false sentiment,
false pathos, and even false morals from beginning to end, directing
her attention to that fact, and giving her as an antidote something
which, whether grave or gay, amusing or affecting, should be written in
good English and in sound taste.