Abstract
The system of free expression John Milton defends in Areopagitica, a pamphlet against prior restraint in publishing, is often characterized as merely a proto-liberal, truth-based marketplace of ideas theory. But this represents a misunderstanding of Milton’s views on the freedoms of conscience, speech, and the press. The tendency in political theory, philosophy, and law to reduce the “free speech Milton” to Areopagitica, and the reduction of that essay to several soundbites, has meant sidelining both the significant exceptions to expressive liberties that Milton calls for and also the role of the social in his theory. This incomplete characterization has enabled Milton’s misuse in First Amendment discourse and jurisprudence, where he is made to support hierarchical approaches to free speech that privilege public political speech and are therefore ill-equipped to address the full range of communicative experiences. More comprehensive readings of Milton, however, reveal both certain limits to free expression, and also deep consideration for a wide range of speech acts. By reading Milton’s theory of expressive liberties in light of the justifications he provides for those freedoms—i.e., virtue-building and Truth-seeking—this essay provides a fuller account of his views. What emerges is a distinctly Miltonian, virtue-driven “political theory of everyday talk” that locates value in even the most ordinary communicative acts. This theory—embracing both verbal and nonverbal expression—not only complements existing political theories of the everyday but can also help illuminate contemporary free speech concerns, many of which stem from the libertarian approach to expressive liberties that Milton (inadvertently) helped inspire.
And though all the windes of doctrin were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously by licencing and prohibiting to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the wors, in a free and open encounter?
Freedom to “think as you will and speak as you think” enjoys unparalleled esteem in liberal democracies. 2 Expressive liberties feature at the center of debates on political legitimacy, and lawmakers consistently conceptualize these freedoms as fundamental rights, often placing them first and foremost on lists of legal and human rights. But while there is broad consensus that expressive liberties form the bedrock of liberal democracy, the variation in how these freedoms are imagined and enacted suggests that the ideal contours of freedom of conscience, speech, and the press are less clear. In the United States, debates wage on over what expression has merit, what does not, and the bases upon which these determinations are made. As much of this discussion is framed in terms of legal rights, it is often bounded by that speech deemed to be “at the heart of the First Amendment’s protections”—namely, speech in the public sphere and/or addressing issues of clear public importance. 3 Speech concerning “matters of purely private concern,” by contrast, has been judged to be “of less First Amendment concern.” 4 Seemingly apolitical speech in (semi-)private spaces thus receives less consideration, (often) less protection, and less consistent treatment. 5
The lack of clarity regarding private speech—Elena Kagan once summarized this jurisprudence as “largely a mess, resisting any coherent understanding” 6 —is increasingly problematic. As information technologies have evolved alongside norms and practices that challenge the distinction between the public and private spheres—if such a division were ever truly possible—systems that try to maintain that distinction for speech become unsustainable. What is now needed are theories that more fully capture the kinds of casual communication over backyard fences and social media platforms that characterize the vast majority of human interactions. These theories of “everyday talk”—or, informal, quotidian communication that occurs in civil society and/or private spaces, between private individuals, and concerning topics less clearly or directly linked to the public interest 7 —need not supplant ideal theories privileging public political speech. Rather, such theories could complement existing approaches, ensuring a more comprehensive account of expressive liberties.
Much of this work has already begun in political theory and philosophy. Despite the continued prominence of deliberative democratic theory, with its emphasis on formal models and political institutions, interest in everyday talk is growing. 8 Following longstanding intellectual traditions in feminist and Black feminist theory, recent decades have featured groundbreaking scholarship on the politics of the everyday, including publications by Danielle Allen, Melissa Harris-Perry, Linda McClain, Nancy Rosenblum, and others. 9 Early theorists of the social (e.g., John Stuart Mill, Alexis de Tocqueville) are often used to support contemporary efforts to highlight the political relevance of everyday interactions. This essay suggests that an additional, underutilized, and perhaps surprising resource for understanding everyday talk can be found still earlier, in the writings of seventeenth-century British politician and poet John Milton.
The system of free expression that Milton imagined in his Areopagitica, a pamphlet critiquing prior restraint in publishing—that is, a priori censorship—has cast a long shadow. While political theorists and philosophers rarely engage deeply with Milton’s theory of expressive liberties—compared to other theorists with similar leanings, for example, Mill—it still features prominently in First Amendment discourse. Legal scholars and jurists regularly cite Areopagitica’s poetic passages and credit Milton with establishing the broadly liberal “marketplace of ideas” theory that characterizes much First Amendment jurisprudence. But while lauded, Milton’s rich imagery is typically used only decoratively; the arguments it represents, barely prodded. This cursory treatment explains why Milton is deployed to defend free speech approaches that are both broader (i.e., offering more liberal, expansive protections) and narrower (i.e., applying primarily to public political speech) than those that his texts would support. This misrepresentation is both unfair to Milton’s legacy and, more importantly for the purposes of this essay, represents a missed opportunity to better appreciate everyday talk through his virtue-based theory of freedom.
Milton’s marketplace of ideas theory is distinctive in its justification for a system of free expression; the upshot is not truth, per se, but Christian Truth as a means of developing virtue. Virtue, here, represents both an intrinsic, individual good and also a necessary means of sustaining republican systems of governance. By tying speech to individual and republican virtue, Milton frames discourse as both moral imperative and civic duty. It is something people must do in order to be good and do good for the polis.
This is not to say that people must engage in formal deliberation, however. Milton defines virtue-enabling expression broadly to encompass all forms of communication, including and especially everyday interactions. And thus, he attaches significance to everyday talk. His point is not that participation in civic associations develops skills and habits for political life, 10 or that the mere act of talking to others promotes civic involvement. 11 And it is not that everyday interactions build affective ties that can be expanded outwards, 12 or that “kitchen table talk” enables the development of identities 13 and ideologies. 14 All that may be true, but Milton provides a distinct account of everyday talk: it shapes the moral character of people and publics. And though constrained by his elitism and intolerance, Milton’s view of humanity’s divine obligation to develop virtue through discussion suggests broad application for his theory of expressive liberties. By expecting all, according to their capacities, to pursue Truth, wherever it may be, Milton lays the groundwork for a theory of everyday talk that acknowledges the political contributions of a wide range of discursive activities.
In order to surface the elements of Milton’s theory of free expression that speak to contemporary theories and experiences of everyday talk, this essay looks beyond his most famous passages and considers Areopagitica both in its entirety and in context. It proceeds in six movements. Section I describes Milton’s influence on the development of liberal free speech doctrine, highlighting the problem of its misrepresentation. Section II addresses the historical context in which Milton wrote, including personal and political events that bounded his thinking. Section III provides a brief overview of Milton’s most famous text on free speech, Areopagitica. Section IV focuses on his theory’s limitations, exposing Milton’s views as less liberal than often portrayed; section V shows how his virtue-based political theory of speech is also more expansive than many recognize, applying to everyday talk, broadly construed. Finally, section VI emphasizes Milton’s unique and enduring theoretical contributions that complement and can inform contemporary understandings of the full political impact of everyday talk.
Milton and Areopagitica in Action
Whereas Milton features prominently in literature studies, he receives less attention in political theory and philosophy. He is rarely treated as a principal object of study outside of his republicanism and, even then, is typically underestimated or disparaged as a political thinker. Perez Zagorin, for example, accuses Milton of unoriginality, remarking that there is little “in his political writing that was not spoken by contemporaries.” 15 And Blair Worden suggests that Milton’s “political prose would have received far less attention from posterity but for the immortality of his poetry.” 16 George Sabine agrees, sneering that Milton’s prose is “chiefly memorable for the magnificence of the literary form in which he clothed ideas already known to everyone.” 17
Nevertheless, Milton’s writings have had real-world significance. 18 Thomas Jefferson, for example, is thought to have been influenced by Milton’s essays. 19 And French translations of some of Milton’s political writings, published under the name comte de Mirabeau, were circulated during the French Revolution to raise support for extended liberties and republican values. Milton is thus credited with posthumously encouraging the rise of republicanism on both sides of the Atlantic. 20
Beyond his impact on republican revolutionary thought and action, Milton’s greatest political legacy concerns expressive liberties. Though eliciting few direct responses in its time—leading some to conclude it had little discernible influence 21 —Areopagitica, Milton’s most direct treatment of the subject, has since advanced the development of the liberal free speech tradition. Perhaps most notably, its arguments echo through the writings of Mill 22 —that other venerable scholar advocating a free and open exchange of ideas—who became familiar with Milton’s poetry at an early age 23 and later honored Areopagitica as a text “of which . . . no one dares speak with only moderate praise.” 24
Though Mill’s impact on the liberal free speech tradition overshadows that of Milton, many First Amendment scholars credit the earlier thinker with its inception. 25 And the common practice—followed here—of borrowing Areopagitica’s battleground imagery to introduce free speech arguments suggests his continued relevance. 26 This is true both in legal theory and practice; the United States Supreme Court regularly cites Milton in foundational First Amendment jurisprudence. He is there used in service of the “marketplace of ideas” reading of the First Amendment, which justifies extensive free speech protections within a hierarchical framework that designates some speech (i.e., public political speech) as more important than all else. 27 Justices may substitute commercial language for Milton’s pugilistic metaphors—for example, Oliver Wendell Holmes’s assertion that “the best test of truth is the power of the thought to get itself accepted in the competition of the market” 28 —but the sentiment remains. Truth is best able to triumph over falsehoods through free, open debate. “That at any rate is the theory of our Constitution,” according to Holmes. 29
Through its adoption in law, Areopagitica’s rhetoric has informed not only the legal scope of expressive liberties but also the public imagination. As such, Milton’s essay has transcended the purely philosophical and helped form the basis for a practical understanding of one the world’s most fundamental rights, freedom of speech. The immediate connection to lived experience suggests a particular responsibility to provide a full and accurate representation of Milton’s views.
Unfortunately, scholars and practitioners often latch onto Areopagitica’s elegant turns of phrase at the expense of its argument. Perhaps, following the “style-over-substance” critiques, close readings have not been deemed worthwhile; perhaps the rhetoric is just too “intoxicating.” 30 In any event, when Milton is referenced in law and legal theory, the same highly quotable passages from Areopagitica are repeated but rarely interrogated. 31 And when his views on expressive liberties are mentioned in political theory and philosophy—albeit, less often—it is generally only as one example on a list of liberal marketplace of ideas theories. 32 Milton’s system of expressive liberties is characterized simply in terms of “truth-seeking,” and then brushed aside. 33
This is a problem. The duty to interrogate is not merely one of intellectual honesty—although it is also that. The reduction of the “free speech Milton” to Areopagitica, and that essay’s own reduction to several oft-repeated soundbites, has meant sidelining both the significant exceptions to expressive liberties Milton calls for and also the role of the social in his theory. This incomplete characterization has enabled Milton’s misuse as a proto-liberal marketplace of ideas theorist, 34 making him complicit in the development of free speech principles and practices that treat public political speech as more important than other expression and are therefore ill-equipped to address the full range of communicative experiences.
More comprehensive readings of Milton, however, not only reveal certain limits to free expression but also deep consideration for a wide range of speech acts. Stripping away the beautiful prose, Milton’s writings provide a framework for conceptualizing the politics of everyday talk and how it ought to be practiced. For those in law, political theory, and philosophy who would analyze expressive liberties beyond the strict public–private divide, and as inclusive of quotidian communication, Milton thus offers a compelling example.
Areopagitica in Context
Though Milton has inspired modern liberal conceptions of free expression, he was not, himself, a liberal. 35 (Indeed, philosophical liberalism was not yet a coherent, distinct doctrine during the period he was writing. 36 ) Milton aimed to “advance the cause of true and substantial liberty,” 37 but he is more accurately described as a classical republican, following the Aristotelian tradition that views humans as political animals 38 and emphasizes the collective nature of knowledge-making. 39 This explains why even Milton’s most liberal treatment of speech, Areopagitica, makes only a restricted appeal for individual freedom. It is addressed not at expressive liberties, generally, but at freedom from a priori censorship, specifically. Even this limited liberty is justified, not as a good in and of itself, but instrumentally, for its role in securing the moral health of both people and republics. Furthermore, a fundamentally political text, Areopagitica is situated within and directed at the politics of tumultuous mid-seventeenth-century England. Understanding this context is key to appreciating the contours of liberty that pamphlet imagines.
In November 1640, King Charles I convened the Long Parliament, which then abolished the Court of Star Chamber, the primary setting for prosecuting political dissidents, religious rebels, and all who defied royally sanctioned monopolies of the printing trade. This act resulted in the temporary suspension of the country’s century-old licensing policy, just as advancements in printing were facilitating a shift from long-format, expensive books toward smaller, cheaper works (e.g., short religious tracts, practical handbooks, news pamphlets). 40 The result of these combined forces was an outpouring of new religious and political ideas. By one count, between 1640 and 1642, the number of political pamphlets published skyrocketed from 22 to 1,966. 41
Royalists, parliamentarians, republicans, and radicals, alike, feared that this printing boom would produce a “cacophony of voices,” drowning out serious debate.
42
Parliament was especially concerned about the risk of internal dissention and the success of royal propaganda. Determined to reinstate government control over printing, it passed the Licensing Order of 1643, requiring that “no order or Declaration of both, or either House of Parliament” could be printed without authorization, and that Nor other Book, Pamphlet, paper . . . shall from henceforth be printed, bound, stitched or put to sale by any person or persons whatsoever, unless the same be first approved of and licensed under the hands of such person or persons as both, or either of the said Houses shall appoint for the licensing of the same.
43
General and specialized licensers were thus appointed to review all potential publications, subject to Parliamentary oversight. If Parliament deemed licensers too permissive, they faced imprisonment alongside offending writers and printers.
That same year, the Westminster Assembly was established amidst rising tensions over the English Civil War and quickly became a prime venue for political disputes. Debates about some of the most contentious topics—for example, parliamentary autonomy and toleration—spilled out onto the streets, becoming public. Many notable essays were written in response and distributed in violation of the new Licensing Order. Milton’s Areopagitica was one of the most famous and enduring of these publications.
Areopagitica is not only a politico-philosophical treatise; it is also personal, having been motivated by Milton’s experience with censorship regarding his 1643 pamphlet, The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce (DDD). Following a disillusioning marriage to Mary Powell in 1642—although the couple later reconciled, Powell abandoned Milton after one month of marriage—Milton developed the controversial argument that personal incompatibility should provide sufficient justification for divorce.
This position stemmed from Milton’s view that virtue can neither be imposed from above—whether by state or church 44 —nor cultivated in isolation. People develop virtue by determining what is good and actively choosing to follow the righteous path. But proper moral decision-making requires a rigorous, collaborative process of learning about, reflecting upon, and discussing the world with others. 45 Indeed, it is for that reason—and not mere procreation or to satisfy “carnall knowledge” 46 —that God blessed humanity with the institution of marriage. Where marriage is grounded in the “desire of joyning to it self in conjugall fellowship a fit and conversing soul (which desire is properly call’d love),” it provides a uniquely hospitable environment for this morally educative enterprise. 47 Marriages that do not support a flourishing of thought and discussion that enables both partners to develop their intellectual and moral faculties—as Milton believed to be the case with Powell—fail to achieve their “chiefest and noblest end” and may thereby be dissolved by either party. 48
This proposal scandalized Milton’s contemporaries. Not only were his views on marriage highly unorthodox, but DDD’s critique of contemporary Englishmen for their blind adherence to custom and its call for the critical reexamination of key social institutions 49 sparked outrage. Milton was unable to obtain licensing for DDD—he published it anyway—and its claims branded him a “dangerous radical with licentious sympathies.” 50 Now established as an outsider and polemicist, he wrote Areopagitica in direct response to the Licensing Order that had aimed to silence him, incorporating many of the same themes foreshadowed in DDD.
Scratching Areopagitica’s Surface
Areopagitica begins with several strategies to convince Parliament to abandon the Licensing Order. First, it provides a historical account of a priori censorship, suggesting that Parliament would not wish to be associated with past figures who championed the practice. Second, it makes the practical argument that censorship is ineffective, being unable to capture all offending expression. Finally, it warns that the Licensing Order will discourage progress “by disexercising and blunting our abilities in what we know already” and “hindring and cropping the discovery” of new Truths. 51 Censorship impedes individuals from learning new ideas and rejecting Falsehoods, while robbing all of opportunities to grow sturdier in their embrace of previously uncovered Truths.
Having established these arguments against a priori censorship, the remainder of Areopagitica slides between political tract and philosophical treatise as it makes an impassioned plea for expressive liberties: “Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties.” 52 Why these freedoms? Following the logic developed in DDD, Areopagitica relies on virtue to justify the special status of expressive liberties.
Milton believed that God entrusted humanity “with the gift of reason to be his own chooser,” thereby establishing a moral responsibility for independent thought. 53 To simply do and think as others insist is to dishonor both God and oneself as a rational being, capable of critical reflection. As Milton later wrote in The Readie and Easie Way, each individual must have “libertie to serve God and to save his own soul, according to the best light which God hath planted in him to that purpose.” 54 For government to proscribe what an honest person can think or believe would be to deny a piece of his humanity and place him in a state of “perpetuall childhood.” 55
Such paternalism is problematic for two reasons. First, individuals treated as “perpetuall” children fail to develop their full intellectual and moral capacities. Second, a republic constituted of such people is inherently compromised. Milton maintained that an individual who “is not trusted with his own actions . . . has no great argument to think himself reputed in the Commonwealth wherein he was born, for other then a fool or a foreiner.” 56 State-sponsored infantilization does not induce feelings of inclusion; to the contrary, people subject to such control imagine themselves outside the political community to which they properly belong. Having little stake in the polis, they may struggle to identify their personal good with the good of all. Republican governments require this community-mindedness, but as Milton explained, they undermine its development by supporting a priori censorship. By contrast, a system of free expression where people are at liberty to explore ideas enables republican virtue.
As vehicles for sharing ideas, Milton granted books quasi-spiritual value. “For Books are not absolutely dead things,” he wrote; they “contain a potencie of life in them to be as active as that soule was whose progeny they are.” To clarify, “a good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalm’d and treasur’d up on purpose to a life beyond life.” 57 In other words, books are physical manifestations of ideas that contain the essence of their creators even after corporal death. Books thus connect mortals to the divine. Areopagitica reads, “as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image; but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God.” 58 Murder is surely wrong, but Milton imagined it a still greater offense to God to destroy that which embodies the relationship between humanity and divinity.
Indeed, even bad books should not be eliminated. Milton’s description of the battle between Truth and Falsehood—excerpted at the beginning of this essay—suggests that people do not need the state to protect them from wickedness. Let good and bad ideas go head-to-head in a free and open forum, and the former will prevail. Society does Truth an injustice when people “misdoubt her strength” and assign her a protector. 59 She is quite capable of vanquishing Falsehood on her own.
At first glance, these arguments against prior restraint in publishing appear extensive and quite liberal. Milton encouraged censorship of that which is “scandalous, seditious, and libelous,” 60 but otherwise employed broad language when referring to freedom from licensing. It is this reading of Areopagitica that is used to support broadly liberal marketplace of ideas approaches to free speech. Yet this interpretation is incomplete, accounting neither for the limitations Milton inscribed upon expressive liberties, nor the scope of human interactions he considered valuable.
Areopagitica’s Limits
Milton’s call for expressive liberties is restricted in four ways. First, as Leonard Levy notes, Milton’s “use of the personal pronoun is significant” in his demand for the freedom “to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience,” as “his well-advertised tolerance did not extend to the thought he hated.” 61 Indeed, Areopagitica’s “scandalous, seditious, and libellous” exceptions actually contain a great deal; Milton discouraged toleration of religious viewpoints he considered dangerous or heretical. He excluded “Popery, and open superstition,” believing such views should be “extirpat,” and also that “which is impious or evil absolutely either against faith or maners”—arguing that “no law can possibly permit” such speech—from his system of free expression. 62 Milton’s view of expressive liberties thus extended only to “neighboring differences, or rather indifferences,” which in 1644, essentially meant variations on Protestantism. 63
A second limit to Areopagitica’s theory of expressive liberties is implied by the conspicuous absence of any calls to extend such freedoms to polemical news writers. To the extent that Areopagitica addresses these controversial authors, Milton argued that royalist writings—that is, “that continu’d Court-libell against the Parlament and City, Printed, as the wet sheets can witnes” 64 —ought to be censored. (He even served as one such censor in 1651.) If the new licensing system were to be justified in any way, he explained, it would be in providing this “prime service.” 65
Third, Milton’s theory of expressive liberties was colored by his elitism. Even as a young student at Cambridge, Milton did not treat all speech (or speakers) equally. Lamenting what he saw as the challenges intelligent men sometimes face in forging social connections, Milton yearned for the type of high-minded debate he associated with those “learned and wise” philosophers of antiquity, “conversations which all mankind might well have flocked to hear in spell-bound silence.” 66 Milton thus characterized ideal speech as discussion between brilliant men that is of such an order that lesser men fall mute in admiration. It is such speech—not all speech—that Milton admired as the height of human happiness.
Milton later clarified that he did not intend for anything but serious intellectual work by academic and/or religious scholars to ever be entirely free, and that he believed it the responsibility of the wisest, most virtuous members of society to curate public discourse. 67 In his 1673 essay, Of True Religion, Heresy, Schism, and Toleration, Milton cautioned that scholarly discussion of scripture might “unsettle the weaker sort,” and suggested making it as impenetrable as possible for the average person. 68 He thus recommended authors “write in Latin, which the common people understand not; that what they hold may be discussed among the learned only.” 69 Indeed, Milton claimed that his only regret in writing DDD was that he had done so in the vernacular. He believed it would have been more favorably received had he written in Latin, as he “would not have met with vernacular readers, who are usually ignorant of their own good, and laugh at the misfortune of others.” 70
It was not merely that Milton wished to shield himself from criticism by the less educated and intelligent, however. Again, he worried about the pernicious effects new ideas might have on minds ill-equipped to handle them. Even in Areopagitica, Milton defended expressive liberties largely in terms of the opportunities they afford a certain kind of person. Comparing evil books to rotten meat, Milton found that whereas the latter “will scarce breed good nourishment in the healthiest concoction,” the former may still contain lessons for “a discreet and judicious Reader.” Indeed, wise men may “gather gold” from even useless volumes, whereas “a fool will be a fool with the best book, yea or without book.” 71 Just as “wholesome meats” will do little to help someone with a “vitiated stomack,” those with “naughty mind[s]” cannot be improved by exposure to even the most enlightening volumes. 72
Milton did not think the risks of exposing the irredeemably weak-minded to new ideas justified state-sponsored a priori censorship, but he did embrace nudges and other informal, social means of content curation. 73 In addition to siloing certain scholarly work, he recommended that “children and childish men, who have not the art to qualifie and prepare these working mineralls . . . be exhorted to forbear” from reading challenging books. 74 Fools should not be “hinder’d forcibly” from doing so, but should be encouraged to avoid what they cannot handle. Milton urged both individuals and communities to engage in voluntary self-discipline, even going so far as to praise Saint Paul’s converts for burning Ephesian books on their own initiative. 75
Finally, it must be noted that Areopagitica’s arguments against a priori censorship do not preclude a posteriori censorship. Milton actually approved of post-publication censorship and punishment. It was for that reason he insisted writers and publishers be compelled to attach their names to the products of their labors. 76 Anonymity not only encourages scandal and sedition, but it also subverts accountability. And Milton did want people held accountable for “mischievous and libelous” words, even if that meant limiting the ideas circulating in the public sphere. 77
Areopagitica’s Breadth
These well-established 78 limitations to Milton’s theory of expressive liberties undermine his continued characterization as a broadly liberal marketplace of ideas theorist. Milton wanted people to reason independently and communicate with others—although not without consequences—but he was less concerned with some people and outright hostile to some ideas. Yet despite these restrictions, Areopagitica is also broader than it first appears. And just as Areopagitica’s limits point to its misuse in law, so too does its expansiveness. Specifically, Milton drew no distinction between public/political and private/personal speech. His appeal for freedom from prior restraint in publishing—while not absolute—accommodates a wide range of communicative activities, including casual expression about/within ordinary life. The key to understanding Milton’s political theory of everyday talk lies in its justifications for free expression—that is, virtue and Truth—which are situated in the social.
Developing Virtue in the Everyday
To reiterate, virtue mattered for Milton, both because of its positive relationship to individual happiness and personal salvation and also for its role in sustaining representative government. 79 Milton’s republicanism not only requires political actors defined by the virtues of “Piety, Justice, Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, and the contempt of Avarice and Ambition” 80 —qualities deemed essential for self-rule, much less rule over others—but also a virtuous populace. Only a morally and intellectually engaged people, willing to challenge the status quo and sufficiently brave to confront the ruling classes, could provide the necessary check against tyranny. 81 Such qualities are not innate but must be cultivated through education, meaning both formal schooling (for some) and a combination of experience, discussion, and reflection (for all).
This moral education must, to some extent, be self-motivated. Learning and sharing new ideas not only produces virtue but is also expressive of it, as Milton’s virtue is defined in terms of a desire to know and distribute Truth. 82 “The more veracious a man is in teaching truth to men,” Milton explained, “the more like must he be to God and the more acceptable to him.” 83 People should not force ideas on others—it “is more wholsome, more prudent, and more Christian that many be tolerated, rather than all compell’d”—but should share their views “as freely as possible.” 84 Thus, freedom of expression becomes a necessary condition for virtue.
For expressive liberties to effectively enable virtue, they must extend to good and evil ideas, alike. It is not only that Truth can defeat Falsehood when given the chance, but that good and evil are inextricable. This complex, tangled relationship means it is often near-impossible to distinguish good from evil. As Milton explained, Good and evill we know in the field of this World grow up together almost inseparably; and the knowledge of good is so involv’d and interwoven with the knowledge of evill, and in so many cunning resemblances hardly to be discern’d, that those confused seeds which were impos’d upon Psyche as an incessant labour to cull out, and sort asunder, were not more intermixt. It was from out the rinde of one apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evill as two twins cleaving together leapt forth into the World.
85
Milton thus urged caution toward seemingly evil ideas. Evil’s intricate relationship with good makes it likely that censors will err in determining which is which. Or they might miss elements of good within evil ideas, making them at least “partly usefull and excellent,” even if they are also “partly culpable and pernicious.” 86 Better, then, to err toward inclusion.
Even were it possible to locate and extricate purely evil ideas, Milton argued against their removal because they make goodness possible. Echoing DDD, Areopagitica insists that people who have simply had good, godly ideas imposed upon them are not virtuous. They may be right, but they are not good. Virtue requires exposure to that which is not.
87
Milton wrote, I cannot praise a fugitive and cloister’d vertue, unexercis’d & unbreath’d, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortall garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat. Assuredly we bring not innocence into the world, we bring impurity much rather: that which purifies us is triall, and triall is by what is contrary.
88
John Durham Peters summarizes Milton’s view: “Without contraries, there is no knowledge; without knowledge, there is no virtue.” 89 Just as a person cannot know light without exposure to darkness, evil makes good visible. But ideas must also be tested through conflict. And while Milton’s imagery sometimes suggests violent conflict, he did not believe the process to be necessarily agonistic. As Elizabeth Skerpan Wheeler explains, the clash between Truth and Falsehood that Milton imagined is better thought of as collaboration, or “a social process, not a struggle.” 90 People come together to jointly consider and discuss ideas, both good and bad. Each, then, independently decides which ideas win out.
Of course, realized virtue depends on which ideas do prevail. Once a person has seen good and been tempted by evil, Milton’s virtue demands he freely and independently choose the former: “He that can apprehend and consider vice with all her baits and seeming pleasures, and yet abstain, and yet distinguish, and yet prefer that which is truly better, he is the true warfaring Christian.” 91 Thus, were the world suddenly free from vice, humanity would be robbed of virtue also. Milton criticized those “who imagin to remove sin by removing the matter of sin” and, in advocating a priori censorship, condemn humanity to nonvirtue. 92
This critique of a priori censorship extends beyond the written word. Although Areopagitica explicitly targets the Licensing Order, its philosophical arguments do not distinguish between expression as print, speech, or action. To the contrary, Milton maintained that all the world, “what ever thing we hear or see, sitting, walking, travelling, or conversing, may be fitly call’d our book, and is of the same effect that writings are.” 93 By equating books and experiences, Milton extends his anticensorship argument to a broad range of activities. Any exchange of ideas, even nonverbal exchanges, may expose people to good and evil—thereby presenting opportunities to develop virtue—and should be (mostly) free.
Note also Milton’s use of the words “what ever” in the preceding passage. Though Milton values virtue for its role in sustaining republican governance, he does not limit the scope of morally educative ideas to the overtly political or public-oriented. His is not a theory of expressive liberties only for political pamphlets and speeches within Parliament. 94 In Areopagitica, the public and private spheres are recognized as intimately intertwined. 95 Milton’s public sphere is depicted alongside a diverse, vibrant social sphere—constituting “a mosaic of individual activities” 96 —with each reflecting one another.
Indeed, Areopagitica’s focus is primarily on the social and not the formal political institutions of discourse. 97 Milton’s emphasis reflects his view that this realm, especially, enables individuals to develop those virtues that make them capable people and publics. Political deliberation about public ends matters, but the work of developing virtue largely occurs in the social, through personal interactions in the home and civil society. 98
Milton affirmed his social constructivism midway through Areopagitica, where he mocks the use of a priori censorship to shape public morals, or “rectifie manners.” If that were truly the government’s goal in issuing the Licensing Act, he asked, why stop at printing when so many activities influence a person’s character? Indeed, the state would need to “regulat all recreations and pastimes, all that is delightfull to man.” This would mean, No musick must be heard, no song be set or sung, but what is grave and Dorick. There must be licencing dancers, that no gesture, motion, or deportment be taught our youth but what by their allowance shall be thought honest. . . . [A]ll the lutes, the violins, and the ghittarrs in every house . . . must be licens’d what they may say. And who shall silence all the airs and madrigalls that whisper softnes in chambers? The Windows also, and the Balcone’s must be thought on, there are shrewd books, with dangerous Frontispices set to sale. . . . The villages also must have their visitors to enquire what lectures the bagpipe and the rebbeck reads ev’n to the ballatry, and the gammuth of every municipal fiddler, for these are the Countrymans Arcadia’s and his Monte Mayors.
99
Not only would the state be unwise to censor these sources of moral education, Milton argued, but doing so would require impossible infrastructure. He ridiculed the absurdity of empowering licensers to regulate the intimate and social spheres. If government wishes to dictate morality, he asked, who does it intend to send to prohibit “household gluttony,” “drunk’nes,” or the production of “wanton garb”? Who will ensure that people are free of “all idle resort, all evill company”? And, crucially, “Who shall regulat all the mixt conversation of our youth, male and female together . . . who shall still appoint what shall still be discours’d, what presum’d, and no furder?” 100
Indeed, such an elaborate licensing system was exactly what some English officials proposed. Milton, however, distinguished activities that “the law is to bid restraint and punishment” from those for which “perswasion only is to work.” 101 One of the most important duties of the Commonwealth is to determine which is which and confine itself to the former. Everyday talk is a case for the latter.
This should not suggest, however, that Milton believed everyday talk should be entirely free. Recall that Milton did not argue that all books should be free and accessible to all persons under all circumstances. If virtue is the goal of liberty, those unlikely to make such use of it may be restricted, though not absolutely or as a matter of law. Instead, the most learned, cultivated members of society should guard potentially disruptive texts from those with weaker minds. A similar case is made regarding the “texts” of everyday life. For those with the fortitude and wisdom to contemplate good and evil ideas and adopt the former, these spaces offer ample opportunities to learn and develop virtue. However, communities are implored to shield “fools” from possibly corrupting influences. Such efforts may be no less severe than state censorship. Indeed, where influence is exerted in the form of downward nudges (e.g., academics publishing in Latin) or social pressure from within one’s community (e.g., shaming, discouragement), it can sometimes be more punishing, intrusive, and effective than anything the state could offer.
Surfacing Truth in the World
Milton’s statements on Truth provide further support for reading his theory of expressive liberties as a political theory of everyday talk. Additionally, it is here that Milton opens the door to a more democratic interpretation of his writings than his elitism might suggest. Expressive liberties may be valuable primarily because of the opportunities they provide very able people to approach the heights of virtue—although the masses are not forcibly or formally excluded—but the search for Truth is necessarily a collective, indeed mass, endeavor.
To see why, it is important to clarify Milton’s understanding of Truth. When he speaks of Truth, he has something different in mind than the later marketplace of ideas theorists. Truth, for Milton, is God’s Truth. It is something absolute that exists outside of human judgment; it simply is. At least two important implications for Milton’s theory stem from this view. First, learning, discussion, and reflection are designed to uncover a correct answer. Those who already know divine Truth must protect and share it to the greatest extent possible. 102 Such learned individuals still benefit from discussion, however, as it allows them to practice their “faith and knowledge” to stay sharp, just as they must exercise their “limbs and complexion” to remain healthy. 103 Truth, similarly, benefits from vibrant debate. Milton compared Truth to a “streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetuall progression, they sick’n into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.” Discussion, spurred by new ideas and information from a diverse range of sources, keeps Truth fresh and alive.
Second, the search for Truth is a universal moral duty, grounded in the divine gift of reason. While Milton accepted that humans may never actually discover the whole Truth of the universe—at least not “till her Masters second comming”—his virtue requires that all try. Those who do not search for Truth, but accept it passively and without critical reflection, are “not merely servile and abject, but ungracious and wicked before the goodness of God.” 104 Such a man may have the right answers, “yet the very truth he holds, becomes his heresie.” 105 Truth-seeking, like virtue-development, requires active effort.
Also much like virtue-development, truth-seeking is not a solitary process; it is both collaborative and social. As Milton explained, Truth indeed came once into the world with her divine Master, and was a perfect shape most glorious to look on: but . . . then strait arose a wicked race of deceivers, who . . . took the virgin Truth, hewd her lovely form into a thousand peeces, and scatter’d them to the four winds. From that time ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as durst appear . . . went up and down gathering up limb by limb still as they could find them.
106
Those “sad friends of Truth,” or virtuous individuals, must continue seeking to locate and reassemble Truth. But given how widely dispersed she is, each cannot do it alone.
Truth could now be anywhere, in all spheres of human life. It may be found in universities, or it may rest hidden at the back of a village tavern or within a troubadour’s lyrics. This means all may have access to some parcels of Truth. It is everyone’s responsibility to search within the limits of their capabilities and experiences, and through discussion—informal or otherwise—both learn and fill in the gaps in others’ knowledge and experiences. Communication thus represents a moral mandate. This mandate is especially strong when Truth is suppressed by authority, as Milton advocated a particular duty of parrhêsia—that is, “speaking truth to power”—to defend Christian Truth. 107 But in all cases, people are duty-bound to search for Truth, wherever it may be, and share their discoveries.
This is not to say that all knowledge is equally useful, however, or that all people are equally capable of discovering and discerning Truth. Though Truth might be recognized by anyone—indeed, Milton believed that the “plainness and brightness” of Truth is its defining characteristic 108 —neither the range of opportunities to search for it nor the wisdom to recognize it are distributed equally. Intellectual elites may be better suited to make sense of the already-collected pieces of Truth; however, they can only fully perform this function to the extent that all people are given voice. Not only the powerful and educated, but the poor, ignorant, and ignoble, too, have access to unique experiences and perspectives. By adding their knowledge to the collective wisdom, society gains improved understanding. Where their findings are correct, Truth is enlarged; where incorrect, existing Truth is fortified by having had to confront conflicting ideas and information. In either case, everyday people going about their lives contribute to the search for Truth to the extent that they share their views and experiences freely in the manner they can—that is, through everyday interactions and conversations.
A Miltonian Political Theory of Everyday Talk
There are now various political theories of the everyday. Some political theorists of everyday talk, like Jane Mansbridge, define the term narrowly to include only communication about subjects of a clearly political nature that occurs outside formal political institutions. 109 Alternatively, some are less concerned with talk, itself, than with everyday interactions more broadly, shedding light on how these behaviors: (1) build trust, respect, and/or empathy (e.g., Edmund Burke’s “little platoons” 110 ) that can be expanded outward to solidify political communities; (2) develop social capital (e.g., Robert Putnam’s bowling leagues 111 ) that helps politics run more smoothly; or (3) serve as schools of citizenship (e.g., Tocqueville’s civic organizations 112 ) that train people for democratic life. The everyday has also been seized upon by many Black feminist theorists (e.g., Patricia Collins, Melissa Harris-Perry) as a place of political power where marginalized or oppressed groups that traditionally lack access to formal political institutions develop identities, ideologies, and communities. 113 In deeply stratified societies, such venues may also serve as critical spaces for resistance. 114
All of these important contributions have helped affirm that the things people say and do in ordinary life are imbued with political value, thereby elevating the status of the everyday. Milton’s virtue-based political theory of everyday talk works toward that same end, but he arrives there differently, with an approach well-suited to address contemporary free speech debates and concerns.
For Milton, everyday talk doesn’t merely train individuals for political life; it is political. One becomes both good person and good citizen by (properly) engaging with good and evil ideas in all spheres of human existence. And these ideas need not be the stuff of traditional politics. Milton identified the political in seemingly apolitical subjects. And by not restricting his theory to the spoken or printed word, all expression is treated as politically laden. Similarly, all people are inherently political. The individual seeking Truth and working to develop virtue, and also the community that must guide his efforts, are political actors. These views are in keeping with contemporary political theory and philosophy that locates power in the everyday, and by extension, validates the roles all people—not just elites—play in ensuring the success of representative forms of government.
Of course, “to understand Milton as Milton understood himself,” 115 these democratic impulses must be moderated by his elitism and intolerance. He did not believe that all ideas would be conducive to virtue, nor that all people would be equally capable of developing it. “Wicked” hearts and “poor” intellects will hinder some people’s efforts to learn what Truth is within their grasps and share it with others. And yet, even they must not be legally barred from trying. The trick is ensuring that discovery and discussion are performed responsibly, with virtue as the end-goal. This requires effort and constant vigilance.
By imploring people to treat all the world as their book—perhaps his “political theory of everyday talk” may be more aptly described as a “political theory of everyday books”—Milton’s theory encourages everyone to seriously consider their actions and experiences in everyday life. He beseeches: No one can tell you what is right. Virtue demands taking responsibility for even your most mundane thoughts, words, and actions. But you are not alone. All members of a republic have an interest in its ongoing health and thus a duty toward the virtue of others.
This nearly 400-year-old call to action should also be read as a warning to contemporary readers living under the broadly liberal systems of free speech that Milton helped inspire. Even those who do not share Milton’s Christianity might well agree that experiences of everyday life shape moral character in the ways that concerned him, and that how these acts are structured and practiced demands careful reflection. Milton disparaged top-down, a priori censorship, and instead made it incumbent upon everyone to ensure that expressive liberties worked in service of virtue development. Much like Nancy Rosenblum’s “good neighbors,” this often means not minding one’s own business. 116
Unfortunately, the current state of many liberal democracies suggests that people are not minding their neighbors’ business as Milton would have wished. In the United States, reports abound noting the “deterioration” of discourse, referring not only to politicians and media but regular people who fail to seek out new ideas and communicate across difference. 117 Under the mantle of “free speech,” people spread hate and dishonesty, declaring it the embodiment of that right. These trends have intensified as the technologies to go online have become increasingly accessible and portable, shifting more everyday talk onto social media. Despite having greater access to the “thousand peeces” of Truth—best now to shift from Christian Truth to scientifically endorsed truth—than ever before in human history, many users prefer only to access ideas that reinforce their preexisting beliefs. 118 This often means shielding themselves from disagreement—or Milton’s “conflict”—and blind acceptance of group orthodoxy. The consequences are at least three-fold: (1) individuals fail to practice the deliberative skills (e.g., critical thinking and openness) 119 necessary for Milton’s virtue; (2) mini-publics emerge, whose members see their ideological opponents as not merely wrong, but evil, 120 thereby undermining the community-mindedness required of republican systems of governance; and (3) truths become matters of opinion rather than bulwarks against falsehoods.
The opportunities new communicative technologies afford regular people to speak and be heard have created a flurry of everyday talk despite—or perhaps owing to—these negative qualities. And just as fears regarding the early-1640s publishing boom led Milton’s contemporaries to pass legislation severely restricting speech, the “cacophony of voices” on today’s social media has inspired reactionary censorship in the form of cybermobs, “cancel culture,” and demands for increased regulation of online spaces.
Milton’s political theory of everyday talk may not have solutions to all these contemporary challenges, but it helps make sense of them and suggests a way forward. When the exercise of expressive liberties is divorced from its ends—that is, happiness, individual virtue, and republicanism 121 —both people and republics are likely to suffer. This is true even of ordinary, casual communication. To the extent that government cannot—and should not—aim to shape public morals through censorship of everyday talk, Milton provides an entry point for people to reflect on their responsibilities toward themselves and each other in all discursive spaces.
Conclusion
There is good reason to closely (re)consider Areopagitica. Victim of Milton’s graceful skill with language, the essay has been largely reduced to its striking imagery (in the law), and its author reduced to just one name amongst several “truth-seeking” marketplace of ideas theorists (in political theory). But even with these limited treatments, Milton’s metaphors have furthered the development of legal principles and practices that inform one of liberal democracy’s most cherished rights: expressive liberties. Unfortunately, the shape of his influence reflects his misreading as a broadly liberal free speech advocate and his misuse to support hierarchical approaches to speech that distinguish between public/political and private/personal.
Yet more important than what Milton did not quite say is what he actually did say. His views on expressive liberties matter because of what they offer to contemporary understandings of everyday talk. Political theories of everyday talk justify this type of communication’s political importance based on a host of reasons, but Milton’s virtue-based theory provides something different. For him, everyday talk is meaningful because it creates the moral characters of people and publics. It is how individuals develop virtue that sustains both themselves and republican systems of governance. And that reason—alongside practical considerations—is why everyday talk, no less than formal political speech and publications, ought to be free from state-sponsored, a priori censorship.
This is not to say that Milton advocated absolute liberty of everyday talk. To the contrary, he expected the “best” of society to shield those who could not be trusted with difficult ideas, and for communities to enforce appropriate social standards. But in doing so, Milton validated everyday talk—whatever form it inhabits—as politically meaningful. And he challenged us—all of us—to take seriously our everyday interactions. Not only do we have an individual interest in developing virtue, as people, but as members of a republic, we have an interest in everyone else doing likewise. Milton’s political theory of everyday talk provides not only a rationale for its importance but also guidance for ensuring such expression lives up to its moral purpose and promise.
Milton could not have foreseen the new technology-enabled forms of communication through which people today learn about good and bad, truths and falsehoods. But he might well have predicted that a lack of attention to these kinds of social interactions may have deleterious effects on the development of that civic-minded virtue necessary for republicanism. Now, more than ever, theories of everyday talk that explain and address the relationship between informal, everyday interactions and the political are needed. For contemporary scholars of expressive liberties, Milton provides just such a framework. To the extent that his mischaracterization in the United States legal tradition may have made him seem irrelevant to theorists of everyday talk, it is lamentable. Though an imperfect ally, Milton is a friend indeed.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
This essay has been greatly improved by the generosity and thoughtful feedback provided by Vin Arceneaux, Susan Brison, Kristen Collins, Jeff Green, Randal Hendrickson, Nancy Hirschmann, Erin Miller, Kyle Oskvig, Phillip Pettit, Nigel Smith, and Rogers Smith. I owe special thanks to Ioannis Evrigenis, who served as the discussant for an earlier version of this essay, presented at the 2019 Lincoln Symposium in Seattle, WA.
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Notes
Author Biography
Professor Bakalar received her PhD from the University of Pennsylvania and her B.A. from New York University. Before joining Temple, she was a senior research specialist at Princeton University’s Center for Information Technology Policy (CITP) and completed the Values and Public Policy Postdoc at Princeton’s University Center for Human Values (UCHV) and the Center for the Study of Democratic Politics (CSDP).