{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30433/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30433","id":"gutenberg_30433","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30433","summary":null,"tags":["Banned Books from Anne Haight's list","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Teaching & Education","Education"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHeath's Pedagogical Library--4\n\n\n\n\nEMILE:\n\nOR, CONCERNING EDUCATION\n\n\nBY\n\nJEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU\n\n\nEXTRACTS\n\n_CONTAINING THE PRINCIPAL ELEMENTS OF PEDAGOGY FOUND IN THE FIRST THREE\nBOOKS; WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY_\n\n\nJULES STEEG, DEPUTE, PARIS, FRANCE\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nELEANOR WORTHINGTON\n\nFORMERLY OF THE COOK COUNTY (ILL.) NORMAL SCHOOL\n\n\n\n\nD. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS\n\nBOSTON -- NEW YORK -- CHICAGO\n\n\n\n\nEntered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1888, by\n\nGINN, HEATH, & CO.,\n\nIn the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.\n\n\n\nPrinted in U. S. A.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.\n\nM. Jules Steeg has rendered a real service to French and American\nteachers by his judicious selections from Rousseau's Emile.  For the\nthree-volume novel of a hundred years ago, with its long disquisitions\nand digressions, so dear to the heart of our patient ancestors, is now\ndistasteful to all but lovers of the curious in books.\n\n\"Emile\" is like an antique mirror of brass; it reflects the features of\neducational humanity no less faithfully than one of more modern\nconstruction.  In these few pages will be found the germ of all that is\nuseful in present systems of education, as well as most of the\never-recurring mistakes of well-meaning zealots.\n\nThe eighteenth century translations of this wonderful book have for\nmany readers the disadvantage of an English style long disused.  It is\nhoped that this attempt at a new translation may, with all its defects,\nhave the one merit of being in the dialect of the nineteenth century,\nand may thus reach a wider circle of readers.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\nJean Jacques Rousseau's book on education has had a powerful influence\nthroughout Europe, and even in the New World.  It was in its day a kind\nof gospel.  It had its share in bringing about the Revolution which\nrenovated the entire aspect of our country.  Many of the reforms so\nlauded by it have since then been carried into effect, and at this day\nseem every-day affairs.  In the eighteenth century they were unheard-of\ndaring; they were mere dreams.\n\nLong before that time the immortal satirist Rabelais, and, after him,\nMichael Montaigne, had already divined the truth, had pointed out\nserious defects in education, and the way to reform.  No one followed\nout their suggestions, or even gave them a hearing.  Routine went on\nits way.  Exercises of memory,--the science that consists of mere\nwords,--pedantry, barren and vain-glorious,--held fast their \"bad\neminence.\"  The child was treated as a machine, or as a man in\nminiature, no account being taken of his nature or of his real needs;\nwithout any greater solicitude about reasonable method--the hygiene of\nmind--than about the hygiene of the body.\n\nRousseau, who had educated himself, and very badly at that, was\nimpressed with the dangers of the education of his day.  A mother\nhaving asked his advice, he took up the pen to write it; and, little by\nlittle, his counsels grew into a book, a large work, a pedagogic\nromance.\n\nThis romance, when it appeared in 1762, created a great noise and a\ngreat scandal.  The Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaumont, saw in\nit a dangerous, mischievous work, and gave himself the trouble of\nwriting a long encyclical letter in order to point out the book to the\nreprobation of the faithful.  This document of twenty-seven chapters is\na formal refutation of the theories advanced in \"Emile.\"\n\nThe archbishop declares that the plan of education proposed by the\nauthor, \"far from being in accordance with Christianity, is not fitted\nto form citizens, or even men.\"  He accuses Rousseau of irreligion and\nof bad faith; he denounces him to the temporal power as animated \"by a\nspirit of insubordination and of revolt.\"  He sums up by solemnly\ncondemning the book \"as containing an abominable doctrine, calculated\nto overthrow natural law, and to destroy the foundations of the\nChristian religion; establishing maxims contrary to Gospel morality;\nhaving a tendency to disturb the peace of empires, to stir up subjects\nto revolt against their sovereign; as containing a great number of\npropositions respectively false, scandalous, full of hatred toward the\nChurch and its ministers, derogating from the respect due to Holy\nScripture and the traditions of the Church, erroneous, impious,\nblasphemous, and heretical.\"\n\nIn those days, such a condemnation was a serious matter; its\nconsequences to an author might be terrible.  Rousseau had barely time\nto flee.  His arrest was decreed by the parliament of Paris, and his\nbook was burned by the executioner.  A few years before this, the\nauthor would have run the risk of being burned with his book.\n\nAs a fugitive, Rousseau did not find a safe retreat even in his own\ncountry.  He was obliged to leave Geneva, where his book was also\ncondemned, and Berne, where he had sought refuge, but whence he was\ndriven by intolerance.  He owed it to the protection of Lord Keith,\ngovernor of Neufchatel, a principality belonging to the King of\nPrussia, that he lived for some time in peace in the little town of\nMotiers in the Val de Travera.\n\nIt was from this place that he replied to the archbishop of Paris by an\napology, a long-winded work in which he repels, one after another, the\nimputations of his accuser, and sets forth anew with greater urgency\nhis philosophical and religious principles.  This work, written on a\nrather confused plan but with impassioned eloquence, manifests a lofty\nand sincere spirit.  It is said that the archbishop was deeply touched\nby it, and never afterward spoke of the author of \"Emile\" without\nextreme reserve, sometimes even eulogizing his character and his\nvirtues.\n\nThe renown of the book, condemned by so high an authority, was immense.\nScandal, by attracting public attention to it, did it good service.\nWhat was most serious and most suggestive in it was not, perhaps,\nseized upon; but the \"craze\" of which it was the object had,\nnotwithstanding, good results.  Mothers were won over, and resolved to\nnurse their own infants; great lords began to learn handicrafts, like\nRousseau's imaginary pupil; physical exercises came into fashion; the\nspirit of innovation was forcing itself a way.\n\nIt was not among ourselves, however, that the theories of Rousseau were\nmost eagerly experimented upon; it was among foreigners, in Germany, in\nSwitzerland, that they found more resolute partisans, and a field more\nready to receive them.\n\nThree men above all the rest are noted for having popularized the\npedagogic method of Rousseau, and for having been inspired in their\nlabors by \"Emile.\"  These were Basedow, Pestalozzi, and Froebel.\n\nBasedow, a German theologian, had devoted himself entirely to dogmatic\ncontroversy, until the reading of \"Emile\" had the effect of enlarging\nhis mental horizon, and of revealing to him his true vocation.  He\nwrote important books to show how Rousseau's method could be applied in\ndifferent departments of instruction, and founded at Dessau, in 1774,\nan institution to bring that method within the domain of experience.\n\nThis institution, to which he gave the name of \"Philanthropinum,\" was\nsecular in the true sense of the word; and at that time this was in\nitself a novelty.  It was open to pupils of every belief and every\nnationality, and proposed to render study easy, pleasant, and\nexpeditious to them, by following the directions of nature itself.  In\nthe first rank of his disciples may be placed Campe, who succeeded him\nin the management of the Philanthropinum.\n\nPestalozzi of Zuerich, one of the foremost educators of modern times,\nalso found his whole life transformed by the reading of \"Emile,\" which\nawoke in him the genius of a reformer.  He himself also, in 1775,\nfounded a school, in order to put in practice there his progressive and\nprofessional method of teaching, which was a fruitful development of\nseeds sown by Rousseau in his book.  Pestalozzi left numerous\nwritings,--romances, treatises, reviews,--all having for sole object\nthe popularization of his ideas and processes of education.  The most\ndistinguished among his disciples and continuators is Froebel, the\nfounder of those primary schools or asylums known by the name of\n\"kindergartens,\" and the author of highly esteemed pedagogic works.\n\nThese various attempts, these new and ingenious processes which, step\nby step, have made their way among us, and are beginning to make their\nworkings felt, even in institutions most stoutly opposed to progress,\nare all traceable to Rousseau's \"Emile.\"\n\nIt is therefore not too much for Frenchmen, for teachers, for parents,\nfor every one in our country who is interested in what concerns\nteaching, to go back to the source of so great a movement.\n\nIt is true that \"Emile\" contains pages that have outlived their day,\nmany odd precepts, many false ideas, many disputable and destructive\ntheories; but at the same time we find in it so many sagacious\nobservations, such upright counsels, suitable even to modern times, so\nlofty an ideal, that, in spite of everything, we cannot read and study\nit without profit.  There is no one who does not know the book by name\nand by reputation; but how many parents, and even teachers, have never\nread it!\n\nThis is because a large part of the book is no longer in accordance\nwith the actual condition of things; because its very plan, its\nfundamental idea, are outside of the truth.  We are obliged to exercise\njudgment, to make selections.  Some of it must be taken, some left\nuntouched.  This is what we have done in the present edition.\n\nWe have not, indeed, the presumption to correct Rousseau, or to\nsubstitute an expurgated \"Emile\" for the authentic \"Emile.\"  We have\nsimply wished to draw the attention of the teachers of childhood to\nthose pages of this book which have least grown old, which can still be\nof service, can hasten the downfall of the old systems, can emphasize,\nby their energy and beauty of language, methods already inaugurated and\nreforms already undertaken.  These methods and reforms cannot be too\noften recommended and set in a clear light.  We have desired to call to\nthe rescue this powerful and impassioned writer, who brings to bear\nupon every subject he approaches the magical attractiveness of his\nstyle.\n\nThere is absolutely nothing practicable in his system.  It consists in\nisolating a child from the rest of the world; in creating expressly for\nhim a tutor, who is a phoenix among his kind; in depriving him of\nfather, mother, brothers, and sisters, his companions in study; in\nsurrounding him with a perpetual charlatanism, under the pretext of\nfollowing nature; and in showing him only through the veil of a\nfactitious atmosphere the society in which he is to live.  And,\nnevertheless, at each step it is sound reason by which we are met; by\nan astonishing paradox, this whimsicality is full of good sense; this\ndream overflows with realities; this improbable and chimerical romance\ncontains the substance and the marrow of a rational and truly modern\ntreatise on pedagogy.  Sometimes we must read between the lines, add\nwhat experience has taught us since that day, transpose into an\natmosphere of open democracy these pages, written under the old order\nof things, but even then quivering with the new world which they were\nbringing to light, and for which they prepared the way.\n\nReading \"Emile\" in the light of modern prejudices, we can see in it\nmore than the author wittingly put into it; but not more than logic and\nthe instinct of genius set down there.\n\nTo unfold the powers of children in due proportion to their age; not to\ntranscend their ability; to arouse in them the sense of the observer\nand of the pioneer; to make them discoverers rather than imitators; to\nteach them accountability to themselves and not slavish dependence upon\nthe words of others; to address ourselves more to the will than to\ncustom, to the reason rather than to the memory; to substitute for\nverbal recitations lessons about things; to lead to theory by way of\nart; to assign to physical movements and exercises a prominent place,\nfrom the earliest hours of life up to perfect maturity; such are the\nprinciples scattered broadcast in this book, and forming a happy\ncounterpoise to the oddities of which Rousseau was perhaps most proud.\n\nHe takes the child in its cradle, almost before its birth; he desires\nthat mothers should fulfil the sacred duty of nursing them at the\nbreast.  If there must be a nurse, he knows how to choose her, how she\nought to be treated, how she should be fed.  He watches over the\nmovements of the new-born child, over its first playthings.  All these\ncounsels bear the stamp of good sense and of experience; or, rather,\nthey result from a power of divination singular enough in a man who was\nnot willing to take care of his own children.  In this way, day by day,\nhe follows up the physical and moral development of the little being,\nall whose ideas and feelings he analyzes, whom he guides with wisdom\nand with tact throughout the mazes of a life made up of convention and\nartifice.\n\nWe have carefully avoided suppressing the fictions of the gardener and\nof the mountebank; because they are characteristic of his manner, and\nbecause, after all, these pre-arranged scenes which, as they stand, are\nanything in the world rather than real teaching, contain, nevertheless,\nright notions, and opinions which may suggest to intelligent teachers\nprocesses in prudent education.  Such teachers will not copy the form;\nthey will not imitate the awkward clap-trap; but, yielding to the\ninspiration of the dominant idea, they will, in a way more in\naccordance with nature, manage to thrill with life the teaching of\nfacts, and will aid the mind in giving birth to its ideas.  This is the\nold method of Socrates, the eternal method of reason, the only method\nwhich really educates.\n\nWe have brought this volume to an end with the third book of \"Emile.\"\nThe fourth and fifth books which follow are not within the domain of\npedagogy.  They contain admirable pages, which ought to be read; which\noccupy one of the foremost places in our literature; which deal with\nphilosophy, with ethics, with theology; but they concern themselves\nwith the manner of directing young men and women, and no longer with\nchildhood.  The author conducts his Emile even as far as to his\nbetrothal; he devotes an entire book to the betrothed herself, Sophie,\nand closes his volume only after he has united them in marriage.\n\nWe will not go so far.  We will leave Emile upon the confines of youth,\nat the time when he escapes from school, and when he is about beginning\nto feel that he is a man.  At this difficult and critical period the\nteacher no longer suffices.  Then, above all things, is needed all the\ninfluence of the family; the father's example, the mother's\nclear-sighted tenderness, worthy friendships, an environment of\nmeritorious people, of upright minds animated by lofty ideas, who\nattract within their orbit this ardent and inquisitive being, eager for\nnovelty, for action, and for independence.\n\nArtifices and stratagems are then no longer good for anything; they are\nvery soon laid open to the light.  All that can be required of a\nteacher is that he shall have furnished his pupils with a sound and\nstrong education, drawn from the sources of reason, experience, and\nnature; that he shall have prepared them to learn to form judgments, to\nmake use of their faculties, to enter valiantly upon study and upon\nlife.  It seems to us that the pages of Rousseau here published may be\na useful guide in the pursuit of such a result.\n\nJULES STEEG.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK FIRST.\n\nThe first book, after some general remarks upon education, treats\nespecially of early infancy; of the first years of life; of the care to\nbe bestowed upon very young children; of the nursing of them, of the\nlaws of health.\n\nHe makes education begin at birth; expresses himself on the subject of\nthe habits to be given or to be avoided; discusses the use and meaning\nof tears, outcries, gestures, also the language that should be used\nwith young children, so that, from their tenderest years, the\ninculcating of false ideas and the giving a wrong bent of mind may be\navoided.\n\n\n\nGENERAL REMARKS.\n\nThe Object of Education.\n\nComing from the hand of the Author of all things, everything is good;\nin the hands of man, everything degenerates.  Man obliges one soil to\nnourish the productions of another, one tree to bear the fruits of\nanother; he mingles and confounds climates, elements, seasons; he\nmutilates his dog, his horse, his slave.  He overturns everything,\ndisfigures everything; he loves deformity, monsters; he desires that\nnothing should be as nature made it, not even man himself.  To please\nhim, man must be broken in like a horse; man must be adapted to man's\nown fashion, like a tree in his garden.[1]\n\nWere it not for all this, matters would be still worse.  No one wishes\nto be a half-developed being; and in the present condition of things, a\nman left to himself among others from his birth would be the most\ndeformed among them all.  Prejudices, authority, necessities, example,\nall the social institutions in which we are submerged, would stifle\nnature in him, and would put nothing in its place.  In such a man\nnature would be like a shrub sprung up by chance in the midst of a\nhighway, and jostled from all sides, bent in every direction, by the\npassers-by.\n\nPlants are improved by cultivation, and men by education.  If man were\nborn large and strong, his size and strength would be useless to him\nuntil he had learned to use them.  They would be prejudicial to him, by\npreventing others from thinking of assisting him; and left to himself\nhe would die of wretchedness before he had known his own necessities.\nWe pity the state of infancy; we do not perceive that the human race\nwould have perished if man had not begun by being a child.\n\nWe are born weak, we need strength; we are born destitute of all\nthings, we need assistance; we are born stupid, we need judgment.  All\nthat we have not at our birth, and that we need when grown up, is given\nus by education.\n\nThis education comes to us from nature itself, or from other men, or\nfrom circumstances.  The internal development of our faculties and of\nour organs is the education nature gives us; the use we are taught to\nmake of this development is the education we get from other men; and\nwhat we learn, by our own experience, about things that interest as, is\nthe education of circumstances.\n\nEach of us is therefore formed by three kinds of teachers.  The pupil\nin whom their different lessons contradict one another is badly\neducated, and will never be in harmony with himself; the one in whom\nthey all touch upon the same points and tend toward the same object\nadvances toward that goal only, and lives accordingly.  He alone is\nwell educated.\n\nNow of these three different educations, that of nature does not depend\nupon us; that of circumstances depends upon us only in certain\nrespects; that of men is the only one of which we are really masters,\nand that solely because we think we are.  For who can hope to direct\nentirely the speech and conduct of all who surround a child?\n\nAs soon, therefore, as education becomes an art, its success is almost\nimpossible, since the agreement of circumstances necessary to this\nsuccess is independent of personal effort.  All that the utmost care\ncan do is to approach more or less nearly our object; but, for\nattaining it, special good fortune is needed.\n\nWhat is this object?  That of nature itself, as has just been proved.\nSince the agreement of the three educations is necessary to their\nperfection, it is toward the one for which we ourselves can do nothing\nthat we must direct both the others.  But perhaps this word \"nature\"\nhas too vague a meaning; we must here try to define it.\n\nIn the natural order of things, all men being equal, the vocation\ncommon to all is the state of manhood; and whoever is well trained for\nthat, cannot fulfil badly any vocation which depends upon it.  Whether\nmy pupil be destined for the army, the church, or the bar, matters\nlittle to me.  Before he can think of adopting the vocation of his\nparents, nature calls upon him to be a man.  How to live is the\nbusiness I wish to teach him.  On leaving my hands he will not, I\nadmit, be a magistrate, a soldier, or a priest; first of all he will be\na man.  All that a man ought to be he can be, at need, as well as any\none else can.  Fortune will in vain alter his position, for he will\nalways occupy his own.\n\nOur real study is that of the state of man.  He among us who best knows\nhow to bear the good and evil fortunes of this life is, in my opinion,\nthe best educated; whence it follows that true education consists less\nin precept than in practice.  We begin to instruct ourselves when we\nbegin to live; our education commences with the commencement of our\nlife; our first teacher is our nurse.  For this reason the word\n\"education\" had among the ancients another meaning which we no longer\nattach to it; it signified nutriment.\n\nWe must then take a broader view of things, and consider in our pupil\nman in the abstract, man exposed to all the accidents of human life.\nIf man were born attached to the soil of a country, if the same season\ncontinued throughout the year, if every one held his fortune by such a\ntenure that he could never change it, the established customs of to-day\nwould be in certain respects good.  The child educated for his\nposition, and never leaving it, could not be exposed to the\ninconveniences of another.\n\nBut seeing that human affairs are changeable, seeing the restless and\ndisturbing spirit of this century, which overturns everything once in a\ngeneration, can a more senseless method be imagined than to educate a\nchild as if he were never to leave his room, as if he were obliged to\nbe constantly surrounded by his servants?  If the poor creature takes\nbut one step on the earth, if he comes down so much as one stair, he is\nruined.  This is not teaching him to endure pain; it is training him to\nfeel it more keenly.\n\nWe think only of preserving the child: this is not enough.  We ought to\nteach him to preserve himself when he is a man; to bear the blows of\nfate; to brave both wealth and wretchedness; to live, if need be, among\nthe snows of Iceland or upon the burning rock of Malta.  In vain you\ntake precautions against his dying,--he must die after all; and if his\ndeath be not indeed the result of those very precautions, they are none\nthe less mistaken.  It is less important to keep him from dying than it\nis to teach him how to live.  To live is not merely to breathe, it is\nto act.  It is to make use of our organs, of our senses, of our\nfaculties, of all the powers which bear witness to us of our own\nexistence.  He who has lived most is not he who has numbered the most\nyears, but he who has been most truly conscious of what life is.  A man\nmay have himself buried at the age of a hundred years, who died from\nthe hour of his birth.  He would have gained something by going to his\ngrave in youth, if up to that time he had only lived.\n\n\nThe New-born Child.\n\nThe new-born child needs to stretch and to move his limbs so as to draw\nthem out of the torpor in which, rolled into a ball, they have so long\nremained.  We do stretch his limbs, it is true, but we prevent him from\nmoving them.  We even constrain his head into a baby's cap.  It seems\nas if we were afraid he might appear to be alive.  The inaction, the\nconstraint in which we keep his limbs, cannot fail to interfere with\nthe circulation of the blood and of the secretions, to prevent the\nchild from growing strong and sturdy, and to change his constitution.\nIn regions where these extravagant precautions are not taken, the men\nare all large, strong, and well proportioned.  Countries in which\nchildren are swaddled swarm with hunchbacks, with cripples, with\npersons crook-kneed, stunted, rickety, deformed in all kinds of ways.\nFor fear that the bodies of children may be deformed by free movements,\nwe hasten to deform them by putting them into a press.  Of our own\naccord we cripple them to prevent their laming themselves.\n\nMust not such a cruel constraint have an influence upon their temper as\nwell as upon their constitution?  Their first feeling is a feeling of\nconstraint and of suffering.  To all their necessary movements they\nfind only obstacles.  More unfortunate than chained criminals, they\nmake fruitless efforts, they fret themselves, they cry.  Do you tell me\nthat the first sounds they make are cries?  I can well believe it; you\nthwart them from the time they are born.  The first gifts they receive\nfrom you are chains, the first treatment they undergo is torment.\nHaving nothing free but the voice, why should they not use it in\ncomplaints?  They cry on account of the suffering you cause them; if\nyou were pinioned in the same way, your own cries would be louder.\n\nWhence arises this unreasonable custom of swaddling children?  From an\nunnatural custom.  Since the time when mothers, despising their first\nduty, no longer wish to nurse their own children at the breast, it has\nbeen necessary to intrust the little ones to hired women.  These,\nfinding themselves in this way the mothers of strange children,\nconcerning whom the voice of nature is silent to them, seek only to\nspare themselves annoyance.  A child at liberty would require incessant\nwatching; but after he is well swaddled, they throw him into a corner\nwithout troubling themselves at all on account of his cries.  Provided\nthere are no proofs of the nurse's carelessness, provided that the\nnursling does not break his legs or his arms, what does it matter,\nafter all, that he is pining away, or that he continues feeble for the\nrest of his life?  His limbs are preserved at the expense of his life,\nand whatever happens, the nurse is held free from blame.\n\nIt is pretended that children, when left free, may put themselves into\nbad positions, and make movements liable to injure the proper\nconformation of their limbs.  This is one of the weak arguments of our\nfalse wisdom, which no experience has ever confirmed.  Of that\nmultitude of children who, among nations more sensible than ourselves,\nare brought up in the full freedom of their limbs, not one is seen to\nwound or lame himself.  They cannot give their movements force enough\nto make them dangerous; and when they assume a hurtful position, pain\nsoon warns them to change it.\n\nWe have not yet brought ourselves to the point of swaddling puppies or\nkittens; do we see that any inconvenience results to them from this\nnegligence?  Children are heavier, indeed; but in proportion they are\nweaker.  They can scarcely move themselves at all; how can they lame\nthemselves?  If laid upon the back they would die in that position,\nlike the tortoise, without being able ever to turn themselves again.\n\n\n[This want of intelligence In the care bestowed upon young children is\nseen particularly in those mothers who give themselves no concern about\ntheir own, do not themselves nurse them, intrust them to hireling\nnurses.  This custom is fatal to all; first to the children and finally\nto families, where barrenness becomes the rule, where woman sacrifices\nto her own convenience the joys and the duties of motherhood.]\n\n\nWould you recall every one to his highest duties?  Begin with the\nmothers; you will be astonished at the changes you will effect.  From\nthis first depravity all others come in succession.  The entire moral\norder is changed; natural feeling is extinguished in all hearts.\nWithin our homes there is less cheerfulness; the touching sight of a\ngrowing family no longer attaches the husband or attracts the attention\nof strangers.  The mother whose children are not seen is less\nrespected.  There is no such thing as a family living together; habit\nno longer strengthens the ties of blood.  There are no longer fathers\nand mothers and children and brothers and sisters.  They all scarcely\nknow one another; how then should they love one another?  Each one\nthinks only of himself.  When home is a melancholy, lonely place, we\nmust indeed go elsewhere to enjoy ourselves.\n\nBut let mothers only vouchsafe to nourish their children,[2] and our\nmanners will reform themselves; the feelings of nature will re-awaken\nin all hearts.  The State will be repeopled; this chief thing, this one\nthing will bring all the rest into order again.  The attractions of\nhome life present the best antidote to bad morals.  The bustling life\nof little children, considered so tiresome, becomes pleasant; it makes\nthe father and the mother more necessary to one another, more dear to\none another; it draws closer between them the conjugal tie.  When the\nfamily is sprightly and animated, domestic cares form the dearest\noccupation of the wife and the sweetest recreation of the husband.\nThus the correction of this one abuse would soon result in a general\nreform; nature would resume all her rights.  When women are once more\ntrue mothers, men will become true fathers and husbands.\n\nIf mothers are not real mothers, children are not real children toward\nthem.  Their duties to one another are reciprocal, and if these be\nbadly fulfilled on the one side, they will be neglected on the other\nside.  The child ought to love his mother before he knows that it is\nhis duty to love her.  If the voice of natural affection be not\nstrengthened by habit and by care, it will grow dumb even in childhood;\nand thus the heart dies, so to speak, before it is born.  Thus from the\noutset we are beyond the pale of nature.\n\nThere is an opposite way by which a woman goes beyond it; that is,\nwhen, instead of neglecting a mother's cares, she carries them to\nexcess; when she makes her child her idol.  She increases and fosters\nhis weakness to prevent him from feeling it.  Hoping to shelter him\nfrom the laws of nature, she wards from him shocks of pain.  She does\nnot consider how, for the sake of preserving him for a moment from some\ninconveniences, she is heaping upon his head future accidents and\nperils; nor how cruel is the caution which prolongs the weakness of\nchildhood in one who must bear the fatigues of a grown-up man.  The\nfable says that, to render her son invulnerable, Thetis plunged him\ninto the Styx.  This allegory is beautiful and clear.  The cruel\nmothers of whom I am speaking do far otherwise; by plunging their\nchildren into effeminacy they open their pores to ills of every kind,\nto which, when grown up, they fall a certain prey.\n\nWatch nature carefully, and follow the paths she traces out for you.\nShe gives children continual exercise; she strengthens their\nconstitution by ordeals of every kind; she teaches them early what pain\nand trouble mean.  The cutting of their teeth gives them fever, sharp\nfits of colic throw them into convulsions, long coughing chokes them,\nworms torment them, repletion corrupts their blood, different leavens\nfermenting there cause dangerous eruptions.  Nearly the whole of\ninfancy is sickness and danger; half the children born into the world\ndie before their eighth year.  These trials past, the child has gained\nstrength, and as soon as he can use life, its principle becomes more\nassured.\n\nThis is the law of nature.  Why do you oppose her?  Do you not see that\nin thinking to correct her you destroy her work and counteract the\neffect of all her cares?  In your opinion, to do without what she is\ndoing within is to redouble the danger.  On the contrary, it is really\nto avert, to mitigate that danger.  Experience teaches that more\nchildren who are delicately reared die than others.  Provided we do not\nexceed the measure of their strength, it is better to employ it than to\nhoard it.  Give them practice, then, in the trials they will one day\nhave to endure.  Inure their bodies to the inclemencies of the seasons,\nof climates, of elements; to hunger, thirst, fatigue; plunge them into\nthe water of the Styx.  Before the habits of the body are acquired we\ncan give it such as we please without risk.  But when once it has\nreached its full vigor, any alteration is perilous to its well-being.\nA child will endure changes which a man could not bear.  The fibres of\nthe former, soft and pliable, take without effort the bent we give\nthem; those of man, more hardened, do not without violence change those\nthey have received.  We may therefore make a child robust without\nexposing his life or his health; and even if there were some risk we\nstill ought not to hesitate.  Since there are risks inseparable from\nhuman life, can we do better than to throw them back upon that period\nof life when they are least disadvantageous?\n\nA child becomes more precious as he advances in age.  To the value of\nhis person is added that of the cares he has cost us; if we lose his\nlife, his own consciousness of death is added to our sense of loss.\nAbove all things, then, in watching over his preservation we must think\nof the future.  We must arm him against the misfortunes of youth before\nhe has reached them.  For, if the value of life increases up to the age\nwhen life becomes useful, what folly it is to spare the child some\ntroubles, and to heap them upon the age of reason!  Are these the\ncounsels of a master?\n\nIn all ages suffering is the lot of man.  Even to the cares of\nself-preservation pain is joined.  Happy are we, who in childhood are\nacquainted with only physical misfortunes--misfortunes far less cruel,\nless painful than others; misfortunes which far more rarely make us\nrenounce life.  We do not kill ourselves on account of the pains of\ngout; seldom do any but those of the mind produce despair.[3]\n\nWe pity the lot of infancy, and it is our own lot that we ought to\npity.  Our greatest misfortunes come to us from ourselves.\n\nAt birth a child cries; his earliest infancy is spent in crying.\nSometimes he is tossed, he is petted, to appease him; sometimes he is\nthreatened, beaten, to make him keep quiet.  We either do as he\npleases, or else we exact from him what we please; we either submit to\nhis whims, or make him submit to ours.  There is no middle course; he\nmust either give or receive orders.  Thus his first ideas are those of\nabsolute rule and of slavery.  Before he knows how to speak, he\ncommands; before he is able to act, he obeys; and sometimes he is\npunished before he knows what his faults are, or rather, before he is\ncapable of committing them.  Thus do we early pour into his young heart\nthe passions that are afterward imputed to nature; and, after having\ntaken pains to make him wicked, we complain of finding him wicked.\n\nA child passes six or seven years of his life in this manner in the\nhands of women, the victim of his own caprice and of theirs.  After\nhaving made him learn this and that,--after having loaded his memory\neither with words he cannot understand, or with facts which are of no\nuse to him,--after having stifled his natural disposition by the\npassions we have created, we put this artificial creature into the\nhands of a tutor who finishes the development of the artificial germs\nhe finds already formed, and teaches him everything except to know\nhimself, everything except to know how to live and how to make himself\nhappy.  Finally, when this enslaved child, this little tyrant, full of\nlearning and devoid of sense, enfeebled alike in mind and body, is cast\nupon the world, he there by his unfitness, by his pride, and by all his\nvices, makes us deplore human wretchedness and perversity.  We deceive\nourselves; this is the man our whims have created.  Nature makes men by\na different process.\n\nDo you then wish him to preserve his original form?  Preserve it from\nthe moment he enters the world.  As soon as he is born take possession\nof him, and do not leave him until he is a man.  Without this you will\nnever succeed.  As the mother is the true nurse, the father is the true\nteacher.  Let them be of one mind as to the order in which their\nfunctions are fulfilled, as well as in regard to their plan; let the\nchild pass from the hands of the one into the hands of the other.  He\nwill be better educated by a father who is judicious, even though of\nmoderate attainments, than by the most skilful master in the world.\nFor zeal will supplement talent better than talent can supply what only\nzeal can give.\n\nA father, when he brings his children into existence and supports them,\nhas, in so doing, fulfilled only a third part of his task.  To the\nhuman race he owes men; to society, men fitted for society; to the\nState, citizens.  Every man who can pay this triple debt, and does not\npay it is a guilty man; and if he pays it by halves, he is perhaps more\nguilty still.  He who cannot fulfil the duties of a father has no right\nto be a father.  Not poverty, nor severe labor, nor human respect can\nrelease him from the duty of supporting his children and of educating\nthem himself.  Readers, you may believe my words.  I prophesy to any\none who has natural feeling and neglects these sacred duties,--that he\nwill long shed bitter tears over this fault, and that for those tears\nhe will find no consolation.[4]\n\n\n[It being supposed that the father is unable or unwilling to charge\nhimself personally with the education of his son, he must charge a\nthird person with it, must seek out a master, a teacher for the child.]\n\n\nThe qualifications of a good tutor are very freely discussed.  The\nfirst qualification I should require in him, and this one presupposes\nmany others, is, that he shall not be capable of selling himself.\nThere are employments so noble that we cannot fulfil them for money\nwithout showing ourselves unworthy to fulfil them.  Such an employment\nis that of a soldier; such a one is that of a teacher.  Who, then,\nshall educate my child?  I have told you already,--yourself.  I cannot!\nThen make for yourself a friend who can.  I see no other alternative.\n\nA teacher! what a great soul he ought to be!  Truly, to form a man, one\nmust be either himself a father, or else something more than human.\nAnd this is the office you calmly entrust to hirelings![5]\n\n\nThe Earliest Education.\n\nChildren's first impressions are purely those of feeling; they perceive\nonly pleasure and pain.  Unable either to move about, or to grasp\nanything with their hands, they need a great deal of time to form\nsensations which represent, and so make them aware of objects outside\nof themselves.  But, during all this time, while these objects are\nextending, and, as it were, receding from their eyes, assuming, to\nthem, form and dimension, the constantly recurring sensations begin to\nsubject the little creatures to the sway of habit.  We see their eyes\nincessantly turning toward the light; and, if it comes to them from one\nside, unwittingly taking the direction of that side; so that their\nfaces ought to be carefully turned toward the light, lest they become\nsquint-eyed, or accustom themselves to look awry.  They should, also,\nearly accustom themselves to darkness, or else they will cry and scream\nas soon as they are left in the dark.  Food and sleep, if too exactly\nproportioned, become necessary to them after the lapse of the same\nintervals; and soon the desire arises not from necessity, but from\nhabit.  Or rather, habit adds a new want to those of nature, and this\nmust be prevented.\n\nThe only habit a child should be allowed to form is to contract no\nhabits whatever.  Let him not be carried upon one arm more than upon\nanother; let him not be accustomed to put forth one hand rather than\nthe other, or to use it oftener; nor to desire to eat, to sleep, to act\nin any way, at regular hours; nor to be unable to stay alone either by\nnight or by day.  Prepare long beforehand for the time when he shall\nfreely use all his strength.  Do this by leaving his body under the\ncontrol of its natural bent, by fitting him to be always master of\nhimself, and to carry out his own will in everything as soon as he has\na will of his own.\n\nSince the only kinds of objects presented to him are likely to make him\neither timid or courageous, why should not his education begin before\nhe speaks or understands?  I would habituate him to seeing new objects,\nthough they be ugly, repulsive, or singular.  But let this be by\ndegrees, and from a distance, until he has become accustomed to them,\nand, from seeing them handled by others, shall at last handle them\nhimself.  If during his infancy he has seen without fear frogs,\nserpents, crawfishes, he will, when grown up, see without shrinking any\nanimal that may be shown him.  For one who daily sees frightful\nobjects, there are none such.\n\nAll children are afraid of masks.  I begin by showing Emile the mask of\na pleasant face.  By and by some one puts the mask upon his own face,\nso that the child can see it.  I begin to laugh; every one else laughs,\nand the child with the rest.  By degrees I familiarize him with less\ncomely masks, and finally with really hideous ones.  If I have managed\nthe process well, he will, far from being frightened at the last mask,\nlaugh at it as he laughed at the first.  After that, I shall not fear\nhis being frightened by any one with a mask.\n\nWhen, in the farewell scene between Hector and Andromache, the little\nAstyanax, terrified at the plume floating from a helmet, fails to\nrecognize his father, throws himself, crying, upon his nurse's breast,\nand wins from his mother a smile bright with tears, what ought to be\ndone to soothe his fear?  Precisely what Hector does.  He places the\nhelmet on the ground, and then caresses his child.  At a more tranquil\nmoment, this should not have been all.  They should have drawn near the\nhelmet, played with its plumes, caused the child to handle them.  At\nlast the nurse should have lifted the helmet and laughingly set it on\nher own head--if, indeed, the hand of a woman dared touch the armor of\nHector.\n\nIf I wish to familiarize Emile with the noise of fire-arms, I first\nburn some powder in a pistol.  The quickly vanishing flame, the new\nkind of lightning, greatly pleases him.  I repeat the process, using\nmore powder.  By degrees I put into the pistol a small charge, without\nramming it down; then a larger charge; finally, I accustom him to the\nnoise of a gun, to bombs, to cannon-shots, to the most terrific noises.\n\nI have noticed that children are rarely afraid of thunder, unless,\nindeed, the thunder-claps are so frightful as actually to wound the\norgan of hearing.  Otherwise, they fear it only when they have been\ntaught that thunder sometimes wounds or kills.  When reason begins to\naffright them, let habit reassure them.  By a slow and well conducted\nprocess the man or the child is rendered fearless of everything.\n\nIn this outset of life, while memory and imagination are still\ninactive, the child pays attention only to what actually affects his\nsenses.  The first materials of his knowledge are his sensations.  If,\ntherefore, these are presented to him in suitable order, his memory can\nhereafter present them to his understanding in the same order.  But as\nhe attends to his sensations only, it will at first suffice to show him\nvery clearly the connection between these sensations, and the objects\nwhich give rise to them.  He is eager to touch everything, to handle\neverything.  Do not thwart this restless desire; it suggests to him a\nvery necessary apprenticeship.  It is thus he learns to feel the heat\nand coldness, hardness and softness, heaviness and lightness of bodies;\nto judge of their size, their shape, and all their sensible qualities,\nby looking, by touching, by listening; above all, by comparing the\nresults of sight with those of touch, estimating with the eye the\nsensation a thing produces upon the fingers.\n\nBy movement alone we learn the existence of things which are not\nourselves; and it is by our own movements alone that we gain the idea\nof extension.\n\nBecause the child has not this idea, he stretches out his hand\nindifferently to seize an object which touches him, or one which is a\nhundred paces distant from him.  The effort he makes in doing this\nappears to you a sign of domination, an order he gives the object to\ncome nearer, or to you to bring it to him.  It is nothing of the kind.\nIt means only that the object seen first within the brain, then upon\nthe eye, is now seen at arm's length, and that he does not conceive of\nany distance beyond his reach.  Be careful, then, to walk often with\nhim, to transport him from one place to another, to let him feel the\nchange of position, and, in this way to teach him how to judge of\ndistances.  When he begins to know them, change the plan; carry him\nonly where it is convenient for you to do so, and not wherever it\npleases him.  For as soon as he is no longer deceived by the senses,\nhis attempts arise from another cause.  This change is remarkable and\ndemands explanation.\n\nThe uneasiness arising from our wants expresses itself by signs\nwhenever help in supplying these wants is needed; hence the cries of\nchildren.  They cry a great deal, and this is natural.  Since all their\nsensations are those of feeling, children enjoy them in silence, when\nthe sensations are pleasant; otherwise they express them in their own\nlanguage, and ask relief.  Now as long as children are awake they\ncannot be in a state of indifference; they either sleep or are moved by\npleasure and pain.\n\nAll our languages are the result of art.  Whether there is a natural\nlanguage, common to all mankind, has long been a matter of\ninvestigation.  Without doubt there is such a language, and it is the\none that children utter before they know how to talk.  This language is\nnot articulate, but it is accentuated, sonorous, intelligible.  The\nusing of our own language has led us to neglect this, even so far as to\nforget it altogether.  Let us study children, and we shall soon acquire\nit again from them.  Nurses are our teachers in this language.  They\nunderstand all their nurslings say, they answer them, they hold really\nconnected dialogues with them.  And, although they pronounce words,\nthese words are entirely useless; the child understands, not the\nmeaning of the words, but the accent which accompanies them.\n\nTo the language of the voice is added the no less forcible language of\ngesture.  This gesture is not that of children's feeble hands; it is\nthat seen in their faces.  It is astonishing to see how much expression\nthese immature countenances already have.  From moment to moment, their\nfeatures change with inconceivable quickness.  On them you see the\nsmile, the wish, the fear, spring into life, and pass away, like so\nmany lightning flashes.  Each time you seem to see a different\ncountenance.  They certainly have much more flexible facial muscles\nthan ours.  On the other hand, their dull eyes tell us almost nothing\nat all.\n\nSuch is naturally the character of their expression when all their\nwants are physical.  Sensations are made known by grimaces, sentiments\nby looks.\n\nAs the first state of man is wretchedness and weakness, so his first\nutterances are complaints and tears.  The child feels his need and\ncannot satisfy it; he implores aid from others by crying.  If he is\nhungry or thirsty, he cries; if he is too cold or too warm, he cries;\nif he wishes to move or to be kept at rest, he cries; if he wishes to\nsleep or to be moved about, he cries.  The less control he has of his\nown mode of living, the oftener he asks those about him to change it.\nHe has but one language, because he feels, so to speak, but one sort of\ndiscomfort.  In the imperfect condition of his organs, he does not\ndistinguish their different impressions; all ills produce in him only a\nsensation of pain.\n\nFrom this crying, regarded as so little worthy of attention, arises the\nfirst relation of man to all that surrounds him; just here is forged\nthe first link of that long chain which constitutes social order.\n\nWhen the child cries, he is ill at ease; he has some want that he\ncannot satisfy.  We examine into it, we search for the want, find it,\nand relieve it.  When we cannot find it, or relieve it, the crying\ncontinues.  We are annoyed by it; we caress the child to make him keep\nquiet, we rock him and sing to him, to lull him asleep.  If he\npersists, we grow impatient; we threaten him; brutal nurses sometimes\nstrike him.  These are strange lessons for him upon his entrance into\nlife.\n\nThe first crying of children is a prayer.  If we do not heed it well,\nthis crying soon becomes a command.  They begin by asking our aid; they\nend by compelling us to serve them.  Thus from their very weakness,\nwhence comes, at first, their feeling of dependence, springs afterward\nthe idea of empire, and of commanding others.  But as this idea is\nawakened less by their own wants, than by the fact that we are serving\nthem, those moral results whose immediate cause is not in nature, are\nhere perceived.  We therefore see why, even at this early age, it is\nimportant to discern the hidden purpose which dictates the gesture or\nthe cry.\n\nWhen the child stretches forth his hand with an effort, but without a\nsound, he thinks he can reach some object, because he does not properly\nestimate its distance; he is mistaken.  But if, while stretching out\nhis hand, he complains and cries, he is no longer deceived as to the\ndistance.  He is commanding the object to come to him, or is directing\nyou to bring it to him.  In the first case, carry him to the object\nslowly, and with short steps; in the second case, do not even appear to\nunderstand him.  It is worth while to habituate him early not to\ncommand people, for he is not their master; nor things, for they cannot\nunderstand him.  So, when a child wants something he sees, and we mean\nto give it to him, it is better to carry him to the object than to\nfetch the object to him.  From this practice of ours he will learn a\nlesson suited to his age, and there is no better way of suggesting this\nlesson to him.\n\n\nMaxims to Keep us True to Nature.\n\nReason alone teaches us to know good and evil.  Conscience, which makes\nus love the one and hate the other, is independent of reason, but\ncannot grow strong without its aid.  Before reaching years of reason,\nwe do good and evil unconsciously.  There is no moral character in our\nactions, although there sometimes is in our feeling toward those\nactions of others which relate to us.  A child likes to disturb\neverything he sees; he breaks, he shatters everything within his reach;\nhe lays hold of a bird just as he would lay hold of a stone, and\nstrangles it without knowing what he is doing.\n\nWhy is this?  At first view, philosophy would account for it on the\nground of vices natural to us--pride, the spirit of domination,\nself-love, the wickedness of mankind.  It would perhaps add, that the\nsense of his own weakness makes the child eager to do things requiring\nstrength, and so prove to himself his own power.  But see that old man,\ninfirm and broken down, whom the cycle of human life brings back to the\nweakness of childhood.  Not only does he remain immovable and quiet,\nbut he wishes everything about him to be in the same condition.  The\nslightest change disturbs and disquiets him; he would like to see\nstillness reigning everywhere.  How could the same powerlessness,\njoined to the same passions, produce such different effects in the two\nages, if the primary cause were not changed?  And where can we seek for\nthis difference of cause, unless it be in the physical condition of the\ntwo individuals?  The active principle common to the two is developing\nin the one, and dying out in the other; the one is growing, and the\nother is wearing itself out; the one is tending toward life, and the\nother toward death.  Failing activity concentrates itself in the heart\nof the old man; in the child it is superabounding, and reaches outward;\nhe seems to feel within him life enough to animate all that surrounds\nhim.  Whether he makes or unmakes matters little to him.  It is enough\nthat he changes the condition of things, and that every change is an\naction.  If he seems more inclined to destroy things, it is not out of\nperverseness, but because the action which creates is always slow; and\nthat which destroys, being more rapid, better suits his natural\nsprightliness.\n\nWhile the Author of nature gives children this active principle, he\ntakes care that it shall do little harm; for he leaves them little\npower to indulge it.  But no sooner do they look upon those about them\nas instruments which it is their business to set in motion, than they\nmake use of them in following their own inclinations and in making up\nfor their own want of strength.  In this way they become disagreeable,\ntyrannical, imperious, perverse, unruly; a development not arising from\na natural spirit of domination, but creating such a spirit.  For no\nvery long experience is requisite in teaching how pleasant it is to act\nthrough others, and to need only move one's tongue to set the world in\nmotion.\n\nAs we grow up, we gain strength, we become less uneasy and restless, we\nshut ourselves more within ourselves.  The soul and the body put\nthemselves in equilibrium, as it were, and nature requires no more\nmotion than is necessary for out preservation.\n\nBut the wish to command outlives the necessity from which, it sprang;\npower to control others awakens and gratifies self-love, and habit\nmakes it strong.  Thus need gives place to whim; thus do prejudices and\nopinions first root themselves within us.\n\nThe principle once understood, we see clearly the point at which we\nleave the path of nature.  Let us discover what we ought to do, to keep\nwithin it.\n\nFar from having too much strength, children have not even enough for\nall that nature demands of them.  We ought, then, to leave them the\nfree use of all natural strength which they cannot misuse.  First maxim.\n\nWe must aid them, supplying whatever they lack in intelligence, in\nstrength, in all that belongs to physical necessity.  Second maxim.\n\nIn helping them, we must confine ourselves to what is really of use to\nthem, yielding nothing to their whims or unreasonable wishes.  For\ntheir own caprice will not trouble them unless we ourselves create it;\nit is not a natural thing.  Third maxim.\n\nWe must study carefully their language and their signs, so that, at an\nage when they cannot dissemble, we may judge which of their desires\nspring from nature itself, and which of them from opinion.  Fourth\nmaxim.\n\nThe meaning of these rules is, to allow children more personal freedom\nand less authority; to let them do more for themselves, and exact less\nfrom others.  Thus accustomed betimes to desire only what they can\nobtain or do for themselves, they will feel less keenly the want of\nwhatever is not within their own power.\n\nHere there is another and very important reason for leaving children\nabsolutely free as to body and limbs, with the sole precaution of\nkeeping them from the danger of falling, and of putting out of their\nreach everything that can injure them.\n\nDoubtless a child whose body and arms are free will cry less than one\nbound fast in swaddling clothes.  He who feels only physical wants\ncries only when he suffers, and this is a great advantage.  For then we\nknow exactly when he requires help, and we ought not to delay one\nmoment in giving him help, if possible.\n\nBut if you cannot relieve him, keep quiet; do not try to soothe him by\npetting him.  Your caresses will not cure his colic; but he will\nremember what he has to do in order to be petted.  And if he once\ndiscovers that he can, at will, busy you about him, he will have become\nyour master; the mischief is done.\n\nIf children were not so much thwarted in their movements, they would\nnot cry so much; if we were less annoyed by their crying, we would take\nless pains to hush them; if they were not so often threatened or\ncaressed, they would be less timid or less stubborn, and more truly\nthemselves as nature made them.  It is not so often by letting children\ncry, as by hastening to quiet them, that we make them rupture\nthemselves.  The proof of this is that the children most neglected are\nless subject than others to this infirmity.  I am far from wishing them\nto be neglected, however.  On the contrary, we ought to anticipate\ntheir wants, and not wait to be notified of these by the children's\ncrying.  Yet I would not have them misunderstand the cares we bestow on\nthem.  Why should they consider crying a fault, when they find that it\navails so much?  Knowing the value of their silence, they will be\ncareful not to be lavish of it.  They will, at last, make it so costly\nthat we can no longer pay for it; and then it is that by crying without\nsuccess they strain, weaken, and kill themselves.\n\nThe long crying fits of a child who is not compressed or ill, or\nallowed to want for anything, are from habit and obstinacy.  They are\nby no means the work of nature, but of the nurse, who, because she\ncannot endure the annoyance, multiplies it, without reflecting that by\nstilling the child to-day, he is induced to cry the more to-morrow.\n\nThe only way to cure or prevent this habit is to pay no attention to\nit.  No one, not even a child, likes to take unnecessary trouble.\n\nThey are stubborn in their attempts; but if you have more firmness than\nthey have obstinacy, they are discouraged, and do not repeat the\nattempt.  Thus we spare them some tears, and accustom them to cry only\nwhen pain forces them to it.\n\nNevertheless when they do cry from caprice or stubbornness, a sure way\nto prevent their continuing is, to turn their attention to some\nagreeable and striking object, and so make them forget their desire to\ncry.  In this art most nurses excel, and when skilfully employed, it is\nvery effective.  But it is highly important that the child should not\nknow of our intention to divert him, and that he should amuse himself\nwithout at all thinking we have him in mind.  In this all nurses are\nunskilful.\n\nAll children are weaned too early.  The proper time is indicated by\ntheir teething.  This process is usually painful and distressing.  By a\nmechanical instinct the child, at that time, carries to his mouth and\nchews everything he holds.  We think we make the operation easier by\ngiving him for a plaything some hard substance, such as ivory or coral.\nI think we are mistaken.  Far from softening the gums, these hard\nbodies, when applied, render them hard and callous, and prepare the way\nfor a more painful and distressing laceration.  Let us always take\ninstinct for guide.  We never see puppies try their growing teeth upon\nflints, or iron, or bones, but upon wood, or leather, or rags,--upon\nsoft materials, which give way, and on which the tooth impresses itself.\n\nWe no longer aim at simplicity, even where children are concerned.\nGolden and silver bells, corals, crystals, toys of every price, of\nevery sort.  What useless and mischievous affectations they are!  Let\nthere be none of them,--no bells, no toys.\n\nA little twig covered with its own leaves and fruit,--a poppy-head, in\nwhich the seeds can be heard rattling,--a stick of liquorice he can\nsuck and chew, these will amuse a child quite as well as the splendid\nbaubles, and will not disadvantage him by accustoming him to luxury\nfrom his very birth.\n\n\nLanguage.\n\nFrom the time they are born, children hear people speak.  They are\nspoken to not only before they understand what is said to them, but\nbefore they can repeat the sounds they hear.  Their organs, still\nbenumbed, adapt themselves only by degrees to imitating the sounds\ndictated to them, and it is not even certain that these sounds are\nborne to their ears at first as distinctly as to ours.\n\nI do not disapprove of a nurse's amusing the child with songs, and with\nblithe and varied tones.  But I do disapprove of her perpetually\ndeafening him with a multitude of useless words, of which he\nunderstands only the tone she gives them.\n\nI would like the first articulate sounds he must hear to be few in\nnumber, easy, distinct, often repeated.  The words they form should\nrepresent only material objects which can be shown him.  Our\nunfortunate readiness to content ourselves with words that have no\nmeaning to us whatever, begins earlier than we suppose.  Even as in his\nswaddling-clothes the child hears his nurse's babble, he hears in class\nthe verbiage of his teacher.  It strikes me that if he were to be so\nbrought up that he could not understand it at all, he would be very\nwell instructed.[6]\n\nReflections crowd upon us when we set about discussing the formation of\nchildren's language, and their baby talk itself.  In spite of us, they\nalways learn to speak by the same process, and all our philosophical\nspeculations about it are entirely useless.\n\nThey seem, at first, to have a grammar adapted to their own age,\nalthough its rules of syntax are more general than ours.  And if we\nwere to pay close attention to them, we should be astonished at the\nexactness with which they follow certain analogies, very faulty if you\nwill, but very regular, that are displeasing only because harsh, or\nbecause usage does not recognize them.\n\nIt is unbearable pedantry, and a most useless labor, to attempt\ncorrecting in children every little fault against usage; they never\nfail themselves to correct these faults in time.  Always speak\ncorrectly in their presence; order it so that they are never so happy\nwith any one as with you; and rest assured their language will\ninsensibly be purified by your own, without your having ever reproved\nthem.\n\nBut another error, which has an entirely different bearing on the\nmatter, and is no less easy to prevent, is our being over-anxious to\nmake them speak, as if we feared they might not of their own accord\nlearn to do so.  Our injudicious haste has an effect exactly contrary\nto what we wish.  On account of it they learn more slowly and speak\nmore indistinctly.  The marked attention paid to everything they utter\nmakes it unnecessary for them to articulate distinctly.  As they hardly\ncondescend to open their lips, many retain throughout life an imperfect\npronunciation and a confused manner of speaking, which makes them\nnearly unintelligible.\n\nChildren who are too much urged to speak have not time sufficient for\nlearning either to pronounce carefully or to understand thoroughly what\nthey are made to say.  If, instead, they are left to themselves, they\nat first practise using the syllables they can most readily utter; and\ngradually attaching to these some meaning that can be gathered from\ntheir gestures, they give you their own words before acquiring yours.\nThus they receive yours only after they understand them.  Not being\nurged to use them, they notice carefully what meaning you give them;\nand, when they are sure of this, they adopt it as their own.\n\nThe greatest evil arising from our haste to make children speak before\nthey are old enough is not that our first talks with them, and the\nfirst words they use, have no meaning to them, but that they have a\nmeaning different from ours, without our being able to perceive it.\nThus, while they seem to be answering us very correctly, they are\nreally addressing us without understanding us, and without our\nunderstanding them.  To such ambiguous discourse is due the surprise we\nsometimes feel at their sayings, to which we attach ideas the children\nthemselves have not dreamed of.  This inattention of ours to the true\nmeaning words have for children seems to me the cause of their first\nmistakes, and these errors, even after children are cured of them,\ninfluence their turn of mind for the remainder of their life.\n\nThe first developments of childhood occur almost all at once.  The\nchild learns to speak, to eat, to walk, nearly at the same time.  This\nis, properly, the first epoch of his life.  Before then he is nothing\nmore than he was before he was born; he has not a sentiment, not an\nidea; he scarcely has sensations; he does not feel even his own\nexistence.\n\n\n\n[1] It is useless to enlarge upon the absurdity of this theory, and\nupon the flagrant contradiction into which Rousseau allows himself to\nfall.  If he is right, man ought to be left without education, and the\nearth without cultivation.  This would not be even the savage state.\nBut want of space forbids us to pause at each like statement of our\nauthor, who at once busies himself in nullifying it.\n\n[2] The voice of Rousseau was heard.  The nursing of children by their\nown mothers, which had gone into disuse as vulgar and troublesome,\nbecame a fashion.  Great ladies prided themselves upon returning to the\nusage of nature, and infants were brought in with the dessert to give\nan exhibition of maternal tenderness.  This affectation died out, but\nin most families the good and wholesome custom of motherhood was\nretained.  This page of Rousseau's contributed its share to the happy\nresult.\n\n[3] This remark is not a just one.  How often have we seen unhappy\ncreatures disgusted with life because of some dreadful and incurable\nmalady?  It is true that suicide, being an act of madness, is more\nfrequently caused by those troubles which imagination delights itself\nin magnifying up to the point of insanity.\n\n[4] This is an allusion to one of the most unfortunate episodes in the\nlife of Rousseau,--his abandoning of the children whom Therese\nLevasseur bore him, and whom he sent to a foundling hospital because he\nfelt within him neither courage to labor for their support, nor\ncapacity to educate them.  Sad practical defect in this teacher of\ntheories of education!\n\n[5] For the particular example of education which he supposes, Rousseau\ncreates a tutor whom he consecrates absolutely, exclusively, to the\nwork.  He desires one so perfect that he calls him a prodigy.  Let us\nnot blame him for this.  The ideal of those who assume the noble and\ndifficult office of a teacher of childhood cannot be placed too high.\nAs to the pupil, Rousseau imagines a child of average ability, in easy\ncircumstances, and of robust health.  He makes him an only son and an\norphan, so that no family vicissitudes may disturb the logic of his\nplan.\n\nAll this may be summed up by saying that he considers the child in\nhimself with regard to his individual development, and without regard\nto his relations to ordinary life.  This at the same time renders his\ntask easy, and deprives him of an important element of education.\n\n[6] No doubt this sarcasm is applicable to those teachers who talk so\nas to say nothing.  A teacher ought, on the contrary, to speak only so\nas to be understood by the child.  He ought to adapt himself to the\nchild's capacity; to employ no useless or conventional expressions; his\nlanguage ought to arouse curiosity and to impart light.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK SECOND.\n\n\nThe second book takes the child at about the fifth year, and conducts\nhim to about the twelfth year.  He is no longer the little child; he is\nthe young boy.  His education becomes more important.  It consists not\nin studies, in reading or writing, or in duties, but in well-chosen\nplays, in ingenious recreations, in well-directed experiments.\n\nThere should be no exaggerated precautions, and, on the other hand, no\nharshness, no punishments.  We must love the child, and encourage his\nplaying.  To make him realize his weakness and the narrow limits within\nwhich it can work, to keep the child dependent only on circumstances,\nwill suffice, without ever making him feel the yoke of the master.\n\nThe best education is accomplished in the country.  Teaching by means\nof things.  Criticism of the ordinary method.  Education of the senses\nby continually exercising them.\n\n\n\nAvoid taking too many Precautions.\n\nThis is the second period of life, and the one at which, properly\nspeaking, infancy ends; for the words _infans_ and _puer_ are not\nsynonymous.[1]  The first is included in the second, and means _one who\ncannot speak_: thus in Valerius Maximus we find the expression _puerum\ninfantem_.  But I shall continue to employ the word according to the\nusage of the French language, until I am describing the age for which\nthere are other names.\n\nWhen children begin to speak, they cry less often.  This step in\nadvance is natural; one language is substituted for another.  As soon\nas they can utter their complaints in words, why should they cry,\nunless the suffering is too keen to be expressed by words?  If they\nthen continue to cry, it is the fault of those around them.  After\nEmile has once said, \"It hurts me,\" only acute suffering can force him\nto cry.\n\nIf the child is physically so delicate and sensitive that he naturally\ncries about nothing, I will soon exhaust the fountain of his tears, by\nmaking them ineffectual.  So long as he cries, I will not go to him; as\nsoon as he stops, I will run to him.  Very soon his method of calling\nme will be to keep quiet, or at the utmost, to utter a single cry.\nChildren judge of the meaning of signs by their palpable effect; they\nhave no other rule.  Whatever harm a child may do himself, he very\nrarely cries when alone, unless with the hope of being heard.\n\nIf he fall, if he bruise his head, if his nose bleed, if he cut his\nfinger, I should, instead of bustling about him with a look of alarm,\nremain quiet, at least for a little while.  The mischief is done; he\nmust endure it; all my anxiety will only serve to frighten him more,\nand to increase his sensitiveness.  After all, when we hurt ourselves,\nit is less the shock which pains us than the fright.  I will spare him\nat least this last pang; for he will certainly estimate his hurt as he\nsees me estimate it.  If he sees me run anxiously to comfort and to\npity him, he will think himself seriously hurt; but if he sees me keep\nmy presence of mind, he will soon recover his own, and will think the\npain cured when he no longer feels it.  At his age we learn our first\nlessons in courage; and by fearlessly enduring lighter sufferings, we\ngradually learn to bear the heavier ones.\n\nFar from taking care that Emile does not hurt himself, I shall be\ndissatisfied if he never does, and so grows up unacquainted with pain.\nTo suffer is the first and most necessary thing for him to learn.\nChildren are little and weak, apparently that they may learn these\nimportant lessons.  If a child fall his whole length, he will not break\nhis leg; if he strike himself with a stick, he will not break his arm;\nif he lay hold of an edged tool, he does not grasp it tightly, and will\nnot cut himself very badly.\n\nOur pedantic mania for instructing constantly leads us to teach\nchildren what they can learn far better for themselves, and to lose\nsight of what we alone can teach them.  Is there anything more absurd\nthan the pains we take in teaching them to walk?  As if we had ever\nseen one, who, through his nurse's negligence, did not know how to walk\nwhen grown!  On the contrary, how many people do we see moving\nawkwardly all their lives because they have been badly taught how to\nwalk!\n\nEmile shall have no head-protectors, nor carriages, nor go-carts, nor\nleading-strings.  Or at least from the time when he begins to be able\nto put one foot before the other, he shall not be supported, except\nover paved places; and he shall be hurried over these.  Instead of\nletting him suffocate in the exhausted air indoors, let him be taken\nevery day, far out into the fields.  There let him run about, play,\nfall down a hundred times a day; the oftener the better, as he will the\nsooner learn to get up again by himself.  The boon of freedom is worth\nmany scars.  My pupil will have many bruises, but to make amends for\nthat, he will be always light-hearted.  Though your pupils are less\noften hurt, they are continually thwarted, fettered; they are always\nunhappy.  I doubt whether the advantage be on their side.\n\nThe development of their physical strength makes complaint less\nnecessary to children.  When able to help themselves, they have less\nneed of the help of others.  Knowledge to direct their strength grows\nwith that strength.  At this second stage the life of the individual\nproperly begins; he now becomes conscious of his own being.  Memory\nextends this feeling of personal identity to every moment of his\nexistence; he becomes really one, the same one, and consequently\ncapable of happiness or of misery.  We must therefore, from this\nmoment, begin to regard him as a moral being.\n\n\nChildhood is to be Loved.\n\nAlthough the longest term of human life, and the probability, at any\ngiven age, of reaching this term, have been computed, nothing is more\nuncertain than the continuance of each individual life: very few attain\nthe maximum.  The greatest risks in life are at its beginning; the less\none has lived, the less prospect he has of living.\n\nOf all children born, only about half reach youth; and it is probable\nthat your pupil may never attain to manhood.  What, then, must be\nthought of that barbarous education which sacrifices the present to an\nuncertain future, loads the child with every description of fetters,\nand begins, by making him wretched, to prepare for him some far-away\nindefinite happiness he may never enjoy!  Even supposing the object of\nsuch an education reasonable, how can we without indignation see the\nunfortunate creatures bowed under an insupportable yoke, doomed to\nconstant labor like so many galley-slaves, without any certainty that\nall this toil will ever be of use to them!  The years that ought to be\nbright and cheerful are passed in tears amid punishments, threats, and\nslavery.  For his own good, the unhappy child is tortured; and the\ndeath thus summoned will seize on him unperceived amidst all this\nmelancholy preparation.  Who knows how many children die on account of\nthe extravagant prudence of a father or of a teacher?  Happy in\nescaping his cruelty, it gives them one advantage; they leave without\nregret a life which they know only from its darker side.[2]\n\nO men, be humane! it is your highest duty; be humane to all conditions\nof men, to every age, to everything not alien to mankind.  What higher\nwisdom is there for you than humanity?  Love childhood; encourage its\nsports, its pleasures, its lovable instincts.  Who among us has not at\ntimes looked back with regret to the age when a smile was continually\non our lips, when the soul was always at peace?  Why should we rob\nthese little innocent creatures of the enjoyment of a time so brief, so\ntransient, of a boon so precious, which they cannot misuse?  Why will\nyou fill with bitterness and sorrow these fleeting years which can no\nmore return to them than to you?  Do you know, you fathers, the moment\nwhen death awaits your children?  Do not store up for yourselves\nremorse, by taking from them the brief moments nature has given them.\nAs soon as they can appreciate the delights of existence, let them\nenjoy it.  At whatever hour God may call them, let them not die without\nhaving tasted life at all.\n\nYou answer, \"It is the time to correct the evil tendencies of the human\nheart.  In childhood, when sufferings are less keenly felt, they ought\nto be multiplied, so that fewer of them will have to be encountered\nduring the age of reason.\"  But who has told you that it is your\nprovince to make this arrangement, and that all these fine\ninstructions, with which you burden the tender mind of a child, will\nnot one day be more pernicious than useful to him?  Who assures you\nthat you spare him anything when you deal him afflictions with so\nlavish a hand?  Why do you cause him more unhappiness than he can bear,\nwhen you are not sure that the future will compensate him for these\npresent evils?  And how can you prove that the evil tendencies of which\nyou pretend to cure him will not arise from your mistaken care rather\nthan from nature itself!  Unhappy foresight, which renders a creature\nactually miserable, in the hope, well or ill founded, of one day making\nhim happy!  If these vulgar reasoners confound license with liberty,\nand mistake a spoiled child for a child who is made happy, let us teach\nthem to distinguish the two.\n\nTo avoid being misled, let us remember what really accords with our\npresent abilities.  Humanity has its place in the general order of\nthings; childhood has its place in the order of human life.  Mankind\nmust be considered in the individual man, and childhood in the\nindividual child.  To assign each his place, and to establish him in\nit--to direct human passions as human nature will permit--is all we can\ndo for his welfare.  The rest depends on outside influences not under\nour control.\n\n\nNeither Slaves nor Tyrants.\n\nHe alone has his own way who, to compass it, does not need the arm of\nanother to lengthen his own.  Consequently freedom, and not authority,\nis the greatest good.  A man who desires only what he can do for\nhimself is really free to do whatever he pleases.  From this axiom, if\nit be applied to the case of childhood, all the rules of education will\nfollow.\n\nA wise man understands how to remain in his own place; but a child, who\ndoes not know his, cannot preserve it.  As matters stand, there are a\nthousand ways of leaving it.  Those who govern him are to keep him in\nit, and this is not an easy task.  He ought to be neither an animal nor\na man, but a child.  He should feel his weakness, and yet not suffer\nfrom it.  He should depend, not obey; he should demand, not command.\nHe is subject to others only by reason of his needs, and because others\nsee better than he what is useful to him, what will contribute to his\nwell-being or will impair it.  No one, not even his father, has a right\nto command a child to do what is of no use to him whatever.\n\nAccustom the child to depend only on circumstances, and as his\neducation goes on, you will follow the order of nature.  Never oppose\nto his imprudent wishes anything but physical obstacles, or punishments\nwhich arise from the actions themselves, and which he will remember\nwhen the occasion comes.  It is enough to prevent his doing harm,\nwithout forbidding it.  With him only experience, or want of power,\nshould take the place of law.  Do not give him anything because he asks\nfor it, but because he needs it.  When he acts, do not let him know\nthat it is from obedience; and when another acts for him, let him not\nfeel that he is exercising authority.  Let him feel his liberty as much\nin your actions as in his own.  Add to the power he lacks exactly\nenough to make him free and not imperious, so that, accepting your aid\nwith a kind of humiliation, he may aspire to the moment when he can\ndispense with it, and have the honor of serving himself.  For\nstrengthening the body and promoting its growth, nature has means which\nought never to be thwarted.  A child ought not to be constrained to\nstay anywhere when he wishes to go away, or to go away when he wishes\nto stay.  When their will is not spoiled by our own fault, children do\nnot wish for anything without good reason.  They ought to leap, to run,\nto shout, whenever they will.  All their movements are necessities of\nnature, which is endeavoring to strengthen itself.  But we must take\nheed of those wishes they cannot themselves accomplish, but must fulfil\nby the hand of another.  Therefore care should be taken to distinguish\nthe real wants, the wants of nature, from those which arise from fancy\nor from the redundant life just mentioned.\n\nI have already suggested what should be done when a child cries for\nanything.  I will only add that, as soon as he can ask in words for\nwhat he wants, and, to obtain it sooner, or to overcome a refusal,\nreinforces his request by crying, it should never be granted him.  If\nnecessity has made him speak, you ought to know it, and at once to\ngrant what he demands.  But yielding to his tears is encouraging him to\nshed them: it teaches him to doubt your good will, and to believe that\nimportunity has more influence over you than your own kindness of heart\nhas.\n\nIf he does not believe you good, he will soon be bad; if he believes\nyou weak, he will soon be stubborn.  It is of great importance that you\nat once consent to what you do not intend to refuse him.  Do not refuse\noften, but never revoke a refusal.\n\nAbove all things, beware of teaching the child empty formulas of\npoliteness which shall serve him instead of magic words to subject to\nhis own wishes all who surround him, and to obtain instantly what he\nlikes.  In the artificial education of the rich they are infallibly\nmade politely imperious, by having prescribed to them what terms to use\nso that no one shall dare resist them.  Such children have neither the\ntones nor the speech of suppliants; they are as arrogant when they\nrequest as when they command, and even more so, for in the former case\nthey are more sure of being obeyed.  From the first it is readily seen\nthat, coming from them, \"If you please\" means \"It pleases me\"; and that\n\"I beg\" signifies \"I order you.\"  Singular politeness this, by which\nthey only change the meaning of words, and so never speak but with\nauthority!  For myself, I dread far less Emile's being rude than his\nbeing arrogant.  I would rather have him say \"Do this\" as if requesting\nthan \"I beg you\" as if commanding.  I attach far less importance to the\nterm he uses than to the meaning he associates with it.\n\nOver-strictness and over-indulgence are equally to be avoided.  If you\nlet children suffer, you endanger their health and their life; you make\nthem actually wretched.  If you carefully spare them every kind of\nannoyance, you are storing up for them much unhappiness; you are making\nthem delicate and sensitive to pain; you are removing them from the\ncommon lot of man, into which, in spite of all your care, they will one\nday return.  To save them some natural discomforts, you contrive for\nthem others which nature has not inflicted.\n\nYou will charge me with falling into the mistake of those fathers I\nhave reproached for sacrificing their children's happiness to\nconsiderations of a far-away future that may never be.  Not so; for the\nfreedom I give my pupil will amply supply him with the slight\ndiscomforts to which I leave him exposed.  I see the little rogues\nplaying in the snow, blue with cold, and scarcely able to move their\nfingers.  They have only to go and warm themselves, but they do nothing\nof the kind.  If they are compelled to do so, they feel the constraint\na hundred times more than they do the cold.  Why then do you complain?\nShall I make your child unhappy if I expose him only to those\ninconveniences he is perfectly willing to endure?  By leaving him at\nliberty, I do him service now; by arming him against the ills he must\nencounter, I do him service for the time to come.  If he could choose\nbetween being my pupil or yours, do you think he would hesitate a\nmoment?\n\nCan we conceive of any creature's being truly happy outside of what\nbelongs to its own peculiar nature?  And if we would have a man exempt\nfrom all human misfortunes, would it not estrange him from humanity?\nUndoubtedly it would; for we are so constituted that to appreciate\ngreat good fortune we must be acquainted with slight misfortunes.  If\nthe body be too much at ease the moral nature becomes corrupted.  The\nman unacquainted with suffering would not know the tender feelings of\nhumanity or the sweetness of compassion; he would not be a social\nbeing; he would be a monster among his kind.\n\nThe surest way to make a child unhappy is to accustom him to obtain\neverything he wants to have.  For, since his wishes multiply in\nproportion to the ease with which they are gratified, your inability to\nfulfil them will sooner or later oblige you to refuse in spite of\nyourself, and this unwonted refusal will pain him more than withholding\nfrom him what he demands.  At first he will want the cane you hold;\nsoon he will want your watch; afterward he will want the bird he sees\nflying, or the star he sees shining.  He will want everything he sees,\nand without being God himself how can you content him?\n\nMan is naturally disposed to regard as his own whatever is within his\npower.  In this sense the principle of Hobbes is correct up to a\ncertain point; multiply with our desires the means of satisfying them,\nand each of us will make himself master of everything.  Hence the child\nwho has only to wish in order to obtain his wish, thinks himself the\nowner of the universe.  He regards all men as his slaves, and when at\nlast he must be denied something, he, believing everything possible\nwhen he commands it, takes refusal for an act of rebellion.  At his\nage, incapable of reasoning, all reasons given seem to him only\npretexts.  He sees ill-will in everything; the feeling of imagined\ninjustice embitters his temper; he begins to hate everybody, and\nwithout ever being thankful for kindness, is angry at any opposition\nwhatever.\n\nWho supposes that a child thus ruled by anger, a prey to furious\npassions, can ever be happy?  He happy?  He is a tyrant; that is, the\nvilest of slaves, and at the same time the most miserable of beings.  I\nhave seen children thus reared who wanted those about them to push the\nhouse down, to give them the weathercock they saw on a steeple, to stop\nthe march of a regiment so that they could enjoy the drum-beat a little\nlonger; and as soon as obedience to these demands was delayed they rent\nthe air with their screams, and would listen to no one.  In vain\neverybody tried eagerly to gratify them.  The ease with which they\nfound their wishes obeyed stimulated them to desire more, and to be\nstubborn about impossibilities.  Everywhere they found only\ncontradictions, impediments, suffering, and sorrow.  Always\ncomplaining, always refractory, always angry, they spent the time in\ncrying and fretting; were these creatures happy?  Authority and\nweakness conjoined produce only madness and wretchedness.  One of two\nspoiled children beats the table, and the other has the sea lashed.[3]\nThey will have much to beat and to lash before they are satisfied with\nlife.\n\nIf these ideas of authority and of tyranny make them unhappy from their\nvery childhood, how will it be with them when they are grown, and when\ntheir relations with others begin to be extended and multiplied?\n\nAccustomed to seeing everything give way before them, how surprised\nthey will be on entering the world to find themselves crushed beneath\nthe weight of that universe they have expected to move at their own\npleasure!  Their insolent airs and childish vanity will only bring upon\nthem mortification, contempt, and ridicule; they must swallow affront\nafter affront; cruel trials will teach them that they understand\nneither their own position nor their own strength.  Unable to do\neverything, they will think themselves unable to do anything.  So many\nunusual obstacles dishearten them, so much contempt degrades them.\nThey become base, cowardly, cringing, and sink as far below their real\nself as they had imagined themselves above it.\n\nLet us return to the original order of things.  Nature has made\nchildren to be loved and helped; has she made them to be obeyed and\nfeared?  Has she given them an imposing air, a stern eye, a harsh and\nthreatening voice, so that they may inspire fear?  I can understand why\nthe roar of a lion fills other creatures with dread, and why they\ntremble at sight of his terrible countenance.  But if ever there were\nan unbecoming, hateful, ridiculous spectacle, it is that of a body of\nmagistrates in their robes of ceremony, and headed by their chief,\nprostrate before an infant in long clothes, who to their pompous\nharangue replies only by screams or by childish drivel![4]\n\nConsidering infancy in itself, is there a creature on earth more\nhelpless, more unhappy, more at the mercy of everything around him,\nmore in need of compassion, of care, of protection, than a child?  Does\nit not seem as if his sweet face and touching aspect were intended to\ninterest every one who comes near him, and to urge them to assist his\nweakness?  What then is more outrageous, more contrary to the fitness\nof things, than to see an imperious and headstrong child ordering about\nthose around him, impudently taking the tone of a master toward those\nwho, to destroy him, need only leave him to himself!\n\nOn the other hand, who does not see that since the weakness of infancy\nfetters children in so many ways, we are barbarous if we add to this\nnatural subjection a bondage to our own caprices by taking from them\nthe limited freedom they have, a freedom they are so little able to\nmisuse, and from the loss of which we and they have so little to gain?\nAs nothing is more ridiculous than a haughty child, so nothing is more\npitiable than a cowardly child.\n\nSince with years of reason civil bondage[5] begins, why anticipate it\nby slavery at home?  Let us leave one moment of life exempt from a yoke\nnature has not laid upon us, and allow childhood the exercise of that\nnatural liberty which keeps it safe, at least for a time, from the\nvices taught by slavery.  Let the over-strict teacher and the\nover-indulgent parent both come with their empty cavils, and before\nthey boast of their own methods let them learn the method of Nature\nherself.\n\n\nReasoning should not begin too soon.\n\nLocke's great maxim was that we ought to reason with children, and just\nnow this maxim is much in fashion.  I think, however, that its success\ndoes not warrant its reputation, and I find nothing more stupid than\nchildren who have been so much reasoned with.  Reason, apparently a\ncompound of all other faculties, the one latest developed, and with\nmost difficulty, is the one proposed as agent in unfolding the\nfaculties earliest used!  The noblest work of education is to make a\nreasoning man, and we expect to train a young child by making him\nreason!  This is beginning at the end; this is making an instrument of\na result.  If children understood how to reason they would not need to\nbe educated.  But by addressing them from their tenderest years in a\nlanguage they cannot understand, you accustom them to be satisfied with\nwords, to find fault with whatever is said to them, to think themselves\nas wise as their teachers, to wrangle and rebel.  And what we mean they\nshall do from reasonable motives we are forced to obtain from them by\nadding the motive of avarice, or of fear, or of vanity.\n\nNature intends that children shall be children before they are men.  If\nwe insist on reversing this order we shall have fruit early indeed, but\nunripe and tasteless, and liable to early decay; we shall have young\nsavants and old children.  Childhood has its own methods of seeing,\nthinking, and feeling.  Nothing shows less sense than to try to\nsubstitute our own methods for these.  I would rather require a child\nten years old to be five feet tall than to be judicious.  Indeed, what\nuse would he have at that age for the power to reason?  It is a check\nupon physical strength, and the child needs none.\n\nIn attempting to persuade your pupils to obedience you add to this\nalleged persuasion force and threats, or worse still, flattery and\npromises.  Bought over in this way by interest, or constrained by\nforce, they pretend to be convinced by reason.  They see plainly that\nas soon as you discover obedience or disobedience in their conduct, the\nformer is an advantage and the latter a disadvantage to them.  But you\nask of them only what is distasteful to them; it is always irksome to\ncarry out the wishes of another, so by stealth they carry out their\nown.  They are sure that if their disobedience is not known they are\ndoing well; but they are ready, for fear of greater evils, to\nacknowledge, if found out, that they are doing wrong.  As the reason\nfor the duty required is beyond their capacity, no one can make them\nreally understand it.  But the fear of punishment, the hope of\nforgiveness, your importunity, their difficulty in answering you,\nextort from them the confession required of them.  You think you have\nconvinced them, when you have only wearied them out or intimidated them.\n\nWhat results from this?  First of all that, by imposing upon them a\nduty they do not feel as such, you set them against your tyranny, and\ndissuade them from loving you; you teach them to be dissemblers,\ndeceitful, willfully untrue, for the sake of extorting rewards or of\nescaping punishments.  Finally, by habituating them to cover a secret\nmotive by an apparent motive, you give them the means of constantly\nmisleading you, of concealing their true character from you, and of\nsatisfying yourself and others with empty words when their occasion\ndemands.  You may say that the law, although binding on the conscience,\nuses constraint in dealing with grown men.  I grant it; but what are\nthese men but children spoiled by their education?  This is precisely\nwhat ought to be prevented.  With children use force, with men reason;\nsuch is the natural order of things.  The wise man requires no laws.\n\n\nWell-Regulated Liberty.\n\nTreat your pupil as his age demands.  From the first, assign him to his\ntrue place, and keep him there so effectually that he will not try to\nleave it.  Then, without knowing what wisdom is, he will practise its\nmost important lesson.  Never, absolutely never, command him to do a\nthing, whatever it may be.[6]  Do not let him even imagine that you\nclaim any authority over him.  Let him know only that he is weak and\nyou are strong: that from his condition and yours he is necessarily at\nyour mercy.  Let him know this--learn it and feel it.  Let him early\nknow that upon his haughty neck is the stern yoke nature imposes upon\nman, the heavy yoke of necessity, under which every finite being must\ntoil.\n\nLet him discover this necessity in the nature of things; never in human\ncaprice.  Let the rein that holds him back be power, not authority.  Do\nnot forbid, but prevent, his doing what he ought not; and in thus\npreventing him use no explanations, give no reasons.  What you grant\nhim, grant at the first asking without any urging, any entreaty from\nhim, and above all without conditions.  Consent with pleasure and\nrefuse unwillingly, but let every refusal be irrevocable.  Let no\nimportunity move you.  Let the \"No\" once uttered be a wall of brass\nagainst which the child will have to exhaust his strength only five or\nsix times before he ceases trying to overturn it.\n\nIn this way you will make him patient, even-tempered, resigned, gentle,\neven when he has not what he wants.  For it is in our nature to endure\npatiently the decrees of fate, but not the ill-will of others.  \"There\nis no more,\" is an answer against which no child ever rebelled unless\nhe believed it untrue.  Besides, there is no other way; either nothing\nat all is to be required of him, or he must from the first be\naccustomed to perfect obedience.  The worst training of all is to leave\nhim wavering between his own will and yours, and to dispute incessantly\nwith him as to which shall be master.  I should a hundred times prefer\nhis being master in every case.\n\nIt is marvellous that in undertaking to educate a child no other means\nof guiding him should have been devised than emulation, jealousy, envy,\nvanity, greed, vile fear,--all of them passions most dangerous,\nreadiest to ferment, fittest to corrupt a soul, even before the body is\nfull-grown.  For each instruction too early put into a child's head, a\nvice is deeply implanted in his heart.  Foolish teachers think they are\ndoing wonders when they make a child wicked, in order to teach him what\ngoodness is; and then they gravely tell us, \"Such is man.\"  Yes; such\nis the man you have made.\n\nAll means have been tried save one, and that the very one which insures\nsuccess, namely, well-regulated freedom.  We ought not to undertake a\nchild's education unless we know how to lead him wherever we please\nsolely by the laws of the possible and the impossible.  The sphere of\nboth being alike unknown to him, we may extend or contract it around\nhim as we will.  We may bind him down, incite him to action, restrain\nhim by the leash of necessity alone, and he will not murmur.  We may\nrender him pliant and teachable by the force of circumstances alone,\nwithout giving any vice an opportunity to take root within him.  For\nthe passions never awake to life, so long as they are of no avail.\n\nDo not give your pupil any sort of lesson verbally: he ought to receive\nnone except from experience.  Inflict upon him no kind of punishment,\nfor he does not know what being in fault means; never oblige him to ask\npardon, for he does not know what it is to offend you.\n\nHis actions being without moral quality, he can do nothing which is\nmorally bad, or which deserves either punishment or reproof.[7]\n\nAlready I see the startled reader judging of this child by those around\nus; but he is mistaken.  The perpetual constraint under which you keep\nyour pupils increases their liveliness.  The more cramped they are\nwhile under your eye the more unruly they are the moment they escape\nit.  They must, in fact, make themselves amends for the severe\nrestraint you put upon them.  Two school-boys from a city will do more\nmischief in a community than the young people of a whole village.\n\nShut up in the same room a little gentleman and a little peasant; the\nformer will have everything upset and broken before the latter has\nmoved from his place.  Why is this?  Because the one hastens to misuse\na moment of liberty, and the other, always sure of his freedom, is\nnever in a hurry to use it.  And yet the children of villagers, often\npetted or thwarted, are still very far from the condition in which I\nshould wish to keep them.\n\n\nProceed Slowly.\n\nMay I venture to state here the greatest, the most important, the most\nuseful rule in all education?  It is, not to gain time, but to lose it.\nForgive the paradox, O my ordinary reader!  It must be uttered by any\none who reflects, and whatever you may say, I prefer paradoxes to\nprejudices.  The most perilous interval of human life is that between\nbirth and the age of twelve years.  At that time errors and vices take\nroot without our having any means of destroying them; and when the\ninstrument is found, the time for uprooting them is past.  If children\ncould spring at one bound from the mother's breast to the age of\nreason, the education given them now-a-days would be suitable; but in\nthe due order of nature they need one entirely different.  They should\nnot use the mind at all, until it has all its faculties.  For while it\nis blind it cannot see the torch you present to it; nor can it follow\non the immense plain of ideas a path which, even for the keenest\neyesight, reason traces so faintly.\n\nThe earliest education ought, then, to be purely negative.  It consists\nnot in teaching truth or virtue, but in shielding the heart from vice\nand the mind from error.  If you could do nothing at all, and allow\nnothing to be done; if you could bring up your pupil sound and robust\nto the age of twelve years, without his knowing how to distinguish his\nright hand from his left, the eyes of his understanding would from the\nvery first open to reason.  Without a prejudice or a habit, there would\nbe in him nothing to counteract the effect of your care.  Before long\nhe would become in your hands the wisest of men; and beginning by doing\nnothing, you would have accomplished a marvel in education.\n\nReverse the common practice, and you will nearly always do well.\nParents and teachers desiring to make of a child not a child, but a\nlearned man, have never begun early enough to chide, to correct, to\nreprimand, to flatter, to promise, to instruct, to discourse reason to\nhim.  Do better than this: be reasonable yourself, and do not argue\nwith your pupil, least of all, to make him approve what he dislikes.\nFor if you persist in reasoning about disagreeable things, you make\nreasoning disagreeable to him, and weaken its influence beforehand in a\nmind as yet unfitted to understand it.  Keep his organs, his senses,\nhis physical strength, busy; but, as long as possible, keep his mind\ninactive.  Guard against all sensations arising in advance of judgment,\nwhich estimates their true value.  Keep back and check unfamiliar\nimpressions, and be in no haste to do good for the sake of preventing\nevil.  For the good is not real unless enlightened by reason.  Regard\nevery delay as an advantage; for much is gained if the critical period\nbe approached without losing anything.  Let childhood have its full\ngrowth.  If indeed a lesson must be given, avoid it to-day, if you can\nwithout danger delay it until to-morrow.\n\nAnother consideration which proves this method useful is the peculiar\nbent of the child's mind.  This ought to be well understood if we would\nknow what moral government is best adapted to him.  Each has his own\ncast of mind, in accordance with which he must be directed; and if we\nwould succeed, he must be ruled according to this natural bent and no\nother.  Be judicious: watch nature long, and observe your pupil\ncarefully before you say a word to him.  At first leave the germ of his\ncharacter free to disclose itself.  Repress it as little as possible,\nso that you may the better see all there is of it.\n\nDo you think this season of free action will be time lost to him?  On\nthe contrary, it will be employed in the best way possible.  For by\nthis means you will learn not to lose a single moment when time is more\nprecious; whereas, if you begin to act before you know what ought to be\ndone, you act at random.  Liable to deceive yourself, you will have to\nretrace your steps, and will be farther from your object than if you\nhad been less in haste to reach it.  Do not then act like a miser, who,\nin order to lose nothing, loses a great deal.  At the earlier age\nsacrifice time which you will recover with interest later on.  The wise\nphysician does not give directions at first sight of his patient, but\nstudies the sick man's temperament, before prescribing.  He begins late\nwith his treatment, but cures the man: the over-hasty physician kills\nhim.\n\nRemember that, before you venture undertaking to form a man, you must\nhave made yourself a man; you must find in yourself the example you\nought to offer him.  While the child is yet without knowledge there is\ntime to prepare everything about him so that his first glance shall\ndiscover only what he ought to see.  Make everybody respect you; begin\nby making yourself beloved, so that everybody will try to please you.\nYou will not be the child's master unless you are master of everything\naround him, and this authority will not suffice unless founded on\nesteem for virtue.\n\nThere is no use in exhausting your purse by lavishing money: I have\nnever observed that money made any one beloved.  You must not be\nmiserly or unfeeling, or lament the distress you can relieve; but you\nwill open your coffers in vain if you do not open your heart; the\nhearts of others will be forever closed to you.  You must give your\ntime, your care, your affection, yourself.  For whatever you may do,\nyour money certainly is not yourself.  Tokens of interest and of\nkindness go farther and are of more use than any gifts whatever.  How\nmany unhappy persons, how many sufferers, need consolation far more\nthan alms!  How many who are oppressed are aided rather by protection\nthan by money!\n\nReconcile those who are at variance; prevent lawsuits; persuade\nchildren to filial duty and parents to gentleness.  Encourage happy\nmarriages; hinder disturbances; use freely the interest of your pupil's\nfamily on behalf of the weak who are denied justice and oppressed by\nthe powerful.  Boldly declare yourself the champion of the unfortunate.\nBe just, humane, beneficent.  Be not content with giving alms; be\ncharitable.  Kindness relieves more distress than money can reach.\nLove others, and they will love you; serve them, and they will serve\nyou; be their brother, and they will be your children.\n\nBlame others no longer for the mischief you yourself are doing.\nChildren are less corrupted by the harm they see than by that you teach\nthem.\n\nAlways preaching, always moralizing, always acting the pedant, you give\nthem twenty worthless ideas when you think you are giving them one good\none.  Full of what is passing in your own mind, you do not see the\neffect you are producing upon theirs.\n\nIn the prolonged torrent of words with which you incessantly weary\nthem, do you think there are none they may misunderstand?  Do you\nimagine that they will not comment in their own way upon your wordy\nexplanations, and find in them a system adapted to their own capacity,\nwhich, if need be, they can use against you?\n\nListen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction.  Let him\nprattle, question, blunder, just as he pleases, and you will be\nsurprised at the turn your reasonings have taken in his mind.  He\nconfounds one thing with another; he reverses everything; he tires you,\nsometimes worries you, by unexpected objections.  He forces you to hold\nyour peace, or to make him hold his.  And what must he think of this\nsilence, in one so fond of talking?  If ever he wins this advantage and\nknows the fact, farewell to his education.  He will no longer try to\nlearn, but to refute what you say.\n\nBe plain, discreet, reticent, you who are zealous teachers.  Be in no\nhaste to act, except to prevent others from acting.\n\nAgain and again I say, postpone even a good lesson if you can, for fear\nof conveying a bad one.  On this earth, meant by nature to be man's\nfirst paradise, beware lest you act the tempter by giving to innocence\nthe knowledge of good and evil.  Since you cannot prevent the child's\nlearning from outside examples, restrict your care to the task of\nimpressing these examples on his mind in suitable forms.\n\nViolent passions make a striking impression on the child who notices\nthem, because their manifestations are well-defined, and forcibly\nattract his attention.  Anger especially has such stormy indications\nthat its approach is unmistakable.  Do not ask, \"Is not this a fine\nopportunity for the pedagogue's moral discourse?\"  Spare the discourse:\nsay not a word: let the child alone.  Amazed at what he sees, he will\nnot fail to question you.  It will not be hard to answer him, on\naccount of the very things that strike his senses.  He sees an inflamed\ncountenance, flashing eyes, threatening gestures, he hears unusually\nexcited tones of voice; all sure signs that the body is not in its\nusual condition.  Say to him calmly, unaffectedly, without any mystery,\n\"This poor man is sick; he has a high fever.\"  You may take this\noccasion to give him, in few words, an idea of maladies and of their\neffects; for these, being natural, are trammels of that necessity to\nwhich he has to feel himself subject.\n\nFrom this, the true idea, will he not early feel repugnance at giving\nway to excessive passion, which he regards as a disease?  And do you\nnot think that such an idea, given at the appropriate time, will have\nas good an effect as the most tiresome sermon on morals?  Note also the\nfuture consequences of this idea; it will authorize you, if ever\nnecessity arises, to treat a rebellious child as a sick child, to\nconfine him to his room, and even to his bed, to make him undergo a\ncourse of medical treatment; to make his growing vices alarming and\nhateful to himself.  He cannot consider as a punishment the severity\nyou are forced to use in curing him.  So that if you yourself, in some\nhasty moment, are perhaps stirred out of the coolness and moderation it\nshould be your study to preserve, do not try to disguise your fault,\nbut say to him frankly, in tender reproach, \"My boy, you have hurt me.\"\n\nI do not intend to enter fully into details, but to lay down some\ngeneral maxims and to illustrate difficult cases.  I believe it\nimpossible, in the very heart of social surroundings, to educate a\nchild up to the age of twelve years, without giving him some ideas of\nthe relations of man to man, and of morality in human actions.  It will\nsuffice if we put off as long as possible the necessity for these\nideas, and when they must be given, limit them to such as are\nimmediately applicable.  We must do this only lest he consider himself\nmaster of everything, and so injure others without scruple, because\nunknowingly.  There are gentle, quiet characters who, in their early\ninnocence, may be led a long way without danger of this kind.  But\nothers, naturally violent, whose wildness is precocious, must be\ntrained into men as early as may be, that you may not be obliged to\nfetter them outright.\n\n\nThe Idea of Property.\n\nOur first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are concentrated\nupon ourselves; our first natural movements have reference to our own\npreservation and well-being.  Thus our first idea of justice is not as\ndue from us, but to us.  One error in the education of to-day is, that\nby speaking to children first of their duties and never of their\nrights, we commence at the wrong end, and tell them of what they cannot\nunderstand, and what cannot interest them.\n\nIf therefore I had to teach one of these I have mentioned, I should\nreflect that a child never attacks persons, but things; he soon learns\nfrom experience to respect his superiors in age and strength.  But\nthings do not defend themselves.  The first idea to be given him,\ntherefore, is rather that of property than that of liberty; and in\norder to understand this idea he must have something of his own.  To\nspeak to him of his clothes, his furniture, his playthings, is to tell\nhim nothing at all; for though he makes use of these things, he knows\nneither how nor why he has them.  To tell him they are his because they\nhave been given to him is not much better, for in order to give, we\nmust have.  This is an ownership dating farther back than his own, and\nwe wish him to understand the principle of ownership itself.  Besides,\na gift is a conventional thing, and the child cannot as yet understand\nwhat a conventional thing is.  You who read this, observe how in this\ninstance, as in a hundred thousand others, a child's head is crammed\nwith words which from the start have no meaning to him, but which we\nimagine we have taught him.\n\nWe must go back, then, to the origin of ownership, for thence our first\nideas of it should arise.  The child living in the country will have\ngained some notion of what field labor is, having needed only to use\nhis eyes and his abundant leisure.  Every age in life, and especially\nhis own, desires to create, to imitate, to produce, to manifest power\nand activity.  Only twice will it be necessary for him to see a garden\ncultivated, seed sown, plants reared, beans sprouting, before he will\ndesire to work in a garden himself.\n\nIn accordance with principles already laid down I do not at all oppose\nthis desire, but encourage it.  I share his taste; I work with him, not\nfor his pleasure, but for my own: at least he thinks so.  I become his\nassistant gardener; until his arms are strong enough I work the ground\nfor him.  By planting a bean in it, he takes possession of it; and\nsurely this possession is more sacred and more to be respected than\nthat assumed by Nunez de Balboa of South America in the name of the\nking of Spain, by planting his standard on the shores of the Pacific\nOcean.\n\nHe comes every day to water the beans, and rejoices to see them\nthriving.  I add to his delight by telling him \"This belongs to you.\"\nIn explaining to him what I mean by \"belongs,\" I make him feel that he\nhas put into this plot of ground his time, his labor, his care, his\nbodily self; that in it is a part of himself which he may claim back\nfrom any one whatever, just as he may draw his own arm back if another\ntries to hold it against his will.\n\nOne fine morning he comes as usual, running, watering-pot in hand.  But\noh, what a sight!  What a misfortune!  The beans are uprooted, the\ngarden bed is all in disorder: the place actually no longer knows\nitself.  What has become of my labor, the sweet reward of all my care\nand toil?  Who has robbed me of my own?  Who has taken my beans away\nfrom me?  The little heart swells with the bitterness of its first\nfeeling of injustice.  His eyes overflow with tears; his distress rends\nthe air with moans and cries.  We compassionate his troubles, share his\nindignation, make inquiries, sift the matter thoroughly.  At last we\nfind that the gardener has done the deed: we send for him.\n\nBut we find that we have reckoned without our host.  When the gardener\nhears what we are complaining of, he complains more than we.\n\n\"What!  So it was you, gentlemen, who ruined all my labor!  I had\nplanted some Maltese melons, from seed given me as a great rarity: I\nhoped to give you a grand treat with them when they were ripe.  But for\nthe sake of planting your miserable beans there, you killed my melons\nafter they had actually sprouted; and there are no more to be had.  You\nhave done me more harm than you can remedy, and you have lost the\npleasure of tasting some delicious melons.\"\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  \"Excuse us, my good Robert.  You put into them your\nlabor, your care.  I see plainly that we did wrong to spoil your work:\nbut we will get you some more Maltese seed, and we will not till any\nmore ground without finding out whether some one else has put his hand\nto it before us.\"\n\nROBERT.  \"Oh well, gentlemen, you may as well end the business; for\nthere's no waste land.  What I work was improved by my father, and it's\nthe same with everybody hereabout.  All the fields you see were taken\nup long ago.\"\n\nEMILE.  \"Mr. Robert, do you often lose your melon-seed?\"\n\nROBERT.  \"Pardon, my young master: we don't often have young gentlemen\nabout that are careless like you.  Nobody touches his neighbor's\ngarden; everybody respects other people's work, to make sure of his\nown.\"\n\nEMILE.  \"But I haven't any garden.\"\n\nROBERT.  \"What's that to me?  If you spoil mine, I won't let you walk\nin it any more; for you are to understand that I'm not going to have\nall my pains for nothing.\"\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  \"Can't we arrange this matter with honest Robert?  Just\nlet my little friend and me have one corner of your garden to\ncultivate, on condition that you have half the produce.\"\n\nROBERT.  \"I will let you have it without that condition; but remember,\nI will root up your beans if you meddle with my melons.\"\n\nIn this essay on the manner of teaching fundamental notions to children\nit may be seen how the idea of property naturally goes back to the\nright which the first occupant acquired by labor.  This is clear,\nconcise, simple, and always within the comprehension of the child.\nFrom this to the right of holding property, and of transferring it,\nthere is but one step, and beyond this we are to stop short.\n\nIt will also be evident that the explanation I have included in two\npages may, in actual practice, be the work of an entire year.  For in\nthe development of moral ideas, we cannot advance too slowly, or\nestablish them too firmly at every step.  I entreat you, young\nteachers, to think of the example I have given, and to remember that\nyour lessons upon every subject ought to be rather in actions than in\nwords; for children readily forget what is said or done to them.\n\nAs I have said, such lessons ought to be given earlier or later, as the\ndisposition of the child, gentle or turbulent, hastens or retards the\nnecessity for giving them.  In employing them, we call in an evidence\nthat cannot be misunderstood.  But that in difficult cases nothing\nimportant may be omitted, let us give another illustration.\n\nYour little meddler spoils everything he touches; do not be vexed, but\nput out of his reach whatever he can spoil.  He breaks the furniture he\nuses.  Be in no hurry to give him any more; let him feel the\ndisadvantages of doing without it.  He breaks the windows in his room;\nlet the wind blow on him night and day.  Have no fear of his taking\ncold; he had better take cold than be a fool.\n\nDo not fret at the inconvenience he causes you, but make him feel it\nfirst of all.  Finally, without saying anything about it, have the\npanes of glass mended.  He breaks them again.  Change your method: say\nto him coolly and without anger, \"Those windows are mine; I took pains\nto have them put there, and I am going to make sure that they shall not\nbe broken again.\"  Then shut him up in some dark place where there are\nno windows.  At this novel proceeding, he begins to cry and storm: but\nnobody listens to him.  He soon grows tired of this, and changes his\ntone; he complains and groans.  A servant is sent, whom the rebel\nentreats to set him free.  Without trying to find any excuse for utter\nrefusal, the servant answers, \"I have windows to take care of, too,\"\nand goes away.  At last, after the child has been in durance for\nseveral hours, long enough to tire him and to make him remember it,\nsome one suggests an arrangement by which you shall agree to release\nhim, and he to break no more windows.  He sends to beseech you to come\nand see him; you come; he makes his proposal.  You accept it\nimmediately, saying, \"Well thought of; that will be a good thing for\nboth of us.  Why didn't you think of this capital plan before?\"  Then,\nwithout requiring any protestations, or confirmation of his promise,\nyou gladly caress him and take him to his room at once, regarding this\ncompact as sacred and inviolable as if ratified by an oath.  What an\nidea of the obligation, and the usefulness, of an engagement will he\nnot gain from this transaction!  I am greatly mistaken if there is an\nunspoiled child on earth who would be proof against it, or who would\never after think of breaking a window purposely.\n\n\nFalsehood.  The Force of Example.\n\nWe are now within the domain of morals, and the door is open to vice.\nSide by side with conventionalities and duties spring up deceit and\nfalsehood.  As soon as there are things we ought not to do, we desire\nto hide what we ought not to have done.  As soon as one interest leads\nus to promise, a stronger one may urge us to break the promise.  Our\nchief concern is how to break it and still go unscathed.  It is natural\nto find expedients; we dissemble and we utter falsehood.  Unable to\nprevent this evil, we must nevertheless punish it.  Thus the miseries\nof our life arise from our mistakes.\n\nI have said enough to show that punishment, as such, should not be\ninflicted upon children, but should always happen to them as the\nnatural result of their own wrong-doing.  Do not, then, preach to them\nagainst falsehood, or punish them confessedly on account of a\nfalsehood.  But if they are guilty of one, let all its consequences\nfall heavily on their heads.  Let them know what it is to be\ndisbelieved even when they speak the truth, and to be accused of faults\nin spite of their earnest denial.  But let us inquire what falsehood\nis, in children.\n\nThere are two kinds of falsehood; that of fact, which refers to things\nalready past, and that of right, which has to do with the future.  The\nfirst occurs when we deny doing what we have done, and in general, when\nwe knowingly utter what is not true.  The other occurs when we promise\nwhat we do not mean to perform, and, in general, when we express an\nintention contrary to the one we really have.  These two sorts of\nuntruth may sometimes meet in the same case; but let us here discuss\ntheir points of difference.\n\nOne who realizes his need of help from others, and constantly receives\nkindness from them, has nothing to gain by deceiving them.  On the\ncontrary, it is evidently his interest that they should see things as\nthey are, lest they make mistakes to his disadvantage.  It is clear,\nthen, that the falsehood of fact is not natural to children.  But the\nlaw of obedience makes falsehood necessary; because, obedience being\nirksome, we secretly avoid it whenever we can, and just in proportion\nas the immediate advantage of escaping reproof or punishment outweighs\nthe remoter advantage to be gained by revealing the truth.\n\nWhy should a child educated naturally and in perfect freedom, tell a\nfalsehood?  What has he to hide from you?  You are not going to reprove\nor punish him, or exact anything from him.  Why should he not tell you\neverything as frankly as to his little playmate?  He sees no more\ndanger in the one case than in the other.\n\nThe falsehood of right is still less natural to children, because\npromises to do or not to do are conventional acts, foreign to our\nnature and infringements of our liberty.  Besides, all the engagements\nof children are in themselves void, because, as their limited vision\ndoes not stretch beyond the present, they know not what they do when\nthey bind themselves.  It is hardly possible for a child to tell a lie\nin making a promise.  For, considering only how to overcome a present\ndifficulty, all devices that have no immediate effect become alike to\nhim.  In promising for a time to come he actually does not promise at\nall, as his still dormant imagination cannot extend itself over two\ndifferent periods of time.  If he could escape a whipping or earn some\nsugar-plums by promising to throw himself out of the window to-morrow,\nhe would at once promise it.  Therefore the laws pay no regard to\nengagements made by children; and when some fathers and teachers, more\nstrict than this, require the fulfilling of such engagements, it is\nonly in things the child ought to do without promising.\n\nAs the child in making a promise is not aware what he is doing, he\ncannot be guilty of falsehood in so doing: but this is not the case\nwhen he breaks a promise.  For he well remembers having made the\npromise; what he cannot understand is, the importance of keeping it.\nUnable to read the future, he does not foresee the consequences of his\nactions; and when he violates engagements he does nothing contrary to\nwhat might be expected of his years.\n\nIt follows from this that all the untruths spoken by children are the\nfault of those who instruct them; and that endeavoring to teach them\nhow to be truthful is only teaching them how to tell falsehoods.  We\nare so eager to regulate, to govern, to instruct them, that we never\nfind means enough to reach our object.  We want to win new victories\nover their minds by maxims not based upon fact, by unreasonable\nprecepts; we would rather they should know their lessons and tell lies\nthan to remain ignorant and speak the truth.\n\nAs for us, who give our pupils none but practical teaching, and would\nrather have them good than knowing, we shall not exact the truth from\nthem at all, lest they disguise it; we will require of them no promises\nthey may be tempted to break.  If in my absence some anonymous mischief\nhas been done, I will beware of accusing Emile, or of asking \"Was it\nyou?\"[8]  For what would that be but teaching him to deny it?  If his\nnaturally troublesome disposition obliges me to make some agreement\nwith him, I will plan so well that any such proposal shall come from\nhim and never from me.  Thus, whenever he is bound by an engagement he\nshall have an immediate and tangible interest in fulfilling it.  And if\nhe ever fails in this, the falsehood shall bring upon him evil results\nwhich he sees must arise from the very nature of things, and never from\nthe vengeance of his tutor.  Far from needing recourse to such severe\nmeasures, however, I am almost sure that Emile will be long in learning\nwhat a lie is, and upon finding it out will be greatly amazed, not\nunderstanding what is to be gained by it.  It is very plain that the\nmore I make his welfare independent of either the will or the judgment\nof others, the more I uproot within him all interest in telling\nfalsehoods.\n\nWhen we are less eager to instruct we are also less eager to exact\nrequirements from our pupil, and can take time to require only what is\nto the purpose.  In that case, the child will be developed, just\nbecause he is not spoiled.  But when some blockhead teacher, not\nunderstanding what he is about, continually forces the child to promise\nthings, making no distinctions, allowing no choice, knowing no limit,\nthe little fellow, worried and weighed down with all these obligations,\nneglects them, forgets them, at last despises them; and considering\nthem mere empty formulas, turns the giving and the breaking of them\ninto ridicule.  If then you want to make him faithful to his word, be\ndiscreet in requiring him to give it.\n\nThe details just entered upon in regard to falsehood may apply in many\nrespects to all duties which, when enjoined upon children, become to\nthem not only hateful but impracticable.  In order to seem to preach\nvirtue we make vices attractive, and actually impart them by forbidding\nthem.  If we would have the children religious, we tire them out taking\nthem to church.  By making them mumble prayers incessantly we make them\nsigh for the happiness of never praying at all.  To inspire charity in\nthem, we make them give alms, as if we disdained doing it ourselves.\nIt is not the child, but his teacher, who ought to do the giving.\nHowever much you love your pupil, this is an honor you ought to dispute\nwith him, leading him to feel that he is not yet old enough to deserve\nit.\n\nGiving alms is the act of one who knows the worth of his gift, and his\nfellow-creature's need of the gift.  A child who knows nothing of\neither can have no merit in bestowing.  He gives without charity or\nbenevolence: he is almost ashamed to give at all, as, judging from your\nexample and his own, only children give alms, and leave it off when\ngrown up.  Observe, that we make the child bestow only things whose\nvalue be does not know: pieces of metal, which he carries in his\npocket, and which are good for nothing else.  A child would rather give\naway a hundred gold pieces than a single cake.  But suggest to this\nfree-handed giver the idea of parting with what he really prizes--his\nplaythings, his sugar-plums, or his luncheon; you will soon find out\nwhether you have made him really generous.\n\nTo accomplish the same end, resort is had to another expedient, that of\ninstantly returning to the child what he has given away, so that he\nhabitually gives whatever he knows will be restored to him.  I have\nrarely met with other than these two kinds of generosity in children,\nnamely, the giving either of what is no use to themselves, or else of\nwhat they are certain will come back to them.\n\n\"Do this,\" says Locke, \"that they may be convinced by experience that\nhe who gives most generously has always the better portion.\"  This is\nmaking him liberal in appearance and miserly in reality.  He adds, that\nchildren will thus acquire the habit of generosity.\n\nYes; a miser's generosity, giving an egg to gain an ox.  But when\ncalled upon to be generous in earnest, good-bye to the habit; they soon\ncease giving when the gift no longer comes back to them.  We ought to\nkeep in view the habit of mind rather than that of the hands.  Like\nthis virtue are all others taught to children; and their early years\nare spent in sadness, that we may preach these sterling virtues to\nthem!  Excellent training this!\n\nLay aside all affectation, you teachers; be yourselves good and\nvirtuous, so that your example may be deeply graven on your pupils'\nmemory until such time as it finds lodgment in their heart.  Instead of\nearly requiring acts of charity from my pupil I would rather do them in\nhis presence, taking from him all means of imitating me, as if I\nconsidered it an honor not due to his age.  For he should by no means\nbe in the habit of thinking a man's duties the same as a child's.\nSeeing me assist the poor, he questions me about it and, if occasion\nserve, I answer, \"My boy, it is because, since poor people are willing\nthere should be rich people, the rich have promised to take care of\nthose who have no money or cannot earn a living by their labor.\"\n\n\"And have you promised it too?\" inquires he.\n\n\"Of course; the money that comes into my hands is mine to use only upon\nthis condition, which its owner has to carry out.\"\n\nAfter this conversation, and we have seen how a child may be prepared\nto understand it, other children besides Emile would be tempted to\nimitate me by acting like a rich man.  In this case I would at least\nsee that it should not be done ostentatiously.  I would rather have him\nrob me of my right, and conceal the fact of his generosity.  It would\nbe a stratagem natural at his age, and the only one I would pardon in\nhim.\n\nThe only moral lesson suited to childhood and the most important at any\nage is, never to injure any one.  Even the principle of doing good, if\nnot subordinated to this, is dangerous, false, and contradictory.  For\nwho does not do good?  Everybody does, even a wicked man who makes one\nhappy at the expense of making a hundred miserable: and thence arise\nall our calamities.  The most exalted virtues are negative: they are\nhardest to attain, too, because they are unostentatious, and rise above\neven that gratification dear to the heart of man,--sending another\nperson away pleased with us.  If there be a man who never injures one\nof his fellow-creatures, what good must he achieve for them!  What\nfearlessness, what vigor of mind he requires for it!  Not by reasoning\nabout this principle, but by attempting to carry it into practice, do\nwe find out how great it is, how hard to fulfil.\n\nThe foregoing conveys some faint idea of the precautions I would have\nyou employ in giving children the instructions we sometimes cannot\nwithhold without risk of their injuring themselves or others, and\nespecially of contracting bad habits of which it will by and by be\ndifficult to break them.  But we may rest assured that in children\nrightly educated the necessity will seldom arise; for it is impossible\nthat they should become intractable, vicious, deceitful, greedy, unless\nthe vices which make them so are sowed in their hearts.  For this\nreason what has been said on this point applies rather to exceptional\nthan to ordinary cases.  But such exceptional cases become common in\nproportion as children have more frequent opportunity to depart from\ntheir natural state and to acquire the vices of their seniors.  Those\nbrought up among men of the world absolutely require earlier teaching\nin these matters than those educated apart from such surroundings.\nHence this private education is to be preferred, even if it do no more\nthan allow childhood leisure to grow to perfection.\n\n\nNegative or Temporizing Education.\n\nExactly contrary to the cases just described are those whom a happy\ntemperament exalts above their years.  As there are some men who never\noutgrow childhood, so there are others who never pass through it, but\nare men almost from their birth.  The difficulty is that these\nexceptional cases are rare and not easily distinguished; besides, all\nmothers capable of understanding that a child can be a prodigy, have no\ndoubt that their own are such.  They go even farther than this: they\ntake for extraordinary indications the sprightliness, the bright\nchildish pranks and sayings, the shrewd simplicity of ordinary cases,\ncharacteristic of that time of life, and showing plainly that a child\nis only a child.  Is it surprising that, allowed to speak so much and\nso freely, unrestrained by any consideration of propriety, a child\nshould occasionally make happy replies?  If he did not, it would be\neven more surprising; just as if an astrologer, among a hundred false\npredictions, should never hit upon a single true one.  \"They lie so\noften,\" said Henry IV., \"that they end by telling the truth.\"  To be a\nwit, one need only utter a great many foolish speeches.  Heaven help\nmen of fashion, whose reputation rests upon just this foundation!\n\nThe most brilliant thoughts may enter a child's head, or rather, the\nmost brilliant sayings may fall from his lips, just as the most\nvaluable diamonds may fall into his hands, without his having any right\neither to the thoughts or to the diamonds.  At his age, he has no real\nproperty of any kind.  A child's utterances are not the same to him as\nto us; he does not attach to them the same ideas.  If he has any ideas\nat all on the subject, they have neither order nor coherence in his\nmind; in all his thoughts nothing is certain or stable.  If you watch\nyour supposed prodigy attentively, you will sometimes find him a\nwell-spring of energy, clear-sighted, penetrating the very marrow of\nthings.  Much oftener the same mind appears commonplace, dull, and as\nif enveloped in a dense fog.  Sometimes he outruns you, and sometimes\nhe stands still.  At one moment you feel like saying, \"He is a genius,\"\nand at another, \"He is a fool.\"  You are mistaken in either case: he is\na child; he is an eaglet that one moment beats the air with its wings,\nand the next moment falls back into the nest.\n\nIn spite of appearances, then, treat him as his age demands, and beware\nlest you exhaust his powers by attempting to use them too freely.  If\nthis young brain grows warm, if you see it beginning to seethe, leave\nit free to ferment, but do not excite it, lest it melt altogether into\nair.  When the first flow of spirits has evaporated, repress and keep\nwithin bounds the rest, until, as time goes on, the whole is\ntransformed into life-giving warmth and real power.  Otherwise you will\nlose both time and pains; you will destroy your own handiwork, and\nafter having thoughtlessly intoxicated yourself with all these\ninflammable vapors, you will have nothing left but the dregs.\n\nNothing has been more generally or certainly observed than that dull\nchildren make commonplace men.  In childhood it is very difficult to\ndistinguish real dullness from that misleading apparent dullness which\nindicates a strong character.  At first it seems strange that the two\nextremes should meet in indications so much alike; and yet such is the\ncase.  For at an age when man has no real ideas at all, the difference\nbetween one who has genius and one who has not is, that the latter\nentertains only mistaken ideas, and the former, encountering only such,\nadmits none at all.  The two are therefore alike in this, that the\ndullard is capable of nothing, and the other finds nothing to suit him.\nThe only means of distinguishing them is chance, which may bring to the\ngenius some ideas he can comprehend, while the dull mind is always the\nsame.\n\nDuring his childhood the younger Cato was at home considered an idiot.\nNo one said anything of him beyond that he was silent and headstrong.\nIt was only in the antechamber of Sulla that his uncle learned to know\nhim.  If he had never crossed its threshold, he might have been thought\na fool until he was grown.  If there had been no such person as Caesar,\nthis very Cato, who read the secret of Caesar's fatal genius, and from\nafar foresaw his ambitious designs, would always have been treated as a\nvisionary.[9]  Those who judge of children so hastily are very liable\nto be mistaken.  They are often more childish than the children\nthemselves.\n\n\nConcerning the Memory.\n\nRespect children, and be in no haste to judge their actions, good or\nevil.  Let the exceptional cases show themselves such for some time\nbefore you adopt special methods of dealing with them.  Let nature be\nlong at work before you attempt to supplant her, lest you thwart her\nwork.  You say you know how precious time is, and do not wish to lose\nit.  Do you not know that to employ it badly is to waste it still more,\nand that a child badly taught is farther from being wise than one not\ntaught at all?  You are troubled at seeing him spend his early years in\ndoing nothing.  What! is it nothing to be happy?  Is it nothing to\nskip, to play, to run about all day long?  Never in all his life will\nhe be so busy as now.  Plato, in that work of his considered so severe,\nthe \"Republic,\" would have children accustomed to festivals, games,\nsongs, and pastimes; one would think he was satisfied with having\ncarefully taught them how to enjoy themselves.  And Seneca, speaking of\nthe Roman youth of old, says, \"They were always standing; nothing was\ntaught them that they had to learn when seated.\"  Were they of less\naccount when they reached manhood?  Have no fear, then, of this\nsupposed idleness.  What would you think of a man who, in order to use\nhis whole life to the best advantage, would not sleep?  You would say,\n\"The man has no sense; he does not enjoy life, but robs himself of it.\nTo avoid sleep, he rushes on his death.\"  The two cases are parallel,\nfor childhood is the slumber of reason.\n\nApparent quickness in learning is the ruin of children.  We do not\nconsider that this very quickness proves that they are learning\nnothing.  Their smooth and polished brain reflects like a mirror the\nobjects presented to it, but nothing abides there, nothing penetrates\nit.  The child retains the words; the ideas are reflected; they who\nhear understand them, but he himself does not understand them at all.\n\nAlthough memory and reason are two essentially different faculties, the\none is never really developed without the other.  Before the age of\nreason, the child receives not ideas, but images.  There is this\ndifference between the two, that images are only absolute\nrepresentations of objects of sense, and ideas are notions of objects\ndetermined by their relations.  An image may exist alone in the mind\nthat represents it, but every idea supposes other ideas.  When we\nimagine, we only see; when we conceive of things, we compare them.  Our\nsensations are entirely passive, whereas all our perceptions or ideas\nspring from an active principle which judges.\n\nI say then that children, incapable of judging, really have no memory.\nThey retain sounds, shapes, sensations; but rarely ideas, and still\nmore rarely the relations of ideas to one another.  If this statement\nis apparently refuted by the objection that they learn some elements of\ngeometry, it is not really true; that very fact confirms my statement.\nIt shows that, far from knowing how to reason themselves, they cannot\neven keep in mind the reasonings of others.  For if you investigate the\nmethod of these little geometricians, you discover at once that they\nhave retained only the exact impression of the diagram and the words of\nthe demonstration.  Upon the least new objection they are puzzled.\nTheir knowledge is only of the sensation; nothing has become the\nproperty of their understanding.  Even their memory is rarely more\nperfect than their other faculties: for when grown they have nearly\nalways to learn again as realities things whose names they learned in\nchildhood.\n\nHowever, I am far from thinking that children have no power of\nreasoning whatever.[10]  I observe, on the contrary, that in things\nthey understand, things relating to their present and manifest\ninterests, they reason extremely well.  We are, however, liable to be\nmisled as to their knowledge, attributing to them what they do not\nhave, and making them reason about what they do not understand.  Again,\nwe make the mistake of calling their attention to considerations by\nwhich they are in no wise affected, such as their future interests, the\nhappiness of their coming manhood, the opinion people will have of them\nwhen they are grown up.  Such speeches, addressed to minds entirely\nwithout foresight, are absolutely unmeaning.  Now all the studies\nforced upon these poor unfortunates deal with things like this, utterly\nforeign to their minds.  You may judge what attention such subjects are\nlikely to receive.\n\n\nOn the Study of Words.\n\nPedagogues, who make such an imposing display of what they teach, are\npaid to talk in another strain than mine, but their conduct shows that\nthey think as I do.  For after all, what do they teach their pupils?\nWords, words, words.  Among all their boasted subjects, none are\nselected because they are useful; such would be the sciences of things,\nin which these professors are unskilful.  But they prefer sciences we\nseem to know when we know their nomenclature, such as heraldry,\ngeography, chronology, languages; studies so far removed from human\ninterests, and particularly from the child, that it would be wonderful\nif any of them could be of the least use at any time in life.\n\nIt may cause surprise that I account the study of languages one of the\nuseless things in education.  But remember I am speaking of the studies\nof earlier years, and whatever may be said, I do not believe that any\nchild except a prodigy, will ever learn two languages by the time he is\ntwelve or fifteen.[11]\n\nI admit that if the study of languages were only that of words, that\nis, of forms, and of the sounds which express them, it might be\nsuitable for children.  But languages, by changing their signs, modify\nalso the ideas they represent.  Minds are formed upon languages;\nthoughts take coloring from idioms.  Reason alone is common to all.  In\neach language the mind has its peculiar conformation, and this may be\nin part the cause or the effect of national character.  The fact that\nevery nation's language follows the vicissitudes of that nation's\nmorals, and is preserved or altered with them, seems to confirm this\ntheory.\n\nOf these different forms, custom gives one to the child, and it is the\nonly one he retains until the age of reason.  In order to have two, he\nmust be able to compare ideas; and how can he do this when he is\nscarcely able to grasp them?  Each object may for him have a thousand\ndifferent signs, but each idea can have but one form; he can therefore\nlearn to speak only one language.  It is nevertheless maintained that\nhe learns several; this I deny.  I have seen little prodigies who\nthought they could speak six or seven: I have heard them speak German\nin Latin, French, and Italian idioms successively.  They did indeed use\nfive or six vocabularies, but they never spoke anything but German.  In\nshort, you may give children as many synonyms as you please, and you\nwill change only their words, and not their language; they will never\nknow more than one.\n\nTo hide this inability we, by preference, give them practice in the\ndead languages, of which there are no longer any unexceptionable\njudges.  The familiar use of these tongues having long been lost, we\ncontent ourselves with imitating what we find of them in books, and\ncall this speaking them.  If such be the Greek and Latin of the\nmasters, you may judge what that of the children is.  Scarcely have\nthey learned by heart the rudiments, without in the least understanding\nthem, before they are taught to utter a French discourse in Latin\nwords; and, when further advanced, to string together in prose, phrases\nfrom Cicero and cantos from Virgil.  Then they imagine they are\nspeaking Latin, and who is there to contradict them?[12]\n\nIn any study, words that represent things are nothing without the ideas\nof the things they represent.  We, however, limit children to these\nsigns, without ever being able to make them understand the things\nrepresented.  We think we are teaching a child the description of the\nearth, when he is merely learning maps.  We teach him the names of\ncities, countries, rivers; he has no idea that they exist anywhere but\non the map we use in pointing them out to him.  I recollect seeing\nsomewhere a text-book on geography which began thus:\n\n\"What is the world?  A pasteboard globe.\"  Precisely such is the\ngeography of children.  I will venture to say that after two years of\nglobes and cosmography no child of ten, by rules they give him, could\nfind the way from Paris to St. Denis.  I maintain that not one of them,\nfrom a plan of his father's garden, could trace out its windings\nwithout going astray.  And yet these are the knowing creatures who can\ntell you exactly where Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and all the countries of\nthe world are.\n\nI hear it suggested that children ought to be engaged in studies in\nwhich only the eye is needed.  This might be true if there were studies\nin which their eyes were not needed; but I know of none such.\n\nA still more ridiculous method obliges children to study history,\nsupposed to be within their comprehension because it is only a\ncollection of facts.[13]  But what do we mean by facts?  Do we suppose\nthat the relations out of which historic facts grow are so easily\nunderstood that the minds of children grasp such ideas without\ndifficulty?  Do we imagine that the true understanding of events can be\nseparated from that of their causes and effects? and that the historic\nand the moral are so far asunder that the one can be understood without\nthe other?  If in men's actions you see only purely external and\nphysical changes, what do you learn from history?  Absolutely nothing;\nand the subject, despoiled of all interest, no longer gives you either\npleasure or instruction.  If you intend to estimate actions by their\nmoral relations, try to make your pupils understand these relations,\nand you will discover whether history is adapted to their years.\n\nIf there is no science in words, there is no study especially adapted\nto children.  If they have no real ideas, they have no real memory; for\nI do not call that memory which retains only impressions.  Of what use\nis it to write on their minds a catalogue of signs that represent\nnothing to them?  In learning the things represented, would they not\nalso learn the signs?  Why do you give them the useless trouble of\nlearning them twice?  Besides, you create dangerous prejudices by\nmaking them suppose that science consists of words meaningless to them.\nThe first mere word with which the child satisfies himself, the first\nthing he learns on the authority of another person, ruins his judgment.\nLong must he shine in the eyes of unthinking persons before he can\nrepair such an injury to himself.\n\nNo; nature makes the child's brain so yielding that it receives all\nkinds of impressions; not that we may make his childhood a distressing\nburden to him by engraving on that brain dates, names of kings,\ntechnical terms in heraldry, mathematics, geography, and all such\nwords, unmeaning to him and unnecessary to persons at any age in life.\nBut all ideas that he can understand, and that are of use to him, all\nthat conduce to his happiness and that will one day make his duties\nplain, should early write themselves there indelibly, to guide him\nthrough life as his condition and his intellect require.\n\nThe memory of which a child is capable is far from inactive, even\nwithout the use of books.  All he sees and hears impresses him, and he\nremembers it.  He keeps a mental register of people's sayings and\ndoings.  Everything around him is the book from which he is continually\nbut unconsciously enriching his memory against the time his judgment\ncan benefit by it.  If we intend rightly to cultivate this chief\nfaculty of the mind, we must choose these objects carefully, constantly\nacquainting him with such as he ought to understand, and keeping back\nthose he ought not to know.  In this way we should endeavor to make his\nmind a storehouse of knowledge, to aid in his education in youth, and\nto direct him at all times.  This method does not, it is true, produce\nphenomenal children, nor does it make the reputation of their teachers;\nbut it produces judicious, robust men, sound in body and in mind, who,\nalthough not admired in youth, will make themselves respected in\nmanhood.\n\nEmile shall never learn anything by heart, not even fables such as\nthose of La Fontaine, simple and charming as they are.  For the words\nof fables are no more the fables themselves than the words of history\nare history itself.  How can we be so blind as to call fables moral\nlessons for children?  We do not reflect that while these stories amuse\nthey also mislead children, who, carried away by the fiction, miss the\ntruth conveyed; so that what makes the lesson agreeable also makes it\nless profitable.  Men may learn from fables, but children must be told\nthe bare truth; if it be veiled, they do not trouble themselves to lift\nthe veil.[14]\n\nSince nothing ought to be required of children merely in proof of their\nobedience, it follows that they can learn nothing of which they cannot\nunderstand the actual and immediate advantage, whether it be pleasant\nor useful.  Otherwise, what motive will induce them to learn it?  The\nart of conversing with absent persons, and of hearing from them, of\ncommunicating to them at a distance, without the aid of another, our\nfeelings, intentions, and wishes, is an art whose value may be\nexplained to children of almost any age whatever.  By what astonishing\nprocess has this useful and agreeable art become so irksome to them?\nThey have been forced to learn it in spite of themselves, and to use it\nin ways they cannot understand.  A child is not anxious to perfect the\ninstrument used in tormenting him; but make the same thing minister to\nhis pleasures, and you cannot prevent him from using it.\n\nMuch attention is paid to finding out the best methods of teaching\nchildren to read.  We invent printing-offices and charts; we turn a\nchild's room into a printer's establishment.[15]  Locke proposes\nteaching children to read by means of dice; a brilliant contrivance\nindeed, but a mistake as well.  A better thing than all these, a thing\nno one thinks of, is the desire to learn.  Give a child this desire,\nand you will not need dice or reading lotteries; any device will serve\nas well.  If, on the plan I have begun to lay down, you follow rules\nexactly contrary to those most in fashion, you will not attract and\nbewilder your pupil's attention by distant places, climates, and ages\nof the world, going to the ends of the earth and into the very heavens\nthemselves, but will make a point of keeping it fixed upon himself and\nwhat immediately concerns him; and by this plan you will find him\ncapable of perception, memory, and even reasoning; this is the order of\nnature.[16]  In proportion as a creature endowed with sensation becomes\nactive, it acquires discernment suited to its powers, and the surplus\nof strength needed to preserve it is absolutely necessary in developing\nthat speculative faculty which uses the same surplus for other ends.\nIf, then, you mean to cultivate your pupil's understanding, cultivate\nthe strength it is intended to govern.  Give him constant physical\nexercise; make his body sound and robust, that you may make him wise\nand reasonable.  Let him be at work doing something; let him run,\nshout, be always in motion; let him be a man in vigor, and he will the\nsooner become one in reason.\n\nYou would indeed make a mere animal of him by this method if you are\ncontinually directing him, and saying, \"Go; come; stay; do this; stop\ndoing that.\"  If your head is always to guide his arm, his own head\nwill be of no use to him.  But recollect our agreement; if you are a\nmere pedant, there is no use in your reading what I write.\n\nTo imagine that physical exercise injures mental operations is a\nwretched mistake; the two should move in unison, and one ought to\nregulate the other.\n\nMy pupil, or rather nature's pupil, trained from the first to depend as\nmuch as possible on himself, is not continually running to others for\nadvice.  Still less does he make a display of his knowledge.  On the\nother hand, he judges, he foresees, he reasons, upon everything that\nimmediately concerns him; he does not prate, but acts.  He is little\ninformed as to what is going on in the world, but knows very well what\nhe ought to do, and how to do it.  Incessantly in motion, he cannot\navoid observing many things, and knowing many effects.  He early gains\na wide experience, and takes his lessons from nature, not from men.  He\ninstructs himself all the better for discovering nowhere any intention\nof instructing him.  Thus, at the same time, body and mind are\nexercised.  Always carrying out his own ideas, and not another\nperson's, two processes are simultaneously going on within him.  As he\ngrows robust and strong, he becomes intelligent and judicious.\n\nIn this way he will one day have those two excellences,--thought\nincompatible indeed, but characteristic of nearly all great\nmen,--strength of body and strength of mind, the reason of a sage and\nthe vigor of an athlete.\n\nI am recommending a difficult art to you, young teacher,--the art of\ngoverning without rules, and of doing everything by doing nothing at\nall.  I grant, that at your age, this art is not to be expected of you.\nIt will not enable you, at the outset, to exhibit your shining talents,\nor to make yourself prized by parents; but it is the only one that will\nsucceed.  To be a sensible man, your pupil must first have been a\nlittle scapegrace.  The Spartans were educated in this way; not tied\ndown to books, but obliged to steal their dinners;[17] and did this\nproduce men inferior in understanding?  Who does not remember their\nforcible, pithy sayings?  Trained to conquer, they worsted their\nenemies in every kind of encounter; and the babbling Athenians dreaded\ntheir sharp speeches quite as much as their valor.\n\nIn stricter systems of education, the teacher commands and thinks he is\ngoverning the child, who is, after all, the real master.  What you\nexact from him he employs as means to get from you what he wants.  By\none hour of diligence he can buy a week's indulgence.  At every moment\nyou have to make terms with him.  These bargains, which you propose in\nyour way, and which he fulfils in his own way, always turn out to the\nadvantage of his whims, especially when you are so careless as to make\nstipulations which will be to his advantage whether he carries out his\nshare of the bargain or not.  Usually, the child reads the teacher's\nmind better than the teacher reads his.  This is natural; for all the\nsagacity the child at liberty would use in self-preservation he now\nuses to protect himself from a tyrant's chains; while the latter,\nhaving no immediate interest in knowing the child's mind, follows his\nown advantage by leaving vanity and indolence unrestrained.\n\nDo otherwise with your pupil.  Let him always suppose himself master,\nwhile you really are master.  No subjection is so perfect as that which\nretains the appearance of liberty; for thus the will itself is made\ncaptive.  Is not the helpless, unknowing child at your mercy?  Do you\nnot, so far as he is concerned, control everything around him?  Have\nyou not power to influence him as you please?  Are not his work, his\nplay, his pleasure, his pain, in your hands, whether he knows it or not?\n\nDoubtless he ought to do only what he pleases; but your choice ought to\ncontrol his wishes.  He ought to take no step that you have not\ndirected; he ought not to open his lips without your knowing what he is\nabout to say.\n\nIn this case he may, without fear of debasing his mind, devote himself\nto exercises of the body.  Instead of sharpening his wits to escape an\nirksome subjection, you will observe him wholly occupied in finding out\nin everything around him that part best adapted to his present\nwell-being.  You will be amazed at the subtilty of his contrivances for\nappropriating to himself all the objects within the reach of his\nunderstanding, and for enjoying everything without regard to other\npeople's opinions.\n\nBy thus leaving him free, you will not foster his caprices.  If he\nnever does anything that does not suit him, he will soon do only what\nhe ought to do.  And, although his body be never at rest, still, if he\nis caring for his present and perceptible interests, all the reason of\nwhich he is capable will develop far better and more appropriately than\nin studies purely speculative.\n\nAs he does not find you bent on thwarting him, does not distrust you,\nhas nothing to hide from you, he will not deceive you or tell you lies.\nHe will fearlessly show himself to you just as he is.  You may study\nhim entirely at your ease, and plan lessons for him which he will all\nunconsciously receive.\n\nHe will not pry with suspicious curiosity into your affairs, and feel\npleasure when he finds you in fault.  This is one of our most serious\ndisadvantages.  As I have said, one of a child's first objects is to\ndiscover the weaknesses of those who have control of him.  This\ndisposition may produce ill-nature, but does not arise from it, but\nfrom their desire to escape an irksome bondage.  Oppressed by the yoke\nlaid upon them, children endeavor to shake it off; and the faults they\nfind in their teachers yield them excellent means for doing this.  But\nthey acquire the habit of observing faults in others, and of enjoying\nsuch discoveries.  This source of evil evidently does not exist in\nEmile.  Having no interest to serve by discovering my faults, he will\nnot look for them in me, and will have little temptation to seek them\nin other people.\n\nThis course of conduct seems difficult because we do not reflect upon\nit; but taking it altogether, it ought not to be so.  I am justified in\nsupposing that you know enough to understand the business you have\nundertaken; that you know the natural progress of the human mind; that\nyou understand studying mankind in general and in individual cases;\nthat among all the objects interesting to his age that you mean to show\nyour pupil, you know beforehand which of them will influence his will.\n\nNow if you have the appliances, and know just how to use them, are you\nnot master of the operation?\n\nYou object that children have caprices, but in this you are mistaken.\nThese caprices result from faulty discipline, and are not natural.  The\nchildren have been accustomed either to obey or to command, and I have\nsaid a hundred times that neither of these two things is necessary.\nYour pupil will therefore have only such caprices as you give him, and\nit is just you should be punished for your own faults.  But do you ask\nhow these are to be remedied?  It can still be done by means of better\nmanagement and much patience.\n\n\nPhysical Training.\n\nMan's first natural movements are for the purpose of comparing himself\nwith whatever surrounds him and finding in each thing those sensible\nqualities likely to affect himself.  His first study is, therefore, a\nkind of experimental physics relating to his own preservation.  From\nthis, before he has fully understood his place here on earth, he is\nturned aside to speculative studies.  While yet his delicate and\npliable organs can adapt themselves to the objects upon which they are\nto act, while his senses, still pure, are free from illusion, it is\ntime to exercise both in their peculiar functions, and to learn the\nperceptible relations between ourselves and outward things.  Since\nwhatever enters the human understanding enters by the senses, man's\nprimitive reason is a reason of the senses, serving as foundation for\nthe reason of the intellect.  Our first teachers in philosophy are our\nown feet, hands, and eyes.  To substitute books for these is teaching\nus not to reason, but to use the reason of another; to believe a great\ndeal, and to know nothing at all.\n\nIn practising an art we must begin by procuring apparatus for it; and\nto use this apparatus to advantage, we must have it solid enough to\nbear use.  In learning to think, we must therefore employ our members,\nour senses, our organs, all which are the apparatus of our\nunderstanding.  And to use them to the best advantage, the body which\nfurnishes them must be sound and robust.  Our reason is therefore so\nfar from being independent of the body, that a good constitution\nrenders mental operations easy and accurate.  In indicating how the\nlong leisure of childhood ought to be employed, I am entering into\nparticulars which maybe thought ridiculous.  \"Pretty lessons,\" you will\ntell me, \"which you yourself criticize for teaching only what there is\nno need of learning!  Why waste time in instructions which always come\nof their own accord, and cost neither care nor trouble?  What child of\ntwelve does not know all you are going to teach yours, and all that his\nmasters have taught him besides?\"\n\nGentlemen, you are mistaken.  I am teaching my pupil a very tedious and\ndifficult art, which yours certainly have not acquired,--that of being\nignorant.  For the knowledge of one who gives himself credit for\nknowing only what he really does know reduces itself to a very small\ncompass.  You are teaching science: very good; I am dealing with the\ninstrument by which science is acquired.  All who have reflected upon\nthe mode of life among the ancients attribute to gymnastic exercises\nthat vigor of body and mind which so notably distinguishes them from us\nmoderns.  Montaigne's support of this opinion shows that he had fully\nadopted it; he returns to it again and again, in a thousand ways.\nSpeaking of the education of a child, he says, \"We must make his mind\nrobust by hardening his muscles; inure him to pain by accustoming him\nto labor; break him by severe exercise to the keen pangs of\ndislocation, of colic, of other ailments.\"  The wise Locke,[18] the\nexcellent Rollin,[19] the learned Fleury,[20] the pedantic de\nCrouzas,[21] so different in everything else, agree exactly on this\npoint of abundant physical exercise for children.  It is the wisest\nlesson they ever taught, but the one that is and always will be most\nneglected.\n\n\nClothing.\n\nAs to clothing, the limbs of a growing body should be entirely free.\nNothing should cramp their movements or their growth; nothing should\nfit too closely or bind the body; there should be no ligatures\nwhatever.  The present French dress cramps and disables even a man, and\nis especially injurious to children.  It arrests the circulation of the\nhumors; they stagnate from an inaction made worse by a sedentary life.\nThis corruption of the humors brings on the scurvy, a disease becoming\nevery day more common among us, but unknown to the ancients, protected\nfrom it by their dress and their mode of life.  The hussar dress does\nnot remedy this inconvenience, but increases it, since, to save the\nchild a few ligatures, it compresses the entire body.  It would be\nbetter to keep children in frocks as long as possible, and then put\nthem into loosely fitting clothes, without trying to shape their\nfigures and thereby spoil them.  Their defects of body and of mind\nnearly all spring from the same cause: we are trying to make men of\nthem before their time.\n\nOf bright and dull colors, the former best please a child's taste; such\ncolors are also most becoming to them; and I see no reason why we\nshould not in such matters consult these natural coincidences.  But the\nmoment a material is preferred because it is richer, the child's mind\nis corrupted by luxury, and by all sorts of whims.  Preferences like\nthis do not spring up of their own accord.  It is impossible to say how\nmuch choice of dress and the motives of this choice influence\neducation.  Not only do thoughtless mothers promise children fine\nclothes by way of reward, but foolish tutors threaten them with coarser\nand simpler dress as punishment.  \"If you do not study your lessons, if\nyou do not take better care of your clothes, you shall be dressed like\nthat little rustic.\"  This is saying to him, \"Rest assured that a man\nis nothing but what his clothes make him; your own worth depends on\nwhat you wear.\"  Is it surprising that sage lessons like this so\ninfluence young men that they care for nothing but ornament, and judge\nof merit by outward appearance only?\n\nGenerally, children are too warmly clothed, especially in their earlier\nyears.  They should be inured to cold rather than heat; severe cold\nnever incommodes them when they encounter it early.  But the tissue of\ntheir skin, as yet yielding and tender, allows too free passage to\nperspiration, and exposure to great heat invariably weakens them.  It\nhas been observed that more children die in August than in any other\nmonth.  Besides, if we compare northern and southern races, we find\nthat excessive cold, rather than excessive heat, makes man robust.  In\nproportion as the child grows and his fibres are strengthened, accustom\nhim gradually to withstand heat; and by degrees you will without risk\ntrain him to endure the glowing temperature of the torrid zone.\n\n\nSleep.\n\nChildren need a great deal of sleep because they take a great deal of\nexercise.  The one acts as corrective to the other, so that both are\nnecessary.  As nature teaches us, night is the time for rest.  Constant\nobservation shows that sleep is softer and more profound while the sun\nis below the horizon.  The heated air does not so perfectly\ntranquillize our tired senses.  For this reason the most salutary habit\nis to rise and to go to rest with the sun.  In our climate man, and\nanimals generally, require more sleep in winter than in summer.  But\nour mode of life is not so simple, natural, and uniform that we can\nmake this regular habit a necessity.  We must without doubt submit to\nregulations; but it is most important that we should be able to break\nthem without risk when occasion requires.  Do not then imprudently\nsoften your pupil by letting him lie peacefully asleep without ever\nbeing disturbed.  At first let him yield without restraint to the law\nof nature, but do not forget that in our day we must be superior to\nthis law; we must be able to go late to rest and rise early, to be\nawakened suddenly, to be up all night, without discomfort.  By\nbeginning early, and by always proceeding slowly, we form the\nconstitution by the very practices which would ruin it if it were\nalready established.\n\nIt is important that your pupil should from the first be accustomed to\na hard bed, so that he may find none uncomfortable.\n\nGenerally, a life of hardship, when we are used to it, gives us a far\ngreater number of agreeable sensations than does a life of ease, which\ncreates an infinite number of unpleasant ones.  One too delicately\nreared can find sleep only upon a bed of down; one accustomed to bare\nboards can find it anywhere.  No bed is hard to him who falls asleep as\nsoon as his head touches the pillow.  The best bed is the one which\nbrings the best sleep.  Throughout the day no slaves from Persia, but\nEmile and I, will prepare our beds.  When we are tilling the ground we\nshall be making them soft for our slumber.\n\n\nExercise of the Senses.\n\nA child has not a man's stature, strength, or reason; but he sees and\nhears almost or quite as well.  His sense of taste is as keen, though\nhe does not enjoy it as a pleasure.\n\nOur senses are the first powers perfected in us.  They are the first\nthat should be cultivated and the only ones forgotten, or at least, the\nmost neglected.\n\nTo exercise the senses is not merely to use them, but to learn how to\njudge correctly by means of them; we may say, to learn how to feel.\nFor we cannot feel, or hear, or see, otherwise than as we have been\ntaught.\n\nThere is a kind of exercise, purely natural and mechanical, that\nrenders the body robust without injuring the mind.  Of this description\nare swimming, running, leaping, spinning tops, and throwing stones.\nAll these are well enough; but have we nothing but arms and legs?  Have\nwe not eyes and ears as well? and are they of no use while the others\nare employed?  Use, then, not only your bodily strength, but all the\nsenses which direct it.  Make as much of each as possible, and verify\nthe impressions of one by those of another.  Measure, count, weigh, and\ncompare.  Use no strength till after you have calculated the resistance\nit will meet.  Be careful to estimate the effect before you use the\nmeans.  Interest the child in never making any useless or inadequate\ntrials of strength.  If you accustom him to forecast the effect of\nevery movement, and to correct his errors by experience, is it not\ncertain that the more he does the better his judgment will be?\n\nIf the lever he uses in moving a heavy weight be too long, he will\nexpend too much motion; if too short, he will not have power enough.\nExperience will teach him to choose one exactly suitable.  Such\npractical knowledge, then, is not beyond his years.  If he wishes to\ncarry a burden exactly as heavy as his strength will bear, without the\ntest of first lifting it, must he not estimate its weight by the eye?\nIf he understands comparing masses of the same material but of\ndifferent size, let him choose between masses of the same size but of\ndifferent material.  This will oblige him to compare them as to\nspecific gravity.  I have seen a well-educated young man who, until he\nhad tried the experiment, would not believe that a pail full of large\nchips weighs less than it does when full of water.\n\n\nThe Sense of Touch.\n\nWe have not equal control of all our senses.  One of them, the sense of\ntouch, is in continual action so long as we are awake.  Diffused over\nthe entire surface of the body, it serves as a perpetual sentinel to\nwarn us of what is likely to harm us.  By the constant use of this\nsense, voluntary or otherwise, we gain our earliest experience.  It\ntherefore stands less in need of special cultivation.  We observe\nhowever, that the blind have a more delicate and accurate touch than\nwe, because, not having sight to guide them, they depend upon touch for\nthe judgments we form with the aid of sight.  Why then do we not train\nourselves to walk, like them, in the dark, to recognize by the touch\nall bodies we can reach, to judge of objects around us, in short, to do\nby night and in the dark all they do in daytime without eyesight?  So\nlong as the sun shines, we have the advantage of them; but they can\nguide us in darkness.  We are blind during half our life-time, with\nthis difference, that the really blind can always guide themselves,\nwhereas we dare not take a step in the dead of night.  You may remind\nme that we have artificial light.  What! must we always use machines?\nWho can insure their being always at hand when we need them?  For my\npart, I prefer that Emile, instead of keeping his eyes in a chandler's\nshop, should have them at the ends of his fingers.\n\nAs much as possible, let him be accustomed to play about at night.\nThis advice is more important than it would seem.  For men, and\nsometimes for animals, night has naturally its terrors.  Rarely do\nwisdom, or wit, or courage, free us from paying tribute to these\nterrors.  I have seen reasoners, free-thinkers, philosophers, soldiers,\nwho were utterly fearless in broad daylight, tremble like women at the\nrustle of leaves by night.  Such terrors are supposed to be the result\nof nursery tales.  The real cause is the same thing which makes the\ndeaf distrustful, and the lower classes superstitious; and that is,\nignorance of objects and events around us.\n\nThe cause of the evil, once found, suggests the remedy.  In everything,\nhabit benumbs the imagination; new objects alone quicken it again.\nEvery-day objects keep active not the imagination, but the memory;\nwhence the saying \"Ab assuetis non fit passio.\"[22]  For only the\nimagination can set on fire our passions.  If, therefore, you wish to\ncure any one of the fear of darkness, do not reason with him.  Take him\ninto the dark often, and you may be sure that will do him more good\nthan philosophical arguments.  When at work on the roofs of houses,\nslaters do not feel their heads swim; and those accustomed to darkness\ndo not fear it at all.\n\nThere will be one advantage of our plays in the dark.  But if you mean\nthem to be successful, you must make them as gay as possible.  Darkness\nis of all things the most gloomy; so do not shut your child up in a\ndungeon.  When he goes into the dark make him laugh; when he leaves it\nmake him laugh again; and all the time he is there, let the thought of\nwhat he is enjoying, and what he will find there when he returns,\nprotect him from the shadowy terrors which might otherwise inhabit it.\n\nI have heard some propose to teach children not to be afraid at night,\nby surprising them.  This is a bad plan, and its effect is contrary to\nthe one sought: it only makes them more timid than before.  Neither\nreason nor habit can accustom us to a present danger, the nature and\nextent of which we do not know, nor can they lessen our dread of\nunexpected things however often we meet with them.  But how can we\nguard our pupil against such accidents?  I think the following is the\nbest plan.  I will tell my Emile, \"If any one attacks you at night, you\nare justified in defending yourself; for your assailant gives you no\nnotice whether he means to hurt you or only to frighten you.  As he has\ntaken you at a disadvantage, seize him boldly, no matter what he may\nseem to be.  Hold him fast, and if he offers any resistance, hit him\nhard and often.  Whatever he may say or do, never let go until you know\nexactly who he is.  The explanation will probably show you that there\nis nothing to be afraid of; and if you treat a practical joker in this\nway, he will not be likely to try the same thing again.\"\n\nAlthough, of all our senses, touch is the one most constantly used,\nstill, as I have said, its conclusions are the most rude and imperfect.\nThis is because it is always used at the same time with sight; and\nbecause the eye attains its object sooner than the hand; the mind\nnearly always decides without appealing to touch.  On the other hand,\nthe decisions of touch, just because they are so limited in their\nrange, are the most accurate.  For as they extend no farther than our\narm's length, they correct the errors of other senses, which deal with\ndistant objects, and scarcely grasp these objects at all, whereas all\nthat the touch perceives it perceives thoroughly.  Besides, if to\nnerve-force we add muscular action, we form a simultaneous impression,\nand judge of weight and solidity as well as of temperature, size, and\nshape.  Thus touch, which of all our senses best informs us concerning\nimpressions made upon us by external things, is the one oftenest used,\nand gives us most directly the knowledge necessary to our preservation.\n\n\nThe Sense of Sight.\n\nThe sense of touch confines its operations to a very narrow sphere\naround us, but those of sight extend far beyond; this sense is\ntherefore liable to be mistaken.  With a single glance a man takes in\nhalf his own horizon, and in these myriad impressions, and judgments\nresulting from them, how is it credible that there should be no\nmistakes?  Sight, therefore, is the most defective of all our senses,\nprecisely because it is most far-reaching, and because its operations,\nby far preceding all others, are too immediate and too vast to receive\ncorrection from them.  Besides, the very illusions of perspective are\nneeded to make us understand extension, and to help us in comparing its\nparts.  If there were no false appearances, we could see nothing at a\ndistance; if there were no gradations in size, we could form no\nestimate of distance, or rather there would be no distance at all.  If\nof two trees the one a hundred paces away seemed as large and distinct\nas the other, ten paces distant, we should place them side by side.  If\nwe saw all objects in their true dimensions, we should see no space\nwhatever; everything would appear to be directly beneath our eye.\n\nFor judging of the size and distance of objects, sight has only one\nmeasure, and that is the angle they form with our eye.  As this is the\nsimple effect of a compound cause, the judgment we form from it leaves\neach particular case undecided or is necessarily imperfect.  For how\ncan I by the sight alone tell whether the angle which makes one object\nappear smaller than another is caused by the really lesser magnitude of\nthe object or by its greater distance from me?\n\nAn opposite method must therefore be pursued.  Instead of relying on\none sensation only, we must repeat it, verify it by others, subordinate\nsight to touch, repressing the impetuosity of the first by the steady,\neven pace of the second.  For lack of this caution we measure very\ninaccurately by the eye, in determining height, length, depth, and\ndistance.  That this is not due to organic defect, but to careless use,\nis proved by the fact that engineers, surveyors, architects, masons,\nand painters generally have a far more accurate eye than we, and\nestimate measures of extension more correctly.  Their business gives\nthem experience that we neglect to acquire, and thus they correct the\nambiguity of the angle by means of appearances associated with it,\nwhich enable them to determine more exactly the relation of the two\nthings producing the angle.\n\nChildren are easily led into anything that allows unconstrained\nmovement of the body.  There are a thousand ways of interesting them in\nmeasuring, discovering, and estimating distances.  \"Yonder is a very\ntall cherry-tree; how can we manage to get some cherries?  Will the\nladder in the barn do?  There is a very wide brook; how can we cross\nit?  Would one of the planks in the yard be long enough?  We want to\nthrow a line from our windows and catch some fish in the moat around\nthe house; how many fathoms long ought the line to be?  I want to put\nup a swing between those two trees; would four yards of rope be enough\nfor it?  They say that in the other house our room will be twenty-five\nfeet square; do you think that will suit us?  Will it be larger than\nthis?  We are very hungry; which of those two villages yonder can we\nreach soonest, and have our dinner?\"\n\nAs the sense of sight is the one least easily separated from the\njudgments of the mind, we need a great deal of time for learning how to\nsee.  We must for a long time compare sight with touch, if we would\naccustom our eye to report forms and distances accurately.\n\nWithout touch and without progressive movement, the keenest eye-sight\nin the world could give us no idea of extent.  To an oyster the entire\nuniverse must be only a single point.  Only by walking, feeling,\ncounting, and measuring, do we learn to estimate distances.\n\nIf we always measure them, however, our eye, depending on this, will\nnever gain accuracy.  Yet the child ought not to pass too soon from\nmeasuring to estimating.  It will be better for him, after comparing by\nparts what he cannot compare as wholes, finally to substitute for\nmeasured aliquot parts others, obtained by the eye alone.  He should\ntrain himself in this manner of measuring instead of always measuring\nwith the hand.  I prefer that the very first operations of this kind\nshould be verified by actual measurements, so that he may correct the\nmistakes arising from false appearances by a better judgment.  There\nare natural measures, nearly the same everywhere, such as a man's pace,\nthe length of his arm, or his height.  When the child is calculating\nthe height of the story of a house, his tutor may serve as a unit of\nmeasure.  In estimating the altitude of a steeple, he may compare it\nwith that of the neighboring houses.  If he wants to know how many\nleagues there are in a given journey, let him reckon the number of\nhours spent in making it on foot.  And by all means do none of this\nwork for him; let him do it himself.\n\nWe cannot learn to judge correctly of the extent and size of bodies\nwithout also learning to recognize their forms, and even to imitate\nthem.  For such imitation is absolutely dependent on the laws of\nperspective, and we cannot estimate extent from appearances without\nsome appreciation of these laws.\n\n\nDrawing.\n\nAll children, being natural imitators, try to draw.  I would have my\npupil cultivate this art, not exactly for the sake of the art itself,\nbut to render the eye true and the hand flexible.  In general, it\nmatters little whether he understands this or that exercise, provided\nhe acquires the mental insight, and the manual skill furnished by the\nexercise.  I should take care, therefore, not to give him a\ndrawing-master, who would give him only copies to imitate, and would\nmake him draw from drawings only.  He shall have no teacher but nature,\nno models but real things.  He shall have before his eyes the\noriginals, and not the paper which represents them.  He shall draw a\nhouse from a real house, a tree from a tree, a human figure from the\nman himself.  In this way he will accustom himself to observe bodies\nand their appearances, and not mistake for accurate mutations those\nthat are false and conventional.  I should even object to his drawing\nanything from memory, until by frequent observations the exact forms of\nthe objects had clearly imprinted themselves on his imagination, lest,\nsubstituting odd and fantastic shapes for the real things, he might\nlose the knowledge of proportion and a taste for the beauties of\nnature.  I know very well that he will go on daubing for a long time\nwithout making anything worth noticing, and will be long in mastering\nelegance of outline, and in acquiring the deft stroke of a skilled\ndraughtsman.  He may never learn to discern picturesque effects, or\ndraw with superior skill.  On the other hand, he will have a more\ncorrect eye, a truer hand, a knowledge of the real relations of size\nand shape in animals, plants, and natural bodies, and practical\nexperience of the illusions of perspective.  This is precisely what I\nintend; not so much that he shall imitate objects as that he shall know\nthem.  I would rather have him show me an acanthus than a finished\ndrawing of the foliation of a capital.\n\nYet I would not allow my pupil to have the enjoyment of this or any\nother exercise all to himself.  By sharing it with him I will make him\nenjoy it still more.  He shall have no competitor but myself; but I\nwill be that competitor continually, and without risk of jealousy\nbetween us.  It will only interest him more deeply in his studies.\nLike him I will take up the pencil, and at first I will be as awkward\nas he.  If I were an Apelles, even, I will make myself a mere dauber.\n\nI will begin by sketching a man just as a boy would sketch one on a\nwall, with a dash for each arm, and with fingers larger than the arms.\nBy and by one or the other of us will discover this disproportion.  We\nshall observe that a leg has thickness, and that this thickness is not\nthe same everywhere; that the length of the arm is determined by its\nproportion to the body; and so on.  As we go on I will do no more than\nkeep even step with him, or will excel him by so little that he can\nalways easily overtake and even surpass me.  We will get colors and\nbrushes; we will try to imitate not only the outline but the coloring\nand all the other details of objects.  We will color; we will paint; we\nwill daub; but in all our daubing we shall be continually peering into\nnature, and all we do shall be done under the eye of that great teacher.\n\nIf we had difficulty in finding decorations for our room, we have now\nall we could desire.  I will have our drawings framed, so that we can\ngive them no finishing touches; and this will make us both careful to\ndo no negligent work.  I will arrange them in order around our room,\neach drawing repeated twenty or thirty times, and each repetition\nshowing the author's progress, from the representation of a house by an\nalmost shapeless attempt at a square, to the accurate copy of its front\nelevation, profile, proportions, and shading.  The drawings thus graded\nmust be interesting to ourselves, curious to others, and likely to\nstimulate further effort.  I will inclose the first and rudest of these\nin showy gilded frames, to set them off well; but as the imitation\nimproves, and when the drawing is really good, I will add only a very\nsimple black frame.  The picture needs no ornament but itself, and it\nwould be a pity that the bordering should receive half the attention.\n\nBoth of us will aspire to the honor of a plain frame, and if either\nwishes to condemn the other's drawing, he will say it ought to have a\ngilt frame.  Perhaps some day these gilded frames will pass into a\nproverb with us, and we shall be interested to observe how many men do\njustice to themselves by framing themselves in the very same way.\n\n\nGeometry.\n\nI have said that geometry is not intelligible to children; but it is\nour own fault.  We do not observe that their method is different from\nours, and that what is to us the art of reasoning should be to them\nonly the art of seeing.  Instead of giving them our method, we should\ndo better to take theirs.  For in our way of learning geometry,\nimagination really does as much as reason.  When a proposition is\nstated, we have to imagine the demonstration; that is, we have to find\nupon what proposition already known the new one depends, and from all\nthe consequences of this known principle select just the one required.\nAccording to this method the most exact reasoner, if not naturally\ninventive, must be at fault.  And the result is that the teacher,\ninstead of making us discover demonstrations, dictates them to us;\ninstead of teaching us to reason, he reasons for us, and exercises only\nour memory.\n\nMake the diagrams accurate; combine them, place them one upon another,\nexamine their relations, and you will discover the whole of elementary\ngeometry by proceeding from one observation to another, without using\neither definitions or problems, or any form of demonstration than\nsimple superposition.  For my part, I do not even pretend to teach\nEmile geometry; he shall teach it to me.  I will look for relations,\nand he shall discover them.  I will look for them in a way that will\nlead him to discover them.  In drawing a circle, for instance, I will\nnot use a compass, but a point at the end of a cord which turns on a\npivot.  Afterward, when I want to compare the radii of a semi-circle,\nEmile will laugh at me and tell me that the same cord, held with the\nsame tension, cannot describe unequal distances.\n\nWhen I want to measure an angle of sixty degrees, I will describe from\nthe apex of the angle not an arc only, but an entire circle; for with\nchildren nothing must be taken for granted.  I find that the portion\nintercepted by the two sides of the angle is one-sixth of the whole\ncircumference.  Afterward, from the same centre, I describe another and\na larger circle, and find that this second arc is one-sixth of the new\ncircumference.  Describing a third concentric circle, I test it in the\nsame way, and continue the process with other concentric circles, until\nEmile, vexed at my stupidity, informs me that every arc, great or\nsmall, intercepted by the sides of this angle, will be one-sixth of the\ncircumference to which it belongs.  You see we are almost ready to use\nthe instruments intelligently.\n\nIn order to prove the angles of a triangle equal to two right angles, a\ncircle is usually drawn.  I, on the contrary, will call Emile's\nattention to this in the circle, and then ask him, \"Now, if the circle\nwere taken away, and the straight lines were left, would the size of\nthe angles be changed?\"\n\nIt is not customary to pay much attention to the accuracy of figures in\ngeometry; the accuracy is taken for granted, and the demonstration\nalone is regarded.  Emile and I will pay no heed to the demonstration,\nbut aim to draw exactly straight and even lines; to make a square\nperfect and a circle round.  To test the exactness of the figure we\nwill examine it in all its visible properties, and this will give us\ndaily opportunity of finding out others.  We will fold the two halves\nof a circle on the line of the diameter, and the halves of a square on\nits diagonal, and then examine our two figures to see which has its\nbounding lines most nearly coincident, and is therefore best\nconstructed.  We will debate as to whether this equality of parts\nexists in all parallelograms, trapeziums, and like figures.  Sometimes\nwe will endeavor to guess at the result of the experiment before we\nmake it, and sometimes to find out the reasons why it should result as\nit does.\n\nGeometry for my pupil is only the art of using the rule and compass\nwell.  It should not be confounded with drawing, which uses neither of\nthese instruments.  The rule and compass are to be kept under lock and\nkey, and he shall be allowed to use them only occasionally, and for a\nshort time, lest he fall into the habit of daubing.  But sometimes,\nwhen we go for a walk, we will take our diagrams with us, and talk\nabout what we have done or would like to do.\n\n\nHearing.\n\nWhat has been said as to the two senses most continually employed and\nmost important may illustrate the way in which I should exercise the\nother senses.  Sight and touch deal alike with bodies at rest and\nbodies in motion.  But as only the vibration of the air can arouse the\nsense of hearing, noise or sound can be made only by a body in motion.\nIf everything were at rest, we could not hear at all.  At night, when\nwe move only as we choose, we have nothing to fear except from other\nbodies in motion.  We therefore need quick ears to judge from our\nsensations whether the body causing them is large or small, distant or\nnear, and whether its motion is violent or slight.  The air, when in\nagitation, is subject to reverberations which reflect it back, produce\nechoes, and repeat the sensation, making the sonorous body heard\nelsewhere than where it really is.  In a plain or valley, if you put\nyour ear to the ground, you can hear the voices of men and the sound of\nhorses' hoofs much farther than when standing upright.  As we have\ncompared sight with touch, let us also compare it with hearing, and\nconsider which of the two impressions, leaving the same body at the\nsame time, soonest reaches its organ.  When we see the flash of a\ncannon there is still time to avoid the shot; but as soon as we hear\nthe sound there is not time; the ball has struck.  We can estimate the\ndistance of thunder by the interval between the flash and the\nthunderbolt.  Make the child understand such experiments; try those\nthat are within his own power, and discover others by inference.  But\nit would be better he should know nothing about these things than that\nyou should tell him all he is to know about them.\n\nWe have an organ that corresponds to that of hearing, that is, the\nvoice.  Sight has nothing like this, for though we can produce sounds,\nwe cannot give off colors.  We have therefore fuller means of\ncultivating hearing, by exercising its active and passive organs upon\none another.\n\n\nThe Voice.\n\nMan has three kinds of voice: the speaking or articulate voice, the\nsinging or melodious voice, and the pathetic or accented voice, which\ngives language to passion and animates song and speech.  A child has\nthese three kinds of voice as well as a man, but he does not know how\nto blend them in the same way.  Like his elders he can laugh, cry,\ncomplain, exclaim, and groan.  But he does not know how to blend these\ninflections with the two other voices.  Perfect music best accomplishes\nthis blending; but children are incapable of such music, and there is\nnever much feeling in their singing.  In speaking, their voice has\nlittle energy, and little or no accent.\n\nOur pupil will have even a simpler and more uniform mode of speaking,\nbecause his passions, not yet aroused, will not mingle their language\nwith his.  Do not, therefore, give him dramatic parts to recite, nor\nteach him to declaim.  He will have too much sense to emphasize words\nhe cannot understand, and to express feelings he has never known.\n\nTeach him to speak evenly, clearly, articulately, to pronounce\ncorrectly and without affectation, to understand and use the accent\ndemanded by grammar and prosody.  Train him to avoid a common fault\nacquired in colleges, of speaking louder than is necessary; have him\nspeak loud enough to be understood; let there be no exaggeration in\nanything.\n\nAim, also, to render his voice in singing, even, flexible, and\nsonorous.  Let his ear be sensitive to time and harmony, but to nothing\nmore.  Do not expect of him, at his age, imitative and theatrical\nmusic.  It would be better if he did not even sing words.  If he wished\nto sing them, I should try to invent songs especially for him, such as\nwould interest him, as simple as his own ideas.\n\n\nThe Sense of Taste.\n\nOf our different sensations, those of taste generally affect us most.\nWe are more interested in judging correctly of substances that are to\nform part of our own bodies than of those which merely surround us.  We\nare indifferent to a thousand things, as objects of touch, of hearing,\nor of sight; but there is almost nothing to which our sense of taste is\nindifferent.  Besides, the action of this sense is entirely physical\nand material.  Imagination and imitation often give a tinge of moral\ncharacter to the impressions of all the other senses; but to this it\nappeals least of all, if at all.  Generally, also, persons of\npassionate and really sensitive temperament, easily moved by the other\nsenses, are rather indifferent in regard to this.  This very fact,\nwhich seems in some measure to degrade the sense of taste, and to make\nexcess in its indulgence more contemptible, leads me, however, to\nconclude that the surest way to influence children is by means of their\nappetite.  Gluttony, as a motive, is far better than vanity; for\ngluttony is a natural appetite depending directly on the senses, and\nvanity is the result of opinion, is subject to human caprice and to\nabuse of all kinds.  Gluttony is the passion of childhood, and cannot\nhold its own against any other; it disappears on the slightest occasion.\n\nBelieve me, the child will only too soon leave off thinking of his\nappetite; for when his heart is occupied, his palate will give him\nlittle concern.  When he is a man, a thousand impulsive feelings will\ndivert his mind from gluttony to vanity; for this last passion alone\ntakes advantage of all others, and ends by absorbing them all.  I have\nsometimes watched closely those who are especially fond of dainties;\nwho, as soon as they awoke, were thinking of what they should eat\nduring the day, and could describe a dinner with more minuteness than\nPolybius uses in describing a battle; and I have always found that\nthese supposed men were nothing but children forty years old, without\nany force or steadiness of character.  Gluttony is the vice of men who\nhave no stamina.  The soul of a gourmand has its seat in his palate\nalone; formed only for eating, stupid, incapable, he is in his true\nplace only at the table; his judgment is worthless except in the matter\nof dishes.  As he values these far more highly than others in which we\nare interested, as well as he, let us without regret leave this\nbusiness of the palate to him.\n\nIt is weak precaution to fear that gluttony may take root in a child\ncapable of anything else.  As children, we think only of eating; but in\nyouth, we think of it no more.  Everything tastes good to us, and we\nhave many other things to occupy us.\n\nYet I would not use so low a motive injudiciously, or reward a good\naction with a sugar-plum.  Since childhood is or should be altogether\nmade up of play and frolic, I see no reason why exercise purely\nphysical should not have a material and tangible reward.  If a young\nMajorcan, seeing a basket in the top of a tree, brings it down with a\nstone from his sling, why should he not have the recompense of a good\nbreakfast, to repair the strength used in earning it?\n\nA young Spartan, braving the risk of a hundred lashes, stole into a\nkitchen, and carried off a live fox-cub, which concealed under his\ncoat, scratched and bit him till the blood came.  To avoid the disgrace\nof detection, the child allowed the creature to gnaw his entrails, and\ndid not lift an eyelash or utter a cry.[23]  Was it not just that, as a\nreward, he was allowed to devour the beast that had done its best to\ndevour him?\n\nA good meal ought never to be given as a reward; but why should it not\nsometimes be the result of the pains taken to secure it?  Emile will\nnot consider the cake I put upon a stone as a reward for running well;\nhe only knows that he cannot have the cake unless he reaches it before\nsome other person does.\n\nThis does not contradict the principle before laid down as to\nsimplicity in diet.  For to please a child's appetite we need not\narouse it, but merely satisfy it; and this may be done with the most\nordinary things in the world, if we do not take pains to refine his\ntaste.  His continual appetite, arising from his rapid growth, is an\nunfailing sauce, which supplies the place of many others.  With a\nlittle fruit, or some of the dainties made from milk, or a bit of\npastry rather more of a rarity than the every-day bread, and, more than\nall, with some tact in bestowing, you may lead an army of children to\nthe world's end without giving them any taste for highly spiced food,\nor running any risk of cloying their palate.\n\nBesides, whatever kind of diet you give children, provided they are\nused only to simple and common articles of food, let them eat, run, and\nplay as much as they please, and you may rest assured they will never\neat too much, or be troubled with indigestion.  But if you starve them\nhalf the time, and they can find a way to escape your vigilance, they\nwill injure themselves with all their might, and eat until they are\nentirely surfeited.\n\nUnless we dictate to our appetite other rules than those of nature, it\nwill never be inordinate.  Always regulating, prescribing, adding,\nretrenching, we do everything with scales in hand.  But the scales\nmeasure our own whims, and not our digestive organs.\n\nTo return to my illustrations; among country folk the larder and the\norchard are always open, and nobody, young or old, knows what\nindigestion means.\n\n\nResult.  The Pupil at the Age of Ten or Twelve.\n\nSupposing that my method is indeed that of nature itself, and that I\nhave made no mistakes in applying it, I have now conducted my pupil\nthrough the region of sensations to the boundaries of childish reason.\nThe first step beyond should be that of a man.  But before beginning\nthis new career, let us for a moment cast our eyes over what we have\njust traversed.  Every age and station in life has a perfection, a\nmaturity, all its own.  We often hear of a full-grown man; in\ncontemplating a full-grown child we shall find more novelty, and\nperhaps no less pleasure.\n\nThe existence of finite beings is so barren and so limited that when we\nsee only what is, it never stirs us to emotion.  Real objects are\nadorned by the creations of fancy, and without this charm yield us but\na barren satisfaction, tending no farther than to the organ that\nperceives them, and the heart is left cold.  The earth, clad in the\nglories of autumn, displays a wealth which the wondering eye enjoys,\nbut which arouses no feeling within us; it springs less from sentiment\nthan from reflection.  In spring the landscape is still almost bare;\nthe forests yield no shade; the verdure is only beginning to bud; and\nyet the heart is deeply moved at the sight.  We feel within us a new\nlife, when we see nature thus revive; delightful images surround us;\nthe companions of pleasure, gentle tears, ever ready to spring at the\ntouch of tender feelings, brim our eyes.  But upon the panorama of the\nvintage season, animated and pleasant though it be, we have no tears to\nbestow.  Why is there this difference?  It is because imagination joins\nto the sight of spring-time that of following seasons.  To the tender\nbuds the eye adds the flowers, the fruit, the shade, sometimes also the\nmysteries that may lie hid in them.  Into a single point of time our\nfancy gathers all the year's seasons yet to be, and sees things less as\nthey really will be than as it would choose to have them.  In autumn,\non the contrary, there is nothing but bare reality.  If we think of\nspring then, the thought of winter checks us, and beneath snow and\nhoar-frost the chilled imagination dies.\n\nThe charm we feel in looking upon a lovely childhood rather than upon\nthe perfection of mature age, arises from the same source.  If the\nsight of a man in his prime gives us like pleasure, it is when the\nmemory of what he has done leads us to review his past life and bring\nup his younger days.  If we think of him as he is, or as he will be in\nold age, the idea of declining nature destroys all our pleasure.  There\ncan be none in seeing a man rapidly drawing near the grave; the image\nof death is a blight upon everything.\n\nBut when I imagine a child of ten or twelve, sound, vigorous, well\ndeveloped for his age, it gives me pleasure, whether on account of the\npresent or of the future.  I see him impetuous, sprightly, animated,\nfree from anxiety or corroding care, living wholly in his own present,\nand enjoying a life full to overflowing.  I foresee what he will be in\nlater years, using the senses, the intellect, the bodily vigor, every\nday unfolding within him.  When I think of him as a child, he delights\nme; when I think of him as a man, he delights me still more.  His\nglowing pulses seem to warm my own; I feel his life within myself, and\nhis sprightliness renews my youth.  His form, his bearing, his\ncountenance, manifest self-confidence and happiness.  Health glows in\nhis face; his firm step is a sign of bodily vigor.  His complexion,\nstill delicate, but not insipid, has in it no effeminate softness, for\nair and sun have already given him the honorable stamp of his sex.  His\nstill rounded muscles are beginning to show signs of growing\nexpressiveness.  His eyes, not yet lighted with the fire of feeling,\nhave all their natural serenity.  Years of sorrow have never made them\ndim, nor have his cheeks been furrowed by unceasing tears.  His quick\nbut decided movements show the sprightliness of his age, and his sturdy\nindependence; they bear testimony to the abundant physical exercise he\nhas enjoyed.  His bearing is frank and open, but not insolent or vain.\nHis face, never glued to his books, is never downcast; you need not\ntell him to raise his head, for neither fear nor shame has ever made it\ndroop.\n\nMake room for him among you, and examine him, gentlemen.  Question him\nwith all confidence, without fear of his troubling you with idle\nchatter or impertinent queries.  Do not be afraid of his taking up all\nyour time, or making it impossible for you to get rid of him.  You need\nnot expect brilliant speeches that I have taught him, but only the\nfrank and simple truth without preparation, ornament, or vanity.  When\nhe tells you what he has been thinking or doing, he will speak of the\nevil as freely as of the good, not in the least embarrassed by its\neffect upon those who hear him.  He will use words in all the\nsimplicity of their original meaning.\n\nWe like to prophesy good of children, and are always sorry when a\nstream of nonsense comes to disappoint hopes aroused by some chance\nrepartee.  My pupil seldom awakens such hopes, and will never cause\nsuch regrets: for he never utters an unnecessary word, or wastes breath\nin babble to which he knows nobody will listen.  If his ideas have a\nlimited range, they are nevertheless clear.  If he knows nothing by\nheart, he knows a great deal from experience.  If he does not read\nordinary books so well as other children, he reads the book of nature\nfar better.  His mind is in his brain, and not at his tongue's end.  He\nhas less memory than judgment.  He can speak only one language, but he\nunderstands what he says: and if he does not say it as well as another,\nhe can do things far better than they can.\n\nHe does not know the meaning of custom or routine.  What he did\nyesterday does not in any wise affect his actions of to-day.  He never\nfollows a rigid formula, or gives way in the least to authority or to\nexample.  Everything he does and says is after the natural fashion of\nhis age.  Expect of him, therefore, no formal speeches or studied\nmanners, but always the faithful expression of his own ideas, and a\nconduct arising from his own inclinations.\n\nYou will find he has a few moral ideas in relation to his own concerns,\nbut in regard to men in general, none at all.  Of what use would these\nlast be to him, since a child is not yet an active member of society?\nSpeak to him of liberty, of property, even of things done by common\nconsent, and he may understand you.  He knows why his own things belong\nto him and those of another person do not, and beyond this he knows\nnothing.  Speak to him of duty and obedience, and he will not know what\nyou mean.  Command him to do a thing, and he will not understand you.\nBut tell him that if he will do you such and such a favor, you will do\nthe same for him whenever you can, and he will readily oblige you; for\nhe likes nothing better than to increase his power, and to lay you\nunder obligations he knows to be inviolable.  Perhaps, too, he enjoys\nbeing recognized as somebody and accounted worth something.  But if\nthis last be his motive, he has already left the path of nature, and\nyou have not effectually closed the approaches to vanity.\n\nIf he needs help, he will ask it of the very first person he meets, be\nhe monarch or man-servant; to him one man is as good as another.\n\nBy his manner of asking, you can see that he feels you do not owe him\nanything; he knows that what he asks is really a favor to him, which\nhumanity will induce you to grant.  His expressions are simple and\nlaconic.  His voice, his look, his gesture, are those of one equally\naccustomed to consent or to refusal.  They show neither the cringing\nsubmission of a slave, nor the imperious tone of a master; but modest\nconfidence in his fellow-creatures, and the noble and touching\ngentleness of one who is free, but sensitive and feeble, asking aid of\nanother, also free, but powerful and kind.  If you do what he asks, he\ndoes not thank you, but feels that he has laid himself under\nobligation.  If you refuse, he will not complain or insist; he knows it\nwould be of no use.  He will not say, \"I was refused,\" but \"It was\nimpossible.\"  And, as has been already said, we do not often rebel\nagainst an acknowledged necessity.\n\nLeave him at liberty and by himself, and without saying a word, watch\nwhat he does, and how he does it.  Knowing perfectly well that he is\nfree, he will do nothing from mere thoughtlessness, or just to show\nthat he can do it; for is he not aware that he is always his own\nmaster?  He is alert, nimble, and active; his movements have all the\nagility of his years; but you will not see one that has not some\ndefinite aim.  No matter what he may wish to do, he will never\nundertake what he cannot do, for he has tested his own strength, and\nknows exactly what it is.  The means he uses are always adapted to the\nend sought, and he rarely does anything without being assured he will\nsucceed in it.  His eye will be attentive and critical, and he will not\nask foolish questions about everything he sees.  Before making any\ninquiries he will tire himself trying to find a thing out for himself.\nIf he meets with unexpected difficulties, he will be less disturbed by\nthem than another child, and less frightened if there is danger.  As\nnothing has been done to arouse his still dormant imagination, he sees\nthings only as they are, estimates danger accurately, and is always\nself-possessed.  He has so often had to give way to necessity that he\nno longer rebels against it.  Having borne its yoke ever since he was\nborn, he is accustomed to it, and is ready for whatever may come.\n\nWork and play are alike to him; his plays are his occupations, and he\nsees no difference between the two.  He throws himself into everything\nwith charming earnestness and freedom, which shows the bent of his mind\nand the range of his knowledge.  Who does not enjoy seeing a pretty\nchild of this age, with his bright expression of serene content, and\nlaughing, open countenance, playing at the most serious things, or\ndeeply occupied with the most frivolous amusements?  He has reached the\nmaturity of childhood, has lived a child's life, not gaining perfection\nat the cost of his happiness, but developing the one by means of the\nother.\n\nWhile acquiring all the reasoning power possible to his age, he has\nbeen as happy and as free as his nature allowed.  If the fatal scythe\nis to cut down in him the flower of our hopes, we shall not be obliged\nto lament at the same time his life and his death.  Our grief will not\nbe embittered by the recollection of the sorrows we have made him feel.\nWe shall be able to say, \"At least, he enjoyed his childhood; we robbed\nhim of nothing that nature gave him.\"\n\nIn regard to this early education, the chief difficulty is, that only\nfar-seeing men can understand it, and that a child so carefully\neducated seems to an ordinary observer only a young scapegrace.\n\nA tutor usually considers his own interests rather than those of his\npupil.  He devotes himself to proving that he loses no time and earns\nhis salary.  He teaches the child such accomplishments as can be\nreadily exhibited when required, without regard to their usefulness or\nworthlessness, so long as they are showy.  Without selecting or\ndiscerning, he charges the child's memory with a vast amount of\nrubbish.  When the child is to be examined, the tutor makes him display\nhis wares; and, after thus giving satisfaction, folds up his pack\nagain, and goes his way.\n\nMy pupil is not so rich; he has no pack at all to display; he has\nnothing but himself.  Now a child, like a man, cannot be seen all at\nonce.  What observer can at the first glance seize upon the child's\npeculiar traits?  Such observers there are, but they are uncommon; and\namong a hundred thousand fathers you will not find one such.\n\n\n\n[1] _Puer_, child; _infans_, one who does not speak.\n\n[2] Reading these lines, we are reminded of the admirable works of\nDickens, the celebrated English novelist, who so touchingly depicts the\nsufferings of children made unhappy by the inhumanity of teachers, or\nneglected as to their need of free air, of liberty, of affection: David\nCopperfield, Hard Times, Nicholas Nickleby, Dombey and Son, Oliver\nTwist, Little Dorrit, and the like.\n\n[3] Here he means Xerxes, King of Persia, who had built an immense\nbridge of boats over the Hellespont to transport his army from Asia\ninto Europe.  A storm having destroyed this bridge, the all-powerful\nmonarch, furious at the insubordination of the elements, ordered chains\nto be cast into the sea, and had the rebellious waves beaten with rods.\n\n[4] The feeling of a republican, of the \"citizen of Geneva,\" justly\nshocked by monarchial superstitions.  Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had had,\nin fact, from the days of their first playthings, the degrading\nspectacle of a universal servility prostrated before their cradle.  The\nsentiment here uttered was still uncommon and almost unknown when\nRousseau wrote it.  He did much toward creating it and making it\npopular.\n\n[5] Civil bondage, as understood by Rousseau, consists in the laws and\nobligations of civilized life itself.  He extols the state of nature as\nthe ideal condition, the condition of perfect freedom, without seeing\nthat, on the contrary, true liberty cannot exist without the protection\nof laws, while the state of nature is only the enslavement of the weak\nby the strong--the triumph of brute force.\n\n[6] In this unconditional form the principle is inadmissible.  Any one\nwho has the rearing of children knows this.  But the idea underlying\nthe paradox ought to be recognized, for it is a just one.  We ought not\nto command merely for the pleasure of commanding, but solely to\ninterpret to the child the requirements of the case in hand.  To\ncommand him for the sake of commanding is an abuse of power: it is a\nbaseness which will end in disaster.  On the other hand, we cannot\nleave it to circumstances to forbid what ought not to be done.  Only,\nthe command should be intelligible, reasonable, and unyielding.  This\nis really what Rousseau means.\n\n[7] This is not strictly true.  The child early has the consciousness\nof right and wrong; and if it be true that neither chastisement nor\nreproof is to be abused, it is no less certain that conscience is early\nawake within him, and that it ought not to be neglected in a work so\ndelicate as that of education: on condition, be it understood, that we\nact with simplicity, without pedantry, and that we employ example more\nthan lectures.  Rousseau says this admirably a few pages farther on.\n\n[8] Nothing is more injudicious than such a question, especially when\nthe child is in fault.  In that case, if he thinks you know what he has\ndone, he will see that you are laying a snare for him, and this opinion\ncannot fail to set him against you.  If he thinks you do not know he\nwill say to himself, \"Why should I disclose my fault?\"  And thus the\nfirst temptation to falsehood is the result of your imprudent\nquestion.--[Note by J. J. ROUSSEAU.]\n\n[9] He refers to Cato, surnamed of Utica, from the African city in\nwhich he ended his own life.  When a child, he was often invited by his\nbrother to the house of the all-powerful Sulla.  The cruelties of the\ntyrant roused the boy to indignation, and it was necessary to watch him\nlest he should attempt to kill Sulla.  It was in the latter's\nantechamber that the scene described by Plutarch occurred.\n\n[10] While writing this I have reflected a hundred times that in an\nextended work it is impossible always to use the same words in the same\nsense.  No language is rich enough to furnish terms and expressions to\nkeep pace with the possible modifications of our ideas.  The method\nwhich defines all the terms, and substitutes the definition for the\nterm, is fine, but impracticable; for how shall we then avoid\ntravelling in a circle?  If definitions could be given without using\nwords, they might be useful.  Nevertheless, I am convinced that, poor\nas our language is, we can make ourselves understood, not by always\nattaching the same meaning to the same words, but by so using each word\nthat its meaning shall be sufficiently determined by the ideas nearly\nrelated to it, and so that each sentence in which a word is used shall\nserve to define the word.  Sometimes I say that children are incapable\nof reasoning, and sometimes I make them reason extremely well; I think\nthat my ideas do not contradict each other, though I cannot escape the\ninconvenient contradictions of my mode of expression.\n\n[11] Another exaggeration: the idea is not to teach children to speak\nanother language as perfectly as their own.  There are three different\nobjects to be attained in studying languages.  First, this study is\nmeant to render easy by comparison and practice the knowledge and free\nuse of the mother tongue.  Second, it is useful as intellectual\ngymnastics, developing attention, reflection, reasoning, and taste.\nThis result is to be expected particularly from the study of the\nancient languages.  Third, it lowers the barriers separating nations,\nand furnishes valuable means of intercourse which science, industries,\nand commerce cannot afford to do without.  The French have not always\nshown wisdom in ignoring the language of their neighbors or their\nrivals.\n\n[12] From this passage, it is plain that the objections lately raised\nby intelligent persons against the abuse of Latin conversations and\nverses are not of recent date, after all.\n\n[13] There is indeed a faulty method of teaching history, by giving\nchildren a dry list of facts, names, and dates.  On the other hand, to\noffer them theories upon the philosophy of history is quite as\nunprofitable.  Yet it is not an absurd error, but a duty, to teach them\nthe broad outlines of history, to tell them of deeds of renown, of\nmighty works accomplished, of men celebrated for the good or the evil\nthey have done; to interest them in the past of humanity, be it\nmelancholy or glorious.  By abuse of logic Rousseau, in protesting\nagainst one excess, falls into another.\n\n[14] Rousseau here analyzes several of La Fontaine's fables, to show\nthe immorality and the danger of their \"ethics.\"  He dwells\nparticularly upon the fable of the Fox and the Crow.  In this he is\nright; the morality of the greater part of these fables leaves much to\nbe desired.  But there is nothing to prevent the teacher from making\nthe application.  The memory of a child is pliable and vigorous; not to\ncultivate it would be doing him great injustice.  We need not say that\na true teacher not only chooses, but by his instructions explains and\nrectifies everything he requires his pupil to read or to learn by\nheart.  With this reservation one cannot but admire this aversion of\nRousseau's for parrot-learning, word-worship, and exclusive cultivation\nof the memory.  In a few pages may here be found a complete philosophy\nof teaching, adapted to the regeneration of a people.\n\n[15] Rousseau here alludes to the typographical lottery invented by\nLouis Dumas, a French author of the eighteenth century.  It was an\nimitation of a printing-office, and was intended to teach, in an\nagreeable way, not only reading, but even grammar and spelling.  There\nmay be good features in all these systems, but we certainly cannot save\nthe child all trouble; we ought to let him understand that work must be\nin earnest.  Besides, as moralists and teachers, we ought not to\nneglect giving children some kinds of work demanding application.  They\nwill be in better spirits for recreation hours after study.\n\n[16] It is well to combine the two methods; to keep the child occupied\nwith what immediately concerns him, and to interest him also in what is\nmore remote, whether in space or in time.  He ought not to become too\npositive, nor yet should he be chimerical.  The \"order of nature\"\nitself has provided for this, by making the child inquisitive about\nthings around him, and at the same time about things far away.\n\n[17] This expresses rather too vehemently a true idea.  Do not try to\nimpart a rigid education whose apparent correctness hides grave\ndefects.  Allow free course to the child's instinctive activity and\nturbulence; let nature speak; do not crave reserve and fastidiousness\nat the expense of frankness and vigor of mind.  This is what the writer\nreally means.\n\n[18] An English philosopher, who died in 1701.  He wrote a very\ncelebrated \"Treatise on the Education of Children.\"\n\n[19] A celebrated professor, Rector of the University of Paris, who\ndied in 1741.  He left a number of works on education.\n\n[20] An abbe of the seventeenth century who wrote a much valued\n\"History of the Church,\" and a \"Treatise on the Method and Choice of\nStudies.\"  He was tutor to Count Vermandois, natural son to Louis XIV.\n\n[21] A professor of mathematics, born at Lausanne, tutor to Prince\nFredrick of Hesse Cassel.\n\n[22] \"Passion is not born of familiar things.\"\n\n[23] Recorded as illustrating Spartan education.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THIRD.\n\n\nThe third book has to do with the youth as he is between the ages of\ntwelve and fifteen.  At this time his strength is proportionately\ngreatest, and this is the most important period in his life.  It is the\ntime for labor and study; not indeed for studies of all kinds, but for\nthose whose necessity the student himself feels.  The principle that\nought to guide him now is that of utility.  All the master's talent\nconsists in leading him to discover what is really useful to him.\nLanguage and history offer him little that is interesting.  He applies\nhimself to studying natural phenomena, because they arouse his\ncuriosity and afford him means of overcoming his difficulties.  He\nmakes his own instruments, and invents what apparatus he needs.\n\nHe does not depend upon another to direct him, but follows where his\nown good sense points the way.  Robinson Crusoe on his island is his\nideal, and this book furnishes the reading best suited to his age.  He\nshould have some manual occupation, as much on account of the uncertain\nfuture as for the sake of satisfying his own constant activity.\n\nSide by side with the body the mind is developed by a taste for\nreflection, and is finally prepared for studies of a higher order.\nWith this period childhood ends and youth begins.\n\n\n\nThe Age of Study.\n\nAlthough up to the beginning of youth life is, on the whole, a period\nof weakness, there is a time during this earlier age when our strength\nincreases beyond what our wants require, and the growing animal, still\nabsolutely weak, becomes relatively strong.  His wants being as yet\npartly undeveloped, his present strength is more than sufficient to\nprovide for those of the present.  As a man, he would be very weak; as\nchild, he is very strong.\n\nWhence arises this weakness of ours but from the inequality between our\ndesires and the strength we have for fulfilling them?  Our passions\nweaken us, because the gratification of them requires more than our\nnatural strength.\n\nIf we have fewer desires, we are so much the stronger.  Whoever can do\nmore than his wishes demand has strength to spare; he is strong indeed.\nOf this, the third stage of childhood, I have now to speak.  I still\ncall it childhood for want of a better term to express the idea; for\nthis age, not yet that of puberty, approaches youth.\n\nAt the age of twelve or thirteen the child's physical strength develops\nmuch faster than his wants.  He braves without inconvenience the\ninclemency of climate and seasons, scarcely feeling it at all.  Natural\nheat serves him instead of clothing, appetite instead of sauce.  When\nhe is drowsy, he lies down on the ground and falls asleep.  Thus he\nfinds around him everything he needs; not governed by caprices, his\ndesires extend no farther than his own arms can reach.  Not only is he\nsufficient for himself, but, at this one time in all his life, he has\nmore strength than he really requires.\n\nWhat then shall he do with this superabundance of mental and physical\nstrength, which he will hereafter need, but endeavor to employ it in\nways which will at some time be of use to him, and thus throw this\nsurplus vitality forward into the future?  The robust child shall make\nprovision for his weaker manhood.  But he will not garner it in barns,\nor lay it up in coffers that can be plundered.  To be real owner of\nthis treasure, he must store it up in his arms, in his brain, in\nhimself.  The present, then, is the time to labor, to receive\ninstruction, and to study; nature so ordains, not I.\n\nHuman intelligence has its limits.  We can neither know everything, nor\nbe thoroughly acquainted with the little that other men know.  Since\nthe reverse of every false proposition is a truth, the number of\ntruths, like the number of errors, is inexhaustible.  We have to select\nwhat is to be taught as well as the time for learning it.  Of the kinds\nof knowledge within our power some are false, some useless, some serve\nonly to foster pride.  Only the few that really conduce to our\nwell-being are worthy of study by a wise man, or by a youth intended to\nbe a wise man.  The question is, not what may be known, but what will\nbe of the most use when it is known.  From these few we must again\ndeduct such as require a ripeness of understanding and a knowledge of\nhuman relations which a child cannot possibly acquire; such as, though\ntrue in themselves, incline an inexperienced mind to judge wrongly of\nother things.\n\nThis reduces us to a circle small indeed in relation to existing\nthings, but immense when we consider the capacity of the child's mind.\nHow daring was the hand that first ventured to lift the veil of\ndarkness from our human understanding!  What abysses, due to our unwise\nlearning, yawn around the unfortunate youth!  Tremble, you who are to\nconduct him by these perilous ways, and to lift for him the sacred veil\nof nature.  Be sure of your own brain and of his, lest either, or\nperhaps both, grow dizzy at the sight.  Beware of the glamour of\nfalsehood and of the intoxicating fumes of pride.  Always bear in mind\nthat ignorance has never been harmful, that error alone is fatal, and\nthat our errors arise, not from what we do not know, but from what we\nthink we do know.[1]\n\n\nThe Incentive of Curiosity.\n\nThe same instinct animates all the different faculties of man.  To the\nactivity of the body, striving to develop itself, succeeds the activity\nof the mind, endeavoring to instruct itself.  Children are at first\nonly restless; afterwards they are inquisitive.  Their curiosity,\nrightly trained, is the incentive of the age we are now considering.\nWe must always distinguish natural inclinations from those that have\ntheir source in opinion.\n\nThere is a thirst for knowledge which is founded only upon a desire to\nbe thought learned, and another, springing from our natural curiosity\nconcerning anything which nearly or remotely interests us.  Our desire\nfor happiness is inborn, and as it can never be fully satisfied, we are\nalways seeking ways to increase what we have.  This first principle of\ncuriosity is natural to the heart of man, but is developed only in\nproportion to our passions and to our advance in knowledge.  Call your\npupil's attention to the phenomena of nature, and you will soon render\nhim inquisitive.  But if you would keep this curiosity alive, do not be\nin haste to satisfy it.  Ask him questions that he can comprehend, and\nlet him solve them.  Let him know a thing because he has found it out\nfor himself, and not because you have told him of it.  Let him not\nlearn science, but discover it for himself.  If once you substitute\nauthority for reason, he will not reason any more; he will only be the\nsport of other people's opinions.\n\nWhen you are ready to teach this child geography, you get together your\nglobes and your maps; and what machines they are!  Why, instead of\nusing all these representations, do you not begin by showing him the\nobject itself, so as to let him know what you are talking of?\n\nOn some beautiful evening take the child to walk with you, in a place\nsuitable for your purpose, where in the unobstructed horizon the\nsetting sun can be plainly seen.  Take a careful observation of all the\nobjects marking the spot at which it goes down.  When you go for an\nairing next day, return to this same place before the sun rises.  You\ncan see it announce itself by arrows of fire.  The brightness\nincreases; the east seems all aflame; from its glow you anticipate long\nbeforehand the coming of day.  Every moment you imagine you see it.  At\nlast it really does appear, a brilliant point which rises like a flash\nof lightning, and instantly fills all space.  The veil of shadows is\ncast down and disappears.  We know our dwelling-place once more, and\nfind it more beautiful than ever.  The verdure has taken on fresh vigor\nduring the night; it is revealed with its brilliant net-work of\ndew-drops, reflecting light and color to the eye, in the first golden\nrays of the new-born day.  The full choir of birds, none silent, salute\nin concert the Father of life.  Their warbling, still faint with the\nlanguor of a peaceful awakening, is now more lingering and sweet than\nat other hours of the day.  All this fills the senses with a charm and\nfreshness which seems to touch our inmost soul.  No one can resist this\nenchanting hour, or behold with indifference a spectacle so grand, so\nbeautiful, so full of all delight.\n\nCarried away by such a sight, the teacher is eager to impart to the\nchild his own enthusiasm, and thinks to arouse it by calling attention\nto what he himself feels.  What folly!  The drama of nature lives only\nin the heart; to see it, one must feel it.  The child sees the objects,\nbut not the relations that bind them together; he can make nothing of\ntheir harmony.  The complex and momentary impression of all these\nsensations requires an experience he has never gained, and feelings he\nhas never known.  If he has never crossed the desert and felt its\nburning sands scorch his feet, the stifling reflection of the sun from\nits rocks oppress him, how can he fully enjoy the coolness of a\nbeautiful morning?  How can the perfume of flowers, the cooling vapor\nof the dew, the sinking of his footstep in the soft and pleasant turf,\nenchant his senses?  How can the singing of birds delight him, while\nthe accents of love and pleasure are yet unknown?  How can he see with\ntransport the rise of so beautiful a day, unless imagination can paint\nall the transports with which it may be filled?  And lastly, how can he\nbe moved by the beautiful panorama of nature, if he does not know by\nwhose tender care it has been adorned?\n\nDo not talk to the child about things he cannot understand.  Let him\nhear from you no descriptions, no eloquence, no figurative language, no\npoetry.  Sentiment and taste are just now out of the question.\nContinue to be clear, unaffected, and dispassionate; the time for using\nanother language will come only too soon.\n\nEducated in the spirit of our principles, accustomed to look for\nresources within himself, and to have recourse to others only when he\nfinds himself really helpless, he will examine every new object for a\nlong time without saying a word.  He is thoughtful, and not disposed to\nask questions.  Be satisfied, therefore, with presenting objects at\nappropriate times and in appropriate ways.  When you see his curiosity\nfairly at work, ask him some laconic question which will suggest its\nown answer.\n\nOn this occasion, having watched the sunrise from beginning to end with\nhim, having made him notice the mountains and other neighboring objects\non the same side, and allowed him to talk about them just as he\npleases, be silent for a few minutes, as if in deep thought, and then\nsay to him, \"I think the sun set over there, and now it has risen over\nhere.  How can that be so?\"  Say no more; if he asks questions, do not\nanswer them: speak of something else.  Leave him to himself, and he\nwill be certain to think the matter over.\n\nTo give the child the habit of attention and to impress him deeply with\nany truth affecting the senses, let him pass several restless days\nbefore he discovers that truth.  If the one in question does not thus\nimpress him, you may make him see it more clearly by reversing the\nproblem.  If he does not know how the sun passes from its setting to\nits rising, he at least does know how it travels from its rising to its\nsetting; his eyes alone teach him this.  Explain your first question by\nthe second.  If your pupil be not absolutely stupid, the analogy is so\nplain that he cannot escape it.  This is his first lesson in\ncosmography.\n\nAs we pass slowly from one sensible idea to another, familiarize\nourselves for a long time with each before considering the next, and do\nnot force our pupil's attention; it will be a long way from this point\nto a knowledge of the sun's course and of the shape of the earth.  But\nas all the apparent motions of the heavenly bodies are upon the same\nprinciple, and the first observation prepares the way for all the rest,\nless effort, if more time, is required to pass from the daily rotation\nof the earth to the calculation of eclipses than to understand clearly\nthe phenomena of day and night.\n\nSince the sun (apparently) revolves about the earth, it describes a\ncircle, and we already know that every circle must have a centre.  This\ncentre, being in the heart of the earth, cannot be seen; but we may\nmark upon the surface two opposite points that correspond to it.  A rod\npassing through these three points, and extending from one side of the\nheavens to the other, shall be the axis of the earth, and of the sun's\napparent daily motion.  A spherical top, turning on its point, shall\nrepresent the heavens revolving on their axis; the two extremities of\nthe top are the two poles.  The child will be interested in knowing one\nof them, which I will show him near the tail of Ursa Minor.\n\nThis will serve to amuse us for one night.  By degrees we shall grow\nfamiliar with the stars, and this will awaken a desire to know the\nplanets and to watch the constellations.\n\nWe have seen the sun rise at midsummer; we will also watch its rising\nat Christmas or some other fine day in winter.  For be it known that we\nare not at all idle, and that we make a joke of braving the cold.  I\ntake care to make this second observation in the same place as the\nfirst; and after some conversation to pave the way for it.  One or the\nother of us will be sure to exclaim, \"How queer that is! the sun does\nnot rise where it used to rise!  Here are our old landmarks, and now it\nis rising over yonder.  Then there must be one east for summer, and\nanother for winter.\"  Now, young teacher, your way is plain.  These\nexamples ought to suffice you for teaching the sphere very\nunderstandingly, by taking the world for your globe, and the real sun\ninstead of your artificial sun.\n\n\nThings Rather than their Signs.\n\nIn general, never show the representation of a thing unless it be\nimpossible to show the thing itself; for the sign absorbs the child's\nattention, and makes him lose sight of the thing signified.\n\nThe armillary sphere[2] seems to me poorly designed and in bad\nproportion.  Its confused circles and odd figures, giving it the look\nof a conjurer's apparatus, are enough to frighten a child.  The earth\nis too small; the circles are too many and too large.  Some of them,\nthe colures,[3] for instance, are entirely useless.  Every circle is\nlarger than the earth.  The pasteboard gives them an appearance of\nsolidity which creates the mistaken impression that they are circular\nmasses which really exist.  When you tell the child that these are\nimaginary circles, he understands neither what he sees nor what you\nmean.\n\nShall we never learn to put ourselves in the child's place?  We do not\nenter into his thoughts, but suppose them exactly like our own.\nConstantly following our own method of reasoning, we cram his mind not\nonly with a concatenation of truths, but also with extravagant notions\nand errors.\n\nIn the study of the sciences it is an open question whether we ought to\nuse synthesis or analysis.  It is not always necessary to choose\neither.  In the same process of investigation we can sometimes both\nresolve and compound, and while the child thinks he is only analyzing,\nwe can direct him by the methods teachers usually employ.  By thus\nusing both we make each prove the other.  Starting at the same moment\nfrom two opposite points and never imagining that one road connects\nthem, he will be agreeably surprised to find that what he supposed to\nbe two paths finally meet as one.\n\nI would, for example, take geography at these two extremes, and add to\nthe study of the earth's motions the measurement of its parts,\nbeginning with our own dwelling-place.  While the child, studying the\nsphere, is transported into the heavens, bring him back to the\nmeasurement of the earth, and first show him his own home.\n\nThe two starting-points in his geography shall be the town in which he\nlives, and his father's house in the country.  Afterward shall come the\nplaces lying between these two; then the neighboring rivers; lastly,\nthe aspect of the sun, and the manner of finding out where the east is.\nThis last is the point of union.  Let him make himself a map of all\nthese details; a very simple map, including at first only two objects,\nthen by degrees the others, as he learns their distance and position.\nYou see now what an advantage we have gained beforehand, by making his\neyes serve him instead of a compass.\n\nEven with this it may be necessary to direct him a little, but very\nlittle, and without appearing to do so at all.  When he makes mistakes,\nlet him make them; do not correct them.  Wait in silence until he can\nsee and correct them himself.  Or, at most, take a good opportunity to\nset in motion some thing which will direct his attention to them.  If\nhe were never to make mistakes, he could not learn half so well.\nBesides, the important thing is, not that he should know the exact\ntopography of the country, but that he should learn how to find it out\nby himself.  It matters little whether he has maps in his mind or not,\nso that he understands what they represent, and has a clear idea of how\nthey are made.\n\nMark the difference between the learning of your pupils and the\nignorance of mine.  They know all about maps, and he can make them.\nOur maps will serve as new decorations for our room.\n\n\nImparting a Taste for Science.\n\nBear in mind always that the life and soul of my system is, not to\nteach the child many things, but to allow only correct and clear ideas\nto enter his mind.  I do not care if he knows nothing, so long as he is\nnot mistaken.  To guard him from errors he might learn, I furnish his\nmind with truths only.  Reason and judgment enter slowly; prejudices\ncrowd in; and he must be preserved from these last.  Yet if you\nconsider science in itself, you launch upon an unfathomable and\nboundless sea, full of unavoidable dangers.  When I see a man carried\naway by his love for knowledge, hastening from one alluring science to\nanother, without knowing where to stop, I think I see a child gathering\nshells upon the seashore.  At first he loads himself with them; then,\ntempted by others, he throws these away, and gathers more.  At last,\nweighed down by so many, and no longer knowing which to choose, he ends\nby throwing all away, and returning empty-handed.\n\nIn our early years time passed slowly; we endeavored to lose it, for\nfear of misusing it.  The case is reversed; now we have not time enough\nfor doing all that we find useful.  Bear in mind that the passions are\ndrawing nearer, and that as soon as they knock at the door, your pupil\nwill have eyes and ears for them alone.  The tranquil period of\nintelligence is so brief, and has so many other necessary uses, that\nonly folly imagines it long enough to make the child a learned man.\nThe thing is, not to teach him knowledge, but to give him a love for\nit, and a good method of acquiring it when this love has grown\nstronger.  Certainly this is a fundamental principle in all good\neducation.\n\nNow, also, is the time to accustom him gradually to concentrate\nattention on a single object.  This attention, however, should never\nresult from constraint, but from desire and pleasure.  Be careful that\nit shall not grow irksome, or approach the point of weariness.  Leave\nany subject just before he grows tired of it; for the learning it\nmatters less to him than the never being obliged to learn anything\nagainst his will.  If he himself questions you, answer so as to keep\nalive his curiosity, not to satisfy it altogether.  Above all, when you\nfind that he makes inquiries, not for the sake of learning something,\nbut to talk at random and annoy you with silly questions, pause at\nonce, assured that he cares nothing about the matter, but only to\noccupy your time with himself.  Less regard should be paid to what he\nsays than to the motive which leads him to speak.  This caution,\nheretofore unnecessary, is of the utmost importance as soon as a child\nbegins to reason.\n\nThere is a chain of general truths by which all sciences are linked to\ncommon principles and successively unfolded.  This chain is the method\nof philosophers, with which, for the present, we have nothing to do.\nThere is another, altogether different, which shows each object as the\ncause of another, and always points out the one following.  This order,\nwhich, by a perpetual curiosity, keeps alive the attention demanded by\nall, is the one followed by most men, and of all others necessary with\nchildren.  When, in making our maps, we found out the place of the\neast, we were obliged to draw meridians.  The two points of\nintersection between the equal shadows of night and morning furnish an\nexcellent meridian for an astronomer thirteen years old.  But these\nmeridians disappear; it takes time to draw them; they oblige us to work\nalways in the same place; so much care, so much annoyance, will tire\nhim out at last.  We have seen and provided for this beforehand.\n\nI have again begun upon tedious and minute details.  Readers, I hear\nyour murmurs, and disregard them.  I will not sacrifice to your\nimpatience the most useful part of this book.  Do what you please with\nmy tediousness, as I have done as I pleased in regard to your\ncomplaints.\n\n\nThe Juggler.\n\nFor some time my pupil and I had observed that different bodies, such\nas amber, glass, and wax, when rubbed, attract straws, and that others\ndo not attract them.  By accident we discovered one that has a virtue\nmore extraordinary still,--that of attracting at a distance, and\nwithout being rubbed, iron filings and other bits of iron.  This\npeculiarity amused us for some time before we saw any use in it.  At\nlast we found out that it may be communicated to iron itself, when\nmagnetized to a certain degree.  One day we went to a fair, where a\njuggler, with a piece of bread, attracted a duck made of wax, and\nfloating on a bowl of water.  Much surprised, we did not however say,\n\"He is a conjurer,\" for we knew nothing about conjurers.  Continually\nstruck by effects whose causes we do not know, we were not in haste to\ndecide the matter, and remained in ignorance until we found a way out\nof it.\n\nWhen we reached home we had talked so much of the duck at the fair that\nwe thought we would endeavor to copy it.  Taking a perfect needle, well\nmagnetized, we inclosed it in white wax, modelled as well as we could\ndo it into the shape of a duck, so that the needle passed entirely\nthrough the body, and with its larger end formed the duck's bill.  We\nplaced the duck upon the water, applied to the beak the handle of a\nkey, and saw, with a delight easy to imagine, that our duck would\nfollow the key precisely as the one at the fair had followed the piece\nof bread.  We saw that some time or other we might observe the\ndirection in which the duck turned when left to itself upon the water.\nBut absorbed at that time by another object, we wanted nothing more.\n\nThat evening, having in our pockets bread prepared for the occasion, we\nreturned to the fair.  As soon as the mountebank had performed his\nfeat, my little philosopher, scarcely able to contain himself, told him\nthat the thing was not hard to do, and that he could do it himself.  He\nwas taken at his word.  Instantly he took from his pocket the bread in\nwhich he had hidden the bit of iron.  Approaching the table his heart\nbeat fast; almost tremblingly, he presented the bread.  The duck came\ntoward it and followed it; the child shouted and danced for joy.  At\nthe clapping of hands, and the acclamations of all present, his head\nswam, and he was almost beside himself.  The juggler was astonished,\nbut embraced and congratulated him, begging that we would honor him\nagain by our presence on the following day, adding that he would take\ncare to have a larger company present to applaud our skill.  My little\nnaturalist, filled with pride, began to prattle; but I silenced him,\nand led him away loaded with praises.  The child counted the minutes\nuntil the morrow with impatience that made me smile.  He invited\neverybody he met; gladly would he have had all mankind as witnesses of\nhis triumph.  He could scarcely wait for the hour agreed upon, and,\nlong before it came, flew to the place appointed.  The hall was already\nfull, and on entering, his little heart beat fast.  Other feats were to\ncome first; the juggler outdid himself, and there were some really\nwonderful performances.  The child paid no attention to these.  His\nexcitement had thrown him into a perspiration; he was almost\nbreathless, and fingered the bread in his pocket with a hand trembling\nwith impatience.\n\nAt last his turn came, and the master pompously announced the fact.\nRather bashfully the boy drew near and held forth his bread.  Alas for\nthe changes in human affairs!  The duck, yesterday so tame, had grown\nwild.  Instead of presenting its bill, it turned about and swam away,\navoiding the bread and the hand which presented it, as carefully as it\nhad before followed them.  After many fruitless attempts, each received\nwith derision, the child complained that a trick was played on him, and\ndefied the juggler to attract the duck.\n\nThe man, without a word, took a piece of bread and presented it to the\nduck, which instantly followed it, and came towards his hand.  The\nchild took the same bit of bread; but far from having better success,\nhe saw the duck make sport of him by whirling round and round as it\nswam about the edge of the basin.  At last he retired in great\nconfusion, no longer daring to encounter the hisses which followed.\n\nThen the juggler took the bit of bread the child had brought, and\nsucceeded as well with it as with his own.  In the presence of the\nentire company he drew out the needle, making another joke at our\nexpense; then, with the bread thus disarmed, he attracted the duck as\nbefore.  He did the same thing with a piece of bread which a third\nperson cut off in the presence of all; again, with his glove, and with\nthe tip of his finger.  At last, going to the middle of the room, he\ndeclared in the emphatic tone peculiar to his sort, that the duck would\nobey his voice quite as well as his gesture.  He spoke, and the duck\nobeyed him; commanded it to go to the right, and it went to the right;\nto return, and it did so; to turn, and it turned itself about.  Each\nmovement was as prompt as the command.  The redoubled applause was a\nrepeated affront to us.  We stole away unmolested, and shut ourselves\nup in our room, without proclaiming our success far and wide as we had\nmeant to do.\n\nThere was a knock at our door next morning; I opened it, and there\nstood the mountebank, who modestly complained of our conduct.  What had\nhe done to us that we should try to throw discredit on his performances\nand take away his livelihood?  What is so wonderful in the art of\nattracting a wax duck, that the honor should be worth the price of an\nhonest man's living?  \"Faith, gentlemen, if I had any other way of\nearning my bread, I should boast very little of this way.  You may well\nbelieve that a man who has spent his life in practising this pitiful\ntrade understands it much better than you, who devote only a few\nminutes to it.  If I did not show you my best performances the first\ntime, it was because a man ought not to be such a fool as to parade\neverything he knows.  I always take care to keep my best things for a\nfit occasion; and I have others, too, to rebuke young and thoughtless\npeople.  Besides, gentlemen, I am going to teach you, in the goodness\nof my heart, the secret which puzzled you so much, begging that you\nwill not abuse your knowledge of it to injure me, and that another time\nyou will use more discretion.\"\n\nThen he showed us his apparatus, and we saw, to our surprise, that it\nconsisted only of a powerful magnet moved by a child concealed beneath\nthe table.  The man put up his machine again; and after thanking him\nand making due apologies, we offered him a present.  He refused,\nsaying, \"No, gentlemen, I am not so well pleased with you as to accept\npresents from you.  You cannot help being under an obligation to me,\nand that is revenge enough.  But, you see, generosity is to be found in\nevery station in life; I take pay for my performances, not for my\nlessons.\"\n\nAs he was going out, he reprimanded me pointedly and aloud.  \"I\nwillingly pardon this child,\" said he; \"he has offended only through\nignorance.  But you, sir, must have known the nature of his fault; why\ndid you allow him to commit such a fault?  Since you live together,\nyou, who are older, ought to have taken the trouble of advising him;\nthe authority of your experience should have guided him.  When he is\nold enough to reproach you for his childish errors, he will certainly\nblame you for those of which you did not warn him.\"[4]\n\nHe went away, leaving us greatly abashed.  I took upon myself the blame\nof my easy compliance, and promised the child that, another time, I\nwould sacrifice it to his interest, and warn him of his faults before\nthey were committed.  For a time was coming when our relations would be\nchanged, and the severity of the tutor must succeed to the complaisance\nof an equal.  This change should be gradual; everything must be\nforeseen, and that long beforehand.\n\nThe following day we returned to the fair, to see once more the trick\nwhose secret we had learned.  We approached our juggling Socrates with\ndeep respect, hardly venturing to look at him.  He overwhelmed us with\ncivilities, and seated us with a marked attention which added to our\nhumiliation.  He performed his tricks as usual, but took pains to amuse\nhimself for a long time with the duck trick, often looking at us with a\nrather defiant air.  We understood it perfectly, and did not breathe a\nsyllable.  If my pupil had even dared to open his mouth, he would have\ndeserved to be annihilated.\n\nAll the details of this illustration are far more important than they\nappear.  How many lessons are here combined in one!  How many\nmortifying effects does the first feeling of vanity bring upon us!\nYoung teachers, watch carefully its first manifestation.  If you can\nthus turn it into humiliation and disgrace, be assured that a second\nlesson will not soon be necessary.\n\n\"What an amount of preparation!\" you will say.  True; and all to make\nus a compass to use instead of a meridian line!\n\nHaving learned that a magnet acts through other bodies, we were all\nimpatience until we had made an apparatus like the one we had seen,--a\nhollow table-top with a very shallow basin adjusted upon it and filled\nwith water, a duck rather more carefully made, and so on.  Watching\nthis apparatus attentively and often, we finally observed that the\nduck, when at rest, nearly always turned in the same direction.\nFollowing up the experiment by examining this direction, we found it to\nbe from south to north.  Nothing more was necessary; our compass was\ninvented, or might as well have been.  We had begun to study physics.\n\n\nExperimental Physics.\n\nThe earth has different climates, and these have different\ntemperatures.  As we approach the poles the variation of seasons is\nmore perceptible,--all bodies contract with cold and expand with heat.\nThis effect is more readily measured in liquids, and is particularly\nnoticeable in spirituous liquors.  This fact suggested the idea of the\nthermometer.  The wind strikes our faces; air is therefore a body, a\nfluid; we feel it though we cannot see it.  Turn a glass vessel upside\ndown in water, and the water will not fill it unless you leave a vent\nfor the air; therefore air is capable of resistance.  Sink the glass\nlower, and the water rises in the air-filled region of the glass,\nalthough it does not entirely fill that space.  Air is therefore to\nsome extent compressible.  A ball filled with compressed air bounds\nmuch better than when filled with anything else: air is therefore\nelastic.  When lying at full length in the bath, raise the arm\nhorizontally out of the water, and you feel it burdened by a great\nweight; air is therefore heavy.  Put air in equilibrium with other\nbodies, and you can measure its weight.  From these observations were\nconstructed the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump.\nAll the laws of statics and hydrostatics were discovered by experiments\nas simple as these.  I would not have my pupil study them in a\nlaboratory of experimental physics.  I dislike all that array of\nmachines and instruments.  The parade of science is fatal to science\nitself.  All those machines frighten the child; or else their singular\nforms divide and distract the attention he ought to give to their\neffects.\n\nI would make all our own machines, and not begin by making the\ninstrument before the experiment has been tried.  But after apparently\nlighting by chance on the experiment, I should by degrees invent\ninstruments for verifying it.  These instruments should not be so\nperfect and exact as our ideas of what they should be and of the\noperations resulting from them.\n\nFor the first lesson in statics, instead of using balances, I put a\nstick across the back of a chair, and when evenly balanced, measure its\ntwo portions.  I add weights to each part, sometimes equal, sometimes\nunequal.  Pushing it to or fro as may be necessary, I finally discover\nthat equilibrium results from a reciprocal proportion between the\namount of weight and the length of the levers.  Thus my little student\nof physics can rectify balances without having ever seen them.\n\nWhen we thus learn by ourselves instead of learning from others, our\nideas are far more definite and clear.  Besides, if our reason is not\naccustomed to slavish submission to authority, this discovering\nrelations, linking one idea to another, and inventing apparatus,\nrenders us much more ingenious.  If, instead, we take everything just\nas it is given to us, we allow our minds to sink down into\nindifference; just as a man who always lets his servants dress him and\nwait on him, and his horses carry him about, loses finally not only the\nvigor but even the use of his limbs.  Boileau boasted that he had\ntaught Racine to rhyme with difficulty.  There are many excellent\nlabor-saving methods for studying science; but we are in sore need of\none to teach us how to learn them with more effort of our own.\n\nThe most manifest value of these slow and laborious researches is, that\namid speculative studies they maintain the activity and suppleness of\nthe body, by training the hands to labor, and creating habits useful to\nany man.  So many instruments are invented to aid in our experiments\nand to supplement the action of our senses, that we neglect to use the\nsenses themselves.  If the graphometer measures the size of an angle\nfor us, we need not estimate it ourselves.  The eye which measured\ndistances with precision intrusts this work to the chain; the steelyard\nsaves me the trouble of measuring weights by the hand.  The more\ningenious our apparatus, the more clumsy and awkward do our organs\nbecome.  If we surround ourselves with instruments, we shall no longer\nfind them within ourselves.\n\nBut when, in making the apparatus, we employ the skill and sagacity\nrequired in doing without them, we do not lose, but gain.  By adding\nart to nature, we become more ingenious and no less skilful.  If,\ninstead of keeping a child at his books, I keep him busy in a workshop,\nhis hands labor to his mind's advantage: while he regards himself only\nas a workman he is growing into a philosopher.  This kind of exercise\nhas other uses, of which I will speak hereafter; and we shall see how\nphilosophic amusements prepare us for the true functions of manhood.\n\nI have already remarked that purely speculative studies are rarely\nadapted to children, even when approaching the period of youth; but\nwithout making them enter very deeply into systematic physics, let all\nthe experiments be connected by some kind of dependence by which the\nchild can arrange them in his mind and recall them at need.  For we\ncannot without something of this sort retain isolated facts or even\nreasonings long in memory.\n\nIn investigating the laws of nature, always begin with the most common\nand most easily observed phenomena, and accustom your pupil not to\nconsider these phenomena as reasons, but as facts.  Taking a stone, I\npretend to lay it upon the air; opening my hand, the stone falls.\nLooking at Emile, who is watching my motions, I say to him, \"Why did\nthe stone fall?\"\n\nNo child will hesitate in answering such a question, not even Emile,\nunless I have taken great care that he shall not know how.  Any child\nwill say that the stone falls because it is heavy.  \"And what does\nheavy mean?\"  \"Whatever falls is heavy.\"  Here my little philosopher is\nreally at a stand.  Whether this first lesson in experimental physics\naids him in understanding that subject or not, it will always be a\npractical lesson.\n\n\nNothing to be Taken upon Authority.  Learning from the Pupil's own\nNecessities.\n\nAs the child's understanding matures, other important considerations\ndemand that we choose his occupations with more care.  As soon as he\nunderstands himself and all that relates to him well enough and broadly\nenough to discern what is to his advantage and what is becoming in him,\nhe can appreciate the difference between work and play, and to regard\nthe one solely as relaxation from the other.  Objects really useful may\nthen be included among his studies, and he will pay more attention to\nthem than if amusement alone were concerned.  The ever-present law of\nnecessity early teaches us to do what we dislike, to escape evils we\nshould dislike even more.  Such is the use of foresight from which,\njudicious or injudicious, springs all the wisdom or all the unhappiness\nof mankind.\n\nWe all long for happiness, but to acquire it we ought first to know\nwhat it is.  To the natural man it is as simple as his mode of life; it\nmeans health, liberty, and the necessaries of life, and freedom from\nsuffering.  The happiness of man as a moral being is another thing,\nforeign to the present question.  I cannot too often repeat that only\nobjects purely physical can interest children, especially those who\nhave not had their vanity aroused and their nature corrupted by the\npoison of opinion.\n\nWhen they provide beforehand for their own wants, their understanding\nis somewhat developed, and they are beginning to learn the value of\ntime.  We ought then by all means to accustom and to direct them to its\nemployment to useful ends, these being such as are useful at their age\nand readily understood by them.  The subject of moral order and the\nusages of society should not yet be presented, because children are not\nin a condition to understand such things.  To force their attention\nupon things which, as we vaguely tell them, will be for their good,\nwhen they do not know what this good means, is foolish.  It is no less\nfoolish to assure them that such things will benefit them when grown;\nfor they take no interest in this supposed benefit, which they cannot\nunderstand.\n\nLet the child take nothing for granted because some one says it is so.\nNothing is good to him but what he feels to be good.  You think it far\nsighted to push him beyond his understanding of things, but you are\nmistaken.  For the sake of arming him with weapons he does not know how\nto use, you take from him one universal among men, common sense: you\nteach him to allow himself always to be led, never to be more than a\nmachine in the hands of others.  If you will have him docile while he\nis young, you will make him a credulous dupe when he is a man.  You are\ncontinually saying to him, \"All I require of you is for your own good,\nbut you cannot understand it yet.  What does it matter to me whether\nyou do what I require or not?  You are doing it entirely for your own\nsake.\"  With such fine speeches you are paving the way for some kind of\ntrickster or fool,--some visionary babbler or charlatan,--who will\nentrap him or persuade him to adopt his own folly.\n\nA man may be well acquainted with things whose utility a child cannot\ncomprehend; but is it right, or even possible, for a child to learn\nwhat a man ought to know?  Try to teach the child all that is useful to\nhim now, and you will keep him busy all the time.  Why would you injure\nthe studies suitable to him at his age by giving him those of an age he\nmay never attain?  \"But,\" you say, \"will there be time for learning\nwhat he ought to know when the time to use it has already come?\"  I do\nnot know; but I am sure that he cannot learn it sooner.  For experience\nand feeling are our real teachers, and we never understand thoroughly\nwhat is best for us except from the circumstances of our case.  A child\nknows that he will one day be a man.  All the ideas of manhood that he\ncan understand give us opportunities of teaching him; but of those he\ncannot understand he should remain in absolute ignorance.  This entire\nbook is only a continued demonstration of this principle of education.\n\n\nFinding out the East.  The Forest of Montmorency.\n\nI do not like explanatory lectures; young people pay very little\nattention to them, and seldom remember them.  Things! things!  I cannot\nrepeat often enough that we attach too much importance to words.  Our\nbabbling education produces nothing but babblers.\n\nSuppose that while we are studying the course of the sun, and the\nmanner of finding where the east is, Emile all at once interrupts me,\nto ask, \"What is the use of all this?\"  What an opportunity for a fine\ndiscourse!  How many things I could tell him of in answering this\nquestion, especially if anybody were by to listen!  I could mention the\nadvantages of travel and of commerce; the peculiar products of each\nclimate; the manners of different nations; the use of the calendar; the\ncalculation of seasons in agriculture; the art of navigation, and the\nmanner of travelling by sea, following the true course without knowing\nwhere we are.  I might take up politics, natural history, astronomy,\neven ethics and international law, by way of giving my pupil an exalted\nidea of all these sciences, and a strong desire to learn them.  When I\nhave done, the boy will not have understood a single idea out of all my\npedantic display.  He would like to ask again, \"What is the use of\nfinding out where the east is?\" but dares not, lest I might be angry.\nHe finds it more to his interest to pretend to understand what he has\nbeen compelled to hear.  This is not at all an uncommon case in\nsuperior education, so-called.\n\nBut our Emile, brought up more like a rustic, and carefully taught to\nthink very slowly, will not listen to all this.  He will run away at\nthe first word he does not understand, and play about the room, leaving\nme to harangue all by myself.  Let us find a simpler way; this\nscientific display does him no good.\n\nWe were noticing the position of the forest north of Montmorency, when\nhe interrupted me with the eager question, \"What is the use of knowing\nthat?\"  \"You may be right,\" said I; \"we must take time to think about\nit; and if there is really no use in it, we will not try it again, for\nwe have enough to do that is of use.\"  We went at something else, and\nthere was no more geography that day.\n\nThe next morning I proposed a walk before breakfast.  Nothing could\nhave pleased him better; children are always ready to run about, and\nthis boy had sturdy legs of his own.  We went into the forest, and\nwandered over the fields; we lost ourselves, having no idea where we\nwere; and when we intended to go home, could not find our way.  Time\npassed; the heat of the day came on; we were hungry.  In vain did we\nhurry about from place to place; we found everywhere nothing but woods,\nquarries, plains, and not a landmark that we knew.  Heated, worn out\nwith fatigue, and very hungry, our running about only led us more and\nmore astray.  At last we sat down to rest and to think the matter over.\nEmile, like any other child, did not think about it; he cried.  He did\nnot know that we were near the gate of Montmorency, and that only a\nnarrow strip of woodland hid it from us.  But to him this narrow strip\nof woodland was a whole forest; one of his stature would be lost to\nsight among bushes.\n\nAfter some moments of silence I said to him, with a troubled air,\n\n\"My dear Emile, what shall we do to get away from here?\"\n\nEMILE.  [_In a profuse perspiration, and crying bitterly._] I don't\nknow.  I'm tired.  I'm hungry.  I'm thirsty.  I can't do anything.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  Do you think I am better off than you, or that I would\nmind crying too, if crying would do for my breakfast?  There is no use\nin crying; the thing is, to find our way.  Let me see your watch; what\ntime is it?\n\nEMILE.  It is twelve o'clock, and I haven't had my breakfast.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  That is true.  It is twelve o'clock, and I haven't had\nmy breakfast, either.\n\nEMILE.  Oh, how hungry you must be!\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  The worst of it is that my dinner will not come here to\nfind me.  Twelve o'clock?  it was just this time yesterday that we\nnoticed where Montmorency is.  Could we see where it is just as well\nfrom this forest?\n\nEMILE.  Yea; but yesterday we saw the forest, and we cannot see the\ntown from this place.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  That is a pity.  I wonder if we could find out where it\nis without seeing it?\n\nEMILE.  Oh, my dear friend!\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  Did not we say that this forest is--\n\nEMILE.  North of Montmorency.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  If that is true, Montmorency must be--\n\nEMILE.  South of the forest.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  There is a way of finding out the north at noon.\n\nEMILE.  Yes; by the direction of our shadows.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  But the south?\n\nEMILE.  How can we find that?\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  The south is opposite the north.\n\nEMILE.  That is true; all we have to do is to find the side opposite\nthe shadows.  Oh, there's the south! there's the south!  Montmorency\nmust surely be on that side; let us look on that side.\n\nJEAN JACQUES.  Perhaps you are right.  Let us take this path through\nthe forest.\n\nEMILE.  [_Clapping his hands, with a joyful shout._] Oh, I see\nMontmorency; there it is, just before us, in plain sight.  Let us go to\nour breakfast, our dinner; let us run fast.  Astronomy is good for\nsomething!\n\nObserve that even if he does not utter these last words, they will be\nin his mind.  It matters little so long as it is not I who utter them.\nRest assured that he will never in his life forget this day's lesson.\nNow if I had only made him imagine it all indoors, my lecture would\nhave been entirely forgotten by the next day.  We should teach as much\nas possible by actions, and say only what we cannot do.\n\n\nRobinson Crusoe.\n\nIn his legitimate preference for teaching by the eye and hand and by\nreal things, and in his aversion to the barren and erroneous method of\nteaching from books alone, Rousseau, constantly carried away by the\npassionate ardor of his nature, rushes into an opposite extreme, and\nexclaims, \"I hate books; they only teach us to talk about what we do\nnot understand.\"  Then, checked in the full tide of this declamation by\nhis own good sense, he adds:--\n\n\nSince we must have books, there is one which, to my mind, furnishes the\nfinest of treatises on education according to nature.  My Emile shall\nread this book before any other; it shall for a long time be his entire\nlibrary, and shall always hold an honorable place.  It shall be the\ntext on which all our discussions of natural science shall be only\ncommentaries.  It shall be a test for all we meet during our progress\ntoward a ripened judgment, and so long as our taste is unspoiled, we\nshall enjoy reading it.  What wonderful book is this?  Aristotle?\nPliny?  Buffon?  No; it is \"Robinson Crusoe.\"\n\nThe story of this man, alone on his island, unaided by his fellow-men,\nwithout any art or its implements, and yet providing for his own\npreservation and subsistence, even contriving to live in what might be\ncalled comfort, is interesting to persons of all ages.  It may be made\ndelightful to children in a thousand ways.  Thus we make the desert\nisland, which I used at the outset for a comparison, a reality.\n\nThis condition is not, I grant, that of man in society; and to all\nappearance Emile will never occupy it; but from it he ought to judge of\nall others.  The surest way to rise above prejudice, and to judge of\nthings in their true relations, is to put ourselves in the place of an\nisolated man, and decide as he must concerning their real utility.\n\nDisencumbered of its less profitable portions, this romance from its\nbeginning, the shipwreck of Crusoe on the island, to its end, the\narrival of the vessel which takes him away, will yield amusement and\ninstruction to Emile during the period now in question.  I would have\nhim completely carried away by it, continually thinking of Crusoe's\nfort, his goats, and his plantations.  I would have him learn, not from\nbooks, but from real things, all he would need to know under the same\ncircumstances.  He should be encouraged to play Robinson Crusoe; to\nimagine himself clad in skins, wearing a great cap and sword, and all\nthe array of that grotesque figure, down to the umbrella, of which he\nwould have no need.  If he happens to be in want of anything, I hope he\nwill contrive something to supply its place.  Let him look carefully\ninto all that his hero did, and decide whether any of it was\nunnecessary, or might have been done in a better way.  Let him notice\nCrusoe's mistakes and avoid them under like circumstances.  He will\nvery likely plan for himself surroundings like Crusoe's,--a real castle\nin the air, natural at his happy age when we think ourselves rich if we\nare free and have the necessaries of life.  How useful this hobby might\nbe made if some man of sense would only suggest it and turn it to good\naccount!  The child, eager to build a storehouse for his island, would\nbe more desirous to learn than his master would be to teach him.  He\nwould be anxious to know everything he could make use of, and nothing\nbesides.  You would not need to guide, but to restrain him.\n\n\nHere Rousseau insists upon giving a child some trade, no matter what\nhis station in life may be; and in 1762 he uttered these prophetic\nwords, remarkable indeed, when we call to mind the disorders at the\nclose of that century:--\n\n\nYou trust to the present condition of society, without reflecting that\nit is subject to unavoidable revolutions, and that you can neither\nforesee nor prevent what is to affect the fate of your own children.\nThe great are brought low, the poor are made rich, the king becomes a\nsubject.  Are the blows of fate so uncommon that you can expect to\nescape them?  We are approaching a crisis, the age of revolutions.  Who\ncan tell what will become of you then?  All that man has done man may\ndestroy.  No characters but those stamped by nature are ineffaceable;\nand nature did not make princes, or rich men, or nobles.\n\n\nThis advice was followed.  In the highest grades of society it became\nthe fashion to learn some handicraft.  It is well known that Louis XVI.\nwas proud of his skill as a locksmith.  Among the exiles of a later\nperiod, many owed their living to the trade they had thus learned.\n\nTo return to Emile: Rousseau selects for him the trade of a joiner, and\ngoes so far as to employ him and his tutor in that kind of labor for\none or more days of every week under a master who pays them actual\nwages for their work.\n\n\nJudging from Appearances.  The Broken Stick.\n\nIf I have thus far made myself understood, you may see how, with\nregular physical exercise and manual labor, I am at the same time\ngiving my pupil a taste for reflection and meditation.  This will\ncounterbalance the indolence which might result from his indifference\nto other men and from the dormant state of his passions.  He must work\nlike a peasant and think like a philosopher, or he will be as idle as a\nsavage.  The great secret of education is to make physical and mental\nexercises serve as relaxation for each other.  At first our pupil had\nnothing but sensations, and now he has ideas.  Then he only perceived,\nbut now he judges.  For from comparison of many successive or\nsimultaneous sensations, with the judgments based on them, arises a\nkind of mixed or complex sensation which I call an idea.\n\nThe different manner in which ideas are formed gives each mind its\npeculiar character.  A mind is solid if it shape its ideas according to\nthe true relations of things; superficial, if content with their\napparent relations; accurate, if it behold things as they really are;\nunsound, if it understand them incorrectly; disordered, if it fabricate\nimaginary relations, neither apparent nor real; imbecile, if it do not\ncompare ideas at all.  Greater or less mental power in different men\nconsists in their greater or less readiness in comparing ideas and\ndiscovering their relations.\n\nFrom simple as well as complex sensations, we form judgments which I\nwill call simple ideas.  In a sensation the judgment is wholly passive,\nonly affirming that we feel what we feel.  In a preception or idea, the\njudgment is active; it brings together, compares, and determines\nrelations not determined by the senses.  This is the only point of\ndifference, but it is important.  Nature never deceives us; it is\nalways we who deceive ourselves.\n\nI see a child eight years old helped to some frozen custard.  Without\nknowing what it is, he puts a spoonful in his mouth, and feeling the\ncold sensation, exclaims, \"Ah, that burns!\"  He feels a keen sensation;\nhe knows of none more so than heat, and thinks that is what he now\nfeels.  He is of course mistaken; the chill is painful, but does not\nburn him; and the two sensations are not alike, since, after\nencountering both, we never mistake one for the other.  It is not,\ntherefore, the sensation which misleads him, but the judgment based on\nit.\n\nIt is the same when any one sees for the first time a mirror or optical\napparatus; or enters a deep cellar in mid-winter or midsummer; or\nplunges his hand, either very warm or very cold, into tepid water; or\nrolls a little ball between two of his fingers held crosswise.  If he\nis satisfied with describing what he perceives or feels, keeping his\njudgment in abeyance, he cannot be mistaken.  But when he decides upon\nappearances, his judgment is active; it compares, and infers relations\nit does not perceive; and it may then be mistaken.  He will need\nexperience to prevent or correct such mistakes.  Show your pupil clouds\npassing over the moon at night, and he will think that the moon is\nmoving in an opposite direction, and that the clouds are at rest.  He\nwill the more readily infer that this is the case, because he usually\nsees small objects, not large ones, in motion, and because the clouds\nseem to him larger than the moon, of whose distance he has no idea.\nWhen from a moving boat he sees the shore at a little distance, he\nmakes the contrary mistake of thinking that the earth moves.  For,\nunconscious of his own motion, the boat, the water, and the entire\nhorizon seem to him one immovable whole of which the moving shore is\nonly one part.\n\nThe first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water, it seems to\nbe broken.  The sensation is a true one, and would be, even if we did\nnot know the reason for this appearance.  If therefore you ask him what\nhe sees, he answers truly, \"A broken stick,\" because he is fully\nconscious of the sensation of a broken stick.  But when, deceived by\nhis judgment, he goes farther, and after saying that he sees a broken\nstick, he says again that the stick really is broken, he says what is\nnot true; and why?  Because his judgment becomes active; he decides no\nlonger from observation, but from inference, when he declares as a fact\nwhat he does not actually perceive; namely, that touch would confirm\nthe judgment based upon sight alone.\n\nThe best way of learning to judge correctly is the one which tends to\nsimplify our experience, and enables us to make no mistakes even when\nwe dispense with experience altogether.  It follows from this that\nafter having long verified the testimony of one sense by that of\nanother, we must further learn to verify the testimony of each sense by\nitself without appeal to any other.  Then each sensation at once\nbecomes an idea, and an idea in accordance with the truth.  With such\nacquisitions I have endeavored to store this third period of human life.\n\nTo follow this plan requires a patience and a circumspection of which\nfew teachers are capable, and without which a pupil will never learn to\njudge correctly.  For example: if, when he is misled by the appearance\nof a broken stick, you endeavor to show him his mistake by taking the\nstick quickly out of the water, you may perhaps undeceive him, but what\nwill you teach him?  Nothing he might not have learned for himself.\nYou ought not thus to teach him one detached truth, instead of showing\nhim how he may always discover for himself any truth.  If you really\nmean to teach him, do not at once undeceive him.  Let Emile and myself\nserve you for example.\n\nIn the first place, any child educated in the ordinary way would, to\nthe second of the two questions above mentioned, answer, \"Of course the\nstick is broken.\"  I doubt whether Emile would give this answer.\nSeeing no need of being learned or of appearing learned, he never\njudges hastily, but only from evidence.  Knowing how easily appearances\ndeceive us, as in the case of perspective, he is far from finding the\nevidence in the present case sufficient.  Besides, knowing from\nexperience that my most trivial question always has an object which he\ndoes not at once discover, he is not in the habit of giving heedless\nanswers.  On the contrary, he is on his guard and attentive; he looks\ninto the matter very carefully before replying.  He never gives me an\nanswer with which he is not himself satisfied, and he is not easily\nsatisfied.  Moreover, he and I do not pride ourselves on knowing facts\nexactly, but only on making few mistakes.  We should be much more\ndisconcerted if we found ourselves satisfied with an insufficient\nreason than if we had discovered none at all.  The confession, \"I do\nnot know,\" suits us both so well, and we repeat it so often, that it\ncosts neither of us anything.  But whether for this once he is\ncareless, or avoids the difficulty by a convenient \"I do not know,\" my\nanswer is the same: \"Let us see; let us find out.\"\n\nThe stick, half-way in the water, is fixed in a vertical position.  To\nfind out whether it is broken, as it appears to be, how much we must do\nbefore we take it out of the water, or even touch it!  First, we go\nentirely round it, and observe that the fracture goes around with us.\nIt is our eye alone, then, that changes it; and a glance cannot move\nthings from place to place.\n\nSecondly, we look directly down the stick, from the end outside of the\nwater; then the stick is no longer bent, because the end next our eye\nexactly hides the other end from us.  Has our eye straightened the\nstick?\n\nThirdly, we stir the surface of the water, and see the stick bend\nitself into several curves, move in a zig-zag direction, and follow the\nundulations of the water.  Has the motion we gave the water been enough\nthus to break, to soften, and to melt the stick?\n\nFourth, we draw off the water and see the stick straighten itself as\nfast as the water is lowered.  Is not this more than enough to\nillustrate the fact and to find out the refraction?  It is not then\ntrue that the eye deceives us, since by its aid alone we can correct\nthe mistakes we ascribe to it.\n\nSuppose the child so dull as not to understand the result of these\nexperiments.  Then we must call touch to the aid of sight.  Instead of\ntaking the stick out of the water, leave it there, and let him pass his\nhand from one end of it to the other.  He will feel no angle; the\nstick, therefore, is not broken.\n\nYou will tell me that these are not only judgments but formal\nreasonings.  True; but do you not see that, as soon as the mind has\nattained to ideas, all judgment is reasoning?  The consciousness of any\nsensation is a proposition, a judgment.  As soon, therefore, as we\ncompare one sensation with another, we reason.  The art of judging and\nthe art of reasoning are precisely the same.\n\nIf, from the lesson of this stick, Emile does not understand the idea\nof refraction, he will never understand it at all.  He shall never\ndissect insects, or count the spots on the sun; he shall not even know\nwhat a microscope or a telescope is.\n\nYour learned pupils will laugh at his ignorance, and will not be very\nfar wrong.  For before he uses these instruments, I intend he shall\ninvent them; and you may well suppose that this will not be soon done.\n\nThis shall be the spirit of all my methods of teaching during this\nperiod.  If the child rolls a bullet between two crossed fingers, I\nwill not let him look at it till he is otherwise convinced that there\nis only one bullet there.\n\n\nResult.  The Pupil at the Age of Fifteen.\n\nI think these explanations will suffice to mark distinctly the advance\nmy pupil's mind has hitherto made, and the route by which he has\nadvanced.  You are probably alarmed at the number of subjects I have\nbrought to his notice.  You are afraid I will overwhelm his mind with\nall this knowledge.  But I teach him rather not to know them than to\nknow them.  I am showing him a path to knowledge not indeed difficult,\nbut without limit, slowly measured, long, or rather endless, and\ntedious to follow.  I am showing him how to take the first steps, so\nthat he may know its beginning, but allow him to go no farther.\n\nObliged to learn by his own effort, he employs his own reason, not that\nof another.  Most of our mistakes arise less within ourselves than from\nothers; so that if he is not to be ruled by opinion, he must receive\nnothing upon authority.  Such continual exercise must invigorate the\nmind as labor and fatigue strengthen the body.\n\nThe mind as well as the body can bear only what its strength will\nallow.  When the understanding fully masters a thing before intrusting\nit to the memory, what it afterward draws therefrom is in reality its\nown.  But if instead we load the memory with matters the understanding\nhas not mastered, we run the risk of never finding there anything that\nbelongs to it.\n\nEmile has little knowledge, but it is really his own; he knows nothing\nby halves; and the most important fact is that he does not now know\nthings he will one day know; that many things known to other people he\nnever will know; and that there is an infinity of things which neither\nhe nor any one else ever will know.  He is prepared for knowledge of\nevery kind; not because he has so much, but because he knows how to\nacquire it; his mind is open to it, and, as Montaigne says, if not\ntaught, he is at least teachable.  I shall be satisfied if he knows how\nto find out the \"wherefore\" of everything he knows and the \"why\" of\neverything he believes.  I repeat that my object is not to give him\nknowledge, but to teach him how to acquire it at need; to estimate it\nat its true value, and above all things, to love the truth.  By this\nmethod we advance slowly, but take no useless steps, and are not\nobliged to retrace a single one.\n\nEmile understands only the natural and purely physical sciences.  He\ndoes not even know the name of history, or the meaning of metaphysics\nand ethics.  He knows the essential relations between men and things,\nbut nothing of the moral relations between man and man.  He does not\nreadily generalize or conceive of abstractions.  He observes the\nqualities common to certain bodies without reasoning about the\nqualities themselves.  With the aid of geometric figures and algebraic\nsigns, he knows something of extension and quantity.  Upon these\nfigures and signs his senses rest their knowledge of the abstractions\njust named.  He makes no attempt to learn the nature of things, but\nonly such of their relations as concern himself.  He estimates external\nthings only by their relation to him; but this estimate is exact and\npositive, and in it fancies and conventionalities have no share.  He\nvalues most those things that are most useful to him; and never\ndeviating from this standard, is not influenced by general opinion.\n\nEmile is industrious, temperate, patient, steadfast, and full of\ncourage.  His imagination, never aroused, does not exaggerate dangers.\nHe feels few discomforts, and can bear pain with fortitude, because he\nhas never learned to contend with fate.  He does not yet know exactly\nwhat death is, but, accustomed to yield to the law of necessity, he\nwill die when he must, without a groan or a struggle.  Nature can do no\nmore at that moment abhorred by all.  To live free and to have little\nto do with human affairs is the best way of learning how to die.\n\nIn a word, Emile has every virtue which affects himself.  To have the\nsocial virtues as well, he only needs to know the relations which make\nthem necessary; and this knowledge his mind is ready to receive.  He\nconsiders himself independently of others, and is satisfied when others\ndo not think of him at all.  He exacts nothing from others, and never\nthinks of owing anything to them.  He is alone in human society, and\ndepends solely upon himself.  He has the best right of all to be\nindependent, for he is all that any one can be at his age.  He has no\nerrors but such as a human being must have; no vices but those from\nwhich no one can warrant himself exempt.  He has a sound constitution,\nactive limbs, a fair and unprejudiced mind, a heart free and without\npassions.  Self-love, the first and most natural of all, has scarcely\nmanifested itself at all.  Without disturbing any one's peace of mind\nhe has led a happy, contented life, as free as nature will allow.  Do\nyou think a youth who has thus attained his fifteenth year has lost the\nyears that have gone before?\n\n\n\n[1] This might be carried too far, and is to be admitted with some\nreservations.  Ignorance is never alone; its companions are always\nerror and presumption.  No one is so certain that he knows, as he who\nknows nothing; and prejudice of all kinds is the form in which our\nignorance is clothed.\n\n[2] The armillary sphere is a group of pasteboard or copper circles, to\nillustrate the orbits of the planets, and their position in relation to\nthe earth, which is represented by a small wooden ball.\n\n[3] The imaginary circles traced on the celestial sphere, and figured\nin the armillary sphere by metallic circles, are called _culures_.\n\n[4] Rousseau here informs his readers that even these reproaches are\nexpected, he having dictated them beforehand to the mountebank; all\nthis scene has been arranged to deceive the child.  What a refinement\nof artifice in this passionate lover of the natural!","title":"\u00c9mile; Or, Concerning Education; Extracts","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":50681}