{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_5427/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_5427","id":"gutenberg_5427","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5427","summary":null,"tags":["Banned Books from Anne Haight's list","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Teaching & Education","Education -- Early works to 1800"],"text":"Produced by Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEMILE\n\nBy Jean-Jacques Rousseau\n\n\nTranslated by Barbara Foxley\n\n\n\n\nAuthor's Preface\n\nThis collection of scattered thoughts and observations has little\norder or continuity; it was begun to give pleasure to a good mother\nwho thinks for herself. My first idea was to write a tract a few\npages long, but I was carried away by my subject, and before I knew\nwhat I was doing my tract had become a kind of book, too large indeed\nfor the matter contained in it, but too small for the subject of\nwhich it treats. For a long time I hesitated whether to publish\nit or not, and I have often felt, when at work upon it, that it is\none thing to publish a few pamphlets and another to write a book.\nAfter vain attempts to improve it, I have decided that it is my\nduty to publish it as it stands. I consider that public attention\nrequires to be directed to this subject, and even if my own ideas\nare mistaken, my time will not have been wasted if I stir up others\nto form right ideas. A solitary who casts his writings before the\npublic without any one to advertise them, without any party ready\nto defend them, one who does not even know what is thought and said\nabout those writings, is at least free from one anxiety--if he is\nmistaken, no one will take his errors for gospel.\n\nI shall say very little about the value of a good education, nor\nshall I stop to prove that the customary method of education is bad;\nthis has been done again and again, and I do not wish to fill my\nbook with things which everyone knows. I will merely state that, go\nas far back as you will, you will find a continual outcry against\nthe established method, but no attempt to suggest a better. The\nliterature and science of our day tend rather to destroy than to\nbuild up. We find fault after the manner of a master; to suggest,\nwe must adopt another style, a style less in accordance with the\npride of the philosopher. In spite of all those books, whose only\naim, so they say, is public utility, the most useful of all arts,\nthe art of training men, is still neglected. Even after Locke's\nbook was written the subject remained almost untouched, and I fear\nthat my book will leave it pretty much as it found it.\n\nWe know nothing of childhood; and with our mistaken notions the\nfurther we advance the further we go astray. The wisest writers\ndevote themselves to what a man ought to know, without asking what\na child is capable of learning. They are always looking for the\nman in the child, without considering what he is before he becomes\na man.  It is to this study that I have chiefly devoted myself,\nso that if my method is fanciful and unsound, my observations may\nstill be of service. I may be greatly mistaken as to what ought to\nbe done, but I think I have clearly perceived the material which\nis to be worked upon. Begin thus by making a more careful study of\nyour scholars, for it is clear that you know nothing about them;\nyet if you read this book with that end in view, I think you will\nfind that it is not entirely useless.\n\nWith regard to what will be called the systematic portion of the\nbook, which is nothing more than the course of nature, it is here\nthat the reader will probably go wrong, and no doubt I shall be\nattacked on this side, and perhaps my critics may be right. You\nwill tell me, \"This is not so much a treatise on education as the\nvisions of a dreamer with regard to education.\" What can I do? I have\nnot written about other people's ideas of education, but about my\nown.  My thoughts are not those of others; this reproach has been\nbrought against me again and again. But is it within my power\nto furnish myself with other eyes, or to adopt other ideas? It is\nwithin my power to refuse to be wedded to my own opinions and to\nrefuse to think myself wiser than others. I cannot change my mind;\nI can distrust myself. This is all I can do, and this I have done.\nIf I sometimes adopt a confident tone, it is not to impress the\nreader, it is to make my meaning plain to him. Why should I profess\nto suggest as doubtful that which is not a matter of doubt to\nmyself? I say just what I think.\n\nWhen I freely express my opinion, I have so little idea of claiming\nauthority that I always give my reasons, so that you may weigh\nand judge them for yourselves; but though I would not obstinately\ndefend my ideas, I think it my duty to put them forward; for the\nprinciples with regard to which I differ from other writers are\nnot matters of indifference; we must know whether they are true or\nfalse, for on them depends the happiness or the misery of mankind.\nPeople are always telling me to make PRACTICABLE suggestions. You\nmight as well tell me to suggest what people are doing already,\nor at least to suggest improvements which may be incorporated with\nthe wrong methods at present in use. There are matters with regard\nto which such a suggestion is far more chimerical than my own,\nfor in such a connection the good is corrupted and the bad is none\nthe better for it. I would rather follow exactly the established\nmethod than adopt a better method by halves. There would be fewer\ncontradictions in the man; he cannot aim at one and the same time\nat two different objects. Fathers and mothers, what you desire that\nyou can do. May I count on your goodwill?\n\nThere are two things to be considered with regard to any scheme.\nIn the first place, \"Is it good in itself\" In the second, \"Can it\nbe easily put into practice?\"\n\nWith regard to the first of these it is enough that the scheme\nshould be intelligible and feasible in itself, that what is good\nin it should be adapted to the nature of things, in this case, for\nexample, that the proposed method of education should be suitable\nto man and adapted to the human heart.\n\nThe second consideration depends upon certain given conditions in\nparticular cases; these conditions are accidental and therefore\nvariable; they may vary indefinitely. Thus one kind of education\nwould be possible in Switzerland and not in France; another would be\nadapted to the middle classes but not to the nobility. The scheme\ncan be carried out, with more or less success, according to a\nmultitude of circumstances, and its results can only be determined\nby its special application to one country or another, to this class\nor that. Now all these particular applications are not essential\nto my subject, and they form no part of my scheme. It is enough\nfor me that, wherever men are born into the world, my suggestions\nwith regard to them may be carried out, and when you have made them\nwhat I would have them be, you have done what is best for them and\nbest for other people. If I fail to fulfil this promise, no doubt\nI am to blame; but if I fulfil my promise, it is your own fault if\nyou ask anything more of me, for I have promised you nothing more.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I\n\nGod makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become\nevil. He forces one soil to yield the products of another, one tree\nto bear another's fruit. He confuses and confounds time, place,\nand natural conditions. He mutilates his dog, his horse, and his\nslave.  He destroys and defaces all things; he loves all that is\ndeformed and monstrous; he will have nothing as nature made it,\nnot even man himself, who must learn his paces like a saddle-horse,\nand be shaped to his master's taste like the trees in his garden.\nYet things would be worse without this education, and mankind cannot\nbe made by halves. Under existing conditions a man left to himself\nfrom birth would be more of a monster than the rest. Prejudice,\nauthority, necessity, example, all the social conditions into which\nwe are plunged, would stifle nature in him and put nothing in her\nplace.  She would be like a sapling chance sown in the midst of the\nhighway, bent hither and thither and soon crushed by the passers-by.\n\nTender, anxious mother, [Footnote: The earliest education is\nmost important and it undoubtedly is woman's work. If the author\nof nature had meant to assign it to men he would have given them\nmilk to feed the child. Address your treatises on education to the\nwomen, for not only are they able to watch over it more closely than\nmen, not only is their influence always predominant in education,\nits success concerns them more nearly, for most widows are at the\nmercy of their children, who show them very plainly whether their\neducation was good or bad. The laws, always more concerned about\nproperty than about people, since their object is not virtue but\npeace, the laws give too little authority to the mother. Yet her\nposition is more certain than that of the father, her duties are\nmore trying; the right ordering of the family depends more upon\nher, and she is usually fonder of her children. There are occasions\nwhen a son may be excused for lack of respect for his father, but\nif a child could be so unnatural as to fail in respect for the\nmother who bore him and nursed him at her breast, who for so many\nyears devoted herself to his care, such a monstrous wretch should\nbe smothered at once as unworthy to live. You say mothers spoil\ntheir children, and no doubt that is wrong, but it is worse to\ndeprave them as you do.  The mother wants her child to be happy\nnow. She is right, and if her method is wrong, she must be taught\na better. Ambition, avarice, tyranny, the mistaken foresight of fathers,\ntheir neglect, their harshness, are a hundredfold more harmful to\nthe child than the blind affection of the mother. Moreover, I must\nexplain what I mean by a mother and that explanation follows.] I\nappeal to you. You can remove this young tree from the highway and\nshield it from the crushing force of social conventions. Tend and\nwater it ere it dies.  One day its fruit will reward your care.\nFrom the outset raise a wall round your child's soul; another may\nsketch the plan, you alone should carry it into execution.\n\nPlants are fashioned by cultivation, man by education. If a man\nwere born tall and strong, his size and strength would be of no\ngood to him till he had learnt to use them; they would even harm\nhim by preventing others from coming to his aid; [Footnote: Like\nthem in externals, but without speech and without the ideas which\nare expressed by speech, he would be unable to make his wants known,\nwhile there would be nothing in his appearance to suggest that he\nneeded their help.] left to himself he would die of want before he\nknew his needs. We lament the helplessness of infancy; we fail to\nperceive that the race would have perished had not man begun by\nbeing a child.\n\nWe are born weak, we need strength; helpless, we need aid; foolish,\nwe need reason. All that we lack at birth, all that we need when\nwe come to man's estate, is the gift of education.\n\nThis education comes to us from nature, from men, or from things.\nThe inner growth of our organs and faculties is the education of\nnature, the use we learn to make of this growth is the education\nof men, what we gain by our experience of our surroundings is the\neducation of things.\n\nThus we are each taught by three masters. If their teaching\nconflicts, the scholar is ill-educated and will never be at peace\nwith himself; if their teaching agrees, he goes straight to his\ngoal, he lives at peace with himself, he is well-educated.\n\nNow of these three factors in education nature is wholly beyond\nour control, things are only partly in our power; the education of\nmen is the only one controlled by us; and even here our power is\nlargely illusory, for who can hope to direct every word and deed\nof all with whom the child has to do.\n\nViewed as an art, the success of education is almost impossible,\nsince the essential conditions of success are beyond our control.\nOur efforts may bring us within sight of the goal, but fortune must\nfavour us if we are to reach it.\n\nWhat is this goal? As we have just shown, it is the goal of nature.\nSince all three modes of education must work together, the two\nthat we can control must follow the lead of that which is beyond\nour control. Perhaps this word Nature has too vague a meaning. Let\nus try to define it.\n\nNature, we are told, is merely habit. What does that mean? Are there\nnot habits formed under compulsion, habits which never stifle nature?\nSuch, for example, are the habits of plants trained horizontally.\nThe plant keeps its artificial shape, but the sap has not changed\nits course, and any new growth the plant may make will be vertical.\nIt is the same with a man's disposition; while the conditions remain\nthe same, habits, even the least natural of them, hold good; but\nchange the conditions, habits vanish, nature reasserts herself.\nEducation itself is but habit, for are there not people who forget\nor lose their education and others who keep it?  Whence comes\nthis difference? If the term nature is to be restricted to habits\nconformable to nature we need say no more.\n\nWe are born sensitive and from our birth onwards we are affected\nin various ways by our environment. As soon as we become conscious\nof our sensations we tend to seek or shun the things that cause\nthem, at first because they are pleasant or unpleasant, then because\nthey suit us or not, and at last because of judgments formed by\nmeans of the ideas of happiness and goodness which reason gives\nus. These tendencies gain strength and permanence with the growth\nof reason, but hindered by our habits they are more or less warped\nby our prejudices. Before this change they are what I call Nature\nwithin us.\n\nEverything should therefore be brought into harmony with these\nnatural tendencies, and that might well be if our three modes of\neducation merely differed from one another; but what can be done\nwhen they conflict, when instead of training man for himself you\ntry to train him for others? Harmony becomes impossible. Forced to\ncombat either nature or society, you must make your choice between\nthe man and the citizen, you cannot train both.\n\nThe smaller social group, firmly united in itself and dwelling\napart from others, tends to withdraw itself from the larger society.\nEvery patriot hates foreigners; they are only men, and nothing to\nhim.[Footnote: Thus the wars of republics are more cruel than those\nof monarchies. But if the wars of kings are less cruel, their peace\nis terrible; better be their foe than their subject.] This defect\nis inevitable, but of little importance. The great thing is to be\nkind to our neighbours. Among strangers the Spartan was selfish,\ngrasping, and unjust, but unselfishness, justice, and harmony ruled\nhis home life. Distrust those cosmopolitans who search out remote\nduties in their books and neglect those that lie nearest. Such\nphilosophers will love the Tartars to avoid loving their neighbour.\n\nThe natural man lives for himself; he is the unit, the whole,\ndependent only on himself and on his like. The citizen is but the\nnumerator of a fraction, whose value depends on its denominator;\nhis value depends upon the whole, that is, on the community. Good\nsocial institutions are those best fitted to make a man unnatural,\nto exchange his independence for dependence, to merge the unit\nin the group, so that he no longer regards himself as one, but as\na part of the whole, and is only conscious of the common life. A\ncitizen of Rome was neither Caius nor Lucius, he was a Roman; he\never loved his country better than his life. The captive Regulus\nprofessed himself a Carthaginian; as a foreigner he refused to take\nhis seat in the Senate except at his master's bidding. He scorned\nthe attempt to save his life. He had his will, and returned in\ntriumph to a cruel death. There is no great likeness between Regulus\nand the men of our own day.\n\nThe Spartan Pedaretes presented himself for admission to the council\nof the Three Hundred and was rejected; he went away rejoicing that\nthere were three hundred Spartans better than himself. I suppose he\nwas in earnest; there is no reason to doubt it. That was a citizen.\n\nA Spartan mother had five sons with the army. A Helot arrived;\ntrembling she asked his news. \"Your five sons are slain.\" \"Vile\nslave, was that what I asked thee?\" \"We have won the victory.\"\nShe hastened to the temple to render thanks to the gods. That was\na citizen.\n\nHe who would preserve the supremacy of natural feelings in social\nlife knows not what he asks. Ever at war with himself, hesitating\nbetween his wishes and his duties, he will be neither a man nor\na citizen. He will be of no use to himself nor to others. He will\nbe a man of our day, a Frenchman, an Englishman, one of the great\nmiddle class.\n\nTo be something, to be himself, and always at one with himself, a\nman must act as he speaks, must know what course he ought to take,\nand must follow that course with vigour and persistence. When I\nmeet this miracle it will be time enough to decide whether he is\na man or a citizen, or how he contrives to be both.\n\nTwo conflicting types of educational systems spring from these\nconflicting aims. One is public and common to many, the other\nprivate and domestic.\n\nIf you wish to know what is meant by public education, read Plato's\nRepublic. Those who merely judge books by their titles take this for\na treatise on politics, but it is the finest treatise on education\never written.\n\nIn popular estimation the Platonic Institute stands for all that\nis fanciful and unreal. For my own part I should have thought the\nsystem of Lycurgus far more impracticable had he merely committed\nit to writing. Plato only sought to purge man's heart; Lycurgus\nturned it from its natural course.\n\nThe public institute does not and cannot exist, for there is neither\ncountry nor patriot. The very words should be struck out of our\nlanguage. The reason does not concern us at present, so that though\nI know it I refrain from stating it.\n\nI do not consider our ridiculous colleges [Footnote: There are\nteachers dear to me in many schools and especially in the University\nof Paris, men for whom I have a great respect, men whom I believe\nto be quite capable of instructing young people, if they were not\ncompelled to follow the established custom. I exhort one of them\nto publish the scheme of reform which he has thought out. Perhaps\npeople would at length seek to cure the evil if they realised that\nthere was a remedy.] as public institutes, nor do I include under\nthis head a fashionable education, for this education facing two\nways at once achieves nothing. It is only fit to turn out hypocrites,\nalways professing to live for others, while thinking of themselves\nalone. These professions, however, deceive no one, for every one\nhas his share in them; they are so much labour wasted.\n\nOur inner conflicts are caused by these contradictions. Drawn\nthis way by nature and that way by man, compelled to yield to both\nforces, we make a compromise and reach neither goal. We go through\nlife, struggling and hesitating, and die before we have found peace,\nuseless alike to ourselves and to others.\n\nThere remains the education of the home or of nature; but how will\na man live with others if he is educated for himself alone? If\nthe twofold aims could be resolved into one by removing the man's\nself-contradictions, one great obstacle to his happiness would be\ngone.  To judge of this you must see the man full-grown; you must\nhave noted his inclinations, watched his progress, followed his\nsteps; in a word you must really know a natural man. When you have\nread this work, I think you will have made some progress in this\ninquiry.\n\nWhat must be done to train this exceptional man! We can do much,\nbut the chief thing is to prevent anything being done. To sail\nagainst the wind we merely follow one tack and another; to keep our\nposition in a stormy sea we must cast anchor. Beware, young pilot,\nlest your boat slip its cable or drag its anchor before you know\nit.\n\n\n\nIn the social order where each has his own place a man must be\neducated for it. If such a one leave his own station he is fit for\nnothing else. His education is only useful when fate agrees with\nhis parents' choice; if not, education harms the scholar, if only\nby the prejudices it has created. In Egypt, where the son was\ncompelled to adopt his father's calling, education had at least\na settled aim; where social grades remain fixed, but the men who\nform them are constantly changing, no one knows whether he is not\nharming his son by educating him for his own class.\n\nIn the natural order men are all equal and their common calling\nis that of manhood, so that a well-educated man cannot fail to do\nwell in that calling and those related to it. It matters little to\nme whether my pupil is intended for the army, the church, or the\nlaw.  Before his parents chose a calling for him nature called him\nto be a man. Life is the trade I would teach him. When he leaves\nme, I grant you, he will be neither a magistrate, a soldier, nor a\npriest; he will be a man. All that becomes a man he will learn as\nquickly as another. In vain will fate change his station, he will\nalways be in his right place. \"Occupavi te, fortuna, atque cepi;\nomnes-que aditus tuos interclusi, ut ad me aspirare non posses.\"\nThe real object of our study is man and his environment. To my mind\nthose of us who can best endure the good and evil of life are the\nbest educated; hence it follows that true education consists less\nin precept than in practice. We begin to learn when we begin to\nlive; our education begins with ourselves, our first teacher is\nour nurse. The ancients used the word \"Education\" in a different\nsense, it meant \"Nurture.\" \"Educit obstetrix,\" says Varro. \"Educat\nnutrix, instituit paedagogus, docet magister.\" Thus, education,\ndiscipline, and instruction are three things as different in\ntheir purpose as the dame, the usher, and the teacher. But these\ndistinctions are undesirable and the child should only follow one\nguide.\n\nWe must therefore look at the general rather than the particular,\nand consider our scholar as man in the abstract, man exposed to all\nthe changes and chances of mortal life. If men were born attached\nto the soil of our country, if one season lasted all the year round,\nif every man's fortune were so firmly grasped that he could never\nlose it, then the established method of education would have\ncertain advantages; the child brought up to his own calling would\nnever leave it, he could never have to face the difficulties of\nany other condition. But when we consider the fleeting nature of\nhuman affairs, the restless and uneasy spirit of our times, when\nevery generation overturns the work of its predecessor, can we\nconceive a more senseless plan than to educate a child as if he\nwould never leave his room, as if he would always have his servants\nabout him? If the wretched creature takes a single step up or down\nhe is lost. This is not teaching him to bear pain; it is training\nhim to feel it.\n\nPeople think only of preserving their child's life; this is not\nenough, he must be taught to preserve his own life when he is a\nman, to bear the buffets of fortune, to brave wealth and poverty,\nto live at need among the snows of Iceland or on the scorching rocks\nof Malta. In vain you guard against death; he must needs die; and\neven if you do not kill him with your precautions, they are mistaken.\nTeach him to live rather than to avoid death: life is not breath,\nbut action, the use of our senses, our mind, our faculties, every\npart of ourselves which makes us conscious of our being. Life\nconsists less in length of days than in the keen sense of living.\nA man maybe buried at a hundred and may never have lived at all.\nHe would have fared better had he died young.\n\nOur wisdom is slavish prejudice, our customs consist in control,\nconstraint, compulsion. Civilised man is born and dies a slave.\nThe infant is bound up in swaddling clothes, the corpse is nailed\ndown in his coffin. All his life long man is imprisoned by our\ninstitutions.\n\nI am told that many midwives profess to improve the shape of the\ninfant's head by rubbing, and they are allowed to do it. Our heads\nare not good enough as God made them, they must be moulded outside\nby the nurse and inside by the philosopher. The Caribs are better\noff than we are. The child has hardly left the mother's womb, it\nhas hardly begun to move and stretch its limbs, when it is deprived\nof its freedom. It is wrapped in swaddling bands, laid down with\nits head fixed, its legs stretched out, and its arms by its sides;\nit is wound round with linen and bandages of all sorts so that it\ncannot move. It is fortunate if it has room to breathe, and it is\nlaid on its side so that water which should flow from its mouth can\nescape, for it is not free to turn its head on one side for this\npurpose.\n\nThe new-born child requires to stir and stretch his limbs to free\nthem from the stiffness resulting from being curled up so long.\nHis limbs are stretched indeed, but he is not allowed to move them.\nEven the head is confined by a cap. One would think they were afraid\nthe child should look as if it were alive.\n\nThus the internal impulses which should lead to growth find an\ninsurmountable obstacle in the way of the necessary movements. The\nchild exhausts his strength in vain struggles, or he gains strength\nvery slowly. He was freer and less constrained in the womb; he has\ngained nothing by birth.\n\nThe inaction, the constraint to which the child's limbs are subjected\ncan only check the circulation of the blood and humours; it can\nonly hinder the child's growth in size and strength, and injure its\nconstitution. Where these absurd precautions are absent, all the\nmen are tall, strong, and well-made. Where children are swaddled,\nthe country swarms with the hump-backed, the lame, the bow-legged,\nthe rickety, and every kind of deformity. In our fear lest the\nbody should become deformed by free movement, we hasten to deform\nit by putting it in a press. We make our children helpless lest\nthey should hurt themselves.\n\nIs not such a cruel bondage certain to affect both health and temper?\nTheir first feeling is one of pain and suffering; they find every\nnecessary movement hampered; more miserable than a galley slave, in\nvain they struggle, they become angry, they cry. Their first words\nyou say are tears. That is so. From birth you are always checking\nthem, your first gifts are fetters, your first treatment, torture.\nTheir voice alone is free; why should they not raise it in complaint?\nThey cry because you are hurting them; if you were swaddled you\nwould cry louder still.\n\nWhat is the origin of this senseless and unnatural custom? Since\nmothers have despised their first duty and refused to nurse their\nown children, they have had to be entrusted to hired nurses. Finding\nthemselves the mothers of a stranger's children, without the ties\nof nature, they have merely tried to save themselves trouble.\nA child unswaddled would need constant watching; well swaddled it\nis cast into a corner and its cries are unheeded. So long as the\nnurse's negligence escapes notice, so long as the nursling does\nnot break its arms or legs, what matter if it dies or becomes a\nweakling for life. Its limbs are kept safe at the expense of its\nbody, and if anything goes wrong it is not the nurse's fault.\n\nThese gentle mothers, having got rid of their babies, devote\nthemselves gaily to the pleasures of the town. Do they know how\ntheir children are being treated in the villages? If the nurse is at\nall busy, the child is hung up on a nail like a bundle of clothes\nand is left crucified while the nurse goes leisurely about her\nbusiness. Children have been found in this position purple in the\nface, their tightly bandaged chest forbade the circulation of the\nblood, and it went to the head; so the sufferer was considered very\nquiet because he had not strength to cry. How long a child might\nsurvive under such conditions I do not know, but it could not be\nlong. That, I fancy, is one of the chief advantages of swaddling\nclothes.\n\nIt is maintained that unswaddled infants would assume faulty positions\nand make movements which might injure the proper development of\ntheir limbs. That is one of the empty arguments of our false wisdom\nwhich has never been confirmed by experience. Out of all the crowds\nof children who grow up with the full use of their limbs among\nnations wiser than ourselves, you never find one who hurts himself\nor maims himself; their movements are too feeble to be dangerous,\nand when they assume an injurious position, pain warns them to\nchange it.\n\nWe have not yet decided to swaddle our kittens and puppies; are\nthey any the worse for this neglect? Children are heavier, I admit,\nbut they are also weaker. They can scarcely move, how could they\nhurt themselves! If you lay them on their backs, they will lie\nthere till they die, like the turtle, unable to turn itself over.\nNot content with having ceased to suckle their children, women no\nlonger wish to do it; with the natural result motherhood becomes a\nburden; means are found to avoid it. They will destroy their work\nto begin it over again, and they thus turn to the injury of the race\nthe charm which was given them for its increase. This practice, with\nother causes of depopulation, forbodes the coming fate of Europe.\nHer arts and sciences, her philosophy and morals, will shortly\nreduce her to a desert. She will be the home of wild beasts, and\nher inhabitants will hardly have changed for the worse.\n\nI have sometimes watched the tricks of young wives who pretend\nthat they wish to nurse their own children. They take care to be\ndissuaded from this whim. They contrive that husbands, doctors,\nand especially mothers should intervene. If a husband should let\nhis wife nurse her own baby it would be the ruin of him; they would\nmake him out a murderer who wanted to be rid of her. A prudent husband\nmust sacrifice paternal affection to domestic peace. Fortunately\nfor you there are women in the country districts more continent than\nyour wives. You are still more fortunate if the time thus gained\nis not intended for another than yourself.\n\nThere can be no doubt about a wife's duty, but, considering the\ncontempt in which it is held, it is doubtful whether it is not\njust as good for the child to be suckled by a stranger. This is\na question for the doctors to settle, and in my opinion they have\nsettled it according to the women's wishes, [Footnote: The league\nbetween the women and the doctors has always struck me as one of\nthe oddest things in Paris. The doctors' reputation depends on the\nwomen, and by means of the doctors the women get their own way.\nIt is easy to see what qualifications a doctor requires in Paris\nif he is to become celebrated.] and for my own part I think it is\nbetter that the child should suck the breast of a healthy nurse\nrather than of a petted mother, if he has any further evil to fear\nfrom her who has given him birth.\n\nOught the question, however, to be considered only from the\nphysiological point of view? Does not the child need a mother's\ncare as much as her milk? Other women, or even other animals, may\ngive him the milk she denies him, but there is no substitute for\na mother's love.\n\nThe woman who nurses another's child in place of her own is a bad\nmother; how can she be a good nurse? She may become one in time;\nuse will overcome nature, but the child may perish a hundred times\nbefore his nurse has developed a mother's affection for him.\n\nAnd this affection when developed has its drawbacks, which should\nmake any feeling woman afraid to put her child out to nurse. Is\nshe prepared to divide her mother's rights, or rather to abdicate\nthem in favour of a stranger; to see her child loving another more\nthan herself; to feel that the affection he retains for his own\nmother is a favour, while his love for his foster-mother is a duty;\nfor is not some affection due where there has been a mother's care?\n\nTo remove this difficulty, children are taught to look down on\ntheir nurses, to treat them as mere servants. When their task is\ncompleted the child is withdrawn or the nurse is dismissed. Her\nvisits to her foster-child are discouraged by a cold reception. After\na few years the child never sees her again. The mother expects to\ntake her place, and to repair by her cruelty the results of her own\nneglect.  But she is greatly mistaken; she is making an ungrateful\nfoster-child, not an affectionate son; she is teaching him ingratitude,\nand she is preparing him to despise at a later day the mother who\nbore him, as he now despises his nurse.\n\nHow emphatically would I speak if it were not so hopeless to keep\nstruggling in vain on behalf of a real reform. More depends on\nthis than you realise. Would you restore all men to their primal\nduties, begin with the mothers; the results will surprise you.\nEvery evil follows in the train of this first sin; the whole moral\norder is disturbed, nature is quenched in every breast, the home\nbecomes gloomy, the spectacle of a young family no longer stirs\nthe husband's love and the stranger's reverence. The mother whose\nchildren are out of sight wins scanty esteem; there is no home\nlife, the ties of nature are not strengthened by those of habit;\nfathers, mothers, children, brothers, and sisters cease to exist.\nThey are almost strangers; how should they love one another? Each\nthinks of himself first. When the home is a gloomy solitude pleasure\nwill be sought elsewhere.\n\nBut when mothers deign to nurse their own children, then will be\na reform in morals; natural feeling will revive in every heart;\nthere will be no lack of citizens for the state; this first step\nby itself will restore mutual affection. The charms of home are\nthe best antidote to vice. The noisy play of children, which we\nthought so trying, becomes a delight; mother and father rely more\non each other and grow dearer to one another; the marriage tie is\nstrengthened. In the cheerful home life the mother finds her sweetest\nduties and the father his pleasantest recreation. Thus the cure of\nthis one evil would work a wide-spread reformation; nature would\nregain her rights. When women become good mothers, men will be good\nhusbands and fathers.\n\nMy words are vain! When we are sick of worldly pleasures we do\nnot return to the pleasures of the home. Women have ceased to be\nmothers, they do not and will not return to their duty. Could they\ndo it if they would? The contrary custom is firmly established; each\nwould have to overcome the opposition of her neighbours, leagued\ntogether against the example which some have never given and others\ndo not desire to follow.\n\nYet there are still a few young women of good natural disposition\nwho refuse to be the slaves of fashion and rebel against the\nclamour of other women, who fulfil the sweet task imposed on them\nby nature.  Would that the reward in store for them might draw\nothers to follow their example. My conclusion is based upon plain\nreason, and upon facts I have never seen disputed; and I venture\nto promise these worthy mothers the firm and steadfast affection\nof their husbands and the truly filial love of their children and\nthe respect of all the world. Child-birth will be easy and will\nleave no ill-results, their health will be strong and vigorous, and\nthey will see their daughters follow their example, and find that\nexample quoted as a pattern to others.\n\nNo mother, no child; their duties are reciprocal, and when ill done\nby the one they will be neglected by the other. The child should\nlove his mother before he knows what he owes her. If the voice of\ninstinct is not strengthened by habit it soon dies, the heart is\nstill-born. From the outset we have strayed from the path of nature.\n\nThere is another by-way which may tempt our feet from the path of\nnature. The mother may lavish excessive care on her child instead\nof neglecting him; she may make an idol of him; she may develop\nand increase his weakness to prevent him feeling it; she wards\noff every painful experience in the hope of withdrawing him from\nthe power of nature, and fails to realise that for every trifling\nill from which she preserves him the future holds in store many\naccidents and dangers, and that it is a cruel kindness to prolong\nthe child's weakness when the grown man must bear fatigue.\n\nThetis, so the story goes, plunged her son in the waters of Styx to\nmake him invulnerable. The truth of this allegory is apparent. The\ncruel mothers I speak of do otherwise; they plunge their children\ninto softness, and they are preparing suffering for them, they open\nthe way to every kind of ill, which their children will not fail\nto experience after they grow up.\n\nFix your eyes on nature, follow the path traced by her. She keeps\nchildren at work, she hardens them by all kinds of difficulties,\nshe soon teaches them the meaning of pain and grief. They cut their\nteeth and are feverish, sharp colics bring on convulsions, they\nare choked by fits of coughing and tormented by worms, evil humours\ncorrupt the blood, germs of various kinds ferment in it, causing\ndangerous eruptions. Sickness and danger play the chief part in\ninfancy. One half of the children who are born die before their\neighth year. The child who has overcome hardships has gained strength,\nand as soon as he can use his life he holds it more securely.\n\nThis is nature's law; why contradict it? Do you not see that in\nyour efforts to improve upon her handiwork you are destroying it;\nher cares are wasted? To do from without what she does within is\naccording to you to increase the danger twofold. On the contrary,\nit is the way to avert it; experience shows that children delicately\nnurtured are more likely to die. Provided we do not overdo it, there\nis less risk in using their strength than in sparing it. Accustom\nthem therefore to the hardships they will have to face; train them\nto endure extremes of temperature, climate, and condition, hunger,\nthirst, and weariness. Dip them in the waters of Styx. Before bodily\nhabits become fixed you may teach what habits you will without any\nrisk, but once habits are established any change is fraught with\nperil. A child will bear changes which a man cannot bear, the muscles\nof the one are soft and flexible, they take whatever direction\nyou give them without any effort; the muscles of the grown man are\nharder and they only change their accustomed mode of action when\nsubjected to violence. So we can make a child strong without risking\nhis life or health, and even if there were some risk, it should not\nbe taken into consideration. Since human life is full of dangers,\ncan we do better than face them at a time when they can do the\nleast harm?\n\nA child's worth increases with his years. To his personal value\nmust be added the cost of the care bestowed upon him. For himself\nthere is not only loss of life, but the consciousness of death.\nWe must therefore think most of his future in our efforts for his\npreservation. He must be protected against the ills of youth before\nhe reaches them: for if the value of life increases until the child\nreaches an age when he can be useful, what madness to spare some\nsuffering in infancy only to multiply his pain when he reaches the\nage of reason. Is that what our master teaches us?\n\nMan is born to suffer; pain is the means of his preservation.\nHis childhood is happy, knowing only pain of body. These bodily\nsufferings are much less cruel, much less painful, than other forms\nof suffering, and they rarely lead to self-destruction. It is not\nthe twinges of gout which make a man kill himself, it is mental\nsuffering that leads to despair. We pity the sufferings of childhood;\nwe should pity ourselves; our worst sorrows are of our own making.\n\nThe new-born infant cries, his early days are spent in crying. He\nis alternately petted and shaken by way of soothing him; sometimes\nhe is threatened, sometimes beaten, to keep him quiet. We do what\nhe wants or we make him do what we want, we submit to his whims or\nsubject him to our own. There is no middle course; he must rule or\nobey. Thus his earliest ideas are those of the tyrant or the slave.\nHe commands before he can speak, he obeys before he can act, and\nsometimes he is punished for faults before he is aware of them, or\nrather before they are committed. Thus early are the seeds of evil\npassions sown in his young heart. At a later day these are attributed\nto nature, and when we have taken pains to make him bad we lament\nhis badness.\n\nIn this way the child passes six or seven years in the hands of\nwomen, the victim of his own caprices or theirs, and after they\nhave taught him all sorts of things, when they have burdened his\nmemory with words he cannot understand, or things which are of no\nuse to him, when nature has been stifled by the passions they have\nimplanted in him, this sham article is sent to a tutor. The tutor\ncompletes the development of the germs of artificiality which he finds\nalready well grown, he teaches him everything except self-knowledge\nand self-control, the arts of life and happiness. When at length\nthis infant slave and tyrant, crammed with knowledge but empty of\nsense, feeble alike in mind and body, is flung upon the world, and\nhis helplessness, his pride, and his other vices are displayed,\nwe begin to lament the wretchedness and perversity of mankind. We\nare wrong; this is the creature of our fantasy; the natural man is\ncast in another mould.\n\nWould you keep him as nature made him? Watch over him from his\nbirth. Take possession of him as soon as he comes into the world\nand keep him till he is a man; you will never succeed otherwise.\nThe real nurse is the mother and the real teacher is the father.\nLet them agree in the ordering of their duties as well as in their\nmethod, let the child pass from one to the other. He will be better\neducated by a sensible though ignorant father than by the cleverest\nmaster in the world. For zeal will atone for lack of knowledge,\nrather than knowledge for lack of zeal. But the duties of public\nand private business! Duty indeed! Does a father's duty come last.\n[Footnote: When we read in Plutarch that Cato the Censor, who ruled\nRome with such glory, brought up his own sons from the cradle,\nand so carefully that he left everything to be present when their\nnurse, that is to say their mother, bathed them; when we read\nin Suetonius that Augustus, the master of the world which he had\nconquered and which he himself governed, himself taught his grandsons\nto write, to swim, to understand the beginnings of science, and that\nhe always had them with him, we cannot help smiling at the little\npeople of those days who amused themselves with such follies, and\nwho were too ignorant, no doubt, to attend to the great affairs\nof the great people of our own time.] It is not surprising that\nthe man whose wife despises the duty of suckling her child should\ndespise its education. There is no more charming picture than\nthat of family life; but when one feature is wanting the whole is\nmarred. If the mother is too delicate to nurse her child, the father\nwill be too busy to teach him. Their children, scattered about\nin schools, convents, and colleges, will find the home of their\naffections elsewhere, or rather they will form the habit of caring\nfor nothing.  Brothers and sisters will scarcely know each other;\nwhen they are together in company they will behave as strangers.\nWhen there is no confidence between relations, when the family\nsociety ceases to give savour to life, its place is soon usurped\nby vice. Is there any man so stupid that he cannot see how all this\nhangs together?\n\nA father has done but a third of his task when he begets children\nand provides a living for them. He owes men to humanity, citizens\nto the state. A man who can pay this threefold debt and neglect to\ndo so is guilty, more guilty, perhaps, if he pays it in part than\nwhen he neglects it entirely. He has no right to be a father if\nhe cannot fulfil a father's duties. Poverty, pressure of business,\nmistaken social prejudices, none of these can excuse a man from his\nduty, which is to support and educate his own children. If a man\nof any natural feeling neglects these sacred duties he will repent\nit with bitter tears and will never be comforted.\n\nBut what does this rich man do, this father of a family, compelled,\nso he says, to neglect his children? He pays another man to perform\nthose duties which are his alone. Mercenary man! do you expect to\npurchase a second father for your child? Do not deceive yourself;\nit is not even a master you have hired for him, it is a flunkey,\nwho will soon train such another as himself.\n\nThere is much discussion as to the characteristics of a good\ntutor.  My first requirement, and it implies a good many more, is\nthat he should not take up his task for reward. There are callings\nso great that they cannot be undertaken for money without showing\nour unfitness for them; such callings are those of the soldier and\nthe teacher.\n\n\"But who must train my child?\" \"I have just told you, you should\ndo it yourself.\" \"I cannot.\" \"You cannot! Then find a friend. I\nsee no other course.\"\n\nA tutor! What a noble soul! Indeed for the training of a man one\nmust either be a father or more than man. It is this duty you would\ncalmly hand over to a hireling!\n\nThe more you think of it the harder you will find it. The tutor\nmust have been trained for his pupil, his servants must have been\ntrained for their master, so that all who come near him may have\nreceived the impression which is to be transmitted to him. We must\npass from education to education, I know not how far. How can a\nchild be well educated by one who has not been well educated himself!\n\nCan such a one be found? I know not. In this age of degradation who\nknows the height of virtue to which man's soul may attain? But let\nus assume that this prodigy has been discovered. We shall learn\nwhat he should be from the consideration of his duties. I fancy the\nfather who realises the value of a good tutor will contrive to do\nwithout one, for it will be harder to find one than to become such\na tutor himself; he need search no further, nature herself having\ndone half the work.\n\nSome one whose rank alone is known to me suggested that I should\neducate his son. He did me a great honour, no doubt, but far from\nregretting my refusal, he ought to congratulate himself on my\nprudence. Had the offer been accepted, and had I been mistaken in\nmy method, there would have been an education ruined; had I succeeded,\nthings would have been worse--his son would have renounced his\ntitle and refused to be a prince.\n\nI feel too deeply the importance of a tutor's duties and my own\nunfitness, ever to accept such a post, whoever offered it, and\neven the claims of friendship would be only an additional motive\nfor my refusal. Few, I think, will be tempted to make me such an\noffer when they have read this book, and I beg any one who would\ndo so to spare his pains. I have had enough experience of the task\nto convince myself of my own unfitness, and my circumstances would\nmake it impossible, even if my talents were such as to fit me for\nit. I have thought it my duty to make this public declaration to\nthose who apparently refuse to do me the honour of believing in\nthe sincerity of my determination. If I am unable to undertake the\nmore useful task, I will at least venture to attempt the easier\none; I will follow the example of my predecessors and take up, not\nthe task, but my pen; and instead of doing the right thing I will\ntry to say it.\n\nI know that in such an undertaking the author, who ranges at will\namong theoretical systems, utters many fine precepts impossible\nto practise, and even when he says what is practicable it remains\nundone for want of details and examples as to its application.\n\nI have therefore decided to take an imaginary pupil, to assume on\nmy own part the age, health, knowledge, and talents required for\nthe work of his education, to guide him from birth to manhood, when\nhe needs no guide but himself. This method seems to me useful for\nan author who fears lest he may stray from the practical to the\nvisionary; for as soon as he departs from common practice he has\nonly to try his method on his pupil; he will soon know, or the\nreader will know for him, whether he is following the development\nof the child and the natural growth of the human heart.\n\nThis is what I have tried to do. Lest my book should be unduly\nbulky, I have been content to state those principles the truth of\nwhich is self-evident. But as to the rules which call for proof, I\nhave applied them to Emile or to others, and I have shown, in very\ngreat detail, how my theories may be put into practice. Such at\nleast is my plan; the reader must decide whether I have succeeded.\nAt first I have said little about Emile, for my earliest maxims\nof education, though very different from those generally accepted,\nare so plain that it is hard for a man of sense to refuse to accept\nthem, but as I advance, my scholar, educated after another fashion\nthan yours, is no longer an ordinary child, he needs a special\nsystem. Then he appears upon the scene more frequently, and towards\nthe end I never lose sight of him for a moment, until, whatever he\nmay say, he needs me no longer.\n\nI pass over the qualities required in a good tutor; I take them for\ngranted, and assume that I am endowed with them. As you read this\nbook you will see how generous I have been to myself.\n\nI will only remark that, contrary to the received opinion, a child's\ntutor should be young, as young indeed as a man may well be who\nis also wise. Were it possible, he should become a child himself,\nthat he may be the companion of his pupil and win his confidence\nby sharing his games. Childhood and age have too little in common\nfor the formation of a really firm affection. Children sometimes\nflatter old men; they never love them.\n\nPeople seek a tutor who has already educated one pupil. This is\ntoo much; one man can only educate one pupil; if two were essential\nto success, what right would he have to undertake the first? With\nmore experience you may know better what to do, but you are less\ncapable of doing it; once this task has been well done, you will\nknow too much of its difficulties to attempt it a second time--if\nill done, the first attempt augurs badly for the second.\n\nIt is one thing to follow a young man about for four years, another\nto be his guide for five-and-twenty. You find a tutor for your son\nwhen he is already formed; I want one for him before he is born.\nYour man may change his pupil every five years; mine will never have\nbut one pupil. You distinguish between the teacher and the tutor.\nAnother piece of folly! Do you make any distinction between the\npupil and the scholar? There is only one science for children to\nlearn--the duties of man. This science is one, and, whatever Xenophon\nmay say of the education of the Persians, it is indivisible. Besides,\nI prefer to call the man who has this knowledge master rather than\nteacher, since it is a question of guidance rather than instruction.\nHe must not give precepts, he must let the scholar find them out\nfor himself.\n\nIf the master is to be so carefully chosen, he may well choose\nhis pupil, above all when he proposes to set a pattern for others.\nThis choice cannot depend on the child's genius or character, as I\nadopt him before he is born, and they are only known when my task\nis finished. If I had my choice I would take a child of ordinary\nmind, such as I assume in my pupil. It is ordinary people who have\nto be educated, and their education alone can serve as a pattern\nfor the education of their fellows. The others find their way alone.\n\nThe birthplace is not a matter of indifference in the education\nof man; it is only in temperate climes that he comes to his full\ngrowth. The disadvantages of extremes are easily seen. A man is\nnot planted in one place like a tree, to stay there the rest of\nhis life, and to pass from one extreme to another you must travel\ntwice as far as he who starts half-way.\n\nIf the inhabitant of a temperate climate passes in turn through both\nextremes his advantage is plain, for although he may be changed as\nmuch as he who goes from one extreme to the other, he only removes\nhalf-way from his natural condition. A Frenchman can live in\nNew Guinea or in Lapland, but a negro cannot live in Tornea nor a\nSamoyed in Benin. It seems also as if the brain were less perfectly\norganised in the two extremes. Neither the negroes nor the Laps\nare as wise as Europeans. So if I want my pupil to be a citizen of\nthe world I will choose him in the temperate zone, in France for\nexample, rather than elsewhere.\n\nIn the north with its barren soil men devour much food, in the\nfertile south they eat little. This produces another difference: the\none is industrious, the other contemplative. Society shows us, in\none and the same spot, a similar difference between rich and poor.\nThe one dwells in a fertile land, the other in a barren land.\n\nThe poor man has no need of education. The education of his\nown station in life is forced upon him, he can have no other; the\neducation received by the rich man from his own station is least\nfitted for himself and for society. Moreover, a natural education\nshould fit a man for any position. Now it is more unreasonable\nto train a poor man for wealth than a rich man for poverty, for\nin proportion to their numbers more rich men are ruined and fewer\npoor men become rich. Let us choose our scholar among the rich; we\nshall at least have made another man; the poor may come to manhood\nwithout our help.\n\nFor the same reason I should not be sorry if Emile came of a good\nfamily. He will be another victim snatched from prejudice.\n\nEmile is an orphan. No matter whether he has father or mother,\nhaving undertaken their duties I am invested with their rights.\nHe must honour his parents, but he must obey me. That is my first\nand only condition.\n\nI must add that there is just one other point arising out of this;\nwe must never be separated except by mutual consent. This clause is\nessential, and I would have tutor and scholar so inseparable that\nthey should regard their fate as one. If once they perceive the\ntime of their separation drawing near, the time which must make\nthem strangers to one another, they become strangers then and\nthere; each makes his own little world, and both of them being\nbusy in thought with the time when they will no longer be together,\nthey remain together against their will. The disciple regards his\nmaster as the badge and scourge of childhood, the master regards\nhis scholar as a heavy burden which he longs to be rid of. Both\nare looking forward to the time when they will part, and as there\nis never any real affection between them, there will be scant\nvigilance on the one hand, and on the other scant obedience.\n\nBut when they consider they must always live together, they must\nneeds love one another, and in this way they really learn to love\none another. The pupil is not ashamed to follow as a child the\nfriend who will be with him in manhood; the tutor takes an interest\nin the efforts whose fruits he will enjoy, and the virtues he is\ncultivating in his pupil form a store laid up for his old age.\n\nThis agreement made beforehand assumes a normal birth, a strong,\nwell-made, healthy child. A father has no choice, and should have\nno preference within the limits of the family God has given him; all\nhis children are his alike, the same care and affection is due to\nall. Crippled or well-made, weak or strong, each of them is a trust\nfor which he is responsible to the Giver, and nature is a party to\nthe marriage contract along with husband and wife.\n\nBut if you undertake a duty not imposed upon you by nature, you\nmust secure beforehand the means for its fulfilment, unless you\nwould undertake duties you cannot fulfil. If you take the care of\na sickly, unhealthy child, you are a sick nurse, not a tutor. To\npreserve a useless life you are wasting the time which should be\nspent in increasing its value, you risk the sight of a despairing\nmother reproaching you for the death of her child, who ought to\nhave died long ago.\n\nI would not undertake the care of a feeble, sickly child, should\nhe live to four score years. I want no pupil who is useless alike\nto himself and others, one whose sole business is to keep himself\nalive, one whose body is always a hindrance to the training of his\nmind. If I vainly lavish my care upon him, what can I do but double\nthe loss to society by robbing it of two men, instead of one? Let\nanother tend this weakling for me; I am quite willing, I approve\nhis charity, but I myself have no gift for such a task; I could\nnever teach the art of living to one who needs all his strength to\nkeep himself alive.\n\nThe body must be strong enough to obey the mind; a good servant\nmust be strong. I know that intemperance stimulates the passions;\nin course of time it also destroys the body; fasting and penance\noften produce the same results in an opposite way. The weaker\nthe body, the more imperious its demands; the stronger it is, the\nbetter it obeys. All sensual passions find their home in effeminate\nbodies; the less satisfaction they can get the keener their sting.\n\nA feeble body makes a feeble mind. Hence the influence of physic,\nan art which does more harm to man than all the evils it professes\nto cure. I do not know what the doctors cure us of, but I know\nthis: they infect us with very deadly diseases, cowardice, timidity,\ncredulity, the fear of death. What matter if they make the dead\nwalk, we have no need of corpses; they fail to give us men, and it\nis men we need.\n\nMedicine is all the fashion in these days, and very naturally. It\nis the amusement of the idle and unemployed, who do not know what\nto do with their time, and so spend it in taking care of themselves.\nIf by ill-luck they had happened to be born immortal, they would\nhave been the most miserable of men; a life they could not lose\nwould be of no value to them. Such men must have doctors to threaten\nand flatter them, to give them the only pleasure they can enjoy,\nthe pleasure of not being dead.\n\nI will say no more at present as to the uselessness of medicine. My\naim is to consider its bearings on morals. Still I cannot refrain\nfrom saying that men employ the same sophism about medicine as\nthey do about the search for truth. They assume that the patient\nis cured and that the seeker after truth finds it. They fail to see\nthat against one life saved by the doctors you must set a hundred\nslain, and against the value of one truth discovered the errors\nwhich creep in with it. The science which instructs and the medicine\nwhich heals are no doubt excellent, but the science which misleads\nus and the medicine which kills us are evil. Teach us to know\nthem apart. That is the real difficulty. If we were content to be\nignorant of truth we should not be the dupes of falsehood; if we\ndid not want to be cured in spite of nature, we should not be killed\nby the doctors. We should do well to steer clear of both, and we\nshould evidently be the gainers. I do not deny that medicine is\nuseful to some men; I assert that it is fatal to mankind.\n\nYou will tell me, as usual, that the doctors are to blame, that\nmedicine herself is infallible. Well and good, then give us the\nmedicine without the doctor, for when we have both, the blunders of\nthe artist are a hundredfold greater than our hopes from the art.\nThis lying art, invented rather for the ills of the mind than\nof the body, is useless to both alike; it does less to cure us of\nour diseases than to fill us with alarm. It does less to ward off\ndeath than to make us dread its approach. It exhausts life rather\nthan prolongs it; should it even prolong life it would only be to\nthe prejudice of the race, since it makes us set its precautions\nbefore society and our fears before our duties. It is the knowledge\nof danger that makes us afraid. If we thought ourselves invulnerable\nwe should know no fear. The poet armed Achilles against danger and\nso robbed him of the merit of courage; on such terms any man would\nbe an Achilles.\n\nWould you find a really brave man? Seek him where there are no\ndoctors, where the results of disease are unknown, and where death\nis little thought of. By nature a man bears pain bravely and dies\nin peace. It is the doctors with their rules, the philosophers with\ntheir precepts, the priests with their exhortations, who debase\nthe heart and make us afraid to die.\n\nGive me a pupil who has no need of these, or I will have nothing\nto do with him. No one else shall spoil my work, I will educate him\nmyself or not at all. That wise man, Locke, who had devoted part\nof his life to the study of medicine, advises us to give no drugs\nto the child, whether as a precaution, or on account of slight\nailments. I will go farther, and will declare that, as I never\ncall in a doctor for myself, I will never send for one for Emile,\nunless his life is clearly in danger, when the doctor can but kill\nhim.\n\nI know the doctor will make capital out of my delay. If the child\ndies, he was called in too late; if he recovers, it is his doing.\nSo be it; let the doctor boast, but do not call him in except in\nextremity.\n\nAs the child does not know how to be cured, he knows how to be\nill.  The one art takes the place of the other and is often more\nsuccessful; it is the art of nature. When a beast is ill, it keeps\nquiet and suffers in silence; but we see fewer sickly animals than\nsick men. How many men have been slain by impatience, fear, anxiety,\nand above all by medicine, men whom disease would have spared,\nand time alone have cured. I shall be told that animals, who live\naccording to nature, are less liable to disease than ourselves.\nWell, that way of living is just what I mean to teach my pupil; he\nshould profit by it in the same way.\n\nHygiene is the only useful part of medicine, and hygiene is rather\na virtue than a science. Temperance and industry are man's true\nremedies; work sharpens his appetite and temperance teaches him to\ncontrol it.\n\nTo learn what system is most beneficial you have only to study\nthose races remarkable for health, strength, and length of days. If\ncommon observation shows us that medicine neither increases health\nnor prolongs life, it follows that this useless art is worse than\nuseless, since it wastes time, men, and things on what is pure\nloss.  Not only must we deduct the time spent, not in using life,\nbut preserving it, but if this time is spent in tormenting ourselves\nit is worse than wasted, it is so much to the bad, and to reckon\nfairly a corresponding share must be deducted from what remains to\nus. A man who lives ten years for himself and others without the\nhelp of doctors lives more for himself and others than one who\nspends thirty years as their victim. I have tried both, so I think\nI have a better right than most to draw my own conclusions.\n\nFor these reasons I decline to take any but a strong and healthy\npupil, and these are my principles for keeping him in health. I will\nnot stop to prove at length the value of manual labour and bodily\nexercise for strengthening the health and constitution; no one\ndenies it. Nearly all the instances of long life are to be found\namong the men who have taken most exercise, who have endured fatigue\nand labour. [Footnote: I cannot help quoting the following passage\nfrom an English newspaper, as it throws much light on my opinions:\n\"A certain Patrick O'Neil, born in 1647, has just married his seventh\nwife in 1760. In the seventeenth year of Charles II. he served in\nthe dragoons and in other regiments up to 1740, when he took his\ndischarge. He served in all the campaigns of William III.  and\nMarlborough. This man has never drunk anything but small beer; he\nhas always lived on vegetables, and has never eaten meat except on\nfew occasions when he made a feast for his relations. He has always\nbeen accustomed to rise with the sun and go to bed at sunset unless\nprevented by his military duties. He is now in his 130th year;\nhe is healthy, his hearing is good, and he walks with the help\nof a stick. In spite of his great age he is never idle, and every\nSunday he goes to his parish church accompanied by his children,\ngrandchildren, and great grandchildren.\"] Neither will I enter\ninto details as to the care I shall take for this alone. It will\nbe clear that it forms such an essential part of my practice that\nit is enough to get hold of the idea without further explanation.\n\nWhen our life begins our needs begin too. The new-born infant must\nhave a nurse. If his mother will do her duty, so much the better;\nher instructions will be given her in writing, but this advantage\nhas its drawbacks, it removes the tutor from his charge. But it\nis to be hoped that the child's own interests, and her respect for\nthe person to whom she is about to confide so precious a treasure,\nwill induce the mother to follow the master's wishes, and whatever\nshe does you may be sure she will do better than another. If we\nmust have a strange nurse, make a good choice to begin with.\n\nIt is one of the misfortunes of the rich to be cheated on all sides;\nwhat wonder they think ill of mankind! It is riches that corrupt\nmen, and the rich are rightly the first to feel the defects of the\nonly tool they know. Everything is ill-done for them, except what\nthey do themselves, and they do next to nothing. When a nurse must\nbe selected the choice is left to the doctor. What happens? The\nbest nurse is the one who offers the highest bribe. I shall not\nconsult the doctor about Emile's nurse, I shall take care to choose\nher myself. I may not argue about it so elegantly as the surgeon,\nbut I shall be more reliable, I shall be less deceived by my zeal\nthan the doctor by his greed.\n\nThere is no mystery about this choice; its rules are well known,\nbut I think we ought probably to pay more attention to the age of\nthe milk as well as its quality. The first milk is watery, it must\nbe almost an aperient, to purge the remains of the meconium curdled\nin the bowels of the new-born child. Little by little the milk\nthickens and supplies more solid food as the child is able to\ndigest it. It is surely not without cause that nature changes the\nmilk in the female of every species according to the age of the\noffspring.\n\nThus a new-born child requires a nurse who has recently become mother.\nThere is, I know, a difficulty here, but as soon as we leave the\npath of nature there are difficulties in the way of all well-doing.\nThe wrong course is the only right one under the circumstances, so\nwe take it.\n\nThe nurse must be healthy alike in disposition and in body. The\nviolence of the passions as well as the humours may spoil her milk.\nMoreover, to consider the body only is to keep only half our aim\nin view. The milk may be good and the nurse bad; a good character\nis as necessary as a good constitution. If you choose a vicious\nperson, I do not say her foster-child will acquire her vices, but\nhe will suffer for them. Ought she not to bestow on him day by\nday, along with her milk, a care which calls for zeal, patience,\ngentleness, and cleanliness. If she is intemperate and greedy her\nmilk will soon be spoilt; if she is careless and hasty what will\nbecome of a poor little wretch left to her mercy, and unable either\nto protect himself or to complain. The wicked are never good for\nanything.\n\nThe choice is all the more important because her foster-child should\nhave no other guardian, just as he should have no teacher but his\ntutor. This was the custom of the ancients, who talked less but\nacted more wisely than we. The nurse never left her foster-daughter;\nthis is why the nurse is the confidante in most of their plays.\nA child who passes through many hands in turn, can never be well\nbrought up.\n\nAt every change he makes a secret comparison, which continually\ntends to lessen his respect for those who control him, and with\nit their authority over him. If once he thinks there are grown-up\npeople with no more sense than children the authority of age\nis destroyed and his education is ruined. A child should know no\nbetters but its father and mother, or failing them its foster-mother\nand its tutor, and even this is one too many, but this division is\ninevitable, and the best that can be done in the way of remedy is\nthat the man and woman who control him shall be so well agreed with\nregard to him that they seem like one.\n\nThe nurse must live rather more comfortably, she must have rather\nmore substantial food, but her whole way of living must not\nbe altered, for a sudden change, even a change for the better, is\ndangerous to health, and since her usual way of life has made her\nhealthy and strong, why change it?\n\nCountry women eat less meat and more vegetables than towns-women,\nand this vegetarian diet seems favourable rather than otherwise to\nthemselves and their children. When they take nurslings from the\nupper classes they eat meat and broth with the idea that they will\nform better chyle and supply more milk. I do not hold with this\nat all, and experience is on my side, for we do not find children\nfed in this way less liable to colic and worms.\n\nThat need not surprise us, for decaying animal matter swarms with\nworms, but this is not the case with vegetable matter. [Footnote:\nWomen eat bread, vegetables, and dairy produce; female dogs and\ncats do the same; the she-wolves eat grass. This supplies vegetable\njuices to their milk. There are still those species which are\nunable to eat anything but flesh, if such there are, which I very\nmuch doubt.] Milk, although manufactured in the body of an animal,\nis a vegetable substance; this is shown by analysis; it readily\nturns acid, and far from showing traces of any volatile alkali like\nanimal matter, it gives a neutral salt like plants.\n\nThe milk of herbivorous creatures is sweeter and more wholesome than\nthe milk of the carnivorous; formed of a substance similar to its\nown, it keeps its goodness and becomes less liable to putrifaction.\nIf quantity is considered, it is well known that farinaceous foods\nproduce more blood than meat, so they ought to yield more milk. If\na child were not weaned too soon, and if it were fed on vegetarian\nfood, and its foster-mother were a vegetarian, I do not think it\nwould be troubled with worms.\n\nMilk derived from vegetable foods may perhaps be more liable to go\nsour, but I am far from considering sour milk an unwholesome food;\nwhole nations have no other food and are none the worse, and all the\narray of absorbents seems to me mere humbug. There are constitutions\nwhich do not thrive on milk, others can take it without absorbents.\nPeople are afraid of the milk separating or curdling; that is\nabsurd, for we know that milk always curdles in the stomach. This\nis how it becomes sufficiently solid to nourish children and young\nanimals; if it did not curdle it would merely pass away without\nfeeding them. [Footnote: Although the juices which nourish us are\nliquid, they must be extracted from solids. A hard-working man who\nate nothing but soup would soon waste away. He would be far better\nfed on milk, just because it curdles.] In vain you dilute milk and\nuse absorbents; whoever swallows milk digests cheese, this rule is\nwithout exception; rennet is made from a calf's stomach.\n\nInstead of changing the nurse's usual diet, I think it would be\nenough to give food in larger quantities and better of its kind.\nIt is not the nature of the food that makes a vegetable diet\nindigestible, but the flavouring that makes it unwholesome. Reform\nyour cookery, use neither butter nor oil for frying. Butter, salt,\nand milk should never be cooked. Let your vegetables be cooked\nin water and only seasoned when they come to table. The vegetable\ndiet, far from disturbing the nurse, will give her a plentiful\nsupply of milk. [Footnote: Those who wish to study a full account\nof the advantages and disadvantages of the Pythagorean regime, may\nconsult the works of Dr. Cocchi and his opponent Dr. Bianchi on\nthis important subject.] If a vegetable diet is best for the child,\nhow can meat food be best for his nurse? The things are contradictory.\n\nFresh air affects children's constitutions, particularly in early\nyears. It enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it has\na powerful effect on their young bodies. Its effects can never\nbe destroyed. So I should not agree with those who take a country\nwoman from her village and shut her up in one room in a town and\nher nursling with her. I would rather send him to breathe the fresh\nair of the country than the foul air of the town. He will take his\nnew mother's position, will live in her cottage, where his tutor\nwill follow him. The reader will bear in mind that this tutor is\nnot a paid servant, but the father's friend. But if this friend\ncannot be found, if this transfer is not easy, if none of my advice\ncan be followed, you will say to me, \"What shall I do instead?\" I\nhave told you already--\"Do what you are doing;\" no advice is needed\nthere.\n\nMen are not made to be crowded together in ant-hills, but scattered\nover the earth to till it. The more they are massed together, the\nmore corrupt they become. Disease and vice are the sure results of\nover-crowded cities. Of all creatures man is least fitted to live\nin herds. Huddled together like sheep, men would very soon die.\nMan's breath is fatal to his fellows. This is literally as well as\nfiguratively true.\n\nMen are devoured by our towns. In a few generations the race dies\nout or becomes degenerate; it needs renewal, and it is always\nrenewed from the country. Send your children to renew themselves,\nso to speak, send them to regain in the open fields the strength\nlost in the foul air of our crowded cities. Women hurry home that\ntheir children may be born in the town; they ought to do just the\nopposite, especially those who mean to nurse their own children.  They\nwould lose less than they think, and in more natural surroundings\nthe pleasures associated by nature with maternal duties would soon\ndestroy the taste for other delights.\n\nThe new-born infant is first bathed in warm water to which a little\nwine is usually added. I think the wine might be dispensed with.\nAs nature does not produce fermented liquors, it is not likely that\nthey are of much value to her creatures.\n\nIn the same way it is unnecessary to take the precaution of heating\nthe water; in fact among many races the new-born infants are bathed\nwith no more ado in rivers or in the sea. Our children, made tender\nbefore birth by the softness of their parents, come into the world\nwith a constitution already enfeebled, which cannot be at once\nexposed to all the trials required to restore it to health. Little\nby little they must be restored to their natural vigour. Begin then\nby following this custom, and leave it off gradually. Wash your\nchildren often, their dirty ways show the need of this. If they\nare only wiped their skin is injured; but as they grow stronger\ngradually reduce the heat of the water, till at last you bathe them\nwinter and summer in cold, even in ice-cold water. To avoid risk\nthis change must be slow, gradual, and imperceptible, so you may\nuse the thermometer for exact measurements.\n\nThis habit of the bath, once established, should never be broken\noff, it must be kept up all through life. I value it not only on\ngrounds of cleanliness and present health, but also as a wholesome\nmeans of making the muscles supple, and accustoming them to bear\nwithout risk or effort extremes of heat and cold. As he gets older\nI would have the child trained to bathe occasionally in hot water\nof every bearable degree, and often in every degree of cold water.\nNow water being a denser fluid touches us at more points than air,\nso that, having learnt to bear all the variations of temperature in\nwater, we shall scarcely feel this of the air. [Footnote: Children\nin towns are stifled by being kept indoors and too much wrapped\nup.  Those who control them have still to learn that fresh air,\nfar from doing them harm, will make them strong, while hot air will\nmake them weak, will give rise to fevers, and will eventually kill\nthem.]\n\nWhen the child draws its first breath do not confine it in tight\nwrappings. No cap, no bandages, nor swaddling clothes. Loose and\nflowing flannel wrappers, which leave its limbs free and are not too\nheavy to check his movements, not too warm to prevent his feeling\nthe air. [Footnote: I say \"cradle\" using the common word for want\nof a better, though I am convinced that it is never necessary\nand often harmful to rock children in the cradle.] Put him in a\nbig cradle, well padded, where he can move easily and safely. As\nhe begins to grow stronger, let him crawl about the room; let him\ndevelop and stretch his tiny limbs; you will see him gain strength\nfrom day to day. Compare him with a well swaddled child of the same\nage and you will be surprised at their different rates of progress.\n[Footnote: The ancient Peruvians wrapped their children in loose\nswaddling bands, leaving the arms quite free. Later they placed\nthem unswaddled in a hole in the ground, lined with cloths, so that\nthe lower part of the body was in the hole, and their arms were\nfree and they could move the head and bend the body at will without\nfalling or hurting themselves. When they began to walk they were\nenticed to come to the breast. The little negroes are often in a\nposition much more difficult for sucking. They cling to the mother's\nhip, and cling so tightly that the mother's arm is often not needed\nto support them. They clasp the breast with their hand and continue\nsucking while their mother goes on with her ordinary work. These\nchildren begin to walk at two months, or rather to crawl. Later on\nthey can run on all fours almost as well as on their feet.--Buffon.\nM. Buffon might also have quoted the example of England, where\nthe senseless and barbarous swaddling clothes have become almost\nobsolete. Cf. La Longue Voyage de Siam, Le Beau Voyage de Canada,\netc.]\n\nYou must expect great opposition from the nurses, who find a half\nstrangled baby needs much less watching. Besides his dirtyness is\nmore perceptible in an open garment; he must be attended to more\nfrequently. Indeed, custom is an unanswerable argument in some\nlands and among all classes of people.\n\nDo not argue with the nurses; give your orders, see them carried\nout, and spare no pains to make the attention you prescribe easy in\npractice. Why not take your share in it? With ordinary nurslings,\nwhere the body alone is thought of, nothing matters so long as the\nchild lives and does not actually die, but with us, when education\nbegins with life, the new-born child is already a disciple, not\nof his tutor, but of nature. The tutor merely studies under this\nmaster, and sees that his orders are not evaded. He watches over\nthe infant, he observes it, he looks for the first feeble glimmering\nof intelligence, as the Moslem looks for the moment of the moon's\nrising in her first quarter.\n\nWe are born capable of learning, but knowing nothing, perceiving\nnothing. The mind, bound up within imperfect and half grown organs,\nis not even aware of its own existence. The movements and cries of\nthe new-born child are purely reflex, without knowledge or will.\n\nSuppose a child born with the size and strength of manhood, entering\nupon life full grown like Pallas from the brain of Jupiter; such a\nchild-man would be a perfect idiot, an automaton, a statue without\nmotion and almost without feeling; he would see and hear nothing,\nhe would recognise no one, he could not turn his eyes towards what\nhe wanted to see; not only would he perceive no external object,\nhe would not even be aware of sensation through the several\nsense-organs. His eye would not perceive colour, his ear sounds,\nhis body would be unaware of contact with neighbouring bodies, he\nwould not even know he had a body, what his hands handled would\nbe in his brain alone; all his sensations would be united in one\nplace, they would exist only in the common \"sensorium,\" he would\nhave only one idea, that of self, to which he would refer all his\nsensations; and this idea, or rather this feeling, would be the\nonly thing in which he excelled an ordinary child.\n\nThis man, full grown at birth, would also be unable to stand on his\nfeet, he would need a long time to learn how to keep his balance;\nperhaps he would not even be able to try to do it, and you would\nsee the big strong body left in one place like a stone, or creeping\nand crawling like a young puppy.\n\nHe would feel the discomfort of bodily needs without knowing what\nwas the matter and without knowing how to provide for these needs.\nThere is no immediate connection between the muscles of the stomach\nand those of the arms and legs to make him take a step towards\nfood, or stretch a hand to seize it, even were he surrounded with\nit; and as his body would be full grown and his limbs well developed\nhe would be without the perpetual restlessness and movement\nof childhood, so that he might die of hunger without stirring\nto seek food. However little you may have thought about the order\nand development of our knowledge, you cannot deny that such a one\nwould be in the state of almost primitive ignorance and stupidity\nnatural to man before he has learnt anything from experience or\nfrom his fellows.\n\nWe know then, or we may know, the point of departure from which\nwe each start towards the usual level of understanding; but who\nknows the other extreme? Each progresses more or less according to\nhis genius, his taste, his needs, his talents, his zeal, and his\nopportunities for using them. No philosopher, so far as I know,\nhas dared to say to man, \"Thus far shalt thou go and no further.\"\nWe know not what nature allows us to be, none of us has measured\nthe possible difference between man and man. Is there a mind so\ndead that this thought has never kindled it, that has never said\nin his pride, \"How much have I already done, how much more may I\nachieve?  Why should I lag behind my fellows?\"\n\nAs I said before, man's education begins at birth; before he can\nspeak or understand he is learning. Experience precedes instruction;\nwhen he recognises his nurse he has learnt much. The knowledge\nof the most ignorant man would surprise us if we had followed his\ncourse from birth to the present time. If all human knowledge were\ndivided into two parts, one common to all, the other peculiar to\nthe learned, the latter would seem very small compared with the\nformer.  But we scarcely heed this general experience, because\nit is acquired before the age of reason. Moreover, knowledge only\nattracts attention by its rarity, as in algebraic equations common\nfactors count for nothing. Even animals learn much. They have\nsenses and must learn to use them; they have needs, they must learn\nto satisfy them; they must learn to eat, walk, or fly. Quadrupeds\nwhich can stand on their feet from the first cannot walk for all\nthat; from their first attempts it is clear that they lack confidence.\nCanaries who escape from their cage are unable to fly, having never\nused their wings. Living and feeling creatures are always learning.\nIf plants could walk they would need senses and knowledge, else\ntheir species would die out. The child's first mental experiences are\npurely affective, he is only aware of pleasure and pain; it takes\nhim a long time to acquire the definite sensations which show\nhim things outside himself, but before these things present and\nwithdraw themselves, so to speak, from his sight, taking size and\nshape for him, the recurrence of emotional experiences is beginning to\nsubject the child to the rule of habit. You see his eyes constantly\nfollow the light, and if the light comes from the side the eyes turn\ntowards it, so that one must be careful to turn his head towards\nthe light lest he should squint. He must also be accustomed from the\nfirst to the dark, or he will cry if he misses the light. Food and\nsleep, too, exactly measured, become necessary at regular intervals,\nand soon desire is no longer the effect of need, but of habit, or\nrather habit adds a fresh need to those of nature. You must be on\nyour guard against this.\n\nThe only habit the child should be allowed to contract is that\nof having no habits; let him be carried on either arm, let him be\naccustomed to offer either hand, to use one or other indifferently;\nlet him not want to eat, sleep, or do anything at fixed hours, nor\nbe unable to be left alone by day or night. Prepare the way for\nhis control of his liberty and the use of his strength by leaving\nhis body its natural habit, by making him capable of lasting\nself-control, of doing all that he wills when his will is formed.\n\nAs soon as the child begins to take notice, what is shown him\nmust be carefully chosen. The natural man is interested in all new\nthings. He feels so feeble that he fears the unknown: the habit of\nseeing fresh things without ill effects destroys this fear. Children\nbrought up in clean houses where there are no spiders are afraid\nof spiders, and this fear often lasts through life. I never saw\npeasants, man, woman, or child, afraid of spiders.\n\nSince the mere choice of things shown him may make the child timid\nor brave, why should not his education begin before he can speak\nor understand? I would have him accustomed to see fresh things,\nugly, repulsive, and strange beasts, but little by little, and far\noff till he is used to them, and till having seen others handle\nthem he handles them himself. If in childhood he sees toads, snakes,\nand crayfish, he will not be afraid of any animal when he is grown\nup.  Those who are continually seeing terrible things think nothing\nof them.\n\nAll children are afraid of masks. I begin by showing Emile a mask\nwith a pleasant face, then some one puts this mask before his face;\nI begin to laugh, they all laugh too, and the child with them. By\ndegrees I accustom him to less pleasing masks, and at last hideous\nones. If I have arranged my stages skilfully, far from being afraid\nof the last mask, he will laugh at it as he did at the first. After\nthat I am not afraid of people frightening him with masks.\n\nWhen Hector bids farewell to Andromache, the young Astyanax, startled\nby the nodding plumes on the helmet, does not know his father; he\nflings himself weeping upon his nurse's bosom and wins from his\nmother a smile mingled with tears. What must be done to stay this\nterror? Just what Hector did; put the helmet on the ground and\ncaress the child. In a calmer moment one would do more; one would\ngo up to the helmet, play with the plumes, let the child feel them;\nat last the nurse would take the helmet and place it laughingly\non her own head, if indeed a woman's hand dare touch the armour of\nHector.\n\nIf Emile must get used to the sound of a gun, I first fire a pistol\nwith a small charge. He is delighted with this sudden flash, this\nsort of lightning; I repeat the process with more powder; gradually\nI add a small charge without a wad, then a larger; in the end I\naccustom him to the sound of a gun, to fireworks, cannon, and the\nmost terrible explosions.\n\nI have observed that children are rarely afraid of thunder unless\nthe peals are really terrible and actually hurt the ear, otherwise\nthis fear only comes to them when they know that thunder sometimes\nhurts or kills. When reason begins to cause fear, let us reassure\nthem. By slow and careful stages man and child learn to fear nothing.\n\nIn the dawn of life, when memory and imagination have not begun to\nfunction, the child only attends to what affects its senses. His\nsense experiences are the raw material of thought; they should,\ntherefore, be presented to him in fitting order, so that memory may\nat a future time present them in the same order to his understanding;\nbut as he only attends to his sensations it is enough, at first,\nto show him clearly the connection between these sensations and the\nthings which cause them. He wants to touch and handle everything;\ndo not check these movements which teach him invaluable lessons.\nThus he learns to perceive the heat, cold, hardness, softness,\nweight, or lightness of bodies, to judge their size and shape and\nall their physical properties, by looking, feeling, [Footnote: Of\nall the senses that of smell is the latest to develop in children\nup to two or three years of age they appear to be insensible of\npleasant or unpleasant odours; in this respect they are as indifferent\nor rather as insensible as many animals.] listening, and, above\nall, by comparing sight and touch, by judging with the eye what\nsensation they would cause to his hand.\n\nIt is only by movement that we learn the difference between self\nand not self; it is only by our own movements that we gain the idea\nof space. The child has not this idea, so he stretches out his hand\nto seize the object within his reach or that which is a hundred\npaces from him. You take this as a sign of tyranny, an attempt to\nbid the thing draw near, or to bid you bring it. Nothing of the\nkind, it is merely that the object first seen in his brain, then\nbefore his eyes, now seems close to his arms, and he has no idea of\nspace beyond his reach. Be careful, therefore, to take him about,\nto move him from place to place, and to let him perceive the change\nin his surroundings, so as to teach him to judge of distances.\n\nWhen he begins to perceive distances then you must change your\nplan, and only carry him when you please, not when he pleases; for\nas soon as he is no longer deceived by his senses, there is another\nmotive for his effort. This change is remarkable and calls for\nexplanation.\n\nThe discomfort caused by real needs is shown by signs, when the\nhelp of others is required. Hence the cries of children; they often\ncry; it must be so. Since they are only conscious of feelings, when\nthose feelings are pleasant they enjoy them in silence; when they\nare painful they say so in their own way and demand relief. Now\nwhen they are awake they can scarcely be in a state of indifference,\neither they are asleep or else they are feeling something.\n\nAll our languages are the result of art. It has long been a subject\nof inquiry whether there ever was a natural language common to all;\nno doubt there is, and it is the language of children before they\nbegin to speak. This language is inarticulate, but it has tone,\nstress, and meaning. The use of our own language has led us to\nneglect it so far as to forget it altogether. Let us study children\nand we shall soon learn it afresh from them. Nurses can teach us\nthis language; they understand all their nurslings say to them, they\nanswer them, and keep up long conversations with them; and though\nthey use words, these words are quite useless. It is not the hearing\nof the word, but its accompanying intonation that is understood.\n\nTo the language of intonation is added the no less forcible language\nof gesture. The child uses, not its weak hands, but its face. The\namount of expression in these undeveloped faces is extraordinary;\ntheir features change from one moment to another with incredible\nspeed. You see smiles, desires, terror, come and go like lightning;\nevery time the face seems different. The muscles of the face are\nundoubtedly more mobile than our own. On the other hand the eyes\nare almost expressionless. Such must be the sort of signs they use\nat an age when their only needs are those of the body. Grimaces\nare the sign of sensation, the glance expresses sentiment.\n\nAs man's first state is one of want and weakness, his first sounds\nare cries and tears. The child feels his needs and cannot satisfy\nthem, he begs for help by his cries. Is he hungry or thirsty? there\nare tears; is he too cold or too hot? more tears; he needs movement\nand is kept quiet, more tears; he wants to sleep and is disturbed,\nhe weeps. The less comfortable he is, the more he demands change.\nHe has only one language because he has, so to say, only one kind\nof discomfort. In the imperfect state of his sense organs he does\nnot distinguish their several impressions; all ills produce one\nfeeling of sorrow.\n\nThese tears, which you think so little worthy of your attention,\ngive rise to the first relation between man and his environment;\nhere is forged the first link in the long chain of social order.\n\nWhen the child cries he is uneasy, he feels some need which he\ncannot satisfy; you watch him, seek this need, find it, and satisfy\nit. If you can neither find it nor satisfy it, the tears continue\nand become tiresome. The child is petted to quiet him, he is rocked\nor sung to sleep; if he is obstinate, the nurse becomes impatient\nand threatens him; cruel nurses sometimes strike him. What strange\nlessons for him at his first entrance into life!\n\nI shall never forget seeing one of these troublesome crying children\nthus beaten by his nurse. He was silent at once. I thought he was\nfrightened, and said to myself, \"This will be a servile being from\nwhom nothing can be got but by harshness.\" I was wrong, the poor\nwretch was choking with rage, he could not breathe, he was black\nin the face. A moment later there were bitter cries, every sign\nof the anger, rage, and despair of this age was in his tones.\nI thought he would die. Had I doubted the innate sense of justice\nand injustice in man's heart, this one instance would have convinced\nme. I am sure that a drop of boiling liquid falling by chance on\nthat child's hand would have hurt him less than that blow, slight\nin itself, but clearly given with the intention of hurting him.\n\nThis tendency to anger, vexation, and rage needs great care.\nBoerhaave thinks that most of the diseases of children are of the\nnature of convulsions, because the head being larger in proportion\nand the nervous system more extensive than in adults, they are\nmore liable to nervous irritation. Take the greatest care to remove\nfrom them any servants who tease, annoy, or vex them. They are a\nhundredfold more dangerous and more fatal than fresh air and changing\nseasons. When children only experience resistance in things and never\nin the will of man, they do not become rebellious or passionate,\nand their health is better. This is one reason why the children of\nthe poor, who are freer and more independent, are generally less\nfrail and weakly, more vigorous than those who are supposed to be\nbetter brought up by being constantly thwarted; but you must always\nremember that it is one thing to refrain from thwarting them, but\nquite another to obey them. The child's first tears are prayers,\nbeware lest they become commands; he begins by asking for aid, he\nends by demanding service. Thus from his own weakness, the source\nof his first consciousness of dependence, springs the later idea of\nrule and tyranny; but as this idea is aroused rather by his needs\nthan by our services, we begin to see moral results whose causes\nare not in nature; thus we see how important it is, even at the\nearliest age, to discern the secret meaning of the gesture or cry.\n\nWhen the child tries to seize something without speaking, he\nthinks he can reach the object, for he does not rightly judge its\ndistance; when he cries and stretches out his hands he no longer\nmisjudges the distance, he bids the object approach, or orders you\nto bring it to him. In the first case bring it to him slowly; in\nthe second do not even seem to hear his cries. The more he cries\nthe less you should heed him. He must learn in good time not to\ngive commands to men, for he is not their master, nor to things,\nfor they cannot hear him.  Thus when the child wants something you\nmean to give him, it is better to carry him to it rather than to\nbring the thing to him.  From this he will draw a conclusion suited\nto his age, and there is no other way of suggesting it to him.\n\nThe Abbe Saint-Pierre calls men big children; one might also call\nchildren little men. These statements are true, but they require\nexplanation. But when Hobbes calls the wicked a strong child,\nhis statement is contradicted by facts. All wickedness comes from\nweakness. The child is only naughty because he is weak; make him\nstrong and he will be good; if we could do everything we should\nnever do wrong. Of all the attributes of the Almighty, goodness is\nthat which it would be hardest to dissociate from our conception\nof Him. All nations who have acknowledged a good and an evil power,\nhave always regarded the evil as inferior to the good; otherwise\ntheir opinion would have been absurd. Compare this with the creed\nof the Savoyard clergyman later on in this book.\n\nReason alone teaches us to know good and evil. Therefore conscience,\nwhich makes us love the one and hate the other, though it is\nindependent of reason, cannot develop without it. Before the age\nof reason we do good or ill without knowing it, and there is no\nmorality in our actions, although there is sometimes in our feeling\nwith regard to other people's actions in relation to ourselves. A\nchild wants to overturn everything he sees. He breaks and smashes\neverything he can reach; he seizes a bird as he seizes a stone,\nand strangles it without knowing what he is about.\n\nWhy so? In the first place philosophy will account for this by\ninbred sin, man's pride, love of power, selfishness, spite; perhaps\nit will say in addition to this that the child's consciousness of\nhis own weakness makes him eager to use his strength, to convince\nhimself of it. But watch that broken down old man reduced in the\ndownward course of life to the weakness of a child; not only is he\nquiet and peaceful, he would have all about him quiet and peaceful\ntoo; the least change disturbs and troubles him, he would like to\nsee universal calm. How is it possible that similar feebleness and\nsimilar passions should produce such different effects in age and\nin infancy, if the original cause were not different? And where can\nwe find this difference in cause except in the bodily condition of\nthe two. The active principle, common to both, is growing in one\ncase and declining in the other; it is being formed in the one\nand destroyed in the other; one is moving towards life, the other\ntowards death. The failing activity of the old man is centred in his\nheart, the child's overflowing activity spreads abroad. He feels,\nif we may say so, strong enough to give life to all about him. To\nmake or to destroy, it is all one to him; change is what he seeks,\nand all change involves action. If he seems to enjoy destructive\nactivity it is only that it takes time to make things and very\nlittle time to break them, so that the work of destruction accords\nbetter with his eagerness.\n\nWhile the Author of nature has given children this activity, He\ntakes care that it shall do little harm by giving them small power\nto use it. But as soon as they can think of people as tools to be\nused, they use them to carry out their wishes and to supplement\ntheir own weakness. This is how they become tiresome, masterful,\nimperious, naughty, and unmanageable; a development which does not\nspring from a natural love of power, but one which has been taught\nthem, for it does not need much experience to realise how pleasant\nit is to set others to work and to move the world by a word.\n\nAs the child grows it gains strength and becomes less restless and\nunquiet and more independent. Soul and body become better balanced\nand nature no longer asks for more movement than is required for\nself-preservation. But the love of power does not die with the need\nthat aroused it; power arouses and flatters self-love, and habit\nstrengthens it; thus caprice follows upon need, and the first seeds\nof prejudice and obstinacy are sown.\n\nFIRST MAXIM.--Far from being too strong, children are not strong\nenough for all the claims of nature. Give them full use of such\nstrength as they have; they will not abuse it.\n\nSECOND MAXIM.--Help them and supply the experience and strength\nthey lack whenever the need is of the body.\n\nTHIRD MAXIM.--In the help you give them confine yourself to what is\nreally needful, without granting anything to caprice or unreason;\nfor they will not be tormented by caprice if you do not call it\ninto existence, seeing it is no part of nature.\n\nFOURTH MAXIM--Study carefully their speech and gestures, so that\nat an age when they are incapable of deceit you may discriminate\nbetween those desires which come from nature and those which spring\nfrom perversity.\n\nThe spirit of these rules is to give children more real liberty and\nless power, to let them do more for themselves and demand less of\nothers; so that by teaching them from the first to confine their\nwishes within the limits of their powers they will scarcely feel\nthe want of whatever is not in their power.\n\nThis is another very important reason for leaving children's limbs\nand bodies perfectly free, only taking care that they do not fall,\nand keeping anything that might hurt them out of their way.\n\nThe child whose body and arms are free will certainly cry much\nless than a child tied up in swaddling clothes. He who knows only\nbodily needs, only cries when in pain; and this is a great advantage,\nfor then we know exactly when he needs help, and if possible we\nshould not delay our help for an instant. But if you cannot relieve\nhis pain, stay where you are and do not flatter him by way of\nsoothing him; your caresses will not cure his colic, but he will\nremember what he must do to win them; and if he once finds out\nhow to gain your attention at will, he is your master; the whole\neducation is spoilt.\n\nTheir movements being less constrained, children will cry less;\nless wearied with their tears, people will not take so much trouble\nto check them. With fewer threats and promises, they will be less\ntimid and less obstinate, and will remain more nearly in their\nnatural state. Ruptures are produced less by letting children cry\nthan by the means taken to stop them, and my evidence for this is\nthe fact that the most neglected children are less liable to them\nthan others. I am very far from wishing that they should be neglected;\non the contrary, it is of the utmost importance that their wants\nshould be anticipated, so that they need not proclaim their wants\nby crying. But neither would I have unwise care bestowed on them.\nWhy should they think it wrong to cry when they find they can get\nso much by it? When they have learned the value of their silence they\ntake good care not to waste it. In the end they will so exaggerate\nits importance that no one will be able to pay its price; then worn\nout with crying they become exhausted, and are at length silent.\n\nProlonged crying on the part of a child neither swaddled nor out\nof health, a child who lacks nothing, is merely the result of habit\nor obstinacy. Such tears are no longer the work of nature, but the\nwork of the child's nurse, who could not resist its importunity\nand so has increased it, without considering that while she quiets\nthe child to-day she is teaching him to cry louder to-morrow.\n\nMoreover, when caprice or obstinacy is the cause of their tears,\nthere is a sure way of stopping them by distracting their attention\nby some pleasant or conspicuous object which makes them forget that\nthey want to cry. Most nurses excel in this art, and rightly used\nit is very useful; but it is of the utmost importance that the\nchild should not perceive that you mean to distract his attention,\nand that he should be amused without suspecting you are thinking\nabout him; now this is what most nurses cannot do.\n\nMost children are weaned too soon. The time to wean them is when\nthey cut their teeth. This generally causes pain and suffering. At\nthis time the child instinctively carries everything he gets hold\nof to his mouth to chew it. To help forward this process he is given\nas a plaything some hard object such as ivory or a wolf's tooth.\nI think this is a mistake. Hard bodies applied to the gums do not\nsoften them; far from it, they make the process of cutting the\nteeth more difficult and painful. Let us always take instinct as\nour guide; we never see puppies practising their budding teeth on\npebbles, iron, or bones, but on wood, leather, rags, soft materials\nwhich yield to their jaws, and on which the tooth leaves its mark.\n\nWe can do nothing simply, not even for our children. Toys of\nsilver, gold, coral, cut crystal, rattles of every price and kind;\nwhat vain and useless appliances. Away with them all! Let us have\nno corals or rattles; a small branch of a tree with its leaves and\nfruit, a stick of liquorice which he may suck and chew, will amuse\nhim as well as these splendid trifles, and they will have this\nadvantage at least, he will not be brought up to luxury from his\nbirth.\n\nIt is admitted that pap is not a very wholesome food. Boiled milk\nand uncooked flour cause gravel and do not suit the stomach. In\npap the flour is less thoroughly cooked than in bread and it has\nnot fermented. I think bread and milk or rice-cream are better. If\nyou will have pap, the flour should be lightly cooked beforehand.\nIn my own country they make a very pleasant and wholesome soup from\nflour thus heated. Meat-broth or soup is not a very suitable food\nand should be used as little as possible. The child must first get\nused to chewing his food; this is the right way to bring the teeth\nthrough, and when the child begins to swallow, the saliva mixed\nwith the food helps digestion.\n\nI would have them first chew dried fruit or crusts. I should give\nthem as playthings little bits of dry bread or biscuits, like\nthe Piedmont bread, known in the country as \"grisses.\" By dint of\nsoftening this bread in the mouth some of it is eventually swallowed\nthe teeth come through of themselves, and the child is weaned\nalmost imperceptibly. Peasants have usually very good digestions,\nand they are weaned with no more ado.\n\nFrom the very first children hear spoken language; we speak to\nthem before they can understand or even imitate spoken sounds. The\nvocal organs are still stiff, and only gradually lend themselves to\nthe reproduction of the sounds heard; it is even doubtful whether\nthese sounds are heard distinctly as we hear them. The nurse may\namuse the child with songs and with very merry and varied intonation,\nbut I object to her bewildering the child with a multitude of\nvain words of which it understands nothing but her tone of voice.\nI would have the first words he hears few in number, distinctly\nand often repeated, while the words themselves should be related to\nthings which can first be shown to the child. That fatal facility\nin the use of words we do not understand begins earlier than we\nthink. In the schoolroom the scholar listens to the verbiage of his\nmaster as he listened in the cradle to the babble of his nurse. I\nthink it would be a very useful education to leave him in ignorance\nof both.\n\nAll sorts of ideas crowd in upon us when we try to consider the\ndevelopment of speech and the child's first words. Whatever we\ndo they all learn to talk in the same way, and all philosophical\nspeculations are utterly useless.\n\nTo begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whose\nrules and syntax are more general than our own; if you attend\ncarefully you will be surprised to find how exactly they follow\ncertain analogies, very much mistaken if you like, but very regular;\nthese forms are only objectionable because of their harshness or\nbecause they are not recognised by custom. I have just heard a child\nseverely scolded by his father for saying, \"Mon pere, irai-je-t-y?\"\nNow we see that this child was following the analogy more closely\nthan our grammarians, for as they say to him, \"Vas-y,\" why should\nhe not say, \"Irai-je-t-y?\" Notice too the skilful way in which he\navoids the hiatus in irai-je-y or y-irai-je? Is it the poor child's\nfault that we have so unskilfully deprived the phrase of this\ndeterminative adverb \"y,\" because we did not know what to do with\nit? It is an intolerable piece of pedantry and most superfluous\nattention to detail to make a point of correcting all children's\nlittle sins against the customary expression, for they always\ncure themselves with time. Always speak correctly before them, let\nthem never be so happy with any one as with you, and be sure that\ntheir speech will be imperceptibly modelled upon yours without any\ncorrection on your part.\n\nBut a much greater evil, and one far less easy to guard against,\nis that they are urged to speak too much, as if people were afraid\nthey would not learn to talk of themselves. This indiscreet zeal\nproduces an effect directly opposite to what is meant. They speak\nlater and more confusedly; the extreme attention paid to everything\nthey say makes it unnecessary for them to speak distinctly, and\nas they will scarcely open their mouths, many of them contract a\nvicious pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all their\nlife and make them almost unintelligible.\n\nI have lived much among peasants, and I never knew one of them lisp,\nman or woman, boy or girl. Why is this? Are their speech organs\ndifferently made from our own? No, but they are differently used.\nThere is a hillock facing my window on which the children of the\nplace assemble for their games. Although they are far enough away,\nI can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get good notes\nfor this book. Every day my ear deceives me as to their age. I hear\nthe voices of children of ten; I look and see the height and features\nof children of three or four. This experience is not confined to\nme; the townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult on this\npoint, all fall into the same mistake.\n\nThis results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in\ntown, brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess,\ndo not need to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard. As\nsoon as their lips move people take pains to make out what they\nmean; they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately, and by\npaying great attention to them the people who are always with them\nrather guess what they meant to say than what they said.\n\nIt is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman is\nnot always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very clearly\nand loudly what he wants, if he is to make himself understood.\nChildren scattered about the fields at a distance from their fathers,\nmothers and other children, gain practice in making themselves\nheard at a distance, and in adapting the loudness of the voice to\nthe distance which separates them from those to whom they want to\nspeak. This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not by stammering\nout a few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess.  So when\nyou question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer, but what\nhe says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve as interpreter\nfor the town child; without her one can understand nothing of what\nhe is muttering between his teeth. [Footnote: There are exceptions\nto this; and often those children who at first are most difficult\nto hear, become the noisiest when they begin to raise their voices.\nBut if I were to enter into all these details I should never make\nan end; every sensible reader ought to see that defect and excess,\ncaused by the same abuse, are both corrected by my method. I regard\nthe two maxims as inseparable--always enough--never too much. When\nthe first is well established, the latter necessarily follows on\nit.]\n\nAs they grow older, the boys are supposed to be cured of this fault\nat college, the girls in the convent schools; and indeed both usually\nspeak more clearly than children brought up entirely at home. But\nthey are prevented from acquiring as clear a pronunciation as the\npeasants in this way--they are required to learn all sorts of things\nby heart, and to repeat aloud what they have learnt; for when they\nare studying they get into the way of gabbling and pronouncing\ncarelessly and ill; it is still worse when they repeat their lessons;\nthey cannot find the right words, they drag out their syllables.\nThis is only possible when the memory hesitates, the tongue does\nnot stammer of itself. Thus they acquire or continue habits of bad\npronunciation. Later on you will see that Emile does not acquire\nsuch habits or at least not from this cause.\n\nI grant you uneducated people and villagers often fall into the opposite\nextreme. They almost always speak too loud; their pronunciation is\ntoo exact, and leads to rough and coarse articulation; their accent\nis too pronounced, they choose their expressions badly, etc.\n\nBut, to begin with, this extreme strikes me as much less dangerous\nthan the other, for the first law of speech is to make oneself\nunderstood, and the chief fault is to fail to be understood. To pride\nourselves on having no accent is to pride ourselves on ridding our\nphrases of strength and elegance. Emphasis is the soul of speech,\nit gives it its feeling and truth. Emphasis deceives less than\nwords; perhaps that is why well-educated people are so afraid of\nit. From the custom of saying everything in the same tone has arisen\nthat of poking fun at people without their knowing it. When emphasis\nis proscribed, its place is taken by all sorts of ridiculous, affected,\nand ephemeral pronunciations, such as one observes especially among\nthe young people about court. It is this affectation of speech and\nmanner which makes Frenchmen disagreeable and repulsive to other\nnations on first acquaintance. Emphasis is found, not in their\nspeech, but in their bearing. That is not the way to make themselves\nattractive.\n\nAll these little faults of speech, which you are so afraid the\nchildren will acquire, are mere trifles; they may be prevented or\ncorrected with the greatest ease, but the faults which are taught\nthem when you make them speak in a low, indistinct, and timid voice,\nwhen you are always criticising their tone and finding fault with\ntheir words, are never cured. A man who has only learnt to speak\nin society of fine ladies could not make himself heard at the head\nof his troops, and would make little impression on the rabble in\na riot. First teach the child to speak to men; he will be able to\nspeak to the women when required.\n\nBrought up in all the rustic simplicity of the country, your\nchildren will gain a more sonorous voice; they will not acquire\nthe hesitating stammer of town children, neither will they acquire\nthe expressions nor the tone of the villagers, or if they do they\nwill easily lose them; their master being with them from their\nearliest years, and more and more in their society the older they\ngrow, will be able to prevent or efface by speaking correctly himself\nthe impression of the peasants' talk. Emile will speak the purest\nFrench I know, but he will speak it more distinctly and with a\nbetter articulation than myself.\n\nThe child who is trying to speak should hear nothing but words he\ncan understand, nor should he say words he cannot articulate; his\nefforts lead him to repeat the same syllable as if he were practising\nits clear pronunciation. When he begins to stammer, do not try to\nunderstand him. To expect to be always listened to is a form of\ntyranny which is not good for the child. See carefully to his real\nneeds, and let him try to make you understand the rest.  Still\nless should you hurry him into speech; he will learn to talk when\nhe feels the want of it.\n\nIt has indeed been remarked that those who begin to speak very late\nnever speak so distinctly as others; but it is not because they\ntalked late that they are hesitating; on the contrary, they began\nto talk late because they hesitate; if not, why did they begin to\ntalk so late? Have they less need of speech, have they been less\nurged to it? On the contrary, the anxiety aroused with the first\nsuspicion of this backwardness leads people to tease them much\nmore to begin to talk than those who articulated earlier; and this\nmistaken zeal may do much to make their speech confused, when with\nless haste they might have had time to bring it to greater perfection.\n\nChildren who are forced to speak too soon have no time to learn\neither to pronounce correctly or to understand what they are made\nto say; while left to themselves they first practise the easiest\nsyllables, and then, adding to them little by little some meaning\nwhich their gestures explain, they teach you their own words before\nthey learn yours. By this means they do not acquire your words\ntill they have understood them. Being in no hurry to use them, they\nbegin by carefully observing the sense in which you use them, and\nwhen they are sure of them they adopt them.\n\nThe worst evil resulting from the precocious use of speech by young\nchildren is that we not only fail to understand the first words\nthey use, we misunderstand them without knowing it; so that while\nthey seem to answer us correctly, they fail to understand us and we\nthem.  This is the most frequent cause of our surprise at children's\nsayings; we attribute to them ideas which they did not attach to\ntheir words. This lack of attention on our part to the real meaning\nwhich words have for children seems to me the cause of their earliest\nmisconceptions; and these misconceptions, even when corrected,\ncolour their whole course of thought for the rest of their life. I\nshall have several opportunities of illustrating these by examples\nlater on.\n\nLet the child's vocabulary, therefore, be limited; it is very\nundesirable that he should have more words than ideas, that he\nshould be able to say more than he thinks. One of the reasons why\npeasants are generally shrewder than townsfolk is, I think, that\ntheir vocabulary is smaller. They have few ideas, but those few\nare thoroughly grasped.\n\nThe infant is progressing in several ways at once; he is learning\nto talk, eat, and walk about the same time. This is really the\nfirst phase of his life. Up till now, he was little more than he\nwas before birth; he had neither feeling nor thought, he was barely\ncapable of sensation; he was unconscious of his own existence.\n\n\"Vivit, et est vitae nescius ipse suae.\"--Ovid.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK II\n\nWe have now reached the second phase of life; infancy, strictly\nso-called, is over; for the words infans and puer are not\nsynonymous.  The latter includes the former, which means literally\n\"one who cannot speak;\" thus Valerius speaks of puerum infantem.\nBut I shall continue to use the word child (French enfant) according\nto the custom of our language till an age for which there is another\nterm.\n\nWhen children begin to talk they cry less. This progress is quite\nnatural; one language supplants another. As soon as they can say\n\"It hurts me,\" why should they cry, unless the pain is too sharp\nfor words? If they still cry, those about them are to blame. When\nonce Emile has said, \"It hurts me,\" it will take a very sharp pain\nto make him cry.\n\nIf the child is delicate and sensitive, if by nature he begins to\ncry for nothing, I let him cry in vain and soon check his tears at\ntheir source. So long as he cries I will not go near him; I come\nat once when he leaves off crying. He will soon be quiet when he\nwants to call me, or rather he will utter a single cry. Children\nlearn the meaning of signs by their effects; they have no other\nmeaning for them. However much a child hurts himself when he is\nalone, he rarely cries, unless he expects to be heard.\n\nShould he fall or bump his head, or make his nose bleed, or cut\nhis fingers, I shall show no alarm, nor shall I make any fuss over\nhim; I shall take no notice, at any rate at first. The harm is done;\nhe must bear it; all my zeal could only frighten him more and make\nhim more nervous. Indeed it is not the blow but the fear of it which\ndistresses us when we are hurt. I shall spare him this suffering\nat least, for he will certainly regard the injury as he sees me\nregard it; if he finds that I hasten anxiously to him, if I pity\nhim or comfort him, he will think he is badly hurt. If he finds I\ntake no notice, he will soon recover himself, and will think the\nwound is healed when it ceases to hurt. This is the time for his\nfirst lesson in courage, and by bearing slight ills without fear\nwe gradually learn to bear greater.\n\nI shall not take pains to prevent Emile hurting himself; far from\nit, I should be vexed if he never hurt himself, if he grew up\nunacquainted with pain. To bear pain is his first and most useful\nlesson. It seems as if children were small and weak on purpose to\nteach them these valuable lessons without danger. The child has\nsuch a little way to fall he will not break his leg; if he knocks\nhimself with a stick he will not break his arm; if he seizes a sharp\nknife he will not grasp it tight enough to make a deep wound. So\nfar as I know, no child, left to himself, has ever been known to\nkill or maim itself, or even to do itself any serious harm, unless\nit has been foolishly left on a high place, or alone near the fire,\nor within reach of dangerous weapons. What is there to be said for\nall the paraphernalia with which the child is surrounded to shield\nhim on every side so that he grows up at the mercy of pain, with\nneither courage nor experience, so that he thinks he is killed by\na pin-prick and faints at the sight of blood?\n\nWith our foolish and pedantic methods we are always preventing children\nfrom learning what they could learn much better by themselves, while\nwe neglect what we alone can teach them. Can anything be sillier\nthan the pains taken to teach them to walk, as if there were any\none who was unable to walk when he grows up through his nurse's\nneglect? How many we see walking badly all their life because they\nwere ill taught?\n\nEmile shall have no head-pads, no go-carts, no leading-strings;\nor at least as soon as he can put one foot before another he shall\nonly be supported along pavements, and he shall be taken quickly\nacross them. [Footnote: There is nothing so absurd and hesitating\nas the gait of those who have been kept too long in leading-strings\nwhen they were little. This is one of the observations which are\nconsidered trivial because they are true.] Instead of keeping him\nmewed up in a stuffy room, take him out into a meadow every day;\nlet him run about, let him struggle and fall again and again, the\noftener the better; he will learn all the sooner to pick himself\nup.  The delights of liberty will make up for many bruises. My\npupil will hurt himself oftener than yours, but he will always be\nmerry; your pupils may receive fewer injuries, but they are always\nthwarted, constrained, and sad. I doubt whether they are any better\noff.\n\nAs their strength increases, children have also less need for tears.\nThey can do more for themselves, they need the help of others less\nfrequently. With strength comes the sense to use it. It is with\nthis second phase that the real personal life has its beginning; it\nis then that the child becomes conscious of himself. During every\nmoment of his life memory calls up the feeling of self; he becomes\nreally one person, always the same, and therefore capable of joy\nor sorrow. Hence we must begin to consider him as a moral being.\n\nAlthough we know approximately the limits of human life and our\nchances of attaining those limits, nothing is more uncertain than\nthe length of the life of any one of us. Very few reach old age.\nThe chief risks occur at the beginning of life; the shorter our\npast life, the less we must hope to live. Of all the children who\nare born scarcely one half reach adolescence, and it is very likely\nyour pupil will not live to be a man.\n\nWhat is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education which\nsacrifices the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a child\nwith all sorts of restrictions and begins by making him miserable,\nin order to prepare him for some far-off happiness which he may\nnever enjoy? Even if I considered that education wise in its aims,\nhow could I view without indignation those poor wretches subjected\nto an intolerable slavery and condemned like galley-slaves to endless\ntoil, with no certainty that they will gain anything by it?  The\nage of harmless mirth is spent in tears, punishments, threats,\nand slavery. You torment the poor thing for his good; you fail\nto see that you are calling Death to snatch him from these gloomy\nsurroundings. Who can say how many children fall victims to the\nexcessive care of their fathers and mothers? They are happy to\nescape from this cruelty; this is all that they gain from the ills\nthey are forced to endure: they die without regretting, having\nknown nothing of life but its sorrows.\n\nMen, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind to\nevery age and station, kind to all that is not foreign to humanity.\nWhat wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness? Love childhood,\nindulge its sports, its pleasures, its delightful instincts. Who\nhas not sometimes regretted that age when laughter was ever on the\nlips, and when the heart was ever at peace? Why rob these innocents\nof the joys which pass so quickly, of that precious gift which they\ncannot abuse? Why fill with bitterness the fleeting days of early\nchildhood, days which will no more return for them than for you?\nFathers, can you tell when death will call your children to him?\nDo not lay up sorrow for yourselves by robbing them of the short\nspan which nature has allotted to them. As soon as they are aware\nof the joy of life, let them rejoice in it, go that whenever God\ncalls them they may not die without having tasted the joy of life.\n\nHow people will cry out against me! I hear from afar the shouts of\nthat false wisdom which is ever dragging us onwards, counting the\npresent as nothing, and pursuing without a pause a future which\nflies as we pursue, that false wisdom which removes us from our\nplace and never brings us to any other.\n\nNow is the time, you say, to correct his evil tendencies; we must\nincrease suffering in childhood, when it is less keenly felt, to\nlessen it in manhood. But how do you know that you can carry out\nall these fine schemes; how do you know that all this fine teaching\nwith which you overwhelm the feeble mind of the child will not do\nhim more harm than good in the future? How do you know that you\ncan spare him anything by the vexations you heap upon him now? Why\ninflict on him more ills than befit his present condition unless\nyou are quite sure that these present ills will save him future\nill? And what proof can you give me that those evil tendencies\nyou profess to cure are not the result of your foolish precautions\nrather than of nature? What a poor sort of foresight, to make a\nchild wretched in the present with the more or less doubtful hope\nof making him happy at some future day. If such blundering thinkers\nfail to distinguish between liberty and licence, between a merry\nchild and a spoilt darling, let them learn to discriminate.\n\nLet us not forget what befits our present state in the pursuit\nof vain fancies. Mankind has its place in the sequence of things;\nchildhood has its place in the sequence of human life; the man must\nbe treated as a man and the child as a child. Give each his place,\nand keep him there. Control human passions according to man's\nnature; that is all we can do for his welfare. The rest depends on\nexternal forces, which are beyond our control.\n\nAbsolute good and evil are unknown to us. In this life they are\nblended together; we never enjoy any perfectly pure feeling, nor\ndo we remain for more than a moment in the same state. The feelings\nof our minds, like the changes in our bodies, are in a continual\nflux.  Good and ill are common to all, but in varying proportions.\nThe happiest is he who suffers least; the most miserable is he who\nenjoys least. Ever more sorrow than joy--this is the lot of all of\nus. Man's happiness in this world is but a negative state; it must\nbe reckoned by the fewness of his ills.\n\nEvery feeling of hardship is inseparable from the desire to escape\nfrom it; every idea of pleasure from the desire to enjoy it. All desire\nimplies a want, and all wants are painful; hence our wretchedness\nconsists in the disproportion between our desires and our powers.\nA conscious being whose powers were equal to his desires would be\nperfectly happy.\n\nWhat then is human wisdom? Where is the path of true happiness?\nThe mere limitation of our desires is not enough, for if they were\nless than our powers, part of our faculties would be idle, and we\nshould not enjoy our whole being; neither is the mere extension of\nour powers enough, for if our desires were also increased we should\nonly be the more miserable. True happiness consists in decreasing\nthe difference between our desires and our powers, in establishing\na perfect equilibrium between the power and the will. Then only,\nwhen all its forces are employed, will the soul be at rest and man\nwill find himself in his true position.\n\nIn this condition, nature, who does everything for the best, has\nplaced him from the first. To begin with, she gives him only such\ndesires as are necessary for self-preservation and such powers as\nare sufficient for their satisfaction. All the rest she has stored\nin his mind as a sort of reserve, to be drawn upon at need. It\nis only in this primitive condition that we find the equilibrium\nbetween desire and power, and then alone man is not unhappy. As\nsoon as his potential powers of mind begin to function, imagination,\nmore powerful than all the rest, awakes, and precedes all the rest.\nIt is imagination which enlarges the bounds of possibility for us,\nwhether for good or ill, and therefore stimulates and feeds desires\nby the hope of satisfying them. But the object which seemed within\nour grasp flies quicker than we can follow; when we think we have\ngrasped it, it transforms itself and is again far ahead of us.\nWe no longer perceive the country we have traversed, and we think\nnothing of it; that which lies before us becomes vaster and stretches\nstill before us. Thus we exhaust our strength, yet never reach our\ngoal, and the nearer we are to pleasure, the further we are from\nhappiness.\n\nOn the other hand, the more nearly a man's condition approximates\nto this state of nature the less difference is there between his\ndesires and his powers, and happiness is therefore less remote.\nLacking everything, he is never less miserable; for misery consists,\nnot in the lack of things, but in the needs which they inspire.\n\nThe world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination is\nboundless; as we cannot enlarge the one, let us restrict the other;\nfor all the sufferings which really make us miserable arise from\nthe difference between the real and the imaginary. Health, strength,\nand a good conscience excepted, all the good things of life are a\nmatter of opinion; except bodily suffering and remorse, all our woes\nare imaginary. You will tell me this is a commonplace; I admit it,\nbut its practical application is no commonplace, and it is with\npractice only that we are now concerned.\n\nWhat do you mean when you say, \"Man is weak\"? The term weak implies\na relation, a relation of the creature to whom it is applied. An\ninsect or a worm whose strength exceeds its needs is strong; an\nelephant, a lion, a conqueror, a hero, a god himself, whose needs\nexceed his strength is weak. The rebellious angel who fought against\nhis own nature was weaker than the happy mortal who is living at\npeace according to nature. When man is content to be himself he\nis strong indeed; when he strives to be more than man he is weak\nindeed. But do not imagine that you can increase your strength\nby increasing your powers. Not so; if your pride increases more\nrapidly your strength is diminished. Let us measure the extent of\nour sphere and remain in its centre like the spider in its web;\nwe shall have strength sufficient for our needs, we shall have no\ncause to lament our weakness, for we shall never be aware of it.\n\nThe other animals possess only such powers as are required for\nself-preservation; man alone has more. Is it not very strange that\nthis superfluity should make him miserable? In every land a man's\nlabour yields more than a bare living. If he were wise enough to\ndisregard this surplus he would always have enough, for he would\nnever have too much. \"Great needs,\" said Favorin, \"spring from\ngreat wealth; and often the best way of getting what we want is\nto get rid of what we have.\" By striving to increase our happiness\nwe change it into wretchedness. If a man were content to live, he\nwould live happy; and he would therefore be good, for what would\nhe have to gain by vice?\n\nIf we were immortal we should all be miserable; no doubt it is hard\nto die, but it is sweet to think that we shall not live for ever,\nand that a better life will put an end to the sorrows of this\nworld.  If we had the offer of immortality here below, who would\naccept the sorrowful gift? [Footnote: You understand I am speaking\nof those who think, and not of the crowd.] What resources, what\nhopes, what consolation would be left against the cruelties of\nfate and man's injustice? The ignorant man never looks before; he\nknows little of the value of life and does not fear to lose it;\nthe wise man sees things of greater worth and prefers them to it.\nHalf knowledge and sham wisdom set us thinking about death and\nwhat lies beyond it; and they thus create the worst of our ills.\nThe wise man bears life's ills all the better because he knows\nhe must die. Life would be too dearly bought did we not know that\nsooner or later death will end it.\n\nOur moral ills are the result of prejudice, crime alone excepted,\nand that depends on ourselves; our bodily ills either put an end\nto themselves or to us. Time or death will cure them, but the less\nwe know how to bear it, the greater is our pain, and we suffer more\nin our efforts to cure our diseases than if we endured them. Live\naccording to nature; be patient, get rid of the doctors; you will\nnot escape death, but you will only die once, while the doctors\nmake you die daily through your diseased imagination; their lying\nart, instead of prolonging your days, robs you of all delight in\nthem. I am always asking what real good this art has done to mankind.\nTrue, the doctors cure some who would have died, but they kill\nmillions who would have lived. If you are wise you will decline to\ntake part in this lottery when the odds are so great against you.\nSuffer, die, or get better; but whatever you do, live while you\nare alive.\n\nHuman institutions are one mass of folly and contradiction. As our\nlife loses its value we set a higher price upon it. The old regret\nlife more than the young; they do not want to lose all they have\nspent in preparing for its enjoyment. At sixty it is cruel to\ndie when one has not begun to live. Man is credited with a strong\ndesire for self-preservation, and this desire exists; but we fail\nto perceive that this desire, as felt by us, is largely the work\nof man. In a natural state man is only eager to preserve his life\nwhile he has the means for its preservation; when self-preservation\nis no longer possible, he resigns himself to his fate and dies without\nvain torments. Nature teaches us the first law of resignation.\nSavages, like wild beasts, make very little struggle against\ndeath, and meet it almost without a murmur. When this natural law\nis overthrown reason establishes another, but few discern it, and\nman's resignation is never so complete as nature's.\n\nPrudence! Prudence which is ever bidding us look forward into the\nfuture, a future which in many cases we shall never reach; here is\nthe real source of all our troubles! How mad it is for so short-lived\na creature as man to look forward into a future to which he rarely\nattains, while he neglects the present which is his? This madness\nis all the more fatal since it increases with years, and the old,\nalways timid, prudent, and miserly, prefer to do without necessaries\nto-day that they may have luxuries at a hundred. Thus we grasp\neverything, we cling to everything; we are anxious about time,\nplace, people, things, all that is and will be; we ourselves are\nbut the least part of ourselves. We spread ourselves, so to speak,\nover the whole world, and all this vast expanse becomes sensitive.\nNo wonder our woes increase when we may be wounded on every side.\nHow many princes make themselves miserable for the loss of lands\nthey never saw, and how many merchants lament in Paris over some\nmisfortune in the Indies!\n\nIs it nature that carries men so far from their real selves? Is it\nher will that each should learn his fate from others and even be\nthe last to learn it; so that a man dies happy or miserable before\nhe knows what he is about. There is a healthy, cheerful, strong,\nand vigorous man; it does me good to see him; his eyes tell of\ncontent and well-being; he is the picture of happiness. A letter\ncomes by post; the happy man glances at it, it is addressed to him,\nhe opens it and reads it. In a moment he is changed, he turns pale\nand falls into a swoon. When he comes to himself he weeps, laments,\nand groans, he tears his hair, and his shrieks re-echo through the\nair.  You would say he was in convulsions. Fool, what harm has this\nbit of paper done you? What limb has it torn away? What crime has\nit made you commit? What change has it wrought in you to reduce\nyou to this state of misery?\n\nHad the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into the\nfire, it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once happy and\nunhappy, would have offered us a strange problem. His misfortunes,\nyou say, were real enough. Granted; but he did not feel them. What\nof that? His happiness was imaginary. I admit it; health, wealth,\na contented spirit, are mere dreams. We no longer live in our own\nplace, we live outside it. What does it profit us to live in such\nfear of death, when all that makes life worth living is our own?\n\nOh, man! live your own life and you will no longer be wretched.\nKeep to your appointed place in the order of nature and nothing can\ntear you from it. Do not kick against the stern law of necessity,\nnor waste in vain resistance the strength bestowed on you by heaven,\nnot to prolong or extend your existence, but to preserve it so far\nand so long as heaven pleases. Your freedom and your power extend\nas far and no further than your natural strength; anything more is\nbut slavery, deceit, and trickery. Power itself is servile when it\ndepends upon public opinion; for you are dependent on the prejudices\nof others when you rule them by means of those prejudices. To lead\nthem as you will, they must be led as they will. They have only\nto change their way of thinking and you are forced to change your\ncourse of action. Those who approach you need only contrive to\nsway the opinions of those you rule, or of the favourite by whom\nyou are ruled, or those of your own family or theirs. Had you the\ngenius of Themistocles, [Footnote: \"You see that little boy,\" said\nThemistocles to his friends, \"the fate of Greece is in his hands,\nfor he rules his mother and his mother rules me, I rule the Athenians\nand the Athenians rule the Greeks.\" What petty creatures we should\noften find controlling great empires if we traced the course of power\nfrom the prince to those who secretly put that power in motion.]\nviziers, courtiers, priests, soldiers, servants, babblers, the\nvery children themselves, would lead you like a child in the midst\nof your legions. Whatever you do, your actual authority can never\nextend beyond your own powers. As soon as you are obliged to\nsee with another's eyes you must will what he wills. You say with\npride, \"My people are my subjects.\" Granted, but what are you? The\nsubject of your ministers. And your ministers, what are they? The\nsubjects of their clerks, their mistresses, the servants of their\nservants. Grasp all, usurp all, and then pour out your silver with\nboth hands; set up your batteries, raise the gallows and the wheel;\nmake laws, issue proclamations, multiply your spies, your soldiers,\nyour hangmen, your prisons, and your chains. Poor little men, what\ngood does it do you? You will be no better served, you will be\nnone the less robbed and deceived, you will be no nearer absolute\npower.  You will say continually, \"It is our will,\" and you will\ncontinually do the will of others.\n\nThere is only one man who gets his own way--he who can get it\nsingle-handed; therefore freedom, not power, is the greatest good.\nThat man is truly free who desires what he is able to perform, and\ndoes what he desires. This is my fundamental maxim. Apply it to\nchildhood, and all the rules of education spring from it.\n\nSociety has enfeebled man, not merely by robbing him of the right\nto his own strength, but still more by making his strength insufficient\nfor his needs. This is why his desires increase in proportion to\nhis weakness; and this is why the child is weaker than the man. If\na man is strong and a child is weak it is not because the strength\nof the one is absolutely greater than the strength of the other,\nbut because the one can naturally provide for himself and the other\ncannot. Thus the man will have more desires and the child more\ncaprices, a word which means, I take it, desires which are not true\nneeds, desires which can only be satisfied with the help of others.\n\nI have already given the reason for this state of weakness. Parental\naffection is nature's provision against it; but parental affection\nmay be carried to excess, it may be wanting, or it may be ill applied.\nParents who live under our ordinary social conditions bring their\nchild into these conditions too soon. By increasing his needs they\ndo not relieve his weakness; they rather increase it. They further\nincrease it by demanding of him what nature does not demand, by\nsubjecting to their will what little strength he has to further\nhis own wishes, by making slaves of themselves or of him instead\nof recognising that mutual dependence which should result from his\nweakness or their affection.\n\nThe wise man can keep his own place; but the child who does not\nknow what his place is, is unable to keep it. There are a thousand\nways out of it, and it is the business of those who have charge\nof the child to keep him in his place, and this is no easy task.\nHe should be neither beast nor man, but a child. He must feel his\nweakness, but not suffer through it; he must be dependent, but\nhe must not obey; he must ask, not command. He is only subject to\nothers because of his needs, and because they see better than he\nwhat he really needs, what may help or hinder his existence. No\none, not even his father, has the right to bid the child do what\nis of no use to him.\n\nWhen our natural tendencies have not been interfered with by human\nprejudice and human institutions, the happiness alike of children\nand of men consists in the enjoyment of their liberty. But the\nchild's liberty is restricted by his lack of strength. He who does\nas he likes is happy provided he is self-sufficing; it is so with\nthe man who is living in a state of nature. He who does what he\nlikes is not happy if his desires exceed his strength; it is so\nwith a child in like conditions. Even in a state of nature children\nonly enjoy an imperfect liberty, like that enjoyed by men in social\nlife.  Each of us, unable to dispense with the help of others,\nbecomes so far weak and wretched. We were meant to be men, laws and\ncustoms thrust us back into infancy. The rich and great, the very\nkings themselves are but children; they see that we are ready to\nrelieve their misery; this makes them childishly vain, and they are\nquite proud of the care bestowed on them, a care which they would\nnever get if they were grown men.\n\nThese are weighty considerations, and they provide a solution\nfor all the conflicting problems of our social system. There are\ntwo kinds of dependence: dependence on things, which is the work\nof nature; and dependence on men, which is the work of society.\nDependence on things, being non-moral, does no injury to liberty and\nbegets no vices; dependence on men, being out of order, [Footnote:\nIn my PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL LAW it is proved that no private will\ncan be ordered in the social system.] gives rise to every kind of\nvice, and through this master and slave become mutually depraved.\nIf there is any cure for this social evil, it is to be found in\nthe substitution of law for the individual; in arming the general\nwill with a real strength beyond the power of any individual will.\nIf the laws of nations, like the laws of nature, could never be\nbroken by any human power, dependence on men would become dependence\non things; all the advantages of a state of nature would be combined\nwith all the advantages of social life in the commonwealth. The\nliberty which preserves a man from vice would be united with the\nmorality which raises him to virtue.\n\nKeep the child dependent on things only. By this course of education\nyou will have followed the order of nature. Let his unreasonable\nwishes meet with physical obstacles only, or the punishment which\nresults from his own actions, lessons which will be recalled when\nthe same circumstances occur again. It is enough to prevent him\nfrom wrong doing without forbidding him to do wrong. Experience or\nlack of power should take the place of law. Give him, not what he\nwants, but what he needs. Let there be no question of obedience for\nhim or tyranny for you. Supply the strength he lacks just so far\nas is required for freedom, not for power, so that he may receive\nyour services with a sort of shame, and look forward to the time when\nhe may dispense with them and may achieve the honour of self-help.\n\nNature provides for the child's growth in her own fashion, and this\nshould never be thwarted. Do not make him sit still when he wants\nto run about, nor run when he wants to be quiet. If we did not\nspoil our children's wills by our blunders their desires would be\nfree from caprice. Let them run, jump, and shout to their heart's\ncontent. All their own activities are instincts of the body for\nits growth in strength; but you should regard with suspicion those\nwishes which they cannot carry out for themselves, those which\nothers must carry out for them. Then you must distinguish carefully\nbetween natural and artificial needs, between the needs of budding\ncaprice and the needs which spring from the overflowing life just\ndescribed.\n\nI have already told you what you ought to do when a child cries for\nthis thing or that. I will only add that as soon as he has words\nto ask for what he wants and accompanies his demands with tears,\neither to get his own way quicker or to over-ride a refusal, he\nshould never have his way. If his words were prompted by a real\nneed you should recognise it and satisfy it at once; but to yield\nto his tears is to encourage him to cry, to teach him to doubt\nyour kindness, and to think that you are influenced more by his\nimportunity than your own good-will. If he does not think you kind\nhe will soon think you unkind; if he thinks you weak he will soon\nbecome obstinate; what you mean to give must be given at once. Be\nchary of refusing, but, having refused, do not change your mind.\n\nAbove all, beware of teaching the child empty phrases of politeness,\nwhich serve as spells to subdue those around him to his will, and\nto get him what he wants at once. The artificial education of the\nrich never fails to make them politely imperious, by teaching them\nthe words to use so that no one will dare to resist them. Their\nchildren have neither the tone nor the manner of suppliants; they are\nas haughty or even more haughty in their entreaties than in their\ncommands, as though they were more certain to be obeyed. You see\nat once that \"If you please\" means \"It pleases me,\" and \"I beg\"\nmeans \"I command.\" What a fine sort of politeness which only succeeds\nin changing the meaning of words so that every word is a command!\nFor my own part, I would rather Emile were rude than haughty, that\nhe should say \"Do this\" as a request, rather than \"Please\" as a\ncommand. What concerns me is his meaning, not his words.\n\nThere is such a thing as excessive severity as well as excessive\nindulgence, and both alike should be avoided. If you let children\nsuffer you risk their health and life; you make them miserable now;\nif you take too much pains to spare them every kind of uneasiness\nyou are laying up much misery for them in the future; you are making\nthem delicate and over-sensitive; you are taking them out of their\nplace among men, a place to which they must sooner or later return,\nin spite of all your pains. You will say I am falling into the\nsame mistake as those bad fathers whom I blamed for sacrificing the\npresent happiness of their children to a future which may never be\ntheirs.\n\nNot so; for the liberty I give my pupil makes up for the slight\nhardships to which he is exposed. I see little fellows playing in\nthe snow, stiff and blue with cold, scarcely able to stir a finger.\nThey could go and warm themselves if they chose, but they do not\nchoose; if you forced them to come in they would feel the harshness\nof constraint a hundredfold more than the sharpness of the cold.  Then\nwhat becomes of your grievance? Shall I make your child miserable\nby exposing him to hardships which he is perfectly ready to endure? I\nsecure his present good by leaving him his freedom, and his future\ngood by arming him against the evils he will have to bear. If he\nhad his choice, would he hesitate for a moment between you and me?\n\nDo you think any man can find true happiness elsewhere than in his\nnatural state; and when you try to spare him all suffering, are you\nnot taking him out of his natural state? Indeed I maintain that to\nenjoy great happiness he must experience slight ills; such is his\nnature. Too much bodily prosperity corrupts the morals. A man who\nknew nothing of suffering would be incapable of tenderness towards\nhis fellow-creatures and ignorant of the joys of pity; he would be\nhard-hearted, unsocial, a very monster among men.\n\nDo you know the surest way to make your child miserable? Let him\nhave everything he wants; for as his wants increase in proportion\nto the ease with which they are satisfied, you will be compelled,\nsooner or later, to refuse his demands, and this unlooked-for\nrefusal will hurt him more than the lack of what he wants. He will\nwant your stick first, then your watch, the bird that flies, or\nthe star that shines above him. He will want all he sets eyes on,\nand unless you were God himself, how could you satisfy him?\n\nMan naturally considers all that he can get as his own. In this\nsense Hobbes' theory is true to a certain extent: Multiply both our\nwishes and the means of satisfying them, and each will be master of\nall. Thus the child, who has only to ask and have, thinks himself\nthe master of the universe; he considers all men as his slaves;\nand when you are at last compelled to refuse, he takes your refusal\nas an act of rebellion, for he thinks he has only to command. All\nthe reasons you give him, while he is still too young to reason,\nare so many pretences in his eyes; they seem to him only unkindness;\nthe sense of injustice embitters his disposition; he hates every\none.  Though he has never felt grateful for kindness, he resents\nall opposition.\n\nHow should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He is\nthe slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He is\na tyrant, at once the basest of slaves and the most wretched of\ncreatures. I have known children brought up like this who expected\nyou to knock the house down, to give them the weather-cock on the\nsteeple, to stop a regiment on the march so that they might listen\nto the band; when they could not get their way they screamed and\ncried and would pay no attention to any one. In vain everybody strove\nto please them; as their desires were stimulated by the ease with\nwhich they got their own way, they set their hearts on impossibilities,\nand found themselves face to face with opposition and difficulty,\npain and grief. Scolding, sulking, or in a rage, they wept and cried\nall day. Were they really so greatly favoured?  Weakness, combined\nwith love of power, produces nothing but folly and suffering. One\nspoilt child beats the table; another whips the sea. They may beat\nand whip long enough before they find contentment.\n\nIf their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power and\ntyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with their\nfellow-men begin to grow and multiply? They are used to find everything\ngive way to them; what a painful surprise to enter society and meet\nwith opposition on every side, to be crushed beneath the weight\nof a universe which they expected to move at will. Their insolent\nmanners, their childish vanity, only draw down upon them mortification,\nscorn, and mockery; they swallow insults like water; sharp experience\nsoon teaches them that they have realised neither their position\nnor their strength. As they cannot do everything, they think they\ncan do nothing. They are daunted by unexpected obstacles, degraded\nby the scorn of men; they become base, cowardly, and deceitful, and\nfall as far below their true level as they formerly soared above\nit.\n\nLet us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made children\nhelpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyed\nand feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye, a\nloud and threatening voice with which to make themselves feared?\nI understand how the roaring of the lion strikes terror into the\nother beasts, so that they tremble when they behold his terrible\nmane, but of all unseemly, hateful, and ridiculous sights, was there\never anything like a body of statesmen in their robes of office\nwith their chief at their head bowing down before a swaddled babe,\naddressing him in pompous phrases, while he cries and slavers in\nreply?\n\nIf we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak and\nwretched as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those about\nit, so dependent on their pity, their care, and their affection?\nDoes it not seem as if his gentle face and touching appearance\nwere intended to interest every one on behalf of his weakness and\nto make them eager to help him? And what is there more offensive,\nmore unsuitable, than the sight of a sulky or imperious child,\nwho commands those about him, and impudently assumes the tones of\na master towards those without whom he would perish?\n\nOn the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by the\nweakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increase\nthis servitude by obedience to our caprices, by depriving them of\nsuch liberty as they have? a liberty which they can scarcely abuse,\na liberty the loss of which will do so little good to them or us.\nIf there is nothing more ridiculous than a haughty child, there\nis nothing that claims our pity like a timid child. With the age\nof reason the child becomes the slave of the community; then why\nforestall this by slavery in the home? Let this brief hour of life\nbe free from a yoke which nature has not laid upon it; leave the\nchild the use of his natural liberty, which, for a time at least,\nsecures him from the vices of the slave. Bring me those harsh\nmasters, and those fathers who are the slaves of their children,\nbring them both with their frivolous objections, and before they\nboast of their own methods let them for once learn the method of\nnature.\n\nI return to practical matters. I have already said your child\nmust not get what he asks, but what he needs; [Footnote: We must\nrecognise that pain is often necessary, pleasure is sometimes needed.\nSo there is only one of the child's desires which should never be\ncomplied with, the desire for power. Hence, whenever they ask for\nanything we must pay special attention to their motive in asking.\nAs far as possible give them everything they ask for, provided it\ncan really give them pleasure; refuse everything they demand from\nmere caprice or love of power.] he must never act from obedience,\nbut from necessity.\n\nThe very words OBEY and COMMAND will be excluded from his vocabulary,\nstill more those of DUTY and OBLIGATION; but the words strength,\nnecessity, weakness, and constraint must have a large place in\nit. Before the age of reason it is impossible to form any idea of\nmoral beings or social relations; so avoid, as far as may be, the\nuse of words which express these ideas, lest the child at an early\nage should attach wrong ideas to them, ideas which you cannot or\nwill not destroy when he is older. The first mistaken idea he gets\ninto his head is the germ of error and vice; it is the first step\nthat needs watching. Act in such a way that while he only notices\nexternal objects his ideas are confined to sensations; let him only\nsee the physical world around him. If not, you may be sure that\neither he will pay no heed to you at all, or he will form fantastic\nideas of the moral world of which you prate, ideas which you will\nnever efface as long as he lives.\n\n\"Reason with children\" was Locke's chief maxim; it is in the height\nof fashion at present, and I hardly think it is justified by its\nresults; those children who have been constantly reasoned with\nstrike me as exceedingly silly. Of all man's faculties, reason,\nwhich is, so to speak, compounded of all the rest, is the last\nand choicest growth, and it is this you would use for the child's\nearly training. To make a man reasonable is the coping stone of a\ngood education, and yet you profess to train a child through his\nreason!  You begin at the wrong end, you make the end the means.\nIf children understood reason they would not need education, but\nby talking to them from their earliest age in a language they do\nnot understand you accustom them to be satisfied with words, to\nquestion all that is said to them, to think themselves as wise as\ntheir teachers; you train them to be argumentative and rebellious;\nand whatever you think you gain from motives of reason, you really\ngain from greediness, fear, or vanity with which you are obliged\nto reinforce your reasoning.\n\nMost of the moral lessons which are and can be given to children\nmay be reduced to this formula; Master. You must not do that.\n\nChild. Why not?\n\nMaster. Because it is wrong.\n\nChild. Wrong! What is wrong?\n\nMaster. What is forbidden you.\n\nChild. Why is it wrong to do what is forbidden?\n\nMaster. You will be punished for disobedience.\n\nChild. I will do it when no one is looking.\n\nMaster. We shall watch you.\n\nChild. I will hide.\n\nMaster. We shall ask you what you were doing.\n\nChild. I shall tell a lie.\n\nMaster. You must not tell lies.\n\nChild. Why must not I tell lies?\n\nMaster. Because it is wrong, etc.\n\nThat is the inevitable circle. Go beyond it, and the child will\nnot understand you. What sort of use is there in such teaching?\nI should greatly like to know what you would substitute for this\ndialogue. It would have puzzled Locke himself. It is no part of a\nchild's business to know right and wrong, to perceive the reason\nfor a man's duties.\n\nNature would have them children before they are men. If we try\nto invert this order we shall produce a forced fruit immature and\nflavourless, fruit which will be rotten before it is ripe; we shall\nhave young doctors and old children. Childhood has its own ways\nof seeing, thinking, and feeling; nothing is more foolish than to\ntry and substitute our ways; and I should no more expect judgment\nin a ten-year-old child than I should expect him to be five feet\nhigh.  Indeed, what use would reason be to him at that age? It is\nthe curb of strength, and the child does not need the curb.\n\nWhen you try to persuade your scholars of the duty of obedience, you\nadd to this so-called persuasion compulsion and threats, or still\nworse, flattery and bribes. Attracted by selfishness or constrained\nby force, they pretend to be convinced by reason. They see as soon\nas you do that obedience is to their advantage and disobedience to\ntheir disadvantage. But as you only demand disagreeable things of\nthem, and as it is always disagreeable to do another's will, they\nhide themselves so that they may do as they please, persuaded that\nthey are doing no wrong so long as they are not found out, but\nready, if found out, to own themselves in the wrong for fear of\nworse evils. The reason for duty is beyond their age, and there\nis not a man in the world who could make them really aware of it;\nbut the fear of punishment, the hope of forgiveness, importunity,\nthe difficulty of answering, wrings from them as many confessions\nas you want; and you think you have convinced them when you have\nonly wearied or frightened them.\n\nWhat does it all come to? In the first place, by imposing on them\na duty which they fail to recognise, you make them disinclined to\nsubmit to your tyranny, and you turn away their love; you teach\nthem deceit, falsehood, and lying as a way to gain rewards or escape\npunishment; then by accustoming them to conceal a secret motive\nunder the cloak of an apparent one, you yourself put into their\nhands the means of deceiving you, of depriving you of a knowledge\nof their real character, of answering you and others with empty\nwords whenever they have the chance. Laws, you say, though binding\non conscience, exercise the same constraint over grown-up men. That\nis so, but what are these men but children spoilt by education?\nThis is just what you should avoid. Use force with children and\nreasoning with men; this is the natural order; the wise man needs\nno laws.\n\nTreat your scholar according to his age. Put him in his place from\nthe first, and keep him in it, so that he no longer tries to leave\nit. Then before he knows what goodness is, he will be practising\nits chief lesson. Give him no orders at all, absolutely none. Do\nnot even let him think that you claim any authority over him. Let\nhim only know that he is weak and you are strong, that his condition\nand yours puts him at your mercy; let this be perceived, learned,\nand felt. Let him early find upon his proud neck, the heavy yoke\nwhich nature has imposed upon us, the heavy yoke of necessity, under\nwhich every finite being must bow. Let him find this necessity in\nthings, not in the caprices [Footnote: You may be sure the child\nwill regard as caprice any will which opposes his own or any will\nwhich he does not understand. Now the child does not understand\nanything which interferes with his own fancies.] of man; let\nthe curb be force, not authority. If there is something he should\nnot do, do not forbid him, but prevent him without explanation or\nreasoning; what you give him, give it at his first word without\nprayers or entreaties, above all without conditions. Give willingly,\nrefuse unwillingly, but let your refusal be irrevocable; let\nno entreaties move you; let your \"No,\" once uttered, be a wall of\nbrass, against which the child may exhaust his strength some five\nor six times, but in the end he will try no more to overthrow it.\n\nThus you will make him patient, equable, calm, and resigned, even\nwhen he does not get all he wants; for it is in man's nature to bear\npatiently with the nature of things, but not with the ill-will of\nanother. A child never rebels against, \"There is none left,\" unless\nhe thinks the reply is false. Moreover, there is no middle course;\nyou must either make no demands on him at all, or else you must\nfashion him to perfect obedience. The worst education of all is\nto leave him hesitating between his own will and yours, constantly\ndisputing whether you or he is master; I would rather a hundred\ntimes that he were master.\n\nIt is very strange that ever since people began to think about\neducation they should have hit upon no other way of guiding children\nthan emulation, jealousy, envy, vanity, greediness, base cowardice,\nall the most dangerous passions, passions ever ready to ferment,\never prepared to corrupt the soul even before the body is full-grown.\nWith every piece of precocious instruction which you try to force\ninto their minds you plant a vice in the depths of their hearts;\nfoolish teachers think they are doing wonders when they are making\ntheir scholars wicked in order to teach them what goodness is, and\nthen they tell us seriously, \"Such is man.\" Yes, such is man, as\nyou have made him. Every means has been tried except one, the very\none which might succeed--well-regulated liberty. Do not undertake\nto bring up a child if you cannot guide him merely by the laws of\nwhat can or cannot be. The limits of the possible and the impossible\nare alike unknown to him, so they can be extended or contracted\naround him at your will. Without a murmur he is restrained, urged\non, held back, by the hands of necessity alone; he is made adaptable\nand teachable by the mere force of things, without any chance for\nvice to spring up in him; for passions do not arise so long as they\nhave accomplished nothing.\n\nGive your scholar no verbal lessons; he should be taught by\nexperience alone; never punish him, for he does not know what it\nis to do wrong; never make him say, \"Forgive me,\" for he does not\nknow how to do you wrong. Wholly unmoral in his actions, he can\ndo nothing morally wrong, and he deserves neither punishment nor\nreproof.\n\nAlready I see the frightened reader comparing this child with those\nof our time; he is mistaken. The perpetual restraint imposed upon\nyour scholars stimulates their activity; the more subdued they are\nin your presence, the more boisterous they are as soon as they are\nout of your sight. They must make amends to themselves in some way\nor other for the harsh constraint to which you subject them. Two\nschoolboys from the town will do more damage in the country than\nall the children of the village. Shut up a young gentleman and\na young peasant in a room; the former will have upset and smashed\neverything before the latter has stirred from his place. Why is\nthat, unless that the one hastens to misuse a moment's licence,\nwhile the other, always sure of freedom, does not use it rashly.\nAnd yet the village children, often flattered or constrained, are\nstill very far from the state in which I would have them kept.\n\nLet us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the first\nimpulses of nature are always right; there is no original sin in\nthe human heart, the how and why of the entrance of every vice can\nbe traced. The only natural passion is self-love or selfishness\ntaken in a wider sense. This selfishness is good in itself and in\nrelation to ourselves; and as the child has no necessary relations\nto other people he is naturally indifferent to them; his self-love\nonly becomes good or bad by the use made of it and the relations\nestablished by its means. Until the time is ripe for the appearance\nof reason, that guide of selfishness, the main thing is that the\nchild shall do nothing because you are watching him or listening\nto him; in a word, nothing because of other people, but only what\nnature asks of him; then he will never do wrong.\n\nI do not mean to say that he will never do any mischief, never hurt\nhimself, never break a costly ornament if you leave it within his\nreach. He might do much damage without doing wrong, since wrong-doing\ndepends on the harmful intention which will never be his. If once\nhe meant to do harm, his whole education would be ruined; he would\nbe almost hopelessly bad.\n\nGreed considers some things wrong which are not wrong in the eyes\nof reason. When you leave free scope to a child's heedlessness, you\nmust put anything he could spoil out of his way, and leave nothing\nfragile or costly within his reach. Let the room be furnished with\nplain and solid furniture; no mirrors, china, or useless ornaments.\nMy pupil Emile, who is brought up in the country, shall have a\nroom just like a peasant's. Why take such pains to adorn it when he\nwill be so little in it? I am mistaken, however; he will ornament\nit for himself, and we shall soon see how.\n\nBut if, in spite of your precautions, the child contrives to do\nsome damage, if he breaks some useful article, do not punish him\nfor your carelessness, do not even scold him; let him hear no word\nof reproval, do not even let him see that he has vexed you; behave\njust as if the thing had come to pieces of itself; you may consider\nyou have done great things if you have managed to hold your tongue.\n\nMay I venture at this point to state the greatest, the most\nimportant, the most useful rule of education? It is: Do not save\ntime, but lose it. I hope that every-day readers will excuse my\nparadoxes; you cannot avoid paradox if you think for yourself, and\nwhatever you may say I would rather fall into paradox than into\nprejudice. The most dangerous period in human life lies between\nbirth and the age of twelve. It is the time when errors and vices\nspring up, while as yet there is no means to destroy them; when\nthe means of destruction are ready, the roots have gone too deep to\nbe pulled up. If the infant sprang at one bound from its mother's\nbreast to the age of reason, the present type of education would be\nquite suitable, but its natural growth calls for quite a different\ntraining. The mind should be left undisturbed till its faculties\nhave developed; for while it is blind it cannot see the torch you\noffer it, nor can it follow through the vast expanse of ideas a\npath so faintly traced by reason that the best eyes can scarcely\nfollow it.\n\nTherefore the education of the earliest years should be merely\nnegative. It consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but in\npreserving the heart from vice and from the spirit of error. If only\nyou could let well alone, and get others to follow your example;\nif you could bring your scholar to the age of twelve strong and\nhealthy, but unable to tell his right hand from his left, the eyes\nof his understanding would be open to reason as soon as you began\nto teach him. Free from prejudices and free from habits, there\nwould be nothing in him to counteract the effects of your labours.\nIn your hands he would soon become the wisest of men; by doing\nnothing to begin with, you would end with a prodigy of education.\n\nReverse the usual practice and you will almost always do right.\nFathers and teachers who want to make the child, not a child\nbut a man of learning, think it never too soon to scold, correct,\nreprove, threaten, bribe, teach, and reason. Do better than they;\nbe reasonable, and do not reason with your pupil, more especially\ndo not try to make him approve what he dislikes; for if reason is\nalways connected with disagreeable matters, you make it distasteful\nto him, you discredit it at an early age in a mind not yet ready\nto understand it. Exercise his body, his limbs, his senses, his\nstrength, but keep his mind idle as long as you can. Distrust all\nopinions which appear before the judgment to discriminate between\nthem. Restrain and ward off strange impressions; and to prevent\nthe birth of evil do not hasten to do well, for goodness is only\npossible when enlightened by reason. Regard all delays as so much\ntime gained; you have achieved much, you approach the boundary\nwithout loss. Leave childhood to ripen in your children. In a word,\nbeware of giving anything they need to-day if it can be deferred\nwithout danger to to-morrow.\n\nThere is another point to be considered which confirms the suitability\nof this method: it is the child's individual bent, which must be\nthoroughly known before we can choose the fittest moral training.\nEvery mind has its own form, in accordance with which it must be\ncontrolled; and the success of the pains taken depends largely on\nthe fact that he is controlled in this way and no other.  Oh, wise\nman, take time to observe nature; watch your scholar well before\nyou say a word to him; first leave the germ of his character free\nto show itself, do not constrain him in anything, the better to see\nhim as he really is. Do you think this time of liberty is wasted?\nOn the contrary, your scholar will be the better employed, for\nthis is the way you yourself will learn not to lose a single moment\nwhen time is of more value. If, however, you begin to act before\nyou know what to do, you act at random; you may make mistakes, and\nmust retrace your steps; your haste to reach your goal will only\ntake you further from it. Do not imitate the miser who loses much\nlest he should lose a little. Sacrifice a little time in early\nchildhood, and it will be repaid you with usury when your scholar\nis older. The wise physician does not hastily give prescriptions\nat first sight, but he studies the constitution of the sick man\nbefore he prescribes anything; the treatment is begun later, but\nthe patient is cured, while the hasty doctor kills him.\n\nBut where shall we find a place for our child so as to bring him\nup as a senseless being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in the\nmoon, or on a desert island? Shall we remove him from human society?\nWill he not always have around him the sight and the pattern of\nthe passions of other people? Will he never see children of his\nown age?  Will he not see his parents, his neighbours, his nurse,\nhis governess, his man-servant, his tutor himself, who after all\nwill not be an angel? Here we have a real and serious objection.\nBut did I tell you that an education according to nature would be\nan easy task? Oh, men! is it my fault that you have made all good\nthings difficult? I admit that I am aware of these difficulties;\nperhaps they are insuperable; but nevertheless it is certain that\nwe do to some extent avoid them by trying to do so. I am showing\nwhat we should try to attain, I do not say we can attain it, but\nI do say that whoever comes nearest to it is nearest to success.\n\nRemember you must be a man yourself before you try to train a man;\nyou yourself must set the pattern he shall copy. While the child\nis still unconscious there is time to prepare his surroundings, so\nthat nothing shall strike his eye but what is fit for his sight.\nGain the respect of every one, begin to win their hearts, so that\nthey may try to please you. You will not be master of the child\nif you cannot control every one about him; and this authority will\nnever suffice unless it rests upon respect for your goodness. There\nis no question of squandering one's means and giving money right\nand left; I never knew money win love. You must neither be harsh\nnor niggardly, nor must you merely pity misery when you can relieve\nit; but in vain will you open your purse if you do not open your\nheart along with it, the hearts of others will always be closed to\nyou. You must give your own time, attention, affection, your very\nself; for whatever you do, people always perceive that your money\nis not you. There are proofs of kindly interest which produce more\nresults and are really more useful than any gift; how many of the\nsick and wretched have more need of comfort than of charity; how\nmany of the oppressed need protection rather than money? Reconcile\nthose who are at strife, prevent lawsuits; incline children to duty,\nfathers to kindness; promote happy marriages; prevent annoyances;\nfreely use the credit of your pupil's parents on behalf of the\nweak who cannot obtain justice, the weak who are oppressed by the\nstrong. Be just, human, kindly. Do not give alms alone, give charity;\nworks of mercy do more than money for the relief of suffering; love\nothers and they will love you; serve them and they will serve you;\nbe their brother and they will be your children.\n\nThis is one reason why I want to bring up Emile in the country,\nfar from those miserable lacqueys, the most degraded of men except\ntheir masters; far from the vile morals of the town, whose gilded\nsurface makes them seductive and contagious to children; while\nthe vices of peasants, unadorned and in their naked grossness, are\nmore fitted to repel than to seduce, when there is no motive for\nimitating them.\n\nIn the village a tutor will have much more control over the things he\nwishes to show the child; his reputation, his words, his example,\nwill have a weight they would never have in the town; he is of\nuse to every one, so every one is eager to oblige him, to win his\nesteem, to appeal before the disciple what the master would have him\nbe; if vice is not corrected, public scandal is at least avoided,\nwhich is all that our present purpose requires.\n\nCease to blame others for your own faults; children are corrupted\nless by what they see than by your own teaching. With your endless\npreaching, moralising, and pedantry, for one idea you give your\nscholars, believing it to be good, you give them twenty more which\nare good for nothing; you are full of what is going on in your own\nminds, and you fail to see the effect you produce on theirs. In\nthe continual flow of words with which you overwhelm them, do you\nthink there is none which they get hold of in a wrong sense? Do\nyou suppose they do not make their own comments on your long-winded\nexplanations, that they do not find material for the construction\nof a system they can understand--one which they will use against\nyou when they get the chance?\n\nListen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction; let\nhim chatter freely, ask questions, and talk at his ease, and you\nwill be surprised to find the strange forms your arguments have\nassumed in his mind; he confuses everything, and turns everything\ntopsy-turvy; you are vexed and grieved by his unforeseen objections;\nhe reduces you to be silent yourself or to silence him: and what\ncan he think of silence in one who is so fond of talking? If ever\nhe gains this advantage and is aware of it, farewell education;\nfrom that moment all is lost; he is no longer trying to learn, he\nis trying to refute you.\n\nZealous teachers, be simple, sensible, and reticent; be in no hurry\nto act unless to prevent the actions of others. Again and again I\nsay, reject, if it may be, a good lesson for fear of giving a bad\none. Beware of playing the tempter in this world, which nature\nintended as an earthly paradise for men, and do not attempt to\ngive the innocent child the knowledge of good and evil; since you\ncannot prevent the child learning by what he sees outside himself,\nrestrict your own efforts to impressing those examples on his mind\nin the form best suited for him.\n\nThe explosive passions produce a great effect upon the child\nwhen he sees them; their outward expression is very marked; he is\nstruck by this and his attention is arrested. Anger especially is\nso noisy in its rage that it is impossible not to perceive it if\nyou are within reach. You need not ask yourself whether this is an\nopportunity for a pedagogue to frame a fine disquisition. What! no\nfine disquisition, nothing, not a word! Let the child come to you;\nimpressed by what he has seen, he will not fail to ask you questions.\nThe answer is easy; it is drawn from the very things which have\nappealed to his senses. He sees a flushed face, flashing eyes, a\nthreatening gesture, he hears cries; everything shows that the body\nis ill at ease. Tell him plainly, without affectation or mystery,\n\"This poor man is ill, he is in a fever.\" You may take the opportunity\nof giving him in a few words some idea of disease and its effects;\nfor that too belongs to nature, and is one of the bonds of necessity\nwhich he must recognise. By means of this idea, which is not false\nin itself, may he not early acquire a certain aversion to giving\nway to excessive passions, which he regards as diseases; and do\nyou not think that such a notion, given at the right moment, will\nproduce a more wholesome effect than the most tedious sermon?  But\nconsider the after effects of this idea; you have authority, if\never you find it necessary, to treat the rebellious child as a sick\nchild; to keep him in his room, in bed if need be, to diet him, to\nmake him afraid of his growing vices, to make him hate and dread\nthem without ever regarding as a punishment the strict measures\nyou will perhaps have to use for his recovery. If it happens that\nyou yourself in a moment's heat depart from the calm and self-control\nwhich you should aim at, do not try to conceal your fault, but tell\nhim frankly, with a gentle reproach, \"My dear, you have hurt me.\"\n\nMoreover, it is a matter of great importance that no notice should\nbe taken in his presence of the quaint sayings which result from\nthe simplicity of the ideas in which he is brought up, nor should\nthey be quoted in a way he can understand. A foolish laugh may\ndestroy six months' work and do irreparable damage for life. I\ncannot repeat too often that to control the child one must often\ncontrol oneself.\n\nI picture my little Emile at the height of a dispute between two\nneighbours going up to the fiercest of them and saying in a tone\nof pity, \"You are ill, I am very sorry for you.\" This speech will\nno doubt have its effect on the spectators and perhaps on the\ndisputants. Without laughter, scolding, or praise I should take him\naway, willing or no, before he could see this result, or at least\nbefore he could think about it; and I should make haste to turn his\nthoughts to other things, so that he would soon forget all about\nit.\n\nI do not propose to enter into every detail, but only to explain\ngeneral rules and to give illustrations in cases of difficulty. I\nthink it is impossible to train a child up to the age of twelve in\nthe midst of society, without giving him some idea of the relations\nbetween one man and another, and of the morality of human actions.\nIt is enough to delay the development of these ideas as long\nas possible, and when they can no longer be avoided to limit them\nto present needs, so that he may neither think himself master of\neverything nor do harm to others without knowing or caring. There\nare calm and gentle characters which can be led a long way in\ntheir first innocence without any danger; but there are also stormy\ndispositions whose passions develop early; you must hasten to make\nmen of them lest you should have to keep them in chains.\n\nOur first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are centred\non self; all our instincts are at first directed to our own\npreservation and our own welfare. Thus the first notion of justice\nsprings not from what we owe to others, but from what is due\nto us.  Here is another error in popular methods of education. If\nyou talk to children of their duties, and not of their rights, you\nare beginning at the wrong end, and telling them what they cannot\nunderstand, what cannot be of any interest to them.\n\nIf I had to train a child such as I have just described, I should\nsay to myself, \"A child never attacks people, [Footnote: A child\nshould never be allowed to play with grown-up people as if they\nwere his inferiors, nor even as if they were only his equals. If\nhe ventured to strike any one in earnest, were it only the footman,\nwere it the hangman himself, let the sufferer return his blows with\ninterest, so that he will not want to do it again. I have seen\nsilly women inciting children to rebellion, encouraging them to\nhit people, allowing themselves to be beaten, and laughing at the\nharmless blows, never thinking that those blows were in intention\nthe blows of a murderer, and that the child who desires to beat\npeople now will desire to kill them when he is grown up.] only\nthings; and he soon learns by experience to respect those older and\nstronger than himself. Things, however, do not defend themselves.\nTherefore the first idea he needs is not that of liberty but of\nproperty, and that he may get this idea he must have something of\nhis own.\" It is useless to enumerate his clothes, furniture, and\nplaythings; although he uses these he knows not how or why he has\ncome by them. To tell him they were given him is little better, for\ngiving implies having; so here is property before his own, and it\nis the principle of property that you want to teach him; moreover,\ngiving is a convention, and the child as yet has no idea of\nconventions. I hope my reader will note, in this and many other\ncases, how people think they have taught children thoroughly, when\nthey have only thrust on them words which have no intelligible\nmeaning to them. [Footnote: This is why most children want to take\nback what they have given, and cry if they cannot get it. They do\nnot do this when once they know what a gift is; only they are more\ncareful about giving things away.]\n\nWe must therefore go back to the origin of property, for that is\nwhere the first idea of it must begin. The child, living in the\ncountry, will have got some idea of field work; eyes and leisure\nsuffice for that, and he will have both. In every age, and\nespecially in childhood, we want to create, to copy, to produce,\nto give all the signs of power and activity. He will hardly have\nseen the gardener at work twice, sowing, planting, and growing\nvegetables, before he will want to garden himself.\n\nAccording to the principles I have already laid down, I shall not\nthwart him; on the contrary, I shall approve of his plan, share\nhis hobby, and work with him, not for his pleasure but my own; at\nleast, so he thinks; I shall be his under-gardener, and dig the\nground for him till his arms are strong enough to do it; he will\ntake possession of it by planting a bean, and this is surely a\nmore sacred possession, and one more worthy of respect, than that\nof Nunes Balboa, who took possession of South America in the name\nof the King of Spain, by planting his banner on the coast of the\nSouthern Sea.\n\nWe water the beans every day, we watch them coming up with the\ngreatest delight. Day by day I increase this delight by saying,\n\"Those belong to you.\" To explain what that word \"belong\" means,\nI show him how he has given his time, his labour, and his trouble,\nhis very self to it; that in this ground there is a part of himself\nwhich he can claim against all the world, as he could withdraw his\narm from the hand of another man who wanted to keep it against his\nwill.\n\nOne fine day he hurries up with his watering-can in his hand. What\na scene of woe! Alas! all the beans are pulled up, the soil is dug\nover, you can scarcely find the place. Oh! what has become of my\nlabour, my work, the beloved fruits of my care and effort? Who has\nstolen my property! Who has taken my beans? The young heart revolts;\nthe first feeling of injustice brings its sorrow and bitterness;\ntears come in torrents, the unhappy child fills the air with cries\nand groans, I share his sorrow and anger; we look around us, we\nmake inquiries. At last we discover that the gardener did it. We\nsend for him.\n\nBut we are greatly mistaken. The gardener, hearing our complaint,\nbegins to complain louder than we:\n\nWhat, gentlemen, was it you who spoilt my work! I had sown some\nMaltese melons; the seed was given me as something quite out of\nthe common, and I meant to give you a treat when they were ripe;\nbut you have planted your miserable beans and destroyed my melons,\nwhich were coming up so nicely, and I can never get any more. You\nhave behaved very badly to me and you have deprived yourselves of\nthe pleasure of eating most delicious melons.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. My poor Robert, you must forgive us. You had given\nyour labour and your pains to it. I see we were wrong to spoil\nyour work, but we will send to Malta for some more seed for you,\nand we will never dig the ground again without finding out if some\none else has been beforehand with us.\n\nROBERT. Well, gentlemen, you need not trouble yourselves, for\nthere is no more waste ground. I dig what my father tilled; every\none does the same, and all the land you see has been occupied time\nout of mind.\n\nEMILE. Mr. Robert, do people often lose the seed of Maltese melons?\n\nROBERT. No indeed, sir; we do not often find such silly little\ngentlemen as you. No one meddles with his neighbour's garden; every\none respects other people's work so that his own may be safe.\n\nEMILE. But I have not got a garden.\n\nROBERT. I don't care; if you spoil mine I won't let you walk in\nit, for you see I do not mean to lose my labour.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Could not we suggest an arrangement with this kind\nRobert? Let him give my young friend and myself a corner of his\ngarden to cultivate, on condition that he has half the crop.\n\nROBERT. You may have it free. But remember I shall dig up your\nbeans if you touch my melons.\n\nIn this attempt to show how a child may be taught certain primitive\nideas we see how the notion of property goes back naturally to the\nright of the first occupier to the results of his work. That is\nplain and simple, and quite within the child's grasp. From that\nto the rights of property and exchange there is but a step, after\nwhich you must stop short.\n\nYou also see that an explanation which I can give in writing in a\ncouple of pages may take a year in practice, for in the course of\nmoral ideas we cannot advance too slowly, nor plant each step too\nfirmly. Young teacher, pray consider this example, and remember\nthat your lessons should always be in deeds rather than words, for\nchildren soon forget what they say or what is said to them, but\nnot what they have done nor what has been done to them.\n\nSuch teaching should be given, as I have said, sooner or later, as\nthe scholar's disposition, gentle or turbulent, requires it. The\nway of using it is unmistakable; but to omit no matter of importance\nin a difficult business let us take another example.\n\nYour ill-tempered child destroys everything he touches. Do not vex\nyourself; put anything he can spoil out of his reach. He breaks\nthe things he is using; do not be in a hurry to give him more; let\nhim feel the want of them. He breaks the windows of his room; let\nthe wind blow upon him night and day, and do not be afraid of his\ncatching cold; it is better to catch cold than to be reckless.\nNever complain of the inconvenience he causes you, but let him feel\nit first. At last you will have the windows mended without saying\nanything. He breaks them again; then change your plan; tell him\ndryly and without anger, \"The windows are mine, I took pains to have\nthem put in, and I mean to keep them safe.\" Then you will shut him\nup in a dark place without a window. At this unexpected proceeding\nhe cries and howls; no one heeds. Soon he gets tired and changes\nhis tone; he laments and sighs; a servant appears, the rebel begs\nto be let out. Without seeking any excuse for refusing, the servant\nmerely says, \"I, too, have windows to keep,\" and goes away. At last,\nwhen the child has been there several hours, long enough to get\nvery tired of it, long enough to make an impression on his memory,\nsome one suggests to him that he should offer to make terms with\nyou, so that you may set him free and he will never break windows\nagain.  That is just what he wants. He will send and ask you to\ncome and see him; you will come, he will suggest his plan, and you\nwill agree to it at once, saying, \"That is a very good idea; it\nwill suit us both; why didn't you think of it sooner?\" Then without\nasking for any affirmation or confirmation of his promise, you will\nembrace him joyfully and take him back at once to his own room,\nconsidering this agreement as sacred as if he had confirmed it\nby a formal oath. What idea do you think he will form from these\nproceedings, as to the fulfilment of a promise and its usefulness?\nIf I am not greatly mistaken, there is not a child upon earth,\nunless he is utterly spoilt already, who could resist this treatment,\nor one who would ever dream of breaking windows again on purpose.\nFollow out the whole train of thought. The naughty little fellow\nhardly thought when he was making a hole for his beans that he was\nhewing out a cell in which his own knowledge would soon imprison\nhim. [Footnote: Moreover if the duty of keeping his word were not\nestablished in the child's mind by its own utility, the child's growing\nconsciousness would soon impress it on him as a law of conscience,\nas an innate principle, only requiring suitable experiences for\nits development.  This first outline is not sketched by man, it is\nengraved on the heart by the author of all justice. Take away the\nprimitive law of contract and the obligation imposed by contract\nand there is nothing left of human society but vanity and empty\nshow. He who only keeps his word because it is to his own profit\nis hardly more pledged than if he had given no promise at all. This\nprinciple is of the utmost importance, and deserves to be thoroughly\nstudied, for man is now beginning to be at war with himself.]\n\nWe are now in the world of morals, the door to vice is open. Deceit\nand falsehood are born along with conventions and duties. As soon\nas we can do what we ought not to do, we try to hide what we ought\nnot to have done. As soon as self-interest makes us give a promise,\na greater interest may make us break it; it is merely a question\nof doing it with impunity; we naturally take refuge in concealment\nand falsehood. As we have not been able to prevent vice, we must\npunish it. The sorrows of life begin with its mistakes.\n\nI have already said enough to show that children should never receive\npunishment merely as such; it should always come as the natural\nconsequence of their fault. Thus you will not exclaim against\ntheir falsehood, you will not exactly punish them for lying, but\nyou will arrange that all the ill effects of lying, such as not\nbeing believed when we speak the truth, or being accused of what we\nhave not done in spite of our protests, shall fall on their heads\nwhen they have told a lie. But let us explain what lying means to\nthe child.\n\nThere are two kinds of lies; one concerns an accomplished fact,\nthe other concerns a future duty. The first occurs when we falsely\ndeny or assert that we did or did not do something, or, to put it\nin general terms, when we knowingly say what is contrary to facts.\nThe other occurs when we promise what we do not mean to perform,\nor, in general terms, when we profess an intention which we do\nnot really mean to carry out. These two kinds of lie are sometimes\nfound in combination, [Footnote: Thus the guilty person, accused\nof some evil deed, defends himself by asserting that he is a good\nman. His statement is false in itself and false in its application to\nthe matter in hand.] but their differences are my present business.\n\nHe who feels the need of help from others, he who is constantly\nexperiencing their kindness, has nothing to gain by deceiving them;\nit is plainly to his advantage that they should see things as they\nare, lest they should mistake his interests. It is therefore plain\nthat lying with regard to actual facts is not natural to children,\nbut lying is made necessary by the law of obedience; since obedience\nis disagreeable, children disobey as far as they can in secret,\nand the present good of avoiding punishment or reproof outweighs\nthe remoter good of speaking the truth. Under a free and natural\neducation why should your child lie? What has he to conceal from\nyou? You do not thwart him, you do not punish him, you demand nothing\nfrom him. Why should he not tell everything to you as simply as to\nhis little playmate? He cannot see anything more risky in the one\ncourse than in the other.\n\nThe lie concerning duty is even less natural, since promises to do\nor refrain from doing are conventional agreements which are outside\nthe state of nature and detract from our liberty. Moreover, all\npromises made by children are in themselves void; when they pledge\nthemselves they do not know what they are doing, for their narrow\nvision cannot look beyond the present. A child can hardly lie when\nhe makes a promise; for he is only thinking how he can get out of\nthe present difficulty, any means which has not an immediate result\nis the same to him; when he promises for the future he promises\nnothing, and his imagination is as yet incapable of projecting him\ninto the future while he lives in the present. If he could escape\na whipping or get a packet of sweets by promising to throw himself\nout of the window to-morrow, he would promise on the spot. This\nis why the law disregards all promises made by minors, and when\nfathers and teachers are stricter and demand that promises shall\nbe kept, it is only when the promise refers to something the child\nought to do even if he had made no promise.\n\nThe child cannot lie when he makes a promise, for he does not know\nwhat he is doing when he makes his promise. The case is different\nwhen he breaks his promise, which is a sort of retrospective falsehood;\nfor he clearly remembers making the promise, but he fails to see\nthe importance of keeping it. Unable to look into the future, he\ncannot foresee the results of things, and when he breaks his promises\nhe does nothing contrary to his stage of reasoning.\n\nChildren's lies are therefore entirely the work of their teachers,\nand to teach them to speak the truth is nothing less than to teach\nthem the art of lying. In your zeal to rule, control, and teach\nthem, you never find sufficient means at your disposal. You wish\nto gain fresh influence over their minds by baseless maxims, by\nunreasonable precepts; and you would rather they knew their lessons\nand told lies, than leave them ignorant and truthful.\n\nWe, who only give our scholars lessons in practice, who prefer to\nhave them good rather than clever, never demand the truth lest they\nshould conceal it, and never claim any promise lest they should be\ntempted to break it. If some mischief has been done in my absence\nand I do not know who did it, I shall take care not to accuse\nEmile, nor to say, \"Did you do it?\" [Footnote: Nothing could be more\nindiscreet than such a question, especially if the child is guilty.\nThen if he thinks you know what he has done, he will think you are\nsetting a trap for him, and this idea can only set him against you.\nIf he thinks you do not know, he will say to himself, \"Why should\nI make my fault known?\" And here we have the first temptation to\nfalsehood as the direct result of your foolish question.] For in so\ndoing what should I do but teach him to deny it? If his difficult\ntemperament compels me to make some agreement with him, I will take\ngood care that the suggestion always comes from him, never from\nme; that when he undertakes anything he has always a present and\neffective interest in fulfilling his promise, and if he ever fails\nthis lie will bring down on him all the unpleasant consequences\nwhich he sees arising from the natural order of things, and not\nfrom his tutor's vengeance. But far from having recourse to such\ncruel measures, I feel almost certain that Emile will not know for\nmany years what it is to lie, and that when he does find out, he\nwill be astonished and unable to understand what can be the use of\nit. It is quite clear that the less I make his welfare dependent on\nthe will or the opinions of others, the less is it to his interest\nto lie.\n\nWhen we are in no hurry to teach there is no hurry to demand, and\nwe can take our time, so as to demand nothing except under fitting\nconditions. Then the child is training himself, in so far as he\nis not being spoilt. But when a fool of a tutor, who does not know\nhow to set about his business, is always making his pupil promise\nfirst this and then that, without discrimination, choice, or\nproportion, the child is puzzled and overburdened with all these\npromises, and neglects, forgets or even scorns them, and considering\nthem as so many empty phrases he makes a game of making and breaking\npromises.  Would you have him keep his promise faithfully, be\nmoderate in your claims upon him.\n\nThe detailed treatment I have just given to lying may be applied\nin many respects to all the other duties imposed upon children,\nwhereby these duties are made not only hateful but impracticable.\nFor the sake of a show of preaching virtue you make them love every\nvice; you instil these vices by forbidding them. Would you have\nthem pious, you take them to church till they are sick of it; you\nteach them to gabble prayers until they long for the happy time\nwhen they will not have to pray to God. To teach them charity you\nmake them give alms as if you scorned to give yourself. It is not\nthe child, but the master, who should give; however much he loves\nhis pupil he should vie with him for this honour; he should make\nhim think that he is too young to deserve it. Alms-giving is the\ndeed of a man who can measure the worth of his gift and the needs\nof his fellow-men.  The child, who knows nothing of these, can have\nno merit in giving; he gives without charity, without kindness; he\nis almost ashamed to give, for, to judge by your practice and his\nown, he thinks it is only children who give, and that there is no\nneed for charity when we are grown up.\n\nObserve that the only things children are set to give are things\nof which they do not know the value, bits of metal carried in their\npockets for which they have no further use. A child would rather\ngive a hundred coins than one cake. But get this prodigal giver\nto distribute what is dear to him, his toys, his sweets, his own\nlunch, and we shall soon see if you have made him really generous.\n\nPeople try yet another way; they soon restore what he gave to the\nchild, so that he gets used to giving everything which he knows\nwill come back to him. I have scarcely seen generosity in children\nexcept of these two types, giving what is of no use to them, or\nwhat they expect to get back again. \"Arrange things,\" says Locke,\n\"so that experience may convince them that the most generous giver\ngets the biggest share.\" That is to make the child superficially\ngenerous but really greedy. He adds that \"children will thus form\nthe habit of liberality.\" Yes, a usurer's liberality, which expects\ncent. per cent. But when it is a question of real giving, good-bye\nto the habit; when they do not get things back, they will not give.\nIt is the habit of the mind, not of the hands, that needs watching.\nAll the other virtues taught to children are like this, and to\npreach these baseless virtues you waste their youth in sorrow. What\na sensible sort of education!\n\nTeachers, have done with these shams; be good and kind; let your\nexample sink into your scholars' memories till they are old enough\nto take it to heart. Rather than hasten to demand deeds of charity\nfrom my pupil I prefer to perform such deeds in his presence, even\ndepriving him of the means of imitating me, as an honour beyond\nhis years; for it is of the utmost importance that he should not\nregard a man's duties as merely those of a child. If when he sees\nme help the poor he asks me about it, and it is time to reply to\nhis questions, [Footnote: It must be understood that I do not answer\nhis questions when he wants; that would be to subject myself to his\nwill and to place myself in the most dangerous state of dependence\nthat ever a tutor was in.] I shall say, \"My dear boy, the rich only\nexist, through the good-will of the poor, so they have promised\nto feed those who have not enough to live on, either in goods\nor labour.\" \"Then you promised to do this?\" \"Certainly; I am only\nmaster of the wealth that passes through my hands on the condition\nattached to its ownership.\"\n\nAfter this talk (and we have seen how a child may be brought to\nunderstand it) another than Emile would be tempted to imitate me\nand behave like a rich man; in such a case I should at least take\ncare that it was done without ostentation; I would rather he robbed\nme of my privilege and hid himself to give. It is a fraud suitable\nto his age, and the only one I could forgive in him.\n\nI know that all these imitative virtues are only the virtues of a\nmonkey, and that a good action is only morally good when it is done\nas such and not because of others. But at an age when the heart\ndoes not yet feel anything, you must make children copy the deeds\nyou wish to grow into habits, until they can do them with understanding\nand for the love of what is good. Man imitates, as do the beasts.\nThe love of imitating is well regulated by nature; in society it\nbecomes a vice. The monkey imitates man, whom he fears, and not\nthe other beasts, which he scorns; he thinks what is done by his\nbetters must be good. Among ourselves, our harlequins imitate all\nthat is good to degrade it and bring it into ridicule; knowing\ntheir owners' baseness they try to equal what is better than they\nare, or they strive to imitate what they admire, and their bad\ntaste appears in their choice of models, they would rather deceive\nothers or win applause for their own talents than become wiser\nor better.  Imitation has its roots in our desire to escape from\nourselves. If I succeed in my undertaking, Emile will certainly\nhave no such wish.  So we must dispense with any seeming good that\nmight arise from it.\n\nExamine your rules of education; you will find them all topsy-turvy,\nespecially in all that concerns virtue and morals. The only moral\nlesson which is suited for a child--the most important lesson for\nevery time of life--is this: \"Never hurt anybody.\" The very rule of\nwell-doing, if not subordinated to this rule, is dangerous, false,\nand contradictory. Who is there who does no good? Every one does\nsome good, the wicked as well as the righteous; he makes one happy\nat the cost of the misery of a hundred, and hence spring all our\nmisfortunes. The noblest virtues are negative, they are also the\nmost difficult, for they make little show, and do not even make\nroom for that pleasure so dear to the heart of man, the thought\nthat some one is pleased with us. If there be a man who does no\nharm to his neighbours, what good must he have accomplished! What\na bold heart, what a strong character it needs! It is not in talking\nabout this maxim, but in trying to practise it, that we discover\nboth its greatness and its difficulty. [Footnote: The precept\n\"Never hurt anybody,\" implies the greatest possible independence\nof human society; for in the social state one man's good is another\nman's evil. This relation is part of the nature of things; it is\ninevitable. You may apply this test to man in society and to the\nhermit to discover which is best. A distinguished author says, \"None\nbut the wicked can live alone.\" I say, \"None but the good can live\nalone.\" This proposition, if less sententious, is truer and more\nlogical than the other. If the wicked were alone, what evil would\nhe do? It is among his fellows that he lays his snares for others.\nIf they wish to apply this argument to the man of property, my\nanswer is to be found in the passage to which this note is appended.]\n\nThis will give you some slight idea of the precautions I would\nhave you take in giving children instruction which cannot always\nbe refused without risk to themselves or others, or the far greater\nrisk of the formation of bad habits, which would be difficult to\ncorrect later on; but be sure this necessity will not often arise\nwith children who are properly brought up, for they cannot possibly\nbecome rebellious, spiteful, untruthful, or greedy, unless the\nseeds of these vices are sown in their hearts. What I have just\nsaid applies therefore rather to the exception than the rule. But\nthe oftener children have the opportunity of quitting their proper\ncondition, and contracting the vices of men, the oftener will\nthese exceptions arise. Those who are brought up in the world must\nreceive more precocious instruction than those who are brought up\nin retirement. So this solitary education would be preferable, even\nif it did nothing more than leave childhood time to ripen.\n\nThere is quite another class of exceptions: those so gifted by nature\nthat they rise above the level of their age. As there are men who\nnever get beyond infancy, so there are others who are never, so\nto speak, children, they are men almost from birth. The difficulty\nis that these cases are very rare, very difficult to distinguish;\nwhile every mother, who knows that a child may be a prodigy,\nis convinced that her child is that one. They go further; they\nmistake the common signs of growth for marks of exceptional talent.\nLiveliness, sharp sayings, romping, amusing simplicity, these\nare the characteristic marks of this age, and show that the child\nis a child indeed. Is it strange that a child who is encouraged\nto chatter and allowed to say anything, who is restrained neither\nby consideration nor convention, should chance to say something\nclever?  Were he never to hit the mark, his case would be stranger\nthan that of the astrologer who, among a thousand errors, occasionally\npredicts the truth. \"They lie so often,\" said Henry IV., \"that at\nlast they say what is true.\" If you want to say something clever,\nyou have only to talk long enough. May Providence watch over those\nfine folk who have no other claim to social distinction.\n\nThe finest thoughts may spring from a child's brain, or rather the\nbest words may drop from his lips, just as diamonds of great worth\nmay fall into his hands, while neither the thoughts nor the diamonds\nare his own; at that age neither can be really his. The child's\nsayings do not mean to him what they mean to us, the ideas he\nattaches to them are different. His ideas, if indeed he has any\nideas at all, have neither order nor connection; there is nothing\nsure, nothing certain, in his thoughts. Examine your so-called\nprodigy. Now and again you will discover in him extreme activity of\nmind and extraordinary clearness of thought. More often this same\nmind will seem slack and spiritless, as if wrapped in mist.  Sometimes\nhe goes before you, sometimes he will not stir. One moment you\nwould call him a genius, another a fool. You would be mistaken in\nboth; he is a child, an eaglet who soars aloft for a moment, only\nto drop back into the nest.\n\nTreat him, therefore, according to his age, in spite of appearances,\nand beware of exhausting his strength by over-much exercise. If the\nyoung brain grows warm and begins to bubble, let it work freely,\nbut do not heat it any further, lest it lose its goodness, and when\nthe first gases have been given off, collect and compress the rest\nso that in after years they may turn to life-giving heat and real\nenergy. If not, your time and your pains will be wasted, you will\ndestroy your own work, and after foolishly intoxicating yourself\nwith these heady fumes, you will have nothing left but an insipid\nand worthless wine.\n\nSilly children grow into ordinary men. I know no generalisation\nmore certain than this. It is the most difficult thing in the\nworld to distinguish between genuine stupidity, and that apparent\nand deceitful stupidity which is the sign of a strong character.\nAt first sight it seems strange that the two extremes should have\nthe same outward signs; and yet it may well be so, for at an age\nwhen man has as yet no true ideas, the whole difference between\nthe genius and the rest consists in this: the latter only take in\nfalse ideas, while the former, finding nothing but false ideas,\nreceives no ideas at all. In this he resembles the fool; the one\nis fit for nothing, the other finds nothing fit for him. The only\nway of distinguishing between them depends upon chance, which may\noffer the genius some idea which he can understand, while the fool\nis always the same. As a child, the young Cato was taken for an\nidiot by his parents; he was obstinate and silent, and that was all\nthey perceived in him; it was only in Sulla's ante-chamber that\nhis uncle discovered what was in him. Had he never found his way\nthere, he might have passed for a fool till he reached the age\nof reason. Had Caesar never lived, perhaps this same Cato, who\ndiscerned his fatal genius, and foretold his great schemes, would\nhave passed for a dreamer all his days. Those who judge children\nhastily are apt to be mistaken; they are often more childish than\nthe child himself. I knew a middle-aged man, [Footnote: The Abbe de\nCondillac] whose friendship I esteemed an honour, who was reckoned\na fool by his family. All at once he made his name as a philosopher,\nand I have no doubt posterity will give him a high place among the\ngreatest thinkers and the profoundest metaphysicians of his day.\n\nHold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge\nit for good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves,\nlet their qualities be tested and confirmed, before special methods\nare adopted. Give nature time to work before you take over her\nbusiness, lest you interfere with her dealings. You assert that\nyou know the value of time and are afraid to waste it. You fail\nto perceive that it is a greater waste of time to use it ill than\nto do nothing, and that a child ill taught is further from virtue\nthan a child who has learnt nothing at all. You are afraid to see\nhim spending his early years doing nothing. What! is it nothing\nto be happy, nothing to run and jump all day? He will never be so\nbusy again all his life long.  Plato, in his Republic, which is\nconsidered so stern, teaches the children only through festivals,\ngames, songs, and amusements. It seems as if he had accomplished his\npurpose when he had taught them to be happy; and Seneca, speaking\nof the Roman lads in olden days, says, \"They were always on their\nfeet, they were never taught anything which kept them sitting.\" Were\nthey any the worse for it in manhood? Do not be afraid, therefore,\nof this so-called idleness.  What would you think of a man who\nrefused to sleep lest he should waste part of his life? You would\nsay, \"He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is robbing himself\nof part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his death.\" Remember\nthat these two cases are alike, and that childhood is the sleep of\nreason.\n\nThe apparent ease with which children learn is their ruin. You fail\nto see that this very facility proves that they are not learning.\nTheir shining, polished brain reflects, as in a mirror, the things\nyou show them, but nothing sinks in. The child remembers the words\nand the ideas are reflected back; his hearers understand them, but\nto him they are meaningless.\n\nAlthough memory and reason are wholly different faculties, the\none does not really develop apart from the other. Before the age\nof reason the child receives images, not ideas; and there is this\ndifference between them: images are merely the pictures of external\nobjects, while ideas are notions about those objects determined by\ntheir relations. An image when it is recalled may exist by itself\nin the mind, but every idea implies other ideas. When we image\nwe merely perceive, when we reason we compare. Our sensations are\nmerely passive, our notions or ideas spring from an active principle\nwhich judges. The proof of this will be given later.\n\nI maintain, therefore, that as children are incapable of judging,\nthey have no true memory. They retain sounds, form, sensation, but\nrarely ideas, and still more rarely relations. You tell me they\nacquire some rudiments of geometry, and you think you prove your\ncase; not so, it is mine you prove; you show that far from being able\nto reason themselves, children are unable to retain the reasoning\nof others; for if you follow the method of these little geometricians\nyou will see they only retain the exact impression of the figure\nand the terms of the demonstration. They cannot meet the slightest\nnew objection; if the figure is reversed they can do nothing. All\ntheir knowledge is on the sensation-level, nothing has penetrated\nto their understanding. Their memory is little better than their\nother powers, for they always have to learn over again, when they\nare grown up, what they learnt as children.\n\nI am far from thinking, however, that children have no sort of reason.\n[Footnote: I have noticed again and again that it is impossible\nin writing a lengthy work to use the same words always in the\nsame sense. There is no language rich enough to supply terms and\nexpressions sufficient for the modifications of our ideas. The method\nof defining every term and constantly substituting the definition\nfor the term defined looks well, but it is impracticable.  For how\ncan we escape from our vicious circle? Definitions would be all\nvery well if we did not use words in the making of them. In spite\nof this I am convinced that even in our poor language we can make\nour meaning clear, not by always using words in the same sense,\nbut by taking care that every time we use a word the sense in which\nwe use it is sufficiently indicated by the sense of the context,\nso that each sentence in which the word occurs acts as a sort of\ndefinition. Sometimes I say children are incapable of reasoning.\nSometimes I say they reason cleverly. I must admit that my words are\noften contradictory, but I do not think there is any contradiction\nin my ideas.] On the contrary, I think they reason very well with\nregard to things that affect their actual and sensible well-being.\nBut people are mistaken as to the extent of their information, and\nthey attribute to them knowledge they do not possess, and make them\nreason about things they cannot understand. Another mistake is to\ntry to turn their attention to matters which do not concern them\nin the least, such as their future interest, their happiness when\nthey are grown up, the opinion people will have of them when they\nare men--terms which are absolutely meaningless when addressed to\ncreatures who are entirely without foresight. But all the forced\nstudies of these poor little wretches are directed towards matters\nutterly remote from their minds. You may judge how much attention\nthey can give to them.\n\nThe pedagogues, who make a great display of the teaching they give\ntheir pupils, are paid to say just the opposite; yet their actions\nshow that they think just as I do. For what do they teach? Words!\nwords! words! Among the various sciences they boast of teaching\ntheir scholars, they take good care never to choose those which\nmight be really useful to them, for then they would be compelled to\ndeal with things and would fail utterly; the sciences they choose\nare those we seem to know when we know their technical terms--heraldry,\ngeography, chronology, languages, etc., studies so remote from man,\nand even more remote from the child, that it is a wonder if he can\never make any use of any part of them.\n\nYou will be surprised to find that I reckon the study of languages\namong the useless lumber of education; but you must remember that\nI am speaking of the studies of the earliest years, and whatever\nyou may say, I do not believe any child under twelve or fifteen\never really acquired two languages.\n\nIf the study of languages were merely the study of words, that is,\nof the symbols by which language expresses itself, then this might\nbe a suitable study for children; but languages, as they change\nthe symbols, also modify the ideas which the symbols express. Minds\nare formed by language, thoughts take their colour from its ideas.\nReason alone is common to all. Every language has its own form, a\ndifference which may be partly cause and partly effect of differences\nin national character; this conjecture appears to be confirmed\nby the fact that in every nation under the sun speech follows the\nchanges of manners, and is preserved or altered along with them.\n\nBy use the child acquires one of these different forms, and it is\nthe only language he retains till the age of reason. To acquire\ntwo languages he must be able to compare their ideas, and how can\nhe compare ideas he can barely understand? Everything may have\na thousand meanings to him, but each idea can only have one form,\nso he can only learn one language. You assure me he learns several\nlanguages; I deny it. I have seen those little prodigies who are\nsupposed to speak half a dozen languages. I have heard them speak\nfirst in German, then in Latin, French, or Italian; true, they used\nhalf a dozen different vocabularies, but they always spoke German.\nIn a word, you may give children as many synonyms as you like; it\nis not their language but their words that you change; they will\nnever have but one language.\n\nTo conceal their deficiencies teachers choose the dead languages,\nin which we have no longer any judges whose authority is beyond\ndispute. The familiar use of these tongues disappeared long ago,\nso they are content to imitate what they find in books, and they\ncall that talking. If the master's Greek and Latin is such poor\nstuff, what about the children? They have scarcely learnt their\nprimer by heart, without understanding a word of it, when they are\nset to translate a French speech into Latin words; then when they\nare more advanced they piece together a few phrases of Cicero for\nprose or a few lines of Vergil for verse. Then they think they can\nspeak Latin, and who will contradict them?\n\nIn any study whatsoever the symbols are of no value without the\nidea of the things symbolised. Yet the education of the child in\nconfined to those symbols, while no one ever succeeds in making\nhim understand the thing signified. You think you are teaching him\nwhat the world is like; he is only learning the map; he is taught\nthe names of towns, countries, rivers, which have no existence for\nhim except on the paper before him. I remember seeing a geography\nsomewhere which began with: \"What is the world?\"--\"A sphere of\ncardboard.\" That is the child's geography. I maintain that after two\nyears' work with the globe and cosmography, there is not a single\nten-year-old child who could find his way from Paris to Saint Denis\nby the help of the rules he has learnt. I maintain that not one of\nthese children could find his way by the map about the paths on his\nfather's estate without getting lost. These are the young doctors\nwho can tell us the position of Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and every\ncountry in the world.\n\nYou tell me the child must be employed on studies which only need\neyes. That may be; but if there are any such studies, they are\nunknown to me.\n\nIt is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history,\nwhich is considered within their grasp because it is merely\na collection of facts. But what is meant by this word \"fact\"? Do\nyou think the relations which determine the facts of history are\nso easy to grasp that the corresponding ideas are easily developed\nin the child's mind! Do you think that a real knowledge of events\ncan exist apart from the knowledge of their causes and effects,\nand that history has so little relation to words that the one can\nbe learnt without the other? If you perceive nothing in a man's\nactions beyond merely physical and external movements, what do you\nlearn from history? Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbed\nof all that makes it interesting, gives you neither pleasure nor\ninformation. If you want to judge actions by their moral bearings,\ntry to make these moral bearings intelligible to your scholars.\nYou will soon find out if they are old enough to learn history.\n\nRemember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholar\nnor a philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man who\nis pledged to no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little with\nother men, and has less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices,\nand more time to reflect on the things that strike him in his\nintercourse with them. My arguments are based less on theories than\non facts, and I think I can find no better way to bring the facts\nhome to you than by quoting continually some example from the\nobservations which suggested my arguments.\n\nI had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy mother\nof a family who took great pains with her children and their\neducation. One morning I was present while the eldest boy had his\nlessons. His tutor, who had taken great pains to teach him ancient\nhistory, began upon the story of Alexander and lighted on the\nwell-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor. There is a picture of\nit, and the story is well worth study. The tutor, worthy man, made\nseveral reflections which I did not like with regard to Alexander's\ncourage, but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in the\neyes of his pupil. At dinner they did not fail to get the little\nfellow talking, French fashion. The eager spirit of a child of\nhis age, and the confident expectation of applause, made him say\na number of silly things, and among them from time to time there\nwere things to the point, and these made people forget the rest. At\nlast came the story of Philip the Doctor. He told it very distinctly\nand prettily.  After the usual meed of praise, demanded by his\nmother and expected by the child himself, they discussed what he\nhad said. Most of them blamed Alexander's rashness, some of them,\nfollowing the tutor's example, praised his resolution, which showed\nme that none of those present really saw the beauty of the story.\n\"For my own part,\" I said, \"if there was any courage or any\nsteadfastness at all in Alexander's conduct I think it was only\na piece of bravado.\" Then every one agreed that it was a piece of\nbravado. I was getting angry, and would have replied, when a lady\nsitting beside me, who had not hitherto spoken, bent towards me\nand whispered in my ear.  \"Jean Jacques,\" said she, \"say no more,\nthey will never understand you.\" I looked at her, I recognised the\nwisdom of her advice, and I held my tongue.\n\nSeveral things made me suspect that our young professor had not in\nthe least understood the story he told so prettily. After dinner\nI took his hand in mine and we went for a walk in the park. When\nI had questioned him quietly, I discovered that he admired the\nvaunted courage of Alexander more than any one. But in what do you\nsuppose he thought this courage consisted? Merely in swallowing\na disagreeable drink at a single draught without hesitation and\nwithout any signs of dislike. Not a fortnight before the poor child\nhad been made to take some medicine which he could hardly swallow,\nand the taste of it was still in his mouth. Death, and death by\npoisoning, were for him only disagreeable sensations, and senna was\nhis only idea of poison. I must admit, however, that Alexander's\nresolution had made a great impression on his young mind, and he\nwas determined that next time he had to take medicine he would be\nan Alexander. Without entering upon explanations which were clearly\nbeyond his grasp, I confirmed him in his praiseworthy intention,\nand returned home smiling to myself over the great wisdom of parents\nand teachers who expect to teach history to children.\n\nSuch words as king, emperor, war, conquest, law, and revolution are\neasily put into their mouths; but when it is a question of attaching\nclear ideas to these words the explanations are very different from\nour talk with Robert the gardener.\n\nI feel sure some readers dissatisfied with that \"Say no more, Jean\nJacques,\" will ask what I really saw to admire in the conduct of\nAlexander. Poor things! if you need telling, how can you comprehend\nit? Alexander believed in virtue, he staked his head, he staked\nhis own life on that faith, his great soul was fitted to hold such\na faith. To swallow that draught was to make a noble profession\nof the faith that was in him. Never did mortal man recite a finer\ncreed. If there is an Alexander in our own days, show me such deeds.\n\nIf children have no knowledge of words, there is no study that is\nsuitable for them. If they have no real ideas they have no real\nmemory, for I do not call that a memory which only recalls sensations.\nWhat is the use of inscribing on their brains a list of symbols\nwhich mean nothing to them? They will learn the symbols when they\nlearn the things signified; why give them the useless trouble of\nlearning them twice over? And yet what dangerous prejudices are you\nimplanting when you teach them to accept as knowledge words which\nhave no meaning for them. The first meaningless phrase, the first\nthing taken for granted on the word of another person without\nseeing its use for himself, this is the beginning of the ruin of\nthe child's judgment. He may dazzle the eyes of fools long enough\nbefore he recovers from such a loss. [Footnote: The learning of\nmost philosophers is like the learning of children. Vast erudition\nresults less in the multitude of ideas than in a multitude of\nimages. Dates, names, places, all objects isolated or unconnected\nwith ideas are merely retained in the memory for symbols, and we\nrarely recall any of these without seeing the right or left page\nof the book in which we read it, or the form in which we first saw\nit.  Most science was of this kind till recently. The science of\nour times is another matter; study and observation are things of\nthe past; we dream and the dreams of a bad night are given to us as\nphilosophy. You will say I too am a dreamer; I admit it, but I do\nwhat the others fail to do, I give my dreams as dreams, and leave\nthe reader to discover whether there is anything in them which may\nprove useful to those who are awake.]\n\nNo, if nature has given the child this plasticity of brain which\nfits him to receive every kind of impression, it was not that you\nshould imprint on it the names and dates of kings, the jargon of\nheraldry, the globe and geography, all those words without present\nmeaning or future use for the child, which flood of words overwhelms\nhis sad and barren childhood. But by means of this plasticity all\nthe ideas he can understand and use, all that concern his happiness\nand will some day throw light upon his duties, should be traced at\nan early age in indelible characters upon his brain, to guide him\nto live in such a way as befits his nature and his powers.\n\nWithout the study of books, such a memory as the child may possess\nis not left idle; everything he sees and hears makes an impression\non him, he keeps a record of men's sayings and doings, and his\nwhole environment is the book from which he unconsciously enriches\nhis memory, till his judgment is able to profit by it.\n\nTo select these objects, to take care to present him constantly\nwith those he may know, to conceal from him those he ought not to\nknow, this is the real way of training his early memory; and in\nthis way you must try to provide him with a storehouse of knowledge\nwhich will serve for his education in youth and his conduct throughout\nlife. True, this method does not produce infant prodigies, nor will\nit reflect glory upon their tutors and governesses, but it produces\nmen, strong, right-thinking men, vigorous both in mind and body,\nmen who do not win admiration as children, but honour as men.\n\nEmile will not learn anything by heart, not even fables, not even\nthe fables of La Fontaine, simple and delightful as they are,\nfor the words are no more the fable than the words of history are\nhistory. How can people be so blind as to call fables the child's\nsystem of morals, without considering that the child is not only\namused by the apologue but misled by it? He is attracted by what\nis false and he misses the truth, and the means adopted to make the\nteaching pleasant prevent him profiting by it. Men may be taught\nby fables; children require the naked truth.\n\nAll children learn La Fontaine's fables, but not one of them\nunderstands them. It is just as well that they do not understand,\nfor the morality of the fables is so mixed and so unsuitable for\ntheir age that it would be more likely to incline them to vice\nthan to virtue. \"More paradoxes!\" you exclaim. Paradoxes they may\nbe; but let us see if there is not some truth in them.\n\nI maintain that the child does not understand the fables he is\ntaught, for however you try to explain them, the teaching you wish\nto extract from them demands ideas which he cannot grasp, while the\npoetical form which makes it easier to remember makes it harder to\nunderstand, so that clearness is sacrificed to facility. Without\nquoting the host of wholly unintelligible and useless fables which\nare taught to children because they happen to be in the same book\nas the others, let us keep to those which the author seems to have\nwritten specially for children.\n\nIn the whole of La Fontaine's works I only know five or six fables\nconspicuous for child-like simplicity; I will take the first of\nthese as an example, for it is one whose moral is most suitable for\nall ages, one which children get hold of with the least difficulty,\nwhich they have most pleasure in learning, one which for this very\nreason the author has placed at the beginning of his book. If his\nobject were really to delight and instruct children, this fable is\nhis masterpiece. Let us go through it and examine it briefly.\n\nTHE FOX AND THE CROW\n\nA FABLE\n\n\"Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche\" (Mr. Crow perched on a\ntree).--\"Mr.!\" what does that word really mean? What does it mean\nbefore a proper noun? What is its meaning here? What is a crow?\nWhat is \"un arbre perche\"? We do not say \"on a tree perched,\" but\nperched on a tree.  So we must speak of poetical inversions, we\nmust distinguish between prose and verse.\n\n\"Tenait dans son bec un fromage\" (Held a cheese in his beak)--What\nsort of a cheese? Swiss, Brie, or Dutch? If the child has never\nseen crows, what is the good of talking about them? If he has seen\ncrows will he believe that they can hold a cheese in their beak?\nYour illustrations should always be taken from nature.\n\n\"Maitre renard, par l'odeur alleche\" (Mr. Fox, attracted by\nthe smell).--Another Master! But the title suits the fox,--who is\nmaster of all the tricks of his trade. You must explain what a fox\nis, and distinguish between the real fox and the conventional fox\nof the fables.\n\n\"Alleche.\" The word is obsolete; you will have to explain it. You\nwill say it is only used in verse. Perhaps the child will ask why\npeople talk differently in verse. How will you answer that question?\n\n\"Alleche, par l'odeur d'un fromage.\" The cheese was held in his beak\nby a crow perched on a tree; it must indeed have smelt strong if\nthe fox, in his thicket or his earth, could smell it. This is the\nway you train your pupil in that spirit of right judgment, which\nrejects all but reasonable arguments, and is able to distinguish\nbetween truth and falsehood in other tales.\n\n\"Lui tient a peu pres ce langage\" (Spoke to him after this fashion).--\"Ce\nlangage.\" So foxes talk, do they! They talk like crows! Mind what\nyou are about, oh, wise tutor; weigh your answer before you give\nit, it is more important than you suspect.\n\n\"Eh! Bonjour, Monsieur le Corbeau!\" (\"Good-day, Mr. Crow!\")--Mr.!\nThe child sees this title laughed to scorn before he knows it is\na title of honour. Those who say \"Monsieur du Corbeau\" will find\ntheir work cut out for them to explain that \"du.\"\n\n\"Que vous etes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!\" (\"How handsome you\nare, how beautiful in my eyes!\")--Mere padding. The child, finding\nthe same thing repeated twice over in different words, is learning\nto speak carelessly. If you say this redundance is a device of the\nauthor, a part of the fox's scheme to make his praise seem all the\ngreater by his flow of words, that is a valid excuse for me, but\nnot for my pupil.\n\n\"Sans mentir, si votre ramage\" (\"Without lying, if your song\").--\"Without\nlying.\" So people do tell lies sometimes. What will the child think\nof you if you tell him the fox only says \"Sans mentir\" because he\nis lying?\n\n\"Se rapporte a votre plumage\" (\"Answered to your fine\nfeathers\").--\"Answered!\" What does that mean? Try to make the\nchild compare qualities so different as those of song and plumage;\nyou will see how much he understands.\n\n\"Vous seriez le phenix des hotes de ces bois!\" (\"You would be the\nphoenix of all the inhabitants of this wood!\")--The phoenix! What\nis a phoenix? All of a sudden we are floundering in the lies of\nantiquity--we are on the edge of mythology.\n\n\"The inhabitants of this wood.\" What figurative language! The\nflatterer adopts the grand style to add dignity to his speech, to\nmake it more attractive. Will the child understand this cunning?\nDoes he know, how could he possibly know, what is meant by grand\nstyle and simple style?\n\n\"A ces mots le corbeau ne se sent pas de joie\" (At these words, the\ncrow is beside himself with delight).--To realise the full force\nof this proverbial expression we must have experienced very strong\nfeeling.\n\n\"Et, pour montrer sa belle voix\" (And, to show his fine voice).--Remember\nthat the child, to understand this line and the whole fable, must\nknow what is meant by the crow's fine voice.\n\n\"Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie\" (He opens his wide\nbeak and drops his prey).--This is a splendid line; its very sound\nsuggests a picture. I see the great big ugly gaping beak, I hear\nthe cheese crashing through the branches; but this kind of beauty\nis thrown away upon children.\n\n\"Le renard s'en saisit, et dit, 'Mon bon monsieur'\" (The fox catches\nit, and says, \"My dear sir\").--So kindness is already folly.  You\ncertainly waste no time in teaching your children.\n\n\"Apprenez que tout flatteur\" (\"You must learn that every flatterer\").--A\ngeneral maxim. The child can make neither head nor tail of it.\n\n\"Vit au depens de celui qui l'ecoute\" (\"Lives at the expense of\nthe person who listens to his flattery\").--No child of ten ever\nunderstood that.\n\n\"Ce lecon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute\" (\"No doubt this lesson\nis well worth a cheese\").--This is intelligible and its meaning is\nvery good. Yet there are few children who could compare a cheese and\na lesson, few who would not prefer the cheese. You will therefore\nhave to make them understand that this is said in mockery. What\nsubtlety for a child!\n\n\"Le corbeau, honteux et confus\" (The crow, ashamed and confused).--A\nnothing pleonasm, and there is no excuse for it this time.\n\n\"Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus\" (Swore,\nbut rather too late, that he would not be caught in that way\nagain).--\"Swore.\" What master will be such a fool as to try to\nexplain to a child the meaning of an oath?\n\nWhat a host of details! but much more would be needed for the\nanalysis of all the ideas in this fable and their reduction to the\nsimple and elementary ideas of which each is composed. But who thinks\nthis analysis necessary to make himself intelligible to children?\nWho of us is philosopher enough to be able to put himself in the\nchild's place? Let us now proceed to the moral.\n\nShould we teach a six-year-old child that there are people who\nflatter and lie for the sake of gain? One might perhaps teach them\nthat there are people who make fools of little boys and laugh at\ntheir foolish vanity behind their backs. But the whole thing is\nspoilt by the cheese. You are teaching them how to make another\ndrop his cheese rather than how to keep their own. This is my second\nparadox, and it is not less weighty than the former one.\n\nWatch children learning their fables and you will see that when\nthey have a chance of applying them they almost always use them\nexactly contrary to the author's meaning; instead of being on their\nguard against the fault which you would prevent or cure, they are\ndisposed to like the vice by which one takes advantage of another's\ndefects.  In the above fable children laugh at the crow, but they\nall love the fox. In the next fable you expect them to follow\nthe example of the grasshopper. Not so, they will choose the ant.\nThey do not care to abase themselves, they will always choose the\nprincipal part--this is the choice of self-love, a very natural\nchoice. But what a dreadful lesson for children! There could be\nno monster more detestable than a harsh and avaricious child, who\nrealised what he was asked to give and what he refused. The ant\ndoes more; she teaches him not merely to refuse but to revile.\n\nIn all the fables where the lion plays a part, usually the chief\npart, the child pretends to be the lion, and when he has to preside\nover some distribution of good things, he takes care to keep\neverything for himself; but when the lion is overthrown by the gnat,\nthe child is the gnat. He learns how to sting to death those whom\nhe dare not attack openly.\n\nFrom the fable of the sleek dog and the starving wolf he learns a\nlesson of licence rather than the lesson of moderation which you\nprofess to teach him. I shall never forget seeing a little girl\nweeping bitterly over this tale, which had been told her as a lesson\nin obedience. The poor child hated to be chained up; she felt the\nchain chafing her neck; she was crying because she was not a wolf.\n\nSo from the first of these fables the child learns the basest\nflattery; from the second, cruelty; from the third, injustice; from\nthe fourth, satire; from the fifth, insubordination. The last of\nthese lessons is no more suitable for your pupils than for mine,\nthough he has no use for it. What results do you expect to get\nfrom your teaching when it contradicts itself! But perhaps the\nsame system of morals which furnishes me with objections against\nthe fables supplies you with as many reasons for keeping to them.\nSociety requires a rule of morality in our words; it also requires\na rule of morality in our deeds; and these two rules are quite\ndifferent. The former is contained in the Catechism and it is left\nthere; the other is contained in La Fontaine's fables for children\nand his tales for mothers. The same author does for both.\n\nLet us make a bargain, M. de la Fontaine. For my own part,\nI undertake to make your books my favourite study; I undertake to\nlove you, and to learn from your fables, for I hope I shall not\nmistake their meaning. As to my pupil, permit me to prevent him\nstudying any one of them till you have convinced me that it is good\nfor him to learn things three-fourths of which are unintelligible\nto him, and until you can convince me that in those fables he can\nunderstand he will never reverse the order and imitate the villain\ninstead of taking warning from his dupe.\n\nWhen I thus get rid of children's lessons, I get rid of the chief\ncause of their sorrows, namely their books. Reading is the curse\nof childhood, yet it is almost the only occupation you can find\nfor children. Emile, at twelve years old, will hardly know what a\nbook is. \"But,\" you say, \"he must, at least, know how to read.\"\n\nWhen reading is of use to him, I admit he must learn to read, but\ntill then he will only find it a nuisance.\n\nIf children are not to be required to do anything as a matter of\nobedience, it follows that they will only learn what they perceive\nto be of real and present value, either for use or enjoyment; what\nother motive could they have for learning? The art of speaking to\nour absent friends, of hearing their words; the art of letting them\nknow at first hand our feelings, our desires, and our longings, is\nan art whose usefulness can be made plain at any age. How is it\nthat this art, so useful and pleasant in itself, has become a terror\nto children? Because the child is compelled to acquire it against\nhis will, and to use it for purposes beyond his comprehension. A\nchild has no great wish to perfect himself in the use of an instrument\nof torture, but make it a means to his pleasure, and soon you will\nnot be able to keep him from it.\n\nPeople make a great fuss about discovering the beat way to teach\nchildren to read. They invent \"bureaux\" [Footnote: Translator's\nnote.--The \"bureau\" was a sort of case containing letters to\nbe put together to form words. It was a favourite device for the\nteaching of reading and gave its name to a special method, called\nthe bureau-method, of learning to read.] and cards, they turn the\nnursery into a printer's shop. Locke would have them taught to read\nby means of dice. What a fine idea! And the pity of it! There is a\nbetter way than any of those, and one which is generally overlooked--it\nconsists in the desire to learn. Arouse this desire in your scholar\nand have done with your \"bureaux\" and your dice--any method will\nserve.\n\nPresent interest, that is the motive power, the only motive power\nthat takes us far and safely. Sometimes Emile receives notes of\ninvitation from his father or mother, his relations or friends; he\nis invited to a dinner, a walk, a boating expedition, to see some\npublic entertainment. These notes are short, clear, plain, and well\nwritten. Some one must read them to him, and he cannot always find\nanybody when wanted; no more consideration is shown to him than he\nhimself showed to you yesterday. Time passes, the chance is lost.\nThe note is read to him at last, but it is too late. Oh! if\nonly he had known how to read! He receives other notes, so short,\nso interesting, he would like to try to read them. Sometimes he\ngets help, sometimes none. He does his best, and at last he makes\nout half the note; it is something about going to-morrow to drink\ncream--Where? With whom? He cannot tell--how hard he tries to make\nout the rest! I do not think Emile will need a \"bureau.\" Shall I\nproceed to the teaching of writing? No, I am ashamed to toy with\nthese trifles in a treatise on education.\n\nI will just add a few words which contain a principle of great\nimportance. It is this--What we are in no hurry to get is usually\nobtained with speed and certainty. I am pretty sure Emile will learn\nto read and write before he is ten, just because I care very little\nwhether he can do so before he is fifteen; but I would rather he\nnever learnt to read at all, than that this art should be acquired\nat the price of all that makes reading useful. What is the use of\nreading to him if he always hates it? \"Id imprimis cavere oportebit,\nne studia, qui amare nondum potest, oderit, et amaritudinem semel\nperceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidet.\"--Quintil.\n\nThe more I urge my method of letting well alone, the more objections\nI perceive against it. If your pupil learns nothing from you, he\nwill learn from others. If you do not instil truth he will learn\nfalsehoods; the prejudices you fear to teach him he will acquire\nfrom those about him, they will find their way through every one\nof his senses; they will either corrupt his reason before it is\nfully developed or his mind will become torpid through inaction,\nand will become engrossed in material things. If we do not form the\nhabit of thinking as children, we shall lose the power of thinking\nfor the rest of our life.\n\nI fancy I could easily answer that objection, but why should I answer\nevery objection? If my method itself answers your objections, it\nis good; if not, it is good for nothing. I continue my explanation.\n\nIf, in accordance with the plan I have sketched, you follow rules\nwhich are just the opposite of the established practice, if instead\nof taking your scholar far afield, instead of wandering with him\nin distant places, in far-off lands, in remote centuries, in the\nends of the earth, and in the very heavens themselves, you try to\nkeep him to himself, to his own concerns, you will then find him\nable to perceive, to remember, and even to reason; this is nature's\norder.  As the sentient being becomes active his discernment develops\nalong with his strength. Not till his strength is in excess of\nwhat is needed for self-preservation, is the speculative faculty\ndeveloped, the faculty adapted for using this superfluous strength\nfor other purposes. Would you cultivate your pupil's intelligence,\ncultivate the strength it is meant to control. Give his body constant\nexercise, make it strong and healthy, in order to make him good\nand wise; let him work, let him do things, let him run and shout,\nlet him be always on the go; make a man of him in strength, and he\nwill soon be a man in reason.\n\nOf course by this method you will make him stupid if you are always\ngiving him directions, always saying come here, go there, stop,\ndo this, don't do that. If your head always guides his hands, his\nown mind will become useless. But remember the conditions we laid\ndown; if you are a mere pedant it is not worth your while to read\nmy book.\n\nIt is a lamentable mistake to imagine that bodily activity hinders\nthe working of the mind, as if these two kinds of activity ought\nnot to advance hand in hand, and as if the one were not intended\nto act as guide to the other.\n\nThere are two classes of men who are constantly engaged in bodily\nactivity, peasants and savages, and certainly neither of these\npays the least attention to the cultivation of the mind. Peasants\nare rough, coarse, and clumsy; savages are noted, not only for their\nkeen senses, but for great subtility of mind. Speaking generally,\nthere is nothing duller than a peasant or sharper than a savage.\nWhat is the cause of this difference? The peasant has always done\nas he was told, what his father did before him, what he himself\nhas always done; he is the creature of habit, he spends his life\nalmost like an automaton on the same tasks; habit and obedience\nhave taken the place of reason.\n\nThe case of the savage is very different; he is tied to no one\nplace, he has no prescribed task, no superior to obey, he knows\nno law but his own will; he is therefore forced to reason at every\nstep he takes. He can neither move nor walk without considering the\nconsequences. Thus the more his body is exercised, the more alert\nis his mind; his strength and his reason increase together, and\neach helps to develop the other.\n\nOh, learned tutor, let us see which of our two scholars is most\nlike the savage and which is most like the peasant. Your scholar\nis subject to a power which is continually giving him instruction;\nhe acts only at the word of command; he dare not eat when he is\nhungry, nor laugh when he is merry, nor weep when he is sad, nor\noffer one hand rather than the other, nor stir a foot unless he is\ntold to do it; before long he will not venture to breathe without\norders. What would you have him think about, when you do all the\nthinking for him? He rests securely on your foresight, why should\nhe think for himself? He knows you have undertaken to take care of\nhim, to secure his welfare, and he feels himself freed from this\nresponsibility.  His judgment relies on yours; what you have not\nforbidden that he does, knowing that he runs no risk. Why should\nhe learn the signs of rain? He knows you watch the clouds for him.\nWhy should he time his walk? He knows there is no fear of your\nletting him miss his dinner hour. He eats till you tell him to\nstop, he stops when you tell him to do so; he does not attend to\nthe teaching of his own stomach, but yours. In vain do you make his\nbody soft by inaction; his understanding does not become subtle.\nFar from it, you complete your task of discrediting reason in\nhis eyes, by making him use such reasoning power as he has on the\nthings which seem of least importance to him. As he never finds\nhis reason any use to him, he decides at last that it is useless.\nIf he reasons badly he will be found fault with; nothing worse will\nhappen to him; and he has been found fault with so often that he\npays no attention to it, such a common danger no longer alarms him.\n\nYet you will find he has a mind. He is quick enough to chatter\nwith the women in the way I spoke of further back; but if he is in\ndanger, if he must come to a decision in difficult circumstances,\nyou will find him a hundredfold more stupid and silly than the son\nof the roughest labourer.\n\nAs for my pupil, or rather Nature's pupil, he has been trained from\nthe outset to be as self-reliant as possible, he has not formed\nthe habit of constantly seeking help from others, still less of\ndisplaying his stores of learning. On the other hand, he exercises\ndiscrimination and forethought, he reasons about everything that\nconcerns himself. He does not chatter, he acts. Not a word does\nhe know of what is going on in the world at large, but he knows\nvery thoroughly what affects himself. As he is always stirring he\nis compelled to notice many things, to recognise many effects; he\nsoon acquires a good deal of experience. Nature, not man, is his\nschoolmaster, and he learns all the quicker because he is not aware\nthat he has any lesson to learn. So mind and body work together.\nHe is always carrying out his own ideas, not those of other people,\nand thus he unites thought and action; as he grows in health and\nstrength he grows in wisdom and discernment. This is the way to\nattain later on to what is generally considered incompatible, though\nmost great men have achieved it, strength of body and strength of\nmind, the reason of the philosopher and the vigour of the athlete.\n\nYoung teacher, I am setting before you a difficult task, the art\nof controlling without precepts, and doing everything without doing\nanything at all. This art is, I confess, beyond your years, it is\nnot calculated to display your talents nor to make your value known\nto your scholar's parents; but it is the only road to success.\nYou will never succeed in making wise men if you do not first make\nlittle imps of mischief. This was the education of the Spartans;\nthey were not taught to stick to their books, they were set to steal\ntheir dinners. Were they any the worse for it in after life? Ever\nready for victory, they crushed their foes in every kind of warfare,\nand the prating Athenians were as much afraid of their words as of\ntheir blows.\n\nWhen education is most carefully attended to, the teacher issues\nhis orders and thinks himself master, but it is the child who\nis really master. He uses the tasks you set him to obtain what he\nwants from you, and he can always make you pay for an hour's industry\nby a week's complaisance. You must always be making bargains with\nhim.  These bargains, suggested in your fashion, but carried out\nin his, always follow the direction of his own fancies, especially\nwhen you are foolish enough to make the condition some advantage\nhe is almost sure to obtain, whether he fulfils his part of the\nbargain or not.  The child is usually much quicker to read the\nmaster's thoughts than the master to read the child's feelings.\nAnd that is as it should be, for all the sagacity which the child\nwould have devoted to self-preservation, had he been left to himself,\nis now devoted to the rescue of his native freedom from the chains\nof his tyrant; while the latter, who has no such pressing need to\nunderstand the child, sometimes finds that it pays him better to\nleave him in idleness or vanity.\n\nTake the opposite course with your pupil; let him always think he\nis master while you are really master. There is no subjection so\ncomplete as that which preserves the forms of freedom; it is thus\nthat the will itself is taken captive. Is not this poor child,\nwithout knowledge, strength, or wisdom, entirely at your mercy? Are\nyou not master of his whole environment so far as it affects him?\nCannot you make of him what you please? His work and play, his\npleasure and pain, are they not, unknown to him, under your control?\nNo doubt he ought only to do what he wants, but he ought to want\nto do nothing but what you want him to do. He should never take a\nstep you have not foreseen, nor utter a word you could not foretell.\n\nThen he can devote himself to the bodily exercises adapted to his\nage without brutalising his mind; instead of developing his cunning\nto evade an unwelcome control, you will then find him entirely\noccupied in getting the best he can out of his environment with\na view to his present welfare, and you will be surprised by the\nsubtlety of the means he devises to get for himself such things as\nhe can obtain, and to really enjoy things without the aid of other\npeople's ideas. You leave him master of his own wishes, but you\ndo not multiply his caprices. When he only does what he wants, he\nwill soon only do what he ought, and although his body is constantly in\nmotion, so far as his sensible and present interests are concerned,\nyou will find him developing all the reason of which he is capable,\nfar better and in a manner much better fitted for him than in purely\ntheoretical studies.\n\nThus when he does not find you continually thwarting him, when he\nno longer distrusts you, no longer has anything to conceal from\nyou, he will neither tell you lies nor deceive you; he will show\nhimself fearlessly as he really is, and you can study him at your\nease, and surround him with all the lessons you would have him\nlearn, without awaking his suspicions.\n\nNeither will he keep a curious and jealous eye on your own conduct,\nnor take a secret delight in catching you at fault. It is a great\nthing to avoid this. One of the child's first objects is, as I have\nsaid, to find the weak spots in its rulers. Though this leads to\nspitefulness, it does not arise from it, but from the desire to\nevade a disagreeable control. Overburdened by the yoke laid upon\nhim, he tries to shake it off, and the faults he finds in his master\ngive him a good opportunity for this. Still the habit of spying out\nfaults and delighting in them grows upon people. Clearly we have\nstopped another of the springs of vice in Emile's heart. Having\nnothing to gain from my faults, he will not be on the watch for\nthem, nor will he be tempted to look out for the faults of others.\n\nAll these methods seem difficult because they are new to us, but\nthey ought not to be really difficult. I have a right to assume that\nyou have the knowledge required for the business you have chosen;\nthat you know the usual course of development of the human thought,\nthat you can study mankind and man, that you know beforehand the\neffect on your pupil's will of the various objects suited to his\nage which you put before him. You have the tools and the art to\nuse them; are you not master of your trade?\n\nYou speak of childish caprice; you are mistaken. Children's caprices\nare never the work of nature, but of bad discipline; they have\neither obeyed or given orders, and I have said again and again,\nthey must do neither. Your pupil will have the caprices you have\ntaught him; it is fair you should bear the punishment of your own\nfaults.  \"But how can I cure them?\" do you say? That may still be\ndone by better conduct on your own part and great patience. I once\nundertook the charge of a child for a few weeks; he was accustomed\nnot only to have his own way, but to make every one else do as he\npleased; he was therefore capricious. The very first day he wanted\nto get up at midnight, to try how far he could go with me. When I\nwas sound asleep he jumped out of bed, got his dressing-gown, and\nwaked me up.  I got up and lighted the candle, which was all he\nwanted. After a quarter of an hour he became sleepy and went back\nto bed quite satisfied with his experiment. Two days later he\nrepeated it, with the same success and with no sign of impatience\non my part. When he kissed me as he lay down, I said to him very\nquietly, \"My little dear, this is all very well, but do not try it\nagain.\" His curiosity was aroused by this, and the very next day he\ndid not fail to get up at the same time and woke me to see whether\nI should dare to disobey him. I asked what he wanted, and he told\nme he could not sleep. \"So much the worse for you,\" I replied, and\nI lay quiet. He seemed perplexed by this way of speaking. He felt\nhis way to the flint and steel and tried to strike a light. I could\nnot help laughing when I heard him strike his fingers. Convinced at\nlast that he could not manage it, he brought the steel to my bed;\nI told him I did not want it, and I turned my back to him. Then\nhe began to rush wildly about the room, shouting, singing, making\na great noise, knocking against chairs and tables, but taking,\nhowever, good care not to hurt himself seriously, but screaming\nloudly in the hope of alarming me.  All this had no effect, but\nI perceived that though he was prepared for scolding or anger, he\nwas quite unprepared for indifference.\n\nHowever, he was determined to overcome my patience with his own\nobstinacy, and he continued his racket so successfully that at last\nI lost my temper. I foresaw that I should spoil the whole business\nby an unseemly outburst of passion. I determined on another course.\nI got up quietly, went to the tinder box, but could not find it;\nI asked him for it, and he gave it me, delighted to have won the\nvictory over me. I struck a light, lighted the candle, took my\nyoung gentleman by the hand and led him quietly into an adjoining\ndressing-room with the shutters firmly fastened, and nothing he\ncould break.\n\nI left him there without a light; then locking him in I went back\nto my bed without a word. What a noise there was! That was what I\nexpected, and took no notice. At last the noise ceased; I listened,\nheard him settling down, and I was quite easy about him. Next morning\nI entered the room at daybreak, and my little rebel was lying on\na sofa enjoying a sound and much needed sleep after his exertions.\n\nThe matter did not end there. His mother heard that the child had\nspent a great part of the night out of bed. That spoilt the whole\nthing; her child was as good as dead. Finding a good chance for\nrevenge, he pretended to be ill, not seeing that he would gain\nnothing by it. They sent for the doctor. Unluckily for the mother,\nthe doctor was a practical joker, and to amuse himself with her\nterrors he did his best to increase them. However, he whispered to\nme, \"Leave it to me, I promise to cure the child of wanting to be\nill for some time to come.\" As a matter of fact he prescribed bed\nand dieting, and the child was handed over to the apothecary. I\nsighed to see the mother cheated on every hand except by me, whom\nshe hated because I did not deceive her.\n\nAfter pretty severe reproaches, she told me her son was delicate,\nthat he was the sole heir of the family, his life must be preserved\nat all costs, and she would not have him contradicted. In that\nI thoroughly agreed with her, but what she meant by contradicting\nwas not obeying him in everything. I saw I should have to treat\nthe mother as I had treated the son. \"Madam,\" I said coldly, \"I do\nnot know how to educate the heir to a fortune, and what is more,\nI do not mean to study that art. You can take that as settled.\"\nI was wanted for some days longer, and the father smoothed things\nover.  The mother wrote to the tutor to hasten his return, and the\nchild, finding he got nothing by disturbing my rest, nor yet by\nbeing ill, decided at last to get better and to go to sleep.\n\nYou can form no idea of the number of similar caprices to which the\nlittle tyrant had subjected his unlucky tutor; for his education\nwas carried on under his mother's eye, and she would not allow her\nson and heir to be disobeyed in anything. Whenever he wanted to go\nout, you must be ready to take him, or rather to follow him, and\nhe always took good care to choose the time when he knew his tutor\nwas very busy. He wished to exercise the same power over me and\nto avenge himself by day for having to leave me in peace at night.\nI gladly agreed and began by showing plainly how pleased I was to\ngive him pleasure; after that when it was a matter of curing him\nof his fancies I set about it differently.\n\nIn the first place, he must be shown that he was in the wrong. This\nwas not difficult; knowing that children think only of the present,\nI took the easy advantage which foresight gives; I took care to\nprovide him with some indoor amusement of which he was very fond.\nJust when he was most occupied with it, I went and suggested a short\nwalk, and he sent me away. I insisted, but he paid no attention.\nI had to give in, and he took note of this sign of submission.\n\nThe next day it was my turn. As I expected, he got tired of his\noccupation; I, however, pretended to be very busy. That was enough\nto decide him. He came to drag me from my work, to take him at\nonce for a walk. I refused; he persisted. \"No,\" I said, \"when I\ndid what you wanted, you taught me how to get my own way; I shall\nnot go out.\" \"Very well,\" he replied eagerly, \"I shall go out by\nmyself.\" \"As you please,\" and I returned to my work.\n\nHe put on his things rather uneasily when he saw I did not follow\nhis example. When he was ready he came and made his bow; I bowed\ntoo; he tried to frighten me with stories of the expeditions he\nwas going to make; to hear him talk you would think he was going\nto the world's end. Quite unmoved, I wished him a pleasant journey.\nHe became more and more perplexed. However, he put a good face on\nit, and when he was ready to go out he told his foot man to follow\nhim.  The footman, who had his instructions, replied that he had\nno time, and that he was busy carrying out my orders, and he must\nobey me first. For the moment the child was taken aback. How could\nhe think they would really let him go out alone, him, who, in his\nown eyes, was the most important person in the world, who thought\nthat everything in heaven and earth was wrapped up in his welfare?\nHowever, he was beginning to feel his weakness, he perceived that\nhe should find himself alone among people who knew nothing of him.\nHe saw beforehand the risks he would run; obstinacy alone sustained\nhim; very slowly and unwillingly he went downstairs. At last he\nwent out into the street, consoling himself a little for the harm\nthat might happen to himself, in the hope that I should be held\nresponsible for it.\n\nThis was just what I expected. All was arranged beforehand, and as\nit meant some sort of public scene I had got his father's consent.\nHe had scarcely gone a few steps, when he heard, first on this side\nthen on that, all sorts of remarks about himself. \"What a pretty\nlittle gentleman, neighbour? Where is he going all alone? He will\nget lost! I will ask him into our house.\" \"Take care you don't.\nDon't you see he is a naughty little boy, who has been turned out\nof his own house because he is good for nothing? You must not stop\nnaughty boys; let him go where he likes.\" \"Well, well; the good God\ntake care of him. I should be sorry if anything happened to him.\"\nA little further on he met some young urchins of about his own age\nwho teased him and made fun of him. The further he got the more\ndifficulties he found. Alone and unprotected he was at the mercy\nof everybody, and he found to his great surprise that his shoulder\nknot and his gold lace commanded no respect.\n\nHowever, I had got a friend of mine, who was a stranger to him,\nto keep an eye on him. Unnoticed by him, this friend followed him\nstep by step, and in due time he spoke to him. The role, like that\nof Sbrigani in Pourceaugnac, required an intelligent actor, and it\nwas played to perfection. Without making the child fearful and timid\nby inspiring excessive terror, he made him realise so thoroughly\nthe folly of his exploit that in half an hour's time he brought him\nhome to me, ashamed and humble, and afraid to look me in the face.\n\nTo put the finishing touch to his discomfiture, just as he was\ncoming in his father came down on his way out and met him on the\nstairs. He had to explain where he had been, and why I was not with\nhim. [Footnote: In a case like this there is no danger in asking a\nchild to tell the truth, for he knows very well that it cannot be\nhid, and that if he ventured to tell a lie he would be found out\nat once.] The poor child would gladly have sunk into the earth. His\nfather did not take the trouble to scold him at length, but said\nwith more severity than I should have expected, \"When you want to\ngo out by yourself, you can do so, but I will not have a rebel in\nmy house, so when you go, take good care that you never come back.\"\n\nAs for me, I received him somewhat gravely, but without blame and\nwithout mockery, and for fear he should find out we had been playing\nwith him, I declined to take him out walking that day. Next day I\nwas well pleased to find that he passed in triumph with me through\nthe very same people who had mocked him the previous day, when they\nmet him out by himself. You may be sure he never threatened to go\nout without me again.\n\nBy these means and other like them I succeeded during the short\ntime I was with him in getting him to do everything I wanted without\nbidding him or forbidding him to do anything, without preaching\nor exhortation, without wearying him with unnecessary lessons. So\nhe was pleased when I spoke to him, but when I was silent he was\nfrightened, for he knew there was something amiss, and he always got\nhis lesson from the thing itself. But let us return to our subject.\n\nThe body is strengthened by this constant exercise under the guidance\nof nature herself, and far from brutalising the mind, this exercise\ndevelops in it the only kind of reason of which young children are\ncapable, the kind of reason most necessary at every age. It teaches\nus how to use our strength, to perceive the relations between our\nown and neighbouring bodies, to use the natural tools, which are\nwithin our reach and adapted to our senses.  Is there anything\nsillier than a child brought up indoors under his mother's eye,\nwho, in his ignorance of weight and resistance, tries to uproot a\ntall tree or pick up a rock. The first time I found myself outside\nGeneva I tried to catch a galloping horse, and I threw stones\nat Mont Saleve, two leagues away; I was the laughing stock of the\nwhole village, and was supposed to be a regular idiot.  At eighteen\nwe are taught in our natural philosophy the use of the lever;\nevery village boy of twelve knows how to use a lever better than\nthe cleverest mechanician in the academy. The lessons the scholars\nlearn from one another in the playground are worth a hundredfold\nmore than what they learn in the class-room.\n\nWatch a cat when she comes into a room for the first time; she goes\nfrom place to place, she sniffs about and examines everything, she\nis never still for a moment; she is suspicious of everything till\nshe has examined it and found out what it is. It is the same with\nthe child when he begins to walk, and enters, so to speak, the room\nof the world around him. The only difference is that, while both\nuse sight, the child uses his hands and the cat that subtle sense\nof smell which nature has bestowed upon it. It is this instinct,\nrightly or wrongly educated, which makes children skilful or clumsy,\nquick or slow, wise or foolish.\n\nMan's primary natural goals are, therefore, to measure himself\nagainst his environment, to discover in every object he sees those\nsensible qualities which may concern himself, so his first study\nis a kind of experimental physics for his own preservation. He is\nturned away from this and sent to speculative studies before he\nhas found his proper place in the world. While his delicate and\nflexible limbs can adjust themselves to the bodies upon which they\nare intended to act, while his senses are keen and as yet free from\nillusions, then is the time to exercise both limbs and senses in\ntheir proper business.  It is the time to learn to perceive the\nphysical relations between ourselves and things. Since everything\nthat comes into the human mind enters through the gates of sense,\nman's first reason is a reason of sense-experience. It is this\nthat serves as a foundation for the reason of the intelligence;\nour first teachers in natural philosophy are our feet, hands, and\neyes. To substitute books for them does not teach us to reason,\nit teaches us to use the reason of others rather than our own; it\nteaches us to believe much and know little.\n\nBefore you can practise an art you must first get your tools; and\nif you are to make good use of those tools, they must be fashioned\nsufficiently strong to stand use. To learn to think we must therefore\nexercise our limbs, our senses, and our bodily organs, which are\nthe tools of the intellect; and to get the best use out of these\ntools, the body which supplies us with them must be strong and\nhealthy. Not only is it quite a mistake that true reason is developed\napart from the body, but it is a good bodily constitution which\nmakes the workings of the mind easy and correct.\n\nWhile I am showing how the child's long period of leisure should be\nspent, I am entering into details which may seem absurd. You will\nsay, \"This is a strange sort of education, and it is subject to\nyour own criticism, for it only teaches what no one needs to learn.\nWhy spend your time in teaching what will come of itself without\ncare or trouble? Is there any child of twelve who is ignorant of all\nyou wish to teach your pupil, while he also knows what his master\nhas taught him.\"\n\nGentlemen, you are mistaken. I am teaching my pupil an art, the\nacquirement of which demands much time and trouble, an art which\nyour scholars certainly do not possess; it is the art of being\nignorant; for the knowledge of any one who only thinks he knows, what\nhe really does know is a very small matter. You teach science; well\nand good; I am busy fashioning the necessary tools for its acquisition.\nOnce upon a time, they say the Venetians were displaying the treasures\nof the Cathedral of Saint Mark to the Spanish ambassador; the only\ncomment he made was, \"Qui non c'e la radice.\" When I see a tutor\nshowing off his pupil's learning, I am always tempted to say the\nsame to him.\n\nEvery one who has considered the manner of life among the\nancients, attributes the strength of body and mind by which they\nare distinguished from the men of our own day to their gymnastic\nexercises. The stress laid by Montaigne upon this opinion, shows\nthat it had made a great impression on him; he returns to it again\nand again. Speaking of a child's education he says, \"To strengthen\nthe mind you must harden the muscles; by training the child to labour\nyou train him to suffering; he must be broken in to the hardships\nof gymnastic exercises to prepare him for the hardships of dislocations,\ncolics, and other bodily ills.\" The philosopher Locke, the worthy\nRollin, the learned Fleury, the pedant De Crouzas, differing as\nthey do so widely from one another, are agreed in this one matter\nof sufficient bodily exercise for children. This is the wisest of\ntheir precepts, and the one which is certain to be neglected. I\nhave already dwelt sufficiently on its importance, and as better\nreasons and more sensible rules cannot be found than those in Locke's\nbook, I will content myself with referring to it, after taking the\nliberty of adding a few remarks of my own.\n\nThe limbs of a growing child should be free to move easily in his\nclothing; nothing should cramp their growth or movement; there\nshould be nothing tight, nothing fitting closely to the body, no\nbelts of any kind. The French style of dress, uncomfortable and\nunhealthy for a man, is especially bad for children. The stagnant\nhumours, whose circulation is interrupted, putrify in a state of\ninaction, and this process proceeds more rapidly in an inactive and\nsedentary life; they become corrupt and give rise to scurvy; this\ndisease, which is continually on the increase among us, was almost\nunknown to the ancients, whose way of dressing and living protected\nthem from it. The hussar's dress, far from correcting this fault,\nincreases it, and compresses the whole of the child's body, by way\nof dispensing with a few bands. The best plan is to keep children\nin frocks as long as possible and then to provide them with loose\nclothing, without trying to define the shape which is only another\nway of deforming it. Their defects of body and mind may all be\ntraced to the same source, the desire to make men of them before\ntheir time.\n\nThere are bright colours and dull; children like the bright colours\nbest, and they suit them better too. I see no reason why such natural\nsuitability should not be taken into consideration; but as soon as\nthey prefer a material because it is rich, their hearts are already\ngiven over to luxury, to every caprice of fashion, and this taste\nis certainly not their own. It is impossible to say how much\neducation is influenced by this choice of clothes, and the motives\nfor this choice. Not only do short-sighted mothers offer ornaments\nas rewards to their children, but there are foolish tutors who\nthreaten to make their pupils wear the plainest and coarsest clothes\nas a punishment. \"If you do not do your lessons better, if you do\nnot take more care of your clothes, you shall be dressed like that\nlittle peasant boy.\" This is like saying to them, \"Understand that\nclothes make the man.\" Is it to be wondered at that our young people\nprofit by such wise teaching, that they care for nothing but dress,\nand that they only judge of merit by its outside.\n\nIf I had to bring such a spoilt child to his senses, I would take\ncare that his smartest clothes were the most uncomfortable, that\nhe was always cramped, constrained, and embarrassed in every way;\nfreedom and mirth should flee before his splendour. If he wanted\nto take part in the games of children more simply dressed, they\nshould cease their play and run away. Before long I should make\nhim so tired and sick of his magnificence, such a slave to his\ngold-laced coat, that it would become the plague of his life, and\nhe would be less afraid to behold the darkest dungeon than to see\nthe preparations for his adornment. Before the child is enslaved by\nour prejudices his first wish is always to be free and comfortable.\nThe plainest and most comfortable clothes, those which leave him\nmost liberty, are what he always likes best.\n\nThere are habits of body suited for an active life and others for\na sedentary life. The latter leaves the humours an equable and\nuniform course, and the body should be protected from changes in\ntemperature; the former is constantly passing from action to rest,\nfrom heat to cold, and the body should be inured to these changes.\nHence people, engaged in sedentary pursuits indoors, should always\nbe warmly dressed, to keep their bodies as nearly as possible at\nthe same temperature at all times and seasons. Those, however, who\ncome and go in sun, wind, and rain, who take much exercise, and\nspend most of their time out of doors, should always be lightly clad,\nso as to get used to the changes in the air and to every degree of\ntemperature without suffering inconvenience. I would advise both\nnever to change their clothes with the changing seasons, and that\nwould be the invariable habit of my pupil Emile. By this I do not\nmean that he should wear his winter clothes in summer like many\npeople of sedentary habits, but that he should wear his summer\nclothes in winter like hard-working folk. Sir Isaac Newton always\ndid this, and he lived to be eighty.\n\nEmile should wear little or nothing on his head all the year round.\nThe ancient Egyptians always went bareheaded; the Persians used to\nwear heavy tiaras and still wear large turbans, which according to\nChardin are required by their climate. I have remarked elsewhere\non the difference observed by Herodotus on a battle-field between\nthe skulls of the Persians and those of the Egyptians. Since it is\ndesirable that the bones of the skull should grow harder and more\nsubstantial, less fragile and porous, not only to protect the brain\nagainst injuries but against colds, fever, and every influence of\nthe air, you should therefore accustom your children to go bare-headed\nwinter and summer, day and night. If you make them wear a night-cap\nto keep their hair clean and tidy, let it be thin and transparent\nlike the nets with which the Basques cover their hair. I am aware\nthat most mothers will be more impressed by Chardin's observations\nthan my arguments, and will think that all climates are the climate\nof Persia, but I did not choose a European pupil to turn him into\nan Asiatic.\n\nChildren are generally too much wrapped up, particularly in infancy.\nThey should be accustomed to cold rather than heat; great cold\nnever does them any harm, if they are exposed to it soon enough;\nbut their skin is still too soft and tender and leaves too free\na course for perspiration, so that they are inevitably exhausted\nby excessive heat. It has been observed that infant mortality is\ngreatest in August. Moreover, it seems certain from a comparison\nof northern and southern races that we become stronger by bearing\nextreme cold rather than excessive heat. But as the child's body\ngrows bigger and his muscles get stronger, train him gradually to\nbear the rays of the sun. Little by little you will harden him till\nhe can face the burning heat of the tropics without danger.\n\nLocke, in the midst of the manly and sensible advice he gives us,\nfalls into inconsistencies one would hardly expect in such a careful\nthinker. The same man who would have children take an ice-cold bath\nsummer and winter, will not let them drink cold water when they\nare hot, or lie on damp grass. But he would never have their shoes\nwater-tight; and why should they let in more water when the child\nis hot than when he is cold, and may we not draw the same inference\nwith regard to the feet and body that he draws with regard to the\nhands and feet and the body and face? If he would have a man all\nface, why blame me if I would have him all feet?\n\nTo prevent children drinking when they are hot, he says they should\nbe trained to eat a piece of bread first. It is a strange thing to\nmake a child eat because he is thirsty; I would as soon give him a\ndrink when he is hungry. You will never convince me that our first\ninstincts are so ill-regulated that we cannot satisfy them without\nendangering our lives. Were that so, the man would have perished\nover and over again before he had learned how to keep himself alive.\n\nWhenever Emile is thirsty let him have a drink, and let him drink\nfresh water just as it is, not even taking the chill off it in the\ndepths of winter and when he is bathed in perspiration. The only\nprecaution I advise is to take care what sort of water you give\nhim.  If the water comes from a river, give it him just as it is;\nif it is spring-water let it stand a little exposed to the air\nbefore he drinks it. In warm weather rivers are warm; it is not\nso with springs, whose water has not been in contact with the air.\nYou must wait till the temperature of the water is the same as that\nof the air. In winter, on the other hand, spring water is safer\nthan river water. It is, however, unusual and unnatural to perspire\ngreatly in winter, especially in the open air, for the cold air\nconstantly strikes the skin and drives the perspiration inwards,\nand prevents the pores opening enough to give it passage. Now I do\nnot intend Emile to take his exercise by the fireside in winter,\nbut in the open air and among the ice. If he only gets warm with\nmaking and throwing snowballs, let him drink when he is thirsty,\nand go on with his game after drinking, and you need not be afraid\nof any ill effects. And if any other exercise makes him perspire\nlet him drink cold water even in winter provided he is thirsty.\nOnly take care to take him to get the water some little distance\naway. In such cold as I am supposing, he would have cooled down\nsufficiently when he got there to be able to drink without danger.\nAbove all, take care to conceal these precautions from him. I\nwould rather he were ill now and then, than always thinking about\nhis health.\n\nSince children take such violent exercise they need a great deal\nof sleep. The one makes up for the other, and this shows that both\nare necessary. Night is the time set apart by nature for rest. It\nis an established fact that sleep is quieter and calmer when the\nsun is below the horizon, and that our senses are less calm when\nthe air is warmed by the rays of the sun. So it is certainly the\nhealthiest plan to rise with the sun and go to bed with the sun.\nHence in our country man and all the other animals with him want\nmore sleep in winter than in summer. But town life is so complex,\nso unnatural, so subject to chances and changes, that it is not\nwise to accustom a man to such uniformity that he cannot do without\nit. No doubt he must submit to rules; but the chief rule is this--be\nable to break the rule if necessary. So do not be so foolish as to\nsoften your pupil by letting him always sleep his sleep out. Leave\nhim at first to the law of nature without any hindrance, but never\nforget that under our conditions he must rise above this law; he\nmust be able to go to bed late and rise early, be awakened suddenly,\nor sit up all night without ill effects. Begin early and proceed\ngently, a step at a time, and the constitution adapts itself to\nthe very conditions which would destroy it if they were imposed\nfor the first time on the grown man.\n\nIn the next place he must be accustomed to sleep in an uncomfortable\nbed, which is the best way to find no bed uncomfortable. Speaking\ngenerally, a hard life, when once we have become used to it,\nincreases our pleasant experiences; an easy life prepares the way\nfor innumerable unpleasant experiences. Those who are too tenderly\nnurtured can only sleep on down; those who are used to sleep on\nbare boards can find them anywhere. There is no such thing as a\nhard bed for the man who falls asleep at once.\n\nThe body is, so to speak, melted and dissolved in a soft bed where\none sinks into feathers and eider-down. The reins when too warmly\ncovered become inflamed. Stone and other diseases are often due to\nthis, and it invariably produces a delicate constitution, which is\nthe seed-ground of every ailment.\n\nThe best bed is that in which we get the best sleep. Emile and\nI will prepare such a bed for ourselves during the daytime. We do\nnot need Persian slaves to make our beds; when we are digging the\nsoil we are turning our mattresses. I know that a healthy child may\nbe made to sleep or wake almost at will. When the child is put to\nbed and his nurse grows weary of his chatter, she says to him, \"Go\nto sleep.\" That is much like saying, \"Get well,\" when he is ill.\nThe right way is to let him get tired of himself. Talk so much that\nhe is compelled to hold his tongue, and he will soon be asleep.\nHere is at least one use for sermons, and you may as well preach\nto him as rock his cradle; but if you use this narcotic at night,\ndo not use it by day.\n\nI shall sometimes rouse Emile, not so much to prevent his sleeping\ntoo much, as to accustom him to anything--even to waking with a\nstart. Moreover, I should be unfit for my business if I could not\nmake him wake himself, and get up, so to speak, at my will, without\nbeing called.\n\nIf he wakes too soon, I shall let him look forward to a tedious\nmorning, so that he will count as gain any time he can give to\nsleep. If he sleeps too late I shall show him some favourite toy\nwhen he wakes. If I want him to wake at a given hour I shall say,\n\"To-morrow at six I am going fishing,\" or \"I shall take a walk to\nsuch and such a place. Would you like to come too?\" He assents,\nand begs me to wake him. I promise, or do not promise, as the case\nrequires. If he wakes too late, he finds me gone. There is something\namiss if he does not soon learn to wake himself.\n\nMoreover, should it happen, though it rarely does, that a sluggish\nchild desires to stagnate in idleness, you must not give way to\nthis tendency, which might stupefy him entirely, but you must apply\nsome stimulus to wake him. You must understand that is no question\nof applying force, but of arousing some appetite which leads to\naction, and such an appetite, carefully selected on the lines laid\ndown by nature, kills two birds with one stone.\n\nIf one has any sort of skill, I can think of nothing for which a\ntaste, a very passion, cannot be aroused in children, and that without\nvanity, emulation, or jealousy. Their keenness, their spirit of\nimitation, is enough of itself; above all, there is their natural\nliveliness, of which no teacher so far has contrived to take\nadvantage. In every game, when they are quite sure it is only play,\nthey endure without complaint, or even with laughter, hardships\nwhich they would not submit to otherwise without floods of tears.\nThe sports of the young savage involve long fasting, blows, burns,\nand fatigue of every kind, a proof that even pain has a charm of\nits own, which may remove its bitterness. It is not every master,\nhowever, who knows how to season this dish, nor can every scholar\neat it without making faces. However, I must take care or I shall\nbe wandering off again after exceptions.\n\nIt is not to be endured that man should become the slave of pain,\ndisease, accident, the perils of life, or even death itself; the\nmore familiar he becomes with these ideas the sooner he will be\ncured of that over-sensitiveness which adds to the pain by impatience\nin bearing it; the sooner he becomes used to the sufferings which\nmay overtake him, the sooner he shall, as Montaigne has put it,\nrob those pains of the sting of unfamiliarity, and so make his soul\nstrong and invulnerable; his body will be the coat of mail which\nstops all the darts which might otherwise find a vital part. Even\nthe approach of death, which is not death itself, will scarcely be\nfelt as such; he will not die, he will be, so to speak, alive or\ndead and nothing more. Montaigne might say of him as he did of a\ncertain king of Morocco, \"No man ever prolonged his life so far into\ndeath.\" A child serves his apprenticeship in courage and endurance\nas well as in other virtues; but you cannot teach children these\nvirtues by name alone; they must learn them unconsciously through\nexperience.\n\nBut speaking of death, what steps shall I take with regard to my\npupil and the smallpox? Shall he be inoculated in infancy, or shall\nI wait till he takes it in the natural course of things? The former\nplan is more in accordance with our practice, for it preserves his\nlife at a time when it is of greater value, at the cost of some\ndanger when his life is of less worth; if indeed we can use the\nword danger with regard to inoculation when properly performed.\n\nBut the other plan is more in accordance with our general principles--to\nleave nature to take the precautions she delights in, precautions\nshe abandons whenever man interferes. The natural man is always\nready; let nature inoculate him herself, she will choose the fitting\noccasion better than we.\n\nDo not think I am finding fault with inoculation, for my reasons\nfor exempting my pupil from it do not in the least apply to yours.\nYour training does not prepare them to escape catching smallpox\nas soon as they are exposed to infection. If you let them take it\nanyhow, they will probably die. I perceive that in different lands\nthe resistance to inoculation is in proportion to the need for\nit; and the reason is plain. So I scarcely condescend to discuss\nthis question with regard to Emile. He will be inoculated or not\naccording to time, place, and circumstances; it is almost a matter of\nindifference, as far as he is concerned. If it gives him smallpox,\nthere will be the advantage of knowing what to expect, knowing\nwhat the disease is; that is a good thing, but if he catches it\nnaturally it will have kept him out of the doctor's hands, which\nis better.\n\nAn exclusive education, which merely tends to keep those who have\nreceived it apart from the mass of mankind, always selects such\nteaching as is costly rather than cheap, even when the latter is\nof more use. Thus all carefully educated young men learn to ride,\nbecause it is costly, but scarcely any of them learn to swim, as\nit costs nothing, and an artisan can swim as well as any one. Yet\nwithout passing through the riding school, the traveller learns\nto mount his horse, to stick on it, and to ride well enough for\npractical purposes; but in the water if you cannot swim you will\ndrown, and we cannot swim unless we are taught. Again, you are not\nforced to ride on pain of death, while no one is sure of escaping\nsuch a common danger as drowning. Emile shall be as much at home\nin the water as on land. Why should he not be able to live in every\nelement? If he could learn to fly, he should be an eagle; I would\nmake him a salamander, if he could bear the heat.\n\nPeople are afraid lest the child should be drowned while he is\nlearning to swim; if he dies while he is learning, or if he dies\nbecause he has not learnt, it will be your own fault. Foolhardiness\nis the result of vanity; we are not rash when no one is looking.\nEmile will not be foolhardy, though all the world were watching\nhim.  As the exercise does not depend on its danger, he will learn\nto swim the Hellespont by swimming, without any danger, a stream\nin his father's park; but he must get used to danger too, so as not\nto be flustered by it. This is an essential part of the apprenticeship\nI spoke of just now. Moreover, I shall take care to proportion the\ndanger to his strength, and I shall always share it myself, so that\nI need scarcely fear any imprudence if I take as much care for his\nlife as for my own.\n\nA child is smaller than a man; he has not the man's strength\nor reason, but he sees and hears as well or nearly as well; his\nsense of taste is very good, though he is less fastidious, and he\ndistinguishes scents as clearly though less sensuously. The senses\nare the first of our faculties to mature; they are those most\nfrequently overlooked or neglected.\n\nTo train the senses it is not enough merely to use them; we must\nlearn to judge by their means, to learn to feel, so to speak; for\nwe cannot touch, see, or hear, except as we have been taught.\n\nThere is a mere natural and mechanical use of the senses which\nstrengthens the body without improving the judgment. It is all\nvery well to swim, run, jump, whip a top, throw stones; but have\nwe nothing but arms and legs? Have we not eyes and ears as well;\nand are not these organs necessary for the use of the rest? Do not\nmerely exercise the strength, exercise all the senses by which it\nis guided; make the best use of every one of them, and check the\nresults of one by the other. Measure, count, weigh, compare. Do not\nuse force till you have estimated the resistance; let the estimation\nof the effect always precede the application of the means. Get the\nchild interested in avoiding insufficient or superfluous efforts.\nIf in this way you train him to calculate the effects of all his\nmovements, and to correct his mistakes by experience, is it not\nclear that the more he does the wiser he will become?\n\nTake the case of moving a heavy mass; if he takes too long a lever,\nhe will waste his strength; if it is too short, he will not have\nstrength enough; experience will teach him to use the very stick he\nneeds. This knowledge is not beyond his years. Take, for example,\na load to be carried; if he wants to carry as much as he can, and\nnot to take up more than he can carry, must he not calculate the\nweight by the appearance? Does he know how to compare masses of like\nsubstance and different size, or to choose between masses of the\nsame size and different substances? He must set to work to compare\ntheir specific weights. I have seen a young man, very highly\neducated, who could not be convinced, till he had tried it, that\na bucket full of blocks of oak weighed less than the same bucket\nfull of water.\n\nAll our senses are not equally under our control. One of them,\ntouch, is always busy during our waking hours; it is spread over\nthe whole surface of the body, like a sentinel ever on the watch to\nwarn us of anything which may do us harm. Whether we will or not,\nwe learn to use it first of all by experience, by constant practice,\nand therefore we have less need for special training for it. Yet we\nknow that the blind have a surer and more delicate sense of touch\nthan we, for not being guided by the one sense, they are forced to\nget from the touch what we get from sight. Why, then, are not we\ntrained to walk as they do in the dark, to recognise what we touch,\nto distinguish things about us; in a word, to do at night and in\nthe dark what they do in the daytime without sight? We are better\noff than they while the sun shines; in the dark it is their turn\nto be our guide. We are blind half our time, with this difference:\nthe really blind always know what to do, while we are afraid to\nstir in the dark. We have lights, you say. What always artificial\naids. Who can insure that they will always be at hand when required.\nI had rather Emil's eyes were in his finger tips, than in the\nchandler's shop.\n\nIf you are shut up in a building at night, clap your hands, you\nwill know from the sound whether the space is large or small, if\nyou are in the middle or in one corner. Half a foot from a wall the\nair, which is refracted and does not circulate freely, produces a\ndifferent effect on your face. Stand still in one place and turn\nthis way and that; a slight draught will tell you if there is a\ndoor open. If you are on a boat you will perceive from the way the\nair strikes your face not merely the direction in which you are\ngoing, but whether the current is bearing you slow or fast. These\nobservations and many others like them can only be properly made\nat night; however much attention we give to them by daylight, we\nare always helped or hindered by sight, so that the results escape\nus.  Yet here we use neither hand nor stick. How much may be learnt\nby touch, without ever touching anything!\n\nI would have plenty of games in the dark! This suggestion is more\nvaluable than it seems at first sight. Men are naturally afraid\nof the dark; so are some animals. [Footnote: This terror is very\nnoticeable during great eclipses of the sun.] Only a few men are\nfreed from this burden by knowledge, determination, and courage.\nI have seen thinkers, unbelievers, philosophers, exceedingly brave\nby daylight, tremble like women at the rustling of a leaf in the\ndark.  This terror is put down to nurses' tales; this is a mistake;\nit has a natural cause. What is this cause? What makes the deaf\nsuspicious and the lower classes superstitious? Ignorance of the\nthings about us, and of what is taking place around us. [Footnote:\nAnother cause has been well explained by a philosopher, often quoted\nin this work, a philosopher to whose wide views I am very greatly\nindebted.]\n\nWhen under special conditions we cannot form a fair idea of distance,\nwhen we can only judge things by the size of the angle or rather\nof the image formed in our eyes, we cannot avoid being deceived\nas to the size of these objects. Every one knows by experience how\nwhen we are travelling at night we take a bush near at hand for a\ngreat tree at a distance, and vice versa. In the same way, if the\nobjects were of a shape unknown to us, so that we could not tell\ntheir size in that way, we should be equally mistaken with regard\nto it. If a fly flew quickly past a few inches from our eyes, we\nshould think it was a distant bird; a horse standing still at a\ndistance from us in the midst of open country, in a position somewhat\nlike that of a sheep, would be taken for a large sheep, so long as\nwe did not perceive that it was a horse; but as soon as we recognise\nwhat it is, it seems as large as a horse, and we at once correct\nour former judgment.\n\nWhenever one finds oneself in unknown places at night where we\ncannot judge of distance, and where we cannot recognise objects by\ntheir shape on account of the darkness, we are in constant danger\nof forming mistaken judgments as to the objects which present\nthemselves to our notice. Hence that terror, that kind of inward\nfear experienced by most people on dark nights. This is foundation\nfor the supposed appearances of spectres, or gigantic and terrible\nforms which so many people profess to have seen. They are generally\ntold that they imagined these things, yet they may really have seen\nthem, and it is quite possible they really saw what they say they\ndid see; for it will always be the case that when we can only\nestimate the size of an object by the angle it forms in the eye,\nthat object will swell and grow as we approach it; and if the\nspectator thought it several feet high when it was thirty or forty\nfeet away, it will seem very large indeed when it is a few feet\noff; this must indeed astonish and alarm the spectator until he\ntouches it and perceives what it is, for as soon as he perceives\nwhat it is, the object which seemed so gigantic will suddenly\nshrink and assume its real size, but if we run away or are afraid\nto approach, we shall certainly form no other idea of the thing\nthan the image formed in the eye, and we shall have really seen a\ngigantic figure of alarming size and shape. There is, therefore, a\nnatural ground for the tendency to see ghosts, and these appearances\nare not merely the creation of the imagination, as the men of\nscience would have us think.--Buffon, Nat. Hist.\n\nIn the text I have tried to show that they are always partly the\ncreation of the imagination, and with regard to the cause explained\nin this quotation, it is clear that the habit of walking by night\nshould teach us to distinguish those appearances which similarity\nof form and diversity of distance lend to the objects seen in the\ndark.  For if the air is light enough for us to see the outlines\nthere must be more air between us and them when they are further\noff, so that we ought to see them less distinctly when further\noff, which should be enough, when we are used to it, to prevent the\nerror described by M. Buffon. [Whichever explanation you prefer,\nmy mode of procedure is still efficacious, and experience entirely\nconfirms it.] Accustomed to perceive things from a distance and to\ncalculate their effects, how can I help supposing, when I cannot\nsee, that there are hosts of creatures and all sorts of movements\nall about me which may do me harm, and against which I cannot\nprotect myself? In vain do I know I am safe where I am; I am never\nso sure of it as when I can actually see it, so that I have always\na cause for fear which did not exist in broad daylight. I know,\nindeed, that a foreign body can scarcely act upon me without some\nslight sound, and how intently I listen! At the least sound which\nI cannot explain, the desire of self-preservation makes me picture\neverything that would put me on my guard, and therefore everything\nmost calculated to alarm me.\n\nI am just as uneasy if I hear no sound, for I might be taken unawares\nwithout a sound. I must picture things as they were before, as they\nought to be; I must see what I do not see. Thus driven to exercise\nmy imagination, it soon becomes my master, and what I did to reassure\nmyself only alarms me more. I hear a noise, it is a robber; I hear\nnothing, it is a ghost. The watchfulness inspired by the instinct\nof self-preservation only makes me more afraid.  Everything that\nought to reassure me exists only for my reason, and the voice of\ninstinct is louder than that of reason. What is the good of thinking\nthere is nothing to be afraid of, since in that case there is\nnothing we can do?\n\nThe cause indicates the cure. In everything habit overpowers\nimagination; it is only aroused by what is new. It is no longer\nimagination, but memory which is concerned with what we see every\nday, and that is the reason of the maxim, \"Ab assuetis non fit\npassio,\" for it is only at the flame of imagination that the passions\nare kindled. Therefore do not argue with any one whom you want to\ncure of the fear of darkness; take him often into dark places and\nbe assured this practice will be of more avail than all the arguments\nof philosophy. The tiler on the roof does not know what it is to\nbe dizzy, and those who are used to the dark will not be afraid.\n\nThere is another advantage to be gained from our games in the dark.\nBut if these games are to be a success I cannot speak too strongly\nof the need for gaiety. Nothing is so gloomy as the dark: do not\nshut your child up in a dungeon, let him laugh when he goes, into\na dark place, let him laugh when he comes out, so that the thought\nof the game he is leaving and the games he will play next may protect\nhim from the fantastic imagination which might lay hold on him.\n\nThere comes a stage in life beyond which we progress backwards. I\nfeel I have reached this stage. I am, so to speak, returning to a\npast career. The approach of age makes us recall the happy days of\nour childhood. As I grow old I become a child again, and I recall\nmore readily what I did at ten than at thirty. Reader, forgive me\nif I sometimes draw my examples from my own experience. If this\nbook is to be well written, I must enjoy writing it.\n\nI was living in the country with a pastor called M. Lambercier.\nMy companion was a cousin richer than myself, who was regarded as\nthe heir to some property, while I, far from my father, was but a\npoor orphan. My big cousin Bernard was unusually timid, especially\nat night. I laughed at his fears, till M. Lambercier was tired of\nmy boasting, and determined to put my courage to the proof. One\nautumn evening, when it was very dark, he gave me the church key,\nand told me to go and fetch a Bible he had left in the pulpit. To\nput me on my mettle he said something which made it impossible for\nme to refuse.\n\nI set out without a light; if I had had one, it would perhaps have\nbeen even worse. I had to pass through the graveyard; I crossed it\nbravely, for as long as I was in the open air I was never afraid\nof the dark.\n\nAs I opened the door I heard a sort of echo in the roof; it sounded\nlike voices and it began to shake my Roman courage. Having opened\nthe door I tried to enter, but when I had gone a few steps I stopped.\nAt the sight of the profound darkness in which the vast building\nlay I was seized with terror and my hair stood on end. I turned,\nI went out through the door, and took to my heels. In the yard\nI found a little dog, called Sultan, whose caresses reassured me.\nAshamed of my fears, I retraced my steps, trying to take Sultan\nwith me, but he refused to follow. Hurriedly I opened the door and\nentered the church. I was hardly inside when terror again got hold\nof me and so firmly that I lost my head, and though the pulpit was\non the right, as I very well knew, I sought it on the left, and\nentangling myself among the benches I was completely lost. Unable\nto find either pulpit or door, I fell into an indescribable state\nof mind. At last I found the door and managed to get out of the\nchurch and run away as I had done before, quite determined never\nto enter the church again except in broad daylight.\n\nI returned to the house; on the doorstep I heard M. Lambercier\nlaughing, laughing, as I supposed, at me. Ashamed to face his laughter,\nI was hesitating to open the door, when I heard Miss Lambercier,\nwho was anxious about me, tell the maid to get the lantern, and\nM. Lambercier got ready to come and look for me, escorted by my\ngallant cousin, who would have got all the credit for the expedition.\nAll at once my fears departed, and left me merely surprised at\nmy terror. I ran, I fairly flew, to the church; without losing my\nway, without groping about, I reached the pulpit, took the Bible,\nand ran down the steps. In three strides I was out of the church,\nleaving the door open. Breathless, I entered the room and threw\nthe Bible on the table, frightened indeed, but throbbing with pride\nthat I had done it without the proposed assistance.\n\nYou will ask if I am giving this anecdote as an example, and as\nan illustration, of the mirth which I say should accompany these\ngames.  Not so, but I give it as a proof that there is nothing so\nwell calculated to reassure any one who is afraid in the dark as to\nhear sounds of laughter and talking in an adjoining room. Instead\nof playing alone with your pupil in the evening, I would have you\nget together a number of merry children; do not send them alone to\nbegin with, but several together, and do not venture to send any\none quite alone, until you are quite certain beforehand that he\nwill not be too frightened.\n\nI can picture nothing more amusing and more profitable than such\ngames, considering how little skill is required to organise them.\nIn a large room I should arrange a sort of labyrinth of tables,\narmchairs, chairs, and screens. In the inextricable windings of\nthis labyrinth I should place some eight or ten sham boxes, and one\nreal box almost exactly like them, but well filled with sweets. I\nshould describe clearly and briefly the place where the right box\nwould be found. I should give instructions sufficient to enable\npeople more attentive and less excitable than children to find it.\n[Footnote: To practise them in attention, only tell them things\nwhich it is clearly to their present interest that they should\nunderstand thoroughly; above all be brief, never say a word more than\nnecessary. But neither let your speech be obscure nor of doubtful\nmeaning.] Then having made the little competitors draw lots, I should\nsend first one and then another till the right box was found.  I\nshould increase the difficulty of the task in proportion to their\nskill.\n\nPicture to yourself a youthful Hercules returning, box in hand, quite\nproud of his expedition. The box is placed on the table and opened\nwith great ceremony. I can hear the bursts of laughter and the\nshouts of the merry party when, instead of the looked-for sweets, he\nfinds, neatly arranged on moss or cotton-wool, a beetle, a snail,\na bit of coal, a few acorns, a turnip, or some such thing.  Another\ntime in a newly whitewashed room, a toy or some small article of\nfurniture would be hung on the wall and the children would have to\nfetch it without touching the wall. When the child who fetches it\ncomes back, if he has failed ever so little to fulfil the conditions,\na dab of white on the brim of his cap, the tip of his shoe, the\nflap of his coat or his sleeve, will betray his lack of skill.\n\nThis is enough, or more than enough, to show the spirit of these\ngames. Do not read my book if you expect me to tell you everything.\n\nWhat great advantages would be possessed by a man so educated,\nwhen compared with others. His feet are accustomed to tread firmly\nin the dark, and his hands to touch lightly; they will guide him\nsafely in the thickest darkness. His imagination is busy with the\nevening games of his childhood, and will find it difficult to turn\ntowards objects of alarm. If he thinks he hears laughter, it will\nbe the laughter of his former playfellows, not of frenzied spirits;\nif he thinks there is a host of people, it will not be the witches'\nsabbath, but the party in his tutor's study. Night only recalls\nthese cheerful memories, and it will never alarm him; it will\ninspire delight rather than fear. He will be ready for a military\nexpedition at any hour, with or without his troop. He will enter\nthe camp of Saul, he will find his way, he will reach the king's\ntent without waking any one, and he will return unobserved. Are the\nsteeds of Rhesus to be stolen, you may trust him. You will scarcely\nfind a Ulysses among men educated in any other fashion.\n\nI have known people who tried to train the children not to fear\nthe dark by startling them. This is a very bad plan; its effects\nare just the opposite of those desired, and it only makes children\nmore timid. Neither reason nor habit can secure us from the fear\nof a present danger whose degree and kind are unknown, nor from\nthe fear of surprises which we have often experienced. Yet how will\nyou make sure that you can preserve your pupil from such accidents?\nI consider this the best advice to give him beforehand. I should\nsay to Emile, \"This is a matter of self-defence, for the aggressor\ndoes not let you know whether he means to hurt or frighten you,\nand as the advantage is on his side you cannot even take refuge\nin flight.  Therefore seize boldly anything, whether man or beast,\nwhich takes you unawares in the dark. Grasp it, squeeze it with all\nyour might; if it struggles, strike, and do not spare your blows;\nand whatever he may say or do, do not let him go till you know\njust who he is.  The event will probably prove that you had little\nto be afraid of, but this way of treating practical jokers would\nnaturally prevent their trying it again.\"\n\nAlthough touch is the sense oftenest used, its discrimination\nremains, as I have already pointed out, coarser and more imperfect\nthan that of any other sense, because we always use sight along with\nit; the eye perceives the thing first, and the mind almost always\njudges without the hand. On the other hand, discrimination by touch\nis the surest just because of its limitations; for extending only\nas far as our hands can reach, it corrects the hasty judgments of\nthe other senses, which pounce upon objects scarcely perceived,\nwhile what we learn by touch is learnt thoroughly. Moreover, touch,\nwhen required, unites the force of our muscles to the action of\nthe nerves; we associate by simultaneous sensations our ideas of\ntemperature, size, and shape, to those of weight and density. Thus\ntouch is the sense which best teaches us the action of foreign\nbodies upon ourselves, the sense which most directly supplies us\nwith the knowledge required for self-preservation.\n\nAs the trained touch takes the place of sight, why should it not,\nto some extent, take the place of hearing, since sounds set up, in\nsonorous bodies, vibrations perceptible by touch? By placing the\nhand on the body of a 'cello one can distinguish without the use\nof eye or ear, merely by the way in which the wood vibrates and\ntrembles, whether the sound given out is sharp or flat, whether\nit is drawn from the treble string or the bass. If our touch were\ntrained to note these differences, no doubt we might in time become\nso sensitive as to hear a whole tune by means of our fingers. But\nif we admit this, it is clear that one could easily speak to the\ndeaf by means of music; for tone and measure are no less capable\nof regular combination than voice and articulation, so that they\nmight be used as the elements of speech.\n\nThere are exercises by which the sense of touch is blunted and\ndeadened, and others which sharpen it and make it delicate and\ndiscriminating. The former, which employ much movement and force\nfor the continued impression of hard bodies, make the skin hard\nand thick, and deprive it of its natural sensitiveness. The latter\nare those which give variety to this feeling, by slight and repeated\ncontact, so that the mind is attentive to constantly recurring\nimpressions, and readily learns to discern their variations. This\ndifference is clear in the use of musical instruments. The harsh and\npainful touch of the 'cello, bass-viol, and even of the violin,\nhardens the finger-tips, although it gives flexibility to the\nfingers. The soft and smooth touch of the harpsichord makes the\nfingers both flexible and sensitive. In this respect the harpsichord\nis to be preferred.\n\nThe skin protects the rest of the body, so it is very important\nto harden it to the effects of the air that it may be able to bear\nits changes. With regard to this I may say I would not have the\nhand roughened by too servile application to the same kind of work,\nnor should the skin of the hand become hardened so as to lose its\ndelicate sense of touch which keeps the body informed of what is\ngoing on, and by the kind of contact sometimes makes us shudder in\ndifferent ways even in the dark.\n\nWhy should my pupil be always compelled to wear the skin of an ox\nunder his foot? What harm would come of it if his own skin could\nserve him at need as a sole. It is clear that a delicate skin\ncould never be of any use in this way, and may often do harm. The\nGenevese, aroused at midnight by their enemies in the depth of\nwinter, seized their guns rather than their shoes. Who can tell\nwhether the town would have escaped capture if its citizens had\nnot been able to go barefoot?\n\nLet a man be always fore-armed against the unforeseen. Let Emile\nrun about barefoot all the year round, upstairs, downstairs, and\nin the garden. Far from scolding him, I shall follow his example;\nonly I shall be careful to remove any broken glass. I shall soon\nproceed to speak of work and manual occupations. Meanwhile, let him\nlearn to perform every exercise which encourages agility of body;\nlet him learn to hold himself easily and steadily in any position,\nlet him practise jumping and leaping, climbing trees and walls.\nLet him always find his balance, and let his every movement and\ngesture be regulated by the laws of weight, long before he learns\nto explain them by the science of statics. By the way his foot is\nplanted on the ground, and his body supported on his leg, he ought\nto know if he is holding himself well or ill. An easy carriage is\nalways graceful, and the steadiest positions are the most elegant.\nIf I were a dancing master I would refuse to play the monkey\ntricks of Marcel, which are only fit for the stage where they are\nperformed; but instead of keeping my pupil busy with fancy steps,\nI would take him to the foot of a cliff. There I would show him\nhow to hold himself, how to carry his body and head, how to place\nfirst a foot then a hand, to follow lightly the steep, toilsome,\nand rugged paths, to leap from point to point, either up or down.\nHe should emulate the mountain-goat, not the ballet dancer.\n\nAs touch confines its operations to the man's immediate surroundings,\nso sight extends its range beyond them; it is this which makes it\nmisleading; man sees half his horizon at a glance. In the midst of\nthis host of simultaneous impressions and the thoughts excited by\nthem, how can he fail now and then to make mistakes? Thus sight is\nthe least reliable of our senses, just because it has the widest\nrange; it functions long before our other senses, and its work is\ntoo hasty and on too large a scale to be corrected by the rest.\nMoreover, the very illusions of perspective are necessary if we are\nto arrive at a knowledge of space and compare one part of space with\nanother. Without false appearances we should never see anything at\na distance; without the gradations of size and tone we could not\njudge of distance, or rather distance would have no existence for\nus. If two trees, one of which was a hundred paces from us and the\nother ten, looked equally large and distinct, we should think they\nwere side by side. If we perceived the real dimensions of things,\nwe should know nothing of space; everything would seem close to\nour eyes.\n\nThe angle formed between any objects and our eye is the only means\nby which our sight estimates their size and distance, and as this\nangle is the simple effect of complex causes, the judgment we form\ndoes not distinguish between the several causes; we are compelled\nto be inaccurate. For how can I tell, by sight alone, whether\nthe angle at which an object appears to me smaller than another,\nindicates that it is really smaller or that it is further off.\n\nHere we must just reverse our former plan. Instead of simplifying\nthe sensation, always reinforce it and verify it by means of another\nsense. Subject the eye to the hand, and, so to speak, restrain the\nprecipitation of the former sense by the slower and more reasoned\npace of the latter. For want of this sort of practice our sight\nmeasurements are very imperfect. We cannot correctly, and at\na glance, estimate height, length, breadth, and distance; and the\nfact that engineers, surveyors, architects, masons, and painters\nare generally quicker to see and better able to estimate distances\ncorrectly, proves that the fault is not in our eyes, but in our\nuse of them. Their occupations give them the training we lack,\nand they check the equivocal results of the angle of vision by its\naccompanying experiences, which determine the relations of the two\ncauses of this angle for their eyes.\n\nChildren will always do anything that keeps them moving freely.\nThere are countless ways of rousing their interest in measuring,\nperceiving, and estimating distance. There is a very tall cherry\ntree; how shall we gather the cherries? Will the ladder in the\nbarn be big enough? There is a wide stream; how shall we get to the\nother side? Would one of the wooden planks in the yard reach from\nbank to bank? From our windows we want to fish in the moat; how\nmany yards of line are required? I want to make a swing between two\ntrees; will two fathoms of cord be enough? They tell me our room\nin the new house will be twenty-five feet square; do you think\nit will be big enough for us? Will it be larger than this? We are\nvery hungry; here are two villages, which can we get to first for\nour dinner?\n\nAn idle, lazy child was to be taught to run. He had no liking for\nthis or any other exercise, though he was intended for the army.\nSomehow or other he had got it into his head that a man of his rank\nneed know nothing and do nothing--that his birth would serve as a\nsubstitute for arms and legs, as well as for every kind of virtue.\nThe skill of Chiron himself would have failed to make a fleet-footed\nAchilles of this young gentleman. The difficulty was increased by\nmy determination to give him no kind of orders. I had renounced all\nright to direct him by preaching, promises, threats, emulation, or\nthe desire to show off. How should I make him want to run without\nsaying anything? I might run myself, but he might not follow my\nexample, and this plan had other drawbacks. Moreover, I must find\nsome means of teaching him through this exercise, so as to train\nmind and body to work together. This is how I, or rather how the\nteacher who supplied me with this illustration, set about it.\n\nWhen I took him a walk of an afternoon I sometimes put in my pocket\na couple of cakes, of a kind he was very fond of; we each ate one\nwhile we were out, and we came back well pleased with our outing.\nOne day he noticed I had three cakes; he could have easily eaten\nsix, so he ate his cake quickly and asked for the other. \"No,\"\nsaid I, \"I could eat it myself, or we might divide it, but I would\nrather see those two little boys run a race for it.\" I called them\nto us, showed them the cake, and suggested that they should race\nfor it.  They were delighted. The cake was placed on a large stone\nwhich was to be the goal; the course was marked out, we sat down,\nand at a given signal off flew the children! The victor seized the\ncake and ate it without pity in the sight of the spectators and of\nhis defeated rival.\n\nThe sport was better than the cake; but the lesson did not take\neffect all at once, and produced no result. I was not discouraged,\nnor did I hurry; teaching is a trade at which one must be able to\nlose time and save it. Our walks were continued, sometimes we took\nthree cakes, sometimes four, and from time to time there were one\nor two cakes for the racers. If the prize was not great, neither\nwas the ambition of the competitors. The winner was praised and\npetted, and everything was done with much ceremony. To give room\nto run and to add interest to the race I marked out a longer course\nand admitted several fresh competitors. Scarcely had they entered\nthe lists than all the passers-by stopped to watch. They were\nencouraged by shouting, cheering, and clapping. I sometimes saw my\nlittle man trembling with excitement, jumping up and shouting when\none was about to reach or overtake another--to him these were the\nOlympian games.\n\nHowever, the competitors did not always play fair, they got in\neach other's way, or knocked one another down, or put stones on\nthe track. That led us to separate them and make them start from\ndifferent places at equal distances from the goal. You will soon\nsee the reason for this, for I must describe this important affair\nat length.\n\nTired of seeing his favourite cakes devoured before his eyes, the\nyoung lord began to suspect that there was some use in being a\nquick runner, and seeing that he had two legs of his own, he began\nto practise running on the quiet. I took care to see nothing, but\nI knew my stratagem had taken effect. When he thought he was good\nenough (and I thought so too), he pretended to tease me to give\nhim the other cake. I refused; he persisted, and at last he said\nangrily, \"Well, put it on the stone and mark out the course, and\nwe shall see.\" \"Very good,\" said I, laughing, \"You will get a good\nappetite, but you will not get the cake.\" Stung by my mockery, he\ntook heart, won the prize, all the more easily because I had marked\nout a very short course and taken care that the best runner was out\nof the way. It will be evident that, after the first step, I had\nno difficulty in keeping him in training. Soon he took such a fancy\nfor this form of exercise that without any favour he was almost\ncertain to beat the little peasant boys at running, however long\nthe course.\n\nThe advantage thus obtained led unexpectedly to another. So long\nas he seldom won the prize, he ate it himself like his rivals, but\nas he got used to victory he grew generous, and often shared it\nwith the defeated. That taught me a lesson in morals and I saw what\nwas the real root of generosity.\n\nWhile I continued to mark out a different starting place for each\ncompetitor, he did not notice that I had made the distances unequal,\nso that one of them, having farther to run to reach the goal, was\nclearly at a disadvantage. But though I left the choice to my pupil\nhe did not know how to take advantage of it. Without thinking of\nthe distance, he always chose the smoothest path, so that I could\neasily predict his choice, and could almost make him win or lose\nthe cake at my pleasure. I had more than one end in view in this\nstratagem; but as my plan was to get him to notice the difference\nhimself, I tried to make him aware of it. Though he was generally\nlazy and easy going, he was so eager in his sports and trusted me\nso completely that I had great difficulty in making him see that\nI was cheating him. When at last I managed to make him see it in\nspite of his excitement, he was angry with me. \"What have you to\ncomplain of?\" said I. \"In a gift which I propose to give of my own\nfree will am not I master of the conditions? Who makes you run?\nDid I promise to make the courses equal? Is not the choice yours?\nDo not you see that I am favouring you, and that the inequality you\ncomplain of is all to your advantage, if you knew how to use it?\"\nThat was plain to him; and to choose he must observe more carefully.\nAt first he wanted to count the paces, but a child measures paces\nslowly and inaccurately; moreover, I decided to have several races\non one day; and the game having become a sort of passion with\nthe child, he was sorry to waste in measuring the portion of time\nintended for running. Such delays are not in accordance with a\nchild's impatience; he tried therefore to see better and to reckon\nthe distance more accurately at sight. It was now quite easy\nto extend and develop this power. At length, after some months'\npractice, and the correction of his errors, I so trained his power\nof judging at sight that I had only to place an imaginary cake on\nany distant object and his glance was nearly as accurate as the\nsurveyor's chain.\n\nOf all the senses, sight is that which we can least distinguish\nfrom the judgments of the mind; as it takes a long time to learn\nto see.  It takes a long time to compare sight and touch, and to\ntrain the former sense to give a true report of shape and distance.\nWithout touch, without progressive motion, the sharpest eyes in\nthe world could give us no idea of space. To the oyster the whole\nworld must seem a point, and it would seem nothing more to it even\nif it had a human mind. It is only by walking, feeling, counting,\nmeasuring the dimensions of things, that we learn to judge them\nrightly; but, on the other hand, if we were always measuring, our\nsenses would trust to the instrument and would never gain confidence.\nNor must the child pass abruptly from measurement to judgment; he\nmust continue to compare the parts when he could not compare the\nwhole; he must substitute his estimated aliquot parts for exact\naliquot parts, and instead of always applying the measure by hand\nhe must get used to applying it by eye alone. I would, however, have\nhis first estimates tested by measurement, so that he may correct\nhis errors, and if there is a false impression left upon the senses\nhe may correct it by a better judgment. The same natural standards\nof measurement are in use almost everywhere, the man's foot, the\nextent of his outstretched arms, his height. When the child wants\nto measure the height of a room, his tutor may serve as a measuring\nrod; if he is estimating the height of a steeple let him measure\nit by the house; if he wants to know how many leagues of road there\nare, let him count the hours spent in walking along it. Above all,\ndo not do this for him; let him do it himself.\n\nOne cannot learn to estimate the extent and size of bodies without\nat the same time learning to know and even to copy their shape; for\nat bottom this copying depends entirely on the laws of perspective,\nand one cannot estimate distance without some feeling for these\nlaws. All children in the course of their endless imitation try to\ndraw; and I would have Emile cultivate this art; not so much for\nart's sake, as to give him exactness of eye and flexibility of hand.\nGenerally speaking, it matters little whether he is acquainted\nwith this or that occupation, provided he gains clearness of\nsense--perception and the good bodily habits which belong to the\nexercise in question. So I shall take good care not to provide him\nwith a drawing master, who would only set him to copy copies and\ndraw from drawings. Nature should be his only teacher, and things\nhis only models. He should have the real thing before his eyes, not\nits copy on paper. Let him draw a house from a house, a tree from\na tree, a man from a man; so that he may train himself to observe\nobjects and their appearance accurately and not to take false and\nconventional copies for truth. I would even train him to draw only\nfrom objects actually before him and not from memory, so that,\nby repeated observation, their exact form may be impressed on his\nimagination, for fear lest he should substitute absurd and fantastic\nforms for the real truth of things, and lose his sense of proportion\nand his taste for the beauties of nature.\n\nOf course I know that in this way he will make any number of daubs\nbefore he produces anything recognisable, that it will be long\nbefore he attains to the graceful outline and light touch of the\ndraughtsman; perhaps he will never have an eye for picturesque effect\nor a good taste in drawing. On the other hand, he will certainly\nget a truer eye, a surer hand, a knowledge of the real relations\nof form and size between animals, plants, and natural objects,\ntogether with a quicker sense of the effects of perspective. That\nis just what I wanted, and my purpose is rather that he should\nknow things than copy them. I would rather he showed me a plant of\nacanthus even if he drew a capital with less accuracy.\n\nMoreover, in this occupation as in others, I do not intend my pupil\nto play by himself; I mean to make it pleasanter for him by always\nsharing it with him. He shall have no other rival; but mine will be\na continual rivalry, and there will be no risk attaching to it; it\nwill give interest to his pursuits without awaking jealousy between\nus. I shall follow his example and take up a pencil; at first\nI shall use it as unskilfully as he. I should be an Apelles if I\ndid not set myself daubing. To begin with, I shall draw a man such\nas lads draw on walls, a line for each arm, another for each leg,\nwith the fingers longer than the arm. Long after, one or other of\nus will notice this lack of proportion; we shall observe that the\nleg is thick, that this thickness varies, that the length of the arm\nis proportionate to the body. In this improvement I shall either\ngo side by side with my pupil, or so little in advance that he will\nalways overtake me easily and sometimes get ahead of me. We shall\nget brushes and paints, we shall try to copy the colours of things\nand their whole appearance, not merely their shape. We shall colour\nprints, we shall paint, we shall daub; but in all our daubing we\nshall be searching out the secrets of nature, and whatever we do\nshall be done under the eye of that master.\n\nWe badly needed ornaments for our room, and now we have them ready\nto our hand. I will have our drawings framed and covered with good\nglass, so that no one will touch them, and thus seeing them where\nwe put them, each of us has a motive for taking care of his own.\nI arrange them in order round the room, each drawing repeated some\ntwenty or thirty times, thus showing the author's progress in each\nspecimen, from the time when the house is merely a rude square,\ntill its front view, its side view, its proportions, its light and\nshade are all exactly portrayed. These graduations will certainly\nfurnish us with pictures, a source of interest to ourselves and of\ncuriosity to others, which will spur us on to further emulation.\nThe first and roughest drawings I put in very smart gilt frames\nto show them off; but as the copy becomes more accurate and the\ndrawing really good, I only give it a very plain dark frame; it\nneeds no other ornament than itself, and it would be a pity if the\nframe distracted the attention which the picture itself deserves.\nThus we each aspire to a plain frame, and when we desire to pour\nscorn on each other's drawings, we condemn them to a gilded frame.\nSome day perhaps \"the gilt frame\" will become a proverb among us,\nand we shall be surprised to find how many people show what they\nare really made of by demanding a gilt frame.\n\nI have said already that geometry is beyond the child's reach; but\nthat is our own fault. We fail to perceive that their method is not\nours, that what is for us the art of reasoning, should be for them\nthe art of seeing. Instead of teaching them our way, we should do\nbetter to adopt theirs, for our way of learning geometry is quite\nas much a matter of imagination as of reasoning. When a proposition is\nenunciated you must imagine the proof; that is, you must discover\non what proposition already learnt it depends, and of all the\npossible deductions from that proposition you must choose just the\none required.\n\nIn this way the closest reasoner, if he is not inventive, may find\nhimself at a loss. What is the result? Instead of making us discover\nproofs, they are dictated to us; instead of teaching us to reason,\nour memory only is employed.\n\nDraw accurate figures, combine them together, put them one upon\nanother, examine their relations, and you will discover the whole\nof elementary geometry in passing from one observation to another,\nwithout a word of definitions, problems, or any other form of\ndemonstration but super-position. I do not profess to teach Emile\ngeometry; he will teach me; I shall seek for relations, he will\nfind them, for I shall seek in such a fashion as to make him find.\nFor instance, instead of using a pair of compasses to draw a circle,\nI shall draw it with a pencil at the end of bit of string attached\nto a pivot. After that, when I want to compare the radii one with\nanother, Emile will laugh at me and show me that the same thread\nat full stretch cannot have given distances of unequal length. If\nI wish to measure an angle of 60 degrees I describe from the apex\nof the angle, not an arc, but a complete circle, for with children\nnothing must be taken for granted. I find that the part of the\ncircle contained between the two lines of the angle is the sixth\npart of a circle. Then I describe another and larger circle from\nthe same centre, and I find the second arc is again the sixth part\nof its circle. I describe a third concentric circle with a similar\nresult, and I continue with more and more circles till Emile,\nshocked at my stupidity, shows me that every arc, large or small,\ncontained by the same angle will always be the sixth part of its\ncircle. Now we are ready to use the protractor.\n\nTo prove that two adjacent angles are equal to two right angles\npeople describe a circle. On the contrary I would have Emile observe\nthe fact in a circle, and then I should say, \"If we took away the\ncircle and left the straight lines, would the angles have changed\ntheir size, etc.?\"\n\nExactness in the construction of figures is neglected; it is taken\nfor granted and stress is laid on the proof. With us, on the other\nhand, there will be no question of proof. Our chief business will\nbe to draw very straight, accurate, and even lines, a perfect\nsquare, a really round circle. To verify the exactness of a figure\nwe will test it by each of its sensible properties, and that will\ngive us a chance to discover fresh properties day by day. We will\nfold the two semi-circles along the diameter, the two halves of\nthe square by the diagonal; he will compare our two figures to see\nwho has got the edges to fit most exactly, i.e., who has done it\nbest; we should argue whether this equal division would always be\npossible in parallelograms, trapezes, etc. We shall sometimes try\nto forecast the result of an experiment, to find reasons, etc.\n\nGeometry means to my scholar the successful use of the rule\nand compass; he must not confuse it with drawing, in which these\ninstruments are not used. The rule and compass will be locked up,\nso that he will not get into the way of messing about with them,\nbut we may sometimes take our figures with us when we go for a\nwalk, and talk over what we have done, or what we mean to do.\n\nI shall never forget seeing a young man at Turin, who had learnt as\na child the relations of contours and surfaces by having to choose\nevery day isoperimetric cakes among cakes of every geometrical\nfigure. The greedy little fellow had exhausted the art of Archimedes\nto find which were the biggest.\n\nWhen the child flies a kite he is training eye and hand to accuracy;\nwhen he whips a top, he is increasing his strength by using it, but\nwithout learning anything. I have sometimes asked why children are\nnot given the same games of skill as men; tennis, mall, billiards,\narchery, football, and musical instruments. I was told that some\nof these are beyond their strength, that the child's senses are\nnot sufficiently developed for others. These do not strike me as\nvalid reasons; a child is not as tall as a man, but he wears the\nsame sort of coat; I do not want him to play with our cues at a\nbilliard-table three feet high; I do not want him knocking about\namong our games, nor carrying one of our racquets in his little\nhand; but let him play in a room whose windows have been protected;\nat first let him only use soft balls, let his first racquets be\nof wood, then of parchment, and lastly of gut, according to his\nprogress. You prefer the kite because it is less tiring and there\nis no danger. You are doubly wrong. Kite-flying is a sport for\nwomen, but every woman will run away from a swift ball. Their white\nskins were not meant to be hardened by blows and their faces were\nnot made for bruises. But we men are made for strength; do you\nthink we can attain it without hardship, and what defence shall we\nbe able to make if we are attacked? People always play carelessly\nin games where there is no danger. A falling kite hurts nobody,\nbut nothing makes the arm so supple as protecting the head, nothing\nmakes the sight so accurate as having to guard the eye. To dash\nfrom one end of the room to another, to judge the rebound of a\nball before it touches the ground, to return it with strength and\naccuracy, such games are not so much sports fit for a man, as sports\nfit to make a man of him.\n\nThe child's limbs, you say, are too tender. They are not so strong\nas those of a man, but they are more supple. His arm is weak, still\nit is an arm, and it should be used with due consideration as we\nuse other tools. Children have no skill in the use of their hands.\nThat is just why I want them to acquire skill; a man with as little\npractice would be just as clumsy. We can only learn the use of our\nlimbs by using them. It is only by long experience that we learn to\nmake the best of ourselves, and this experience is the real object\nof study to which we cannot apply ourselves too early.\n\nWhat is done can be done. Now there is nothing commoner than to find\nnimble and skilful children whose limbs are as active as those of\na man. They may be seen at any fair, swinging, walking on their\nhands, jumping, dancing on the tight rope. For many years past,\ntroops of children have attracted spectators to the ballets at the\nItalian Comedy House. Who is there in Germany and Italy who has\nnot heard of the famous pantomime company of Nicolini? Has it ever\noccurred to any one that the movements of these children were less\nfinished, their postures less graceful, their ears less true, their\ndancing more clumsy than those of grown-up dancers? If at first\nthe fingers are thick, short, and awkward, the dimpled hands unable\nto grasp anything, does this prevent many children from learning\nto read and write at an age when others cannot even hold a pen\nor pencil? All Paris still recalls the little English girl of ten\nwho did wonders on the harpsichord. I once saw a little fellow of\neight, the son of a magistrate, who was set like a statuette on\nthe table among the dishes, to play on a fiddle almost as big as\nhimself, and even artists were surprised at his execution.\n\nTo my mind, these and many more examples prove that the supposed\nincapacity of children for our games is imaginary, and that if they\nare unsuccessful in some of them, it is for want of practice.\n\nYou will tell me that with regard to the body I am falling into\nthe same mistake of precocious development which I found fault with\nfor the mind. The cases are very different: in the one, progress is\napparent only; in the other it is real. I have shown that children\nhave not the mental development they appear to have, while they\nreally do what they seem to do. Besides, we must never forget that\nall this should be play, the easy and voluntary control of the\nmovements which nature demands of them, the art of varying their\ngames to make them pleasanter, without the least bit of constraint\nto transform them into work; for what games do they play in which\nI cannot find material for instruction for them? And even if I\ncould not do so, so long as they are amusing themselves harmlessly\nand passing the time pleasantly, their progress in learning is not\nyet of such great importance. But if one must be teaching them this\nor that at every opportunity, it cannot be done without constraint,\nvexation, or tedium.\n\nWhat I have said about the use of the two senses whose use is most\nconstant and most important, may serve as an example of how to\ntrain the rest. Sight and touch are applied to bodies at rest and\nbodies in motion, but as hearing is only affected by vibrations\nof the air, only a body in motion can make a noise or sound;\nif everything were at rest we should never hear. At night, when\nwe ourselves only move as we choose, we have nothing to fear but\nmoving bodies; hence we need a quick ear, and power to judge from\nthe sensations experienced whether the body which causes them is\nlarge or small, far off or near, whether its movements are gentle\nor violent. When once the air is set in motion, it is subject to\nrepercussions which produce echoes, these renew the sensations and\nmake us hear a loud or penetrating sound in another quarter. If you\nput your ear to the ground you may hear the sound of men's voices\nor horses' feet in a plain or valley much further off than when\nyou stand upright.\n\nAs we have made a comparison between sight and touch, it will be\nas well to do the same for hearing, and to find out which of the\ntwo impressions starting simultaneously from a given body first\nreaches the sense-organ. When you see the flash of a cannon, you\nhave still time to take cover; but when you hear the sound it is\ntoo late, the ball is close to you. One can reckon the distance\nof a thunderstorm by the interval between the lightning and the\nthunder. Let the child learn all these facts, let him learn those\nthat are within his reach by experiment, and discover the rest\nby induction; but I would far rather he knew nothing at all about\nthem, than that you should tell him.\n\nIn the voice we have an organ answering to hearing; we have no\nsuch organ answering to sight, and we do not repeat colours as we\nrepeat sounds. This supplies an additional means of cultivating the\near by practising the active and passive organs one with the other.\n\nMan has three kinds of voice, the speaking or articulate voice, the\nsinging or melodious voice, and the pathetic or expressive voice,\nwhich serves as the language of the passions, and gives life to\nsong and speech. The child has these three voices, just as the man\nhas them, but he does not know how to use them in combination. Like\nus, he laughs, cries, laments, shrieks, and groans, but he does\nnot know how to combine these inflexions with speech or song. These\nthree voices find their best expression in perfect music. Children\nare incapable of such music, and their singing lacks feeling. In\nthe same way their spoken language lacks expression; they shout,\nbut they do not speak with emphasis, and there is as little power\nin their voice as there is emphasis in their speech. Our pupil's\nspeech will be plainer and simpler still, for his passions are still\nasleep, and will not blend their tones with his. Do not, therefore,\nset him to recite tragedy or comedy, nor try to teach declamation\nso-called. He will have too much sense to give voice to things he\ncannot understand, or expression to feelings he has never known.\n\nTeach him to speak plainly and distinctly, to articulate clearly,\nto pronounce correctly and without affectation, to perceive and\nimitate the right accent in prose and verse, and always to speak\nloud enough to be heard, but without speaking too loud--a common\nfault with school-children. Let there be no waste in anything.\n\nThe same method applies to singing; make his voice smooth and true,\nflexible and full, his ear alive to time and tune, but nothing more.\nDescriptive and theatrical music is not suitable at his age----I\nwould rather he sang no words; if he must have words, I would try\nto compose songs on purpose for him, songs interesting to a child,\nand as simple as his own thoughts.\n\nYou may perhaps suppose that as I am in no hurry to teach Emile to\nread and write, I shall not want to teach him to read music. Let\nus spare his brain the strain of excessive attention, and let us\nbe in no hurry to turn his mind towards conventional signs. I grant\nyou there seems to be a difficulty here, for if at first sight the\nknowledge of notes seems no more necessary for singing than the\nknowledge of letters for speaking, there is really this difference\nbetween them: When we speak, we are expressing our own thoughts;\nwhen we sing we are expressing the thoughts of others. Now in order\nto express them we must read them.\n\nBut at first we can listen to them instead of reading them, and a\nsong is better learnt by ear than by eye. Moreover, to learn music\nthoroughly we must make songs as well as sing them, and the two\nprocesses must be studied together, or we shall never have any\nreal knowledge of music. First give your young musician practice\nin very regular, well-cadenced phrases; then let him connect these\nphrases with the very simplest modulations; then show him their\nrelation one to another by correct accent, which can be done by a\nfit choice of cadences and rests. On no account give him anything\nunusual, or anything that requires pathos or expression. A simple,\ntuneful air, always based on the common chords of the key, with its\nbass so clearly indicated that it is easily felt and accompanied,\nfor to train his voice and ear he should always sing with the\nharpsichord.\n\nWe articulate the notes we sing the better to distinguish them;\nhence the custom of sol-faing with certain syllables. To tell the\nkeys one from another they must have names and fixed intervals; hence\nthe names of the intervals, and also the letters of the alphabet\nattached to the keys of the clavier and the notes of the scale. C\nand A indicate fixed sounds, invariable and always rendered by the\nsame keys; Ut and La are different. Ut is always the dominant of\na major scale, or the leading-note of a minor scale. La is always\nthe dominant of a minor scale or the sixth of a major scale. Thus\nthe letters indicate fixed terms in our system of music, and the\nsyllables indicate terms homologous to the similar relations in\ndifferent keys. The letters show the keys on the piano, and the\nsyllables the degrees in the scale. French musicians have made\na strange muddle of this. They have confused the meaning of the\nsyllables with that of the letters, and while they have unnecessarily\ngiven us two sets of symbols for the keys of the piano, they have\nleft none for the chords of the scales; so that Ut and C are always\nthe same for them; this is not and ought not to be; if so, what\nis the use of C? Their method of sol-faing is, therefore, extremely\nand needlessly difficult, neither does it give any clear idea\nto the mind; since, by this method, Ut and Me, for example, may\nmean either a major third, a minor third, an augmented third, or\na diminished third. What a strange thing that the country which\nproduces the finest books about music should be the very country\nwhere it is hardest to learn music!\n\nLet us adopt a simpler and clearer plan with our pupil; let him have\nonly two scales whose relations remain unchanged, and indicated by\nthe same symbols. Whether he sings or plays, let him learn to fix\nhis scale on one of the twelve tones which may serve as a base, and\nwhether he modulates in D, C, or G, let the close be always Ut or\nLa, according to the scale. In this way he will understand what you\nmean, and the essential relations for correct singing and playing\nwill always be present in his mind; his execution will be better\nand his progress quicker. There is nothing funnier than what the\nFrench call \"natural sol-faing;\" it consists in removing the real\nmeaning of things and putting in their place other meanings which\nonly distract us. There is nothing more natural than sol-faing by\ntransposition, when the scale is transposed. But I have said enough,\nand more than enough, about music; teach it as you please, so long\nas it is nothing but play.\n\nWe are now thoroughly acquainted with the condition of foreign\nbodies in relation to our own, their weight, form, colour, density,\nsize, distance, temperature, stability, or motion. We have learnt\nwhich of them to approach or avoid, how to set about overcoming\ntheir resistance or to resist them so as to prevent ourselves from\ninjury; but this is not enough. Our own body is constantly wasting\nand as constantly requires to be renewed. Although we have the\npower of changing other substances into our own, our choice is not\na matter of indifference. Everything is not food for man, and what\nmay be food for him is not all equally suitable; it depends on\nhis racial constitution, the country he lives in, his individual\ntemperament, and the way of living which his condition demands.\n\nIf we had to wait till experience taught us to know and choose fit\nfood for ourselves, we should die of hunger or poison; but a kindly\nprovidence which has made pleasure the means of self-preservation\nto sentient beings teaches us through our palate what is suitable\nfor our stomach. In a state of nature there is no better doctor\nthan a man's own appetite, and no doubt in a state of nature man\ncould find the most palateable food the most wholesome.\n\nNor is this all. Our Maker provides, not only for those needs he\nhas created, but for those we create for ourselves; and it is to\nkeep the balance between our wants and our needs that he has caused\nour tastes to change and vary with our way of living. The further\nwe are from a state of nature, the more we lose our natural tastes;\nor rather, habit becomes a second nature, and so completely replaces\nour real nature, that we have lost all knowledge of it.\n\nFrom this it follows that the most natural tastes should be the\nsimplest, for those are more easily changed; but when they are\nsharpened and stimulated by our fancies they assume a form which\nis incapable of modification. The man who so far has not adapted\nhimself to one country can learn the ways of any country whatsoever;\nbut the man who has adopted the habits of one particular country\ncan never shake them off.\n\nThis seems to be true of all our senses, especially of taste. Our\nfirst food is milk; we only become accustomed by degrees to strong\nflavours; at first we dislike them. Fruit, vegetables, herbs, and\nthen fried meat without salt or seasoning, formed the feasts of\nprimitive man. When the savage tastes wine for the first time, he\nmakes a grimace and spits it out; and even among ourselves a man who\nhas not tasted fermented liquors before twenty cannot get used to\nthem; we should all be sober if we did not have wine when we were\nchildren. Indeed, the simpler our tastes are, the more general they\nare; made dishes are those most frequently disliked. Did you ever\nmeet with any one who disliked bread or water? Here is the finger\nof nature, this then is our rule. Preserve the child's primitive\ntastes as long as possible; let his food be plain and simple, let\nstrong flavours be unknown to his palate, and do not let his diet\nbe too uniform.\n\nI am not asking, for the present, whether this way of living is\nhealthier or no; that is not what I have in view. It is enough for\nme to know that my choice is more in accordance with nature, and\nthat it can be more readily adapted to other conditions. In my\nopinion, those who say children should be accustomed to the food\nthey will have when they are grown up are mistaken. Why should\ntheir food be the same when their way of living is so different?\nA man worn out by labour, anxiety, and pain needs tasty foods to\ngive fresh vigour to his brain; a child fresh from his games, a\nchild whose body is growing, needs plentiful food which will supply\nmore chyle. Moreover the grown man has already a settled profession,\noccupation, and home, but who can tell what Fate holds in store\nfor the child? Let us not give him so fixed a bent in any direction\nthat he cannot change it if required without hardship. Do not bring\nhim up so that he would die of hunger in a foreign land if he does\nnot take a French cook about with him; do not let him say at some\nfuture time that France is the only country where the food is fit\nto eat.  By the way, that is a strange way of praising one's country.\nOn the other hand, I myself should say that the French are the only\npeople who do not know what good food is, since they require such\na special art to make their dishes eatable.\n\nOf all our different senses, we are usually most affected by taste.\nThus it concerns us more nearly to judge aright of what will\nactually become part of ourselves, than of that which will merely\nform part of our environment. Many things are matters of indifference\nto touch, hearing, and sight; but taste is affected by almost\neverything. Moreover the activity of this sense is wholly physical\nand material; of all the senses, it alone makes no appeal to the\nimagination, or at least, imagination plays a smaller part in its\nsensations; while imitation and imagination often bring morality\ninto the impressions of the other senses. Thus, speaking generally,\nsoft and pleasure-loving minds, passionate and truly sensitive\ndispositions, which are easily stirred by the other senses, are\nusually indifferent to this. From this very fact, which apparently\nplaces taste below our other senses and makes our inclination towards\nit the more despicable, I draw just the opposite conclusion--that\nthe best way to lead children is by the mouth. Greediness is a better\nmotive than vanity; for the former is a natural appetite directly\ndependent on the senses, while the latter is the outcome of\nconvention, it is the slave of human caprice and liable to every\nkind of abuse. Believe me the child will cease to care about his\nfood only too soon, and when his heart is too busy, his palate will\nbe idle. When he is grown up greediness will be expelled by a host\nof stronger passions, while vanity will only be stimulated by them;\nfor this latter passion feeds upon the rest till at length they\nare all swallowed up in it. I have sometimes studied those men who\npay great attention to good eating, men whose first waking thought\nis--What shall we have to eat to-day? men who describe their dinner\nwith as much detail as Polybius describes a combat. I have found\nthese so-called men were only children of forty, without strength\nor vigour--fruges consumere nati. Gluttony is the vice of feeble\nminds.  The gourmand has his brains in his palate, he can do nothing\nbut eat; he is so stupid and incapable that the table is the only\nplace for him, and dishes are the only things he knows anything\nabout. Let us leave him to this business without regret; it is\nbetter for him and for us.\n\nIt is a small mind that fears lest greediness should take root\nin the child who is fit for something better. The child thinks of\nnothing but his food, the youth pays no heed to it at all; every\nkind of food is good, and we have other things to attend to. Yet\nI would not have you use the low motive unwisely. I would not have\nyou trust to dainties rather than to the honour which is the reward\nof a good deed. But childhood is, or ought to be, a time of play\nand merry sports, and I do not see why the rewards of purely bodily\nexercises should not be material and sensible rewards. If a little\nlad in Majorca sees a basket on the tree-top and brings it down\nwith his sling, is it not fair that he should get something by this,\nand a good breakfast should repair the strength spent in getting\nit. If a young Spartan, facing the risk of a hundred stripes, slips\nskilfully into the kitchen, and steals a live fox cub, carries it\noff in his garment, and is scratched, bitten till the blood comes,\nand for shame lest he should be caught the child allows his bowels\nto be torn out without a movement or a cry, is it not fair that he\nshould keep his spoils, that he should eat his prey after it has\neaten him? A good meal should never be a reward; but why should it\nnot be sometimes the result of efforts made to get it. Emile does\nnot consider the cake I put on the stone as a reward for good running;\nhe knows that the only way to get the cake is to get there first.\n\nThis does not contradict my previous rules about simple food; for\nto tempt a child's appetite you need not stimulate it, you need\nonly satisfy it; and the commonest things will do this if you do\nnot attempt to refine children's taste. Their perpetual hunger,\nthe result of their need for growth, will be the best sauce. Fruit,\nmilk, a piece of cake just a little better than ordinary bread, and\nabove all the art of dispensing these things prudently, by these\nmeans you may lead a host of children to the world's end, without\non the one hand giving them a taste for strong flavours, nor on\nthe other hand letting them get tired of their food.\n\nThe indifference of children towards meat is one proof that the\ntaste for meat is unnatural; their preference is for vegetable\nfoods, such as milk, pastry, fruit, etc. Beware of changing this\nnatural taste and making children flesh-eaters, if not for their\nhealth's sake, for the sake of their character; for how can one\nexplain away the fact that great meat-eaters are usually fiercer\nand more cruel than other men; this has been recognised at all\ntimes and in all places. The English are noted for their cruelty\n[Footnote: I am aware that the English make a boast of their\nhumanity and of the kindly disposition of their race, which they\ncall \"good-natured people;\" but in vain do they proclaim this fact;\nno one else says it of them.] while the Gaures are the gentlest\nof men. [Footnote: The Banians, who abstain from flesh even more\ncompletely than the Gaures, are almost as gentle as the Gaures\nthemselves, but as their morality is less pure and their form of\nworship less reasonable they are not such good men.] All savages\nare cruel, and it is not their customs that tend in this direction;\ntheir cruelty is the result of their food. They go to war as to the\nchase, and treat men as they would treat bears. Indeed in England\nbutchers are not allowed to give evidence in a court of law, no\nmore can surgeons. [Footnote: One of the English translators of my\nbook has pointed out my mistake, and both of them have corrected\nit. Butchers and surgeons are allowed to give evidence in the law\ncourts, but butchers may not serve on juries in criminal cases,\nthough surgeons are allowed to do so.] Great criminals prepare\nthemselves for murder by drinking blood. Homer makes his flesh-eating\nCyclops a terrible man, while his Lotus-eaters are so delightful\nthat those who went to trade with them forgot even their own country\nto dwell among them.\n\n\"You ask me,\" said Plutarch, \"why Pythagoras abstained from eating\nthe flesh of beasts, but I ask you, what courage must have been\nneeded by the first man who raised to his lips the flesh of the\nslain, who broke with his teeth the bones of a dying beast, who had\ndead bodies, corpses, placed before him and swallowed down limbs\nwhich a few moments ago were bleating, bellowing, walking, and seeing?\nHow could his hand plunge the knife into the heart of a sentient\ncreature, how could his eyes look on murder, how could he behold\na poor helpless animal bled to death, scorched, and dismembered?\nhow can he bear the sight of this quivering flesh? does not the\nvery smell of it turn his stomach? is he not repelled, disgusted,\nhorror-struck, when he has to handle the blood from these wounds,\nand to cleanse his fingers from the dark and viscous bloodstains?\n\n     \"The scorched skins wriggled upon the ground,\n     The shrinking flesh bellowed upon the spit.\n     Man cannot eat them without a shudder;\n     He seems to hear their cries within his breast.\n\n\"Thus must he have felt the first time he did despite to nature and\nmade this horrible meal; the first time he hungered for the living\ncreature, and desired to feed upon the beast which was still\ngrazing; when he bade them slay, dismember, and cut up the sheep\nwhich licked his hands. It is those who began these cruel feasts,\nnot those who abandon them, who should cause surprise, and there\nwere excuses for those primitive men, excuses which we have not,\nand the absence of such excuses multiplies our barbarity a hundredfold.\n\n\"'Mortals, beloved of the gods,' says this primitive man, 'compare\nour times with yours; see how happy you are, and how wretched were\nwe. The earth, newly formed, the air heavy with moisture, were\nnot yet subjected to the rule of the seasons. Three-fourths of the\nsurface of the globe was flooded by the ever-shifting channels of\nrivers uncertain of their course, and covered with pools, lakes,\nand bottomless morasses. The remaining quarter was covered with\nwoods and barren forests. The earth yielded no good fruit, we had\nno instruments of tillage, we did not even know the use of them,\nand the time of harvest never came for those who had sown nothing.\nThus hunger was always in our midst. In winter, mosses and the\nbark of trees were our common food. A few green roots of dogs-bit\nor heather were a feast, and when men found beech-mast, nuts, or\nacorns, they danced for joy round the beech or oak, to the sound\nof some rude song, while they called the earth their mother and\ntheir nurse. This was their only festival, their only sport; all\nthe rest of man's life was spent in sorrow, pain, and hunger.\n\n\"'At length, when the bare and naked earth no longer offered us any\nfood, we were compelled in self-defence to outrage nature, and to\nfeed upon our companions in distress, rather than perish with them.\nBut you, oh, cruel men! who forces you to shed blood? Behold the\nwealth of good things about you, the fruits yielded by the earth,\nthe wealth of field and vineyard; the animals give their milk for\nyour drink and their fleece for your clothing. What more do you\nask?  What madness compels you to commit such murders, when you\nhave already more than you can eat or drink? Why do you slander\nour mother earth, and accuse her of denying you food? Why do you\nsin against Ceres, the inventor of the sacred laws, and against the\ngracious Bacchus, the comforter of man, as if their lavish gifts\nwere not enough to preserve mankind? Have you the heart to mingle\ntheir sweet fruits with the bones upon your table, to eat with the\nmilk the blood of the beasts which gave it? The lions and panthers,\nwild beasts as you call them, are driven to follow their natural\ninstinct, and they kill other beasts that they may live. But,\na hundredfold fiercer than they, you fight against your instincts\nwithout cause, and abandon yourselves to the most cruel pleasures.\nThe animals you eat are not those who devour others; you do not eat\nthe carnivorous beasts, you take them as your pattern. You only\nhunger for the sweet and gentle creatures which harm no one, which\nfollow you, serve you, and are devoured by you as the reward of\ntheir service.\n\n\"'O unnatural murderer! if you persist in the assertion that nature\nhas made you to devour your fellow-creatures, beings of flesh and\nblood, living and feeling like yourself, stifle if you can that\nhorror with which nature makes you regard these horrible feasts;\nslay the animals yourself, slay them, I say, with your own hands,\nwithout knife or mallet; tear them with your nails like the lion\nand the bear, take this ox and rend him in pieces, plunge your\nclaws into his hide; eat this lamb while it is yet alive, devour\nits warm flesh, drink its soul with its blood. You shudder! you dare\nnot feel the living throbbing flesh between your teeth? Ruthless\nman; you begin by slaying the animal and then you devour it, as\nif to slay it twice. It is not enough. You turn against the dead\nflesh, it revolts you, it must be transformed by fire, boiled and\nroasted, seasoned and disguised with drugs; you must have butchers,\ncooks, turnspits, men who will rid the murder of its horrors, who\nwill dress the dead bodies so that the taste deceived by these\ndisguises will not reject what is strange to it, and will feast on\ncorpses, the very sight of which would sicken you.'\"\n\nAlthough this quotation is irrelevant, I cannot resist the temptation\nto transcribe it, and I think few of my readers will resent it.\n\nIn conclusion, whatever food you give your children, provided you\naccustom them to nothing but plain and simple dishes, let them eat\nand run and play as much as they want; you may be sure they will\nnever eat too much and will never have indigestion; but if you keep\nthem hungry half their time, when they do contrive to evade your\nvigilance, they will take advantage of it as far as they can; they\nwill eat till they are sick, they will gorge themselves till they\ncan eat no more. Our appetite is only excessive because we try to\nimpose on it rules other than those of nature, opposing, controlling,\nprescribing, adding, or substracting; the scales are always in our\nhands, but the scales are the measure of our caprices not of our\nstomachs. I return to my usual illustration; among peasants the\ncupboard and the apple-loft are always left open, and indigestion\nis unknown alike to children and grown-up people.\n\nIf, however, it happened that a child were too great an eater,\nthough, under my system, I think it is impossible, he is so easily\ndistracted by his favourite games that one might easily starve him\nwithout his knowing it. How is it that teachers have failed to use\nsuch a safe and easy weapon. Herodotus records that the Lydians,\n[Footnote: The ancient historians are full of opinions which may be\nuseful, even if the facts which they present are false. But we do\nnot know how to make any real use of history. Criticism and erudition\nare our only care; as if it mattered more that a statement were\ntrue or false than that we should be able to get a useful lesson\nfrom it. A wise man should consider history a tissue of fables whose\nmorals are well adapted to the human heart.] under the pressure of\ngreat scarcity, decided to invent sports and other amusements with\nwhich to cheat their hunger, and they passed whole days without\nthought of food. Your learned teachers may have read this passage\ntime after time without seeing how it might be applied to children.\nOne of these teachers will probably tell me that a child does not\nlike to leave his dinner for his lessons. You are right, sir--I\nwas not thinking of that sort of sport.\n\nThe sense of smell is to taste what sight is to touch; it goes\nbefore it and gives it warning that it will be affected by this or\nthat substance; and it inclines it to seek or shun this experience\naccording to the impressions received beforehand. I have been told\nthat savages receive impressions quite different from ours, and\nthat they have quite different ideas with regard to pleasant or\nunpleasant odours. I can well believe it. Odours alone are slight\nsensations; they affect the imagination rather than the senses,\nand they work mainly through the anticipations they arouse. This\nbeing so, and the tastes of savages being so unlike the taste of\ncivilised men, they should lead them to form very different ideas\nwith regard to flavours and therefore with regard to the odours\nwhich announce them. A Tartar must enjoy the smell of a haunch of\nputrid horseflesh, much as a sportsman enjoys a very high partridge.\nOur idle sensations, such as the scents wafted from the flower\nbeds, must pass unnoticed among men who walk too much to care for\nstrolling in a garden, and do not work enough to find pleasure in\nrepose. Hungry men would find little pleasure in scents which did\nnot proclaim the approach of food.\n\nSmell is the sense of the imagination; as it gives tone to the nerves\nit must have a great effect on the brain; that is why it revives\nus for the time, but eventually causes exhaustion. Its effects\non love are pretty generally recognised. The sweet perfumes of a\ndressing-room are not so slight a snare as you may fancy them, and\nI hardly know whether to congratulate or condole with that wise\nand somewhat insensible person whose senses are never stirred by\nthe scent of the flowers his mistress wears in her bosom.\n\nHence the sense of smell should not be over-active in early\nchildhood; the imagination, as yet unstirred by changing passions,\nis scarcely susceptible of emotion, and we have not enough experience\nto discern beforehand from one sense the promise of another. This\nview is confirmed by observation, and it is certain that the sense\nof smell is dull and almost blunted in most children.  Not that their\nsensations are less acute than those of grown-up people, but that\nthere is no idea associated with them; they do not easily experience\npleasure or pain, and are not flattered or hurt as we are. Without\ngoing beyond my system, and without recourse to comparative\nanatomy, I think we can easily see why women are generally fonder\nof perfumes than men.\n\nIt is said that from early childhood the Redskins of Canada, train\ntheir sense of smell to such a degree of subtlety that, although\nthey have dogs, they do not condescend to use them in hunting--they\nare their own dogs. Indeed I believe that if children were trained\nto scent their dinner as a dog scents game, their sense of smell\nmight be nearly as perfect; but I see no very real advantage to be\nderived from this sense, except by teaching the child to observe\nthe relation between smell and taste. Nature has taken care to\ncompel us to learn these relations. She has made the exercise of\nthe latter sense practically inseparable from that of the former,\nby placing their organs close together, and by providing, in the\nmouth, a direct pathway between them, so that we taste nothing\nwithout smelling it too. Only I would not have these natural\nrelations disturbed in order to deceive the child, e.g.; to conceal\nthe taste of medicine with an aromatic odour, for the discord\nbetween the senses is too great for deception, the more active\nsense overpowers the other, the medicine is just as distasteful,\nand this disagreeable association extends to every sensation experienced\nat the time; so the slightest of these sensations recalls the rest\nto his imagination and a very pleasant perfume is for him only a\nnasty smell; thus our foolish precautions increase the sum total\nof his unpleasant sensations at the cost of his pleasant sensations.\n\nIn the following books I have still to speak of the training of a\nsort of sixth sense, called common-sense, not so much because it is\ncommon to all men, but because it results from the well-regulated\nuse of the other five, and teaches the nature of things by the\nsum-total of their external aspects. So this sixth sense has no\nspecial organ, it has its seat in the brain, and its sensations\nwhich are purely internal are called percepts or ideas. The number\nof these ideas is the measure of our knowledge; exactness of thought\ndepends on their clearness and precision; the art of comparing\nthem one with another is called human reason. Thus what I call the\nreasoning of the senses, or the reasoning of the child, consists\nin the formation of simple ideas through the associated experience\nof several sensations; what I call the reasoning of the intellect,\nconsists in the formation, of complex ideas through the association\nof several simple ideas.\n\nIf my method is indeed that of nature, and if I am not mistaken in\nthe application of that method, we have led our pupil through the\nregion of sensation to the bounds of the child's reasoning; the\nfirst step we take beyond these bounds must be the step of a man.\nBut before we make this fresh advance, let us glance back for\na moment at the path we have hitherto followed. Every age, every\nstation in life, has a perfection, a ripeness, of its own. We have\noften heard the phrase \"a grown man;\" but we will consider \"a grown\nchild.\" This will be a new experience and none the less pleasing.\n\nThe life of finite creatures is so poor and narrow that the\nmere sight of what is arouses no emotion. It is fancy which decks\nreality, and if imagination does not lend its charm to that which\ntouches our senses, our barren pleasure is confined to the senses\nalone, while the heart remains cold. The earth adorned with\nthe treasures of autumn displays a wealth of colour which the eye\nadmires; but this admiration fails to move us, it springs rather\nfrom thought than from feeling. In spring the country is almost\nbare and leafless, the trees give no shade, the grass has hardly\nbegun to grow, yet the heart is touched by the sight. In this new\nbirth of nature, we feel the revival of our own life; the memories\nof past pleasures surround us; tears of delight, those companions\nof pleasure ever ready to accompany a pleasing sentiment, tremble\non our eyelids. Animated, lively, and delightful though the vintage\nmay be, we behold it without a tear.\n\nAnd why is this? Because imagination adds to the sight of spring\nthe image of the seasons which are yet to come; the eye sees the\ntender shoot, the mind's eye beholds its flowers, fruit, and foliage,\nand even the mysteries they may conceal. It blends successive stages\ninto one moment's experience; we see things, not so much as they\nwill be, but as we would have them be, for imagination has only to\ntake her choice. In autumn, on the other hand, we only behold the\npresent; if we wish to look forward to spring, winter bars the way,\nand our shivering imagination dies away among its frost and snow.\n\nThis is the source of the charm we find in beholding the beauties\nof childhood, rather than the perfection of manhood. When do we\nreally delight in beholding a man? When the memory of his deeds\nleads us to look back over his life and his youth is renewed in\nour eyes. If we are reduced to viewing him as he is, or to picturing\nhim as he will be in old age, the thought of declining years destroys\nall our pleasure. There is no pleasure in seeing a man hastening\nto his grave; the image of death makes all hideous.\n\nBut when I think of a child of ten or twelve, strong, healthy,\nwell-grown for his age, only pleasant thoughts are called up, whether\nof the present or the future. I see him keen, eager, and full of\nlife, free from gnawing cares and painful forebodings, absorbed\nin this present state, and delighting in a fullness of life which\nseems to extend beyond himself. I look forward to a time when he\nwill use his daily increasing sense, intelligence and vigour, those\ngrowing powers of which he continually gives fresh proof. I watch\nthe child with delight, I picture to myself the man with even\ngreater pleasure. His eager life seems to stir my own pulses, I\nseem to live his life and in his vigour I renew my own.\n\nThe hour strikes, the scene is changed. All of a sudden his eye\ngrows dim, his mirth has fled. Farewell mirth, farewell untrammelled\nsports in which he delighted. A stern, angry man takes him by the\nhand, saying gravely, \"Come with me, sir,\" and he is led away. As\nthey are entering the room, I catch a glimpse of books. Books, what\ndull food for a child of his age! The poor child allows himself to\nbe dragged away; he casts a sorrowful look on all about him, and\ndeparts in silence, his eyes swollen with the tears he dare not\nshed, and his heart bursting with the sighs he dare not utter.\n\nYou who have no such cause for fear, you for whom no period of life\nis a time of weariness and tedium, you who welcome days without\ncare and nights without impatience, you who only reckon time by\nyour pleasures, come, my happy kindly pupil, and console us for\nthe departure of that miserable creature. Come! Here he is and at\nhis approach I feel a thrill of delight which I see he shares. It\nis his friend, his comrade, who meets him; when he sees me he knows\nvery well that he will not be long without amusement; we are never\ndependent on each other, but we are always on good terms, and we\nare never so happy as when together.\n\nHis face, his bearing, his expression, speak of confidence and\ncontentment; health shines in his countenance, his firm step speaks\nof strength; his colour, delicate but not sickly, has nothing of\nsoftness or effeminacy. Sun and wind have already set the honourable\nstamp of manhood on his countenance; his rounded muscles already\nbegin to show some signs of growing individuality; his eyes, as yet\nunlighted by the flame of feeling, have at least all their native\ncalm; They have not been darkened by prolonged sorrow, nor are his\ncheeks furrowed by ceaseless tears. Behold in his quick and certain\nmovements the natural vigour of his age and the confidence of\nindependence. His manner is free and open, but without a trace of\ninsolence or vanity; his head which has not been bent over books\ndoes not fall upon his breast; there is no need to say, \"Hold your\nhead up,\" he will neither hang his head for shame or fear.\n\nMake room for him, gentlemen, in your midst; question him boldly;\nhave no fear of importunity, chatter, or impertinent questions. You\nneed not be afraid that he will take possession of you and expect\nyou to devote yourself entirely to him, so that you cannot get rid\nof him.\n\nNeither need you look for compliments from him; nor will he tell\nyou what I have taught him to say; expect nothing from him but\nthe plain, simple truth, without addition or ornament and without\nvanity. He will tell you the wrong things he has done and thought\nas readily as the right, without troubling himself in the least as\nto the effect of his words upon you; he will use speech with all\nthe simplicity of its first beginnings.\n\nWe love to augur well of our children, and we are continually\nregretting the flood of folly which overwhelms the hopes we would\nfain have rested on some chance phrase. If my scholar rarely gives\nme cause for such prophecies, neither will he give me cause for\nsuch regrets, for he never says a useless word, and does not exhaust\nhimself by chattering when he knows there is no one to listen to\nhim. His ideas are few but precise, he knows nothing by rote but\nmuch by experience. If he reads our books worse than other children,\nhe reads far better in the book of nature; his thoughts are not in\nhis tongue but in his brain; he has less memory and more judgment;\nhe can only speak one language, but he understands what he is\nsaying, and if his speech is not so good as that of other children\nhis deeds are better.\n\nHe does not know the meaning of habit, routine, and custom; what\nhe did yesterday has no control over what he is doing to-day; he\nfollows no rule, submits to no authority, copies no pattern, and\nonly acts or speaks as he pleases. So do not expect set speeches\nor studied manners from him, but just the faithful expression of\nhis thoughts and the conduct that springs from his inclinations.\n[Footnote: Habit owes its charm to man's natural idleness, and\nthis idleness grows upon us if indulged; it is easier to do what we\nhave already done, there is a beaten path which is easily followed.\nThus we may observe that habit is very strong in the aged and in\nthe indolent, and very weak in the young and active. The rule of\nhabit is only good for feeble hearts, and it makes them more and\nmore feeble day by day. The only useful habit for children is to\nbe accustomed to submit without difficulty to necessity, and the\nonly useful habit for man is to submit without difficulty to the\nrule of reason. Every other habit is a vice.]\n\nYou will find he has a few moral ideas concerning his present state\nand none concerning manhood; what use could he make of them, for\nthe child is not, as yet, an active member of society. Speak to\nhim of freedom, of property, or even of what is usually done; he\nmay understand you so far; he knows why his things are his own,\nand why other things are not his, and nothing more. Speak to him\nof duty or obedience; he will not know what you are talking about;\nbid him do something and he will pay no attention; but say to him,\n\"If you will give me this pleasure, I will repay it when required,\"\nand he will hasten to give you satisfaction, for he asks nothing\nbetter than to extend his domain, to acquire rights over you,\nwhich will, he knows, be respected. Maybe he is not sorry to have\na place of his own, to be reckoned of some account; but if he has\nformed this latter idea, he has already left the realms of nature,\nand you have failed to bar the gates of vanity.\n\nFor his own part, should he need help, he will ask it readily of\nthe first person he meets. He will ask it of a king as readily as\nof his servant; all men are equals in his eyes. From his way of\nasking you will see he knows you owe him nothing, that he is asking\na favour.  He knows too that humanity moves you to grant this favour;\nhis words are few and simple. His voice, his look, his gesture are\nthose of a being equally familiar with compliance and refusal. It\nis neither the crawling, servile submission of the slave, nor the\nimperious tone of the master, it is a modest confidence in mankind;\nit is the noble and touching gentleness of a creature, free, yet\nsensitive and feeble, who asks aid of a being, free, but strong\nand kindly. If you grant his request he will not thank you, but\nhe will feel he has incurred a debt. If you refuse he will neither\ncomplain nor insist; he knows it is useless; he will not say,\n\"They refused to help me,\" but \"It was impossible,\" and as I have\nalready said, we do not rebel against necessity when once we have\nperceived it.\n\nLeave him to himself and watch his actions without speaking, consider\nwhat he is doing and how he sets about it. He does not require to\nconvince himself that he is free, so he never acts thoughtlessly\nand merely to show that he can do what he likes; does he not know\nthat he is always his own master? He is quick, alert, and ready;\nhis movements are eager as befits his age, but you will not find\none which has no end in view. Whatever he wants, he will never\nattempt what is beyond his powers, for he has learnt by experience\nwhat those powers are; his means will always be adapted to the end\nin view, and he will rarely attempt anything without the certainty\nof success; his eye is keen and true; he will not be so stupid as\nto go and ask other people about what he sees; he will examine it\non his own account, and before he asks he will try every means at\nhis disposal to discover what he wants to know for himself.  If he\nlights upon some unexpected difficulty, he will be less upset than\nothers; if there is danger he will be less afraid. His imagination\nis still asleep and nothing has been done to arouse it; he only\nsees what is really there, and rates the danger at its true worth;\nso he never loses his head. He does not rebel against necessity,\nher hand is too heavy upon him; he has borne her yoke all his life\nlong, he is well used to it; he is always ready for anything.\n\nWork or play are all one to him, his games are his work; he knows\nno difference. He brings to everything the cheerfulness of interest,\nthe charm of freedom, and he shows the bent of his own mind and\nthe extent of his knowledge. Is there anything better worth seeing,\nanything more touching or more delightful, than a pretty child,\nwith merry, cheerful glance, easy contented manner, open smiling\ncountenance, playing at the most important things, or working at\nthe lightest amusements?\n\nWould you now judge him by comparison? Set him among other children\nand leave him to himself. You will soon see which has made most\nprogress, which comes nearer to the perfection of childhood. Among\nall the children in the town there is none more skilful and none\nso strong. Among young peasants he is their equal in strength and\ntheir superior in skill. In everything within a child's grasp he\njudges, reasons, and shows a forethought beyond the rest. Is it\na matter of action, running, jumping, or shifting things, raising\nweights or estimating distance, inventing games, carrying off\nprizes; you might say, \"Nature obeys his word,\" so easily does he\nbend all things to his will. He is made to lead, to rule his fellows;\ntalent and experience take the place of right and authority. In any\ngarb, under any name, he will still be first; everywhere he will\nrule the rest, they will always feel his superiority, he will be\nmaster without knowing it, and they will serve him unawares.\n\nHe has reached the perfection of childhood; he has lived the life\nof a child; his progress has not been bought at the price of his\nhappiness, he has gained both. While he has acquired all the wisdom\nof a child, he has been as free and happy as his health permits.\nIf the Reaper Death should cut him off and rob us of our hopes,\nwe need not bewail alike his life and death, we shall not have the\nadded grief of knowing that we caused him pain; we will say, \"His\nchildhood, at least, was happy; we have robbed him of nothing that\nnature gave him.\"\n\nThe chief drawback to this early education is that it is only\nappreciated by the wise; to vulgar eyes the child so carefully\neducated is nothing but a rough little boy. A tutor thinks rather\nof the advantage to himself than to his pupil; he makes a point of\nshowing that there has been no time wasted; he provides his pupil\nwith goods which can be readily displayed in the shop window,\naccomplishments which can be shown off at will; no matter whether\nthey are useful, provided they are easily seen. Without choice or\ndiscrimination he loads his memory with a pack of rubbish. If the\nchild is to be examined he is set to display his wares; he spreads\nthem out, satisfies those who behold them, packs up his bundle and\ngoes his way. My pupil is poorer, he has no bundle to display, he\nhas only himself to show. Now neither child nor man can be read\nat a glance. Where are the observers who can at once discern the\ncharacteristics of this child? There are such people, but they are\nfew and far between; among a thousand fathers you will scarcely\nfind one.\n\nToo many questions are tedious and revolting to most of us and\nespecially to children. After a few minutes their attention flags,\nthey cease to listen to your everlasting questions and reply at\nrandom. This way of testing them is pedantic and useless; a chance\nword will often show their sense and intelligence better than much\ntalking, but take care that the answer is neither a matter of chance\nnor yet learnt by heart. A man must needs have a good judgment if\nhe is to estimate the judgment of a child.\n\nI heard the late Lord Hyde tell the following story about one of his\nfriends. He had returned from Italy after a three years' absence,\nand was anxious to test the progress of his son, a child of nine\nor ten. One evening he took a walk with the child and his tutor\nacross a level space where the schoolboys were flying their kites.\nAs they went, the father said to his son, \"Where is the kite that\ncasts this shadow?\" Without hesitating and without glancing upwards\nthe child replied, \"Over the high road.\" \"And indeed,\" said Lord\nHyde, \"the high road was between us and the sun.\" At these words,\nthe father kissed his child, and having finished his examination\nhe departed.  The next day he sent the tutor the papers settling\nan annuity on him in addition to his salary.\n\nWhat a father! and what a promising child! The question is exactly\nadapted to the child's age, the answer is perfectly simple; but\nsee what precision it implies in the child's judgment. Thus did\nthe pupil of Aristotle master the famous steed which no squire had\never been able to tame.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III\n\nThe whole course of man's life up to adolescence is a period of\nweakness; yet there comes a time during these early years when the\nchild's strength overtakes the demands upon it, when the growing\ncreature, though absolutely weak, is relatively strong. His needs\nare not fully developed and his present strength is more than enough\nfor them. He would be a very feeble man, but he is a strong child.\n\nWhat is the cause of man's weakness? It is to be found in\nthe disproportion between his strength and his desires. It is our\npassions that make us weak, for our natural strength is not enough\nfor their satisfaction. To limit our desires comes to the same\nthing, therefore, as to increase our strength. When we can do more\nthan we want, we have strength enough and to spare, we are really\nstrong. This is the third stage of childhood, the stage with which\nI am about to deal. I still speak of childhood for want of a better\nword; for our scholar is approaching adolescence, though he has\nnot yet reached the age of puberty.\n\nAbout twelve or thirteen the child's strength increases far more\nrapidly than his needs. The strongest and fiercest of the passions\nis still unknown, his physical development is still imperfect and\nseems to await the call of the will. He is scarcely aware of extremes\nof heat and cold and braves them with impunity. He needs no coat,\nhis blood is warm; no spices, hunger is his sauce, no food comes\namiss at this age; if he is sleepy he stretches himself on the\nground and goes to sleep; he finds all he needs within his reach;\nhe is not tormented by any imaginary wants; he cares nothing what\nothers think; his desires are not beyond his grasp; not only is\nhe self-sufficing, but for the first and last time in his life he\nhas more strength than he needs.\n\nI know beforehand what you will say. You will not assert that the\nchild has more needs than I attribute to him, but you will deny\nhis strength. You forget that I am speaking of my own pupil, not\nof those puppets who walk with difficulty from one room to another,\nwho toil indoors and carry bundles of paper. Manly strength, you say,\nappears only with manhood; the vital spirits, distilled in their\nproper vessels and spreading through the whole body, can alone make\nthe muscles firm, sensitive, tense, and springy, can alone cause\nreal strength. This is the philosophy of the study; I appeal to\nthat of experience. In the country districts, I see big lads hoeing,\ndigging, guiding the plough, filling the wine-cask, driving the\ncart, like their fathers; you would take them for grown men if\ntheir voices did not betray them. Even in our towns, iron-workers',\ntool makers', and blacksmiths' lads are almost as strong as their\nmasters and would be scarcely less skilful had their training\nbegun earlier.  If there is a difference, and I do not deny that\nthere is, it is, I repeat, much less than the difference between\nthe stormy passions of the man and the few wants of the child.\nMoreover, it is not merely a question of bodily strength, but more\nespecially of strength of mind, which reinforces and directs the\nbodily strength.\n\nThis interval in which the strength of the individual is in excess\nof his wants is, as I have said, relatively though not absolutely\nthe time of greatest strength. It is the most precious time in his\nlife; it comes but once; it is very short, all too short, as you\nwill see when you consider the importance of using it aright.\n\nHe has, therefore, a surplus of strength and capacity which he will\nnever have again. What use shall he make of it? He will strive to\nuse it in tasks which will help at need. He will, so to speak, cast\nhis present surplus into the storehouse of the future; the vigorous\nchild will make provision for the feeble man; but he will not store\nhis goods where thieves may break in, nor in barns which are not\nhis own. To store them aright, they must be in the hands and the\nhead, they must be stored within himself. This is the time for\nwork, instruction, and inquiry. And note that this is no arbitrary\nchoice of mine, it is the way of nature herself.\n\nHuman intelligence is finite, and not only can no man know everything,\nhe cannot even acquire all the scanty knowledge of others. Since the\ncontrary of every false proposition is a truth, there are as many\ntruths as falsehoods. We must, therefore, choose what to teach\nas well as when to teach it. Some of the information within our\nreach is false, some is useless, some merely serves to puff up its\npossessor. The small store which really contributes to our welfare\nalone deserves the study of a wise man, and therefore of a child\nwhom one would have wise. He must know not merely what is, but what\nis useful.\n\nFrom this small stock we must also deduct those truths which require\na full grown mind for their understanding, those which suppose a\nknowledge of man's relations to his fellow-men--a knowledge which\nno child can acquire; these things, although in themselves true, lead\nan inexperienced mind into mistakes with regard to other matters.\n\nWe are now confined to a circle, small indeed compared with the\nwhole of human thought, but this circle is still a vast sphere when\nmeasured by the child's mind. Dark places of the human understanding,\nwhat rash hand shall dare to raise your veil? What pitfalls does\nour so-called science prepare for the miserable child. Would you\nguide him along this dangerous path and draw the veil from the\nface of nature?  Stay your hand. First make sure that neither he\nnor you will become dizzy. Beware of the specious charms of error\nand the intoxicating fumes of pride. Keep this truth ever before\nyou--Ignorance never did any one any harm, error alone is fatal,\nand we do not lose our way through ignorance but through self-confidence.\n\nHis progress in geometry may serve as a test and a true measure of\nthe growth of his intelligence, but as soon as he can distinguish\nbetween what is useful and what is useless, much skill and discretion\nare required to lead him towards theoretical studies. For example,\nwould you have him find a mean proportional between two lines,\ncontrive that he should require to find a square equal to a given\nrectangle; if two mean proportionals are required, you must first\ncontrive to interest him in the doubling of the cube. See how we\nare gradually approaching the moral ideas which distinguish between\ngood and evil. Hitherto we have known no law but necessity, now\nwe are considering what is useful; we shall soon come to what is\nfitting and right.\n\nMan's diverse powers are stirred by the same instinct. The bodily\nactivity, which seeks an outlet for its energies, is succeeded by\nthe mental activity which seeks for knowledge. Children are first\nrestless, then curious; and this curiosity, rightly directed, is\nthe means of development for the age with which we are dealing.\nAlways distinguish between natural and acquired tendencies. There\nis a zeal for learning which has no other foundation than a wish\nto appear learned, and there is another which springs from man's\nnatural curiosity about all things far or near which may affect\nhimself. The innate desire for comfort and the impossibility\nof its complete satisfaction impel him to the endless search for\nfresh means of contributing to its satisfaction. This is the first\nprinciple of curiosity; a principle natural to the human heart,\nthough its growth is proportional to the development of our feeling\nand knowledge. If a man of science were left on a desert island\nwith his books and instruments and knowing that he must spend the\nrest of his life there, he would scarcely trouble himself about the\nsolar system, the laws of attraction, or the differential calculus.\nHe might never even open a book again; but he would never rest till\nhe had explored the furthest corner of his island, however large\nit might be. Let us therefore omit from our early studies such\nknowledge as has no natural attraction for us, and confine ourselves\nto such things as instinct impels us to study.\n\nOur island is this earth; and the most striking object we behold\nis the sun. As soon as we pass beyond our immediate surroundings,\none or both of these must meet our eye. Thus the philosophy of\nmost savage races is mainly directed to imaginary divisions of the\nearth or to the divinity of the sun.\n\nWhat a sudden change you will say. Just now we were concerned with\nwhat touches ourselves, with our immediate environment, and all\nat once we are exploring the round world and leaping to the bounds\nof the universe. This change is the result of our growing strength\nand of the natural bent of the mind. While we were weak and feeble,\nself-preservation concentrated our attention on ourselves; now that\nwe are strong and powerful, the desire for a wider sphere carries\nus beyond ourselves as far as our eyes can reach. But as the\nintellectual world is still unknown to us, our thoughts are bounded\nby the visible horizon, and our understanding only develops within\nthe limits of our vision.\n\nLet us transform our sensations into ideas, but do not let us jump\nall at once from the objects of sense to objects of thought. The\nlatter are attained by means of the former. Let the senses be the\nonly guide for the first workings of reason. No book but the world,\nno teaching but that of fact. The child who reads ceases to think,\nhe only reads. He is acquiring words not knowledge.\n\nTeach your scholar to observe the phenomena of nature; you will\nsoon rouse his curiosity, but if you would have it grow, do not be\nin too great a hurry to satisfy this curiosity. Put the problems\nbefore him and let him solve them himself. Let him know nothing\nbecause you have told him, but because he has learnt it for himself.\nLet him not be taught science, let him discover it. If ever you\nsubstitute authority for reason he will cease to reason; he will\nbe a mere plaything of other people's thoughts.\n\nYou wish to teach this child geography and you provide him with\nglobes, spheres, and maps. What elaborate preparations! What is\nthe use of all these symbols; why not begin by showing him the real\nthing so that he may at least know what you are talking about?\n\nOne fine evening we are walking in a suitable place where the wide\nhorizon gives us a full view of the setting sun, and we note the\nobjects which mark the place where it sets. Next morning we return\nto the same place for a breath of fresh air before sun-rise. We\nsee the rays of light which announce the sun's approach; the glow\nincreases, the east seems afire, and long before the sun appears\nthe light leads us to expect its return. Every moment you expect to\nsee it. There it is at last! A shining point appears like a flash\nof lightning and soon fills the whole space; the veil of darkness\nrolls away, man perceives his dwelling place in fresh beauty.\nDuring the night the grass has assumed a fresher green; in the\nlight of early dawn, and gilded by the first rays of the sun, it\nseems covered with a shining network of dew reflecting the light\nand colour. The birds raise their chorus of praise to greet the\nFather of life, not one of them is mute; their gentle warbling is\nsofter than by day, it expresses the langour of a peaceful waking.\nAll these produce an impression of freshness which seems to reach\nthe very soul. It is a brief hour of enchantment which no man can\nresist; a sight so grand, so fair, so delicious, that none can\nbehold it unmoved.\n\nFired with this enthusiasm, the master wishes to impart it to the\nchild. He expects to rouse his emotion by drawing attention to his\nown. Mere folly! The splendour of nature lives in man's heart; to\nbe seen, it must be felt. The child sees the objects themselves, but\ndoes not perceive their relations, and cannot hear their harmony.\nIt needs knowledge he has not yet acquired, feelings he has not yet\nexperienced, to receive the complex impression which results from\nall these separate sensations. If he has not wandered over arid\nplains, if his feet have not been scorched by the burning sands\nof the desert, if he has not breathed the hot and oppressive air\nreflected from the glowing rocks, how shall he delight in the fresh\nair of a fine morning. The scent of flowers, the beauty of foliage,\nthe moistness of the dew, the soft turf beneath his feet, how shall\nall these delight his senses. How shall the song of the birds arouse\nvoluptuous emotion if love and pleasure are still unknown to him?\nHow shall he behold with rapture the birth of this fair day, if\nhis imagination cannot paint the joys it may bring in its track?\nHow can he feel the beauty of nature, while the hand that formed\nit is unknown?\n\nNever tell the child what he cannot understand: no descriptions, no\neloquence, no figures of speech, no poetry. The time has not come\nfor feeling or taste. Continue to be clear and cold; the time will\ncome only too soon when you must adopt another tone.\n\nBrought up in the spirit of our maxims, accustomed to make his own\ntools and not to appeal to others until he has tried and failed, he\nwill examine everything he sees carefully and in silence. He thinks\nrather than questions. Be content, therefore, to show him things at\na fit season; then, when you see that his curiosity is thoroughly\naroused, put some brief question which will set him trying to\ndiscover the answer.\n\nOn the present occasion when you and he have carefully observed\nthe rising sun, when you have called his attention to the mountains\nand other objects visible from the same spot, after he has chattered\nfreely about them, keep quiet for a few minutes as if lost in\nthought and then say, \"I think the sun set over there last night;\nit rose here this morning. How can that be?\" Say no more; if he\nasks questions, do not answer them; talk of something else. Let\nhim alone, and be sure he will think about it.\n\nTo train a child to be really attentive so that he may be really\nimpressed by any truth of experience, he must spend anxious days\nbefore he discovers that truth. If he does not learn enough in this\nway, there is another way of drawing his attention to the matter.\nTurn the question about. If he does not know how the sun gets from\nthe place where it sets to where it rises, he knows at least how\nit travels from sunrise to sunset, his eyes teach him that. Use the\nsecond question to throw light on the first; either your pupil is\na regular dunce or the analogy is too clear to be missed. This is\nhis first lesson in cosmography.\n\nAs we always advance slowly from one sensible idea to another, and\nas we give time enough to each for him to become really familiar\nwith it before we go on to another, and lastly as we never force\nour scholar's attention, we are still a long way from a knowledge\nof the course of the sun or the shape of the earth; but as all\nthe apparent movements of the celestial bodies depend on the same\nprinciple, and the first observation leads on to all the rest, less\neffort is needed, though more time, to proceed from the diurnal\nrevolution to the calculation of eclipses, than to get a thorough\nunderstanding of day and night.\n\nSince the sun revolves round the earth it describes a circle, and\nevery circle must have a centre; that we know already. This centre\nis invisible, it is in the middle of the earth, but we can mark\nout two opposite points on the earth's surface which correspond to\nit. A skewer passed through the three points and prolonged to the\nsky at either end would represent the earth's axis and the sun's\ndaily course. A round teetotum revolving on its point represents\nthe sky turning on its axis, the two points of the teetotum are the\ntwo poles; the child will be delighted to find one of them, and I\nshow him the tail of the Little bear. Here is a another game for\nthe dark. Little by little we get to know the stars, and from this\ncomes a wish to know the planets and observe the constellations.\n\nWe saw the sun rise at midsummer, we shall see it rise at Christmas\nor some other fine winter's day; for you know we are no lie-a-beds\nand we enjoy the cold. I take care to make this second observation\nin the same place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, one\nor other will certainly exclaim, \"What a funny thing! The sun is\nnot rising in the same place; here are our landmarks, but it is\nrising over there. So there is the summer east and the winter east,\netc.\" Young teacher, you are on the right track. These examples\nshould show you how to teach the sphere without any difficulty,\ntaking the earth for the earth and the sun for the sun.\n\nAs a general rule--never substitute the symbol for the thing\nsignified, unless it is impossible to show the thing itself; for\nthe child's attention is so taken up with the symbol that he will\nforget what it signifies.\n\nI consider the armillary sphere a clumsy disproportioned bit of\napparatus. The confused circles and the strange figures described\non it suggest witchcraft and frighten the child. The earth is too\nsmall, the circles too large and too numerous, some of them, the\ncolures, for instance, are quite useless, and the thickness of the\npasteboard gives them an appearance of solidity so that they are\ntaken for circular masses having a real existence, and when you\ntell the child that these are imaginary circles, he does not know\nwhat he is looking at and is none the wiser.\n\nWe are unable to put ourselves in the child's place, we fail to enter\ninto his thoughts, we invest him with our own ideas, and while we\nare following our own chain of reasoning, we merely fill his head\nwith errors and absurdities.\n\nShould the method of studying science be analytic or synthetic?\nPeople dispute over this question, but it is not always necessary\nto choose between them. Sometimes the same experiments allow one\nto use both analysis and synthesis, and thus to guide the child\nby the method of instruction when he fancies he is only analysing.\nThen, by using both at once, each method confirms the results of the\nother.  Starting from opposite ends, without thinking of following\nthe same road, he will unexpectedly reach their meeting place and\nthis will be a delightful surprise. For example, I would begin\ngeography at both ends and add to the study of the earth's revolution\nthe measurement of its divisions, beginning at home. While the\nchild is studying the sphere and is thus transported to the heavens,\nbring him back to the divisions of the globe and show him his own\nhome.\n\nHis geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father's\ncountry house, then the places between them, the rivers near them,\nand then the sun's aspect and how to find one's way by its aid.\nThis is the meeting place. Let him make his own map, a very simple\nmap, at first containing only two places; others may be added from\ntime to time, as he is able to estimate their distance and position.\nYou see at once what a good start we have given him by making his\neye his compass.\n\nNo doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but very\nlittle, and that little without his knowing it. If he goes wrong\nlet him alone, do not correct his mistakes; hold your tongue till\nhe finds them out for himself and corrects them, or at most arrange\nsomething, as opportunity offers, which may show him his mistakes.\nIf he never makes mistakes he will never learn anything thoroughly.\nMoreover, what he needs is not an exact knowledge of local\ntopography, but how to find out for himself. No matter whether he\ncarries maps in his head provided he understands what they mean, and\nhas a clear idea of the art of making them. See what a difference\nthere is already between the knowledge of your scholars and the\nignorance of mine. They learn maps, he makes them. Here are fresh\nornaments for his room.\n\nRemember that this is the essential point in my method--Do not\nteach the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate or\nconfused ideas. I care not if he knows nothing provided he is not\nmistaken, and I only acquaint him with truths to guard him against\nthe errors he might put in their place. Reason and judgment come\nslowly, prejudices flock to us in crowds, and from these he must be\nprotected. But if you make science itself your object, you embark\non an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean strewn with reefs\nfrom which you will never return. When I see a man in love with\nknowledge, yielding to its charms and flitting from one branch\nto another unable to stay his steps, he seems to me like a child\ngathering shells on the sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwing\nthem aside for others which he sees beyond them, then taking them\nagain, till overwhelmed by their number and unable to choose between\nthem, he flings them all away and returns empty handed.\n\nTime was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass our\ntime for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have not\ntime enough for all that would be of use. The passions, remember,\nare drawing near, and when they knock at the door your scholar will\nhave no ear for anything else. The peaceful age of intelligence is\nso short, it flies so swiftly, there is so much to be done, that\nit is madness to try to make your child learned. It is not your\nbusiness to teach him the various sciences, but to give him a taste\nfor them and methods of learning them when this taste is more mature.\nThat is assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education.\n\nThis is also the time to train him gradually to prolonged attention\nto a given object; but this attention should never be the result\nof constraint, but of interest or desire; you must be very careful\nthat it is not too much for his strength, and that it is not carried\nto the point of tedium. Watch him, therefore, and whatever happens,\nstop before he is tired, for it matters little what he learns; it\ndoes matter that he should do nothing against his will.\n\nIf he asks questions let your answers be enough to whet his curiosity\nbut not enough to satisfy it; above all, when you find him talking\nat random and overwhelming you with silly questions instead of\nasking for information, at once refuse to answer; for it is clear\nthat he no longer cares about the matter in hand, but wants to make\nyou a slave to his questions. Consider his motives rather than his\nwords. This warning, which was scarcely needed before, becomes of\nsupreme importance when the child begins to reason.\n\nThere is a series of abstract truths by means of which all the\nsciences are related to common principles and are developed each\nin its turn. This relationship is the method of the philosophers.\nWe are not concerned with it at present. There is quite another\nmethod by which every concrete example suggests another and always\npoints to the next in the series. This succession, which stimulates\nthe curiosity and so arouses the attention required by every object\nin turn, is the order followed by most men, and it is the right\norder for all children. To take our bearings so as to make our\nmaps we must find meridians. Two points of intersection between\nthe equal shadows morning and evening supply an excellent meridian\nfor a thirteen-year-old astronomer. But these meridians disappear,\nit takes time to trace them, and you are obliged to work in one\nplace.  So much trouble and attention will at last become irksome.\nWe foresaw this and are ready for it.\n\nAgain I must enter into minute and detailed explanations. I hear\nmy readers murmur, but I am prepared to meet their disapproval;\nI will not sacrifice the most important part of this book to your\nimpatience. You may think me as long-winded as you please; I have\nmy own opinion as to your complaints.\n\nLong ago my pupil and I remarked that some substances such as amber,\nglass, and wax, when well rubbed, attracted straws, while others\ndid not. We accidentally discover a substance which has a more\nunusual property, that of attracting filings or other small particles\nof iron from a distance and without rubbing. How much time do we\ndevote to this game to the exclusion of everything else! At last\nwe discover that this property is communicated to the iron itself,\nwhich is, so to speak, endowed with life. We go to the fair one\nday [Footnote: I could not help laughing when I read an elaborate\ncriticism of this little tale by M. de Formy. \"This conjuror,\"\nsays he, \"who is afraid of a child's competition and preaches to\nhis tutor is the sort of person we meet with in the world in which\nEmile and such as he are living.\" This witty M. de Formy could\nnot guess that this little scene was arranged beforehand, and that\nthe juggler was taught his part in it; indeed I did not state this\nfact. But I have said again and again that I was not writing for\npeople who expected to be told everything.] and a conjuror has\na wax duck floating in a basin of water, and he makes it follow a\nbit of bread.  We are greatly surprised, but we do not call him a\nwizard, never having heard of such persons. As we are continually\nobserving effects whose causes are unknown to us, we are in no hurry\nto make up our minds, and we remain in ignorance till we find an\nopportunity of learning.\n\nWhen we get home we discuss the duck till we try to imitate it.\nWe take a needle thoroughly magnetised, we imbed it in white wax,\nshaped as far as possible like a duck, with the needle running\nthrough the body, so that its eye forms the beak. We put the duck\nin water and put the end of a key near its beak, and you will\nreadily understand our delight when we find that our duck follows\nthe key just as the duck at the fair followed the bit of bread.\nAnother time we may note the direction assumed by the duck when\nleft in the basin; for the present we are wholly occupied with our\nwork and we want nothing more.\n\nThe same evening we return to the fair with some bread specially\nprepared in our pockets, and as soon as the conjuror has performed\nhis trick, my little doctor, who can scarcely sit still, exclaims,\n\"The trick is quite easy; I can do it myself.\" \"Do it then.\" He\nat once takes the bread with a bit of iron hidden in it from his\npocket; his heart throbs as he approaches the table and holds out\nthe bread, his hand trembles with excitement. The duck approaches\nand follows his hand. The child cries out and jumps for joy. The\napplause, the shouts of the crowd, are too much for him, he is\nbeside himself. The conjuror, though disappointed, embraces him,\ncongratulates him, begs the honour of his company on the following\nday, and promises to collect a still greater crowd to applaud his\nskill. My young scientist is very proud of himself and is beginning\nto chatter, but I check him at once and take him home overwhelmed\nwith praise.\n\nThe child counts the minutes till to-morrow with absurd anxiety.\nHe invites every one he meets, he wants all mankind to behold his\nglory; he can scarcely wait till the appointed hour. He hurries to\nthe place; the hall is full already; as he enters his young heart\nswells with pride. Other tricks are to come first. The conjuror\nsurpasses himself and does the most surprising things. The child\nsees none of these; he wriggles, perspires, and hardly breathes;\nthe time is spent in fingering with a trembling hand the bit of\nbread in his pocket. His turn comes at last; the master announces\nit to the audience with all ceremony; he goes up looking somewhat\nshamefaced and takes out his bit of bread. Oh fleeting joys of human\nlife! the duck, so tame yesterday, is quite wild to-day; instead\nof offering its beak it turns tail and swims away; it avoids the\nbread and the hand that holds it as carefully as it followed them\nyesterday. After many vain attempts accompanied by derisive shouts\nfrom the audience the child complains that he is being cheated,\nthat is not the same duck, and he defies the conjuror to attract\nit.\n\nThe conjuror, without further words, takes a bit of bread and\noffers it to the duck, which at once follows it and comes to the\nhand which holds it. The child takes the same bit of bread with\nno better success; the duck mocks his efforts and swims round the\nbasin.  Overwhelmed with confusion he abandons the attempt, ashamed\nto face the crowd any longer. Then the conjuror takes the bit of\nbread the child brought with him and uses it as successfully as\nhis own. He takes out the bit of iron before the audience--another\nlaugh at our expense--then with this same bread he attracts the\nduck as before.  He repeats the experiment with a piece of bread\ncut by a third person in full view of the audience. He does it with\nhis glove, with his finger-tip. Finally he goes into the middle of\nthe room and in the emphatic tones used by such persons he declares\nthat his duck will obey his voice as readily as his hand; he speaks\nand the duck obeys; he bids him go to the right and he goes, to come\nback again and he comes. The movement is as ready as the command.\nThe growing applause completes our discomfiture. We slip away\nunnoticed and shut ourselves up in our room, without relating our\nsuccesses to everybody as we had expected.\n\nNext day there is a knock at the door. When I open it there is the\nconjuror, who makes a modest complaint with regard to our conduct.\nWhat had he done that we should try to discredit his tricks and deprive\nhim of his livelihood? What is there so wonderful in attracting a\nduck that we should purchase this honour at the price of an honest\nman's living? \"My word, gentlemen! had I any other trade by which\nI could earn a living I would not pride myself on this. You may\nwell believe that a man who has spent his life at this miserable\ntrade knows more about it than you who only give your spare time to\nit. If I did not show you my best tricks at first, it was because\none must not be so foolish as to display all one knows at once. I\nalways take care to keep my best tricks for emergencies; and I have\nplenty more to prevent young folks from meddling.  However, I have\ncome, gentlemen, in all kindness, to show you the trick that gave\nyou so much trouble; I only beg you not to use it to my hurt, and\nto be more discreet in future.\" He then shows us his apparatus,\nand to our great surprise we find it is merely a strong magnet in\nthe hand of a boy concealed under the table. The man puts up his\nthings, and after we have offered our thanks and apologies, we try\nto give him something. He refuses it. \"No, gentlemen,\" says he, \"I\nowe you no gratitude and I will not accept your gift. I leave you\nin my debt in spite of all, and that is my only revenge.  Generosity\nmay be found among all sorts of people, and I earn my pay by doing\nmy tricks not by teaching them.\"\n\nAs he is going he blames me out-right. \"I can make excuses for the\nchild,\" he says, \"he sinned in ignorance. But you, sir, should know\nbetter. Why did you let him do it? As you are living together and\nyou are older than he, you should look after him and give him good\nadvice. Your experience should be his guide. When he is grown up\nhe will reproach, not only himself, but you, for the faults of his\nyouth.\"\n\nWhen he is gone we are greatly downcast. I blame myself for my\neasy-going ways. I promise the child that another time I will put\nhis interests first and warn him against faults before he falls into\nthem, for the time is coming when our relations will be changed,\nwhen the severity of the master must give way to the friendliness\nof the comrade; this change must come gradually, you must look\nahead, and very far ahead.\n\nWe go to the fair again the next day to see the trick whose secret\nwe know. We approach our Socrates, the conjuror, with profound\nrespect, we scarcely dare to look him in the face. He overwhelms\nus with politeness, gives us the best places, and heaps coals of\nfire on our heads. He goes through his performance as usual, but\nhe lingers affectionately over the duck, and often glances proudly\nin our direction. We are in the secret, but we do not tell. If my\npupil did but open his mouth he would be worthy of death.\n\nThere is more meaning than you suspect in this detailed illustration.\nHow many lessons in one! How mortifying are the results of a first\nimpulse towards vanity! Young tutor, watch this first impulse\ncarefully. If you can use it to bring about shame and disgrace,\nyou may be sure it will not recur for many a day. What a fuss you\nwill say. Just so; and all to provide a compass which will enable\nus to dispense with a meridian!\n\nHaving learnt that a magnet acts through other bodies, our next\nbusiness is to construct a bit of apparatus similar to that shown\nus. A bare table, a shallow bowl placed on it and filled with water,\na duck rather better finished than the first, and so on. We often\nwatch the thing and at last we notice that the duck, when at rest,\nalways turns the same way. We follow up this observation; we examine\nthe direction, we find that it is from south to north. Enough! we\nhave found our compass or its equivalent; the study of physics is\nbegun.\n\nThere are various regions of the earth, and these regions differ\nin temperature. The variation is more evident as we approach the\npoles; all bodies expand with heat and contract with cold; this\nis best measured in liquids and best of all in spirits; hence the\nthermometer. The wind strikes the face, then the air is a body,\na fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. I invert a glass in\nwater; the water will not fill it unless you leave a passage for\nthe escape of the air; so air is capable of resistance. Plunge the\nglass further in the water; the water will encroach on the air-space\nwithout filling it entirely; so air yields somewhat to pressure.\nA ball filled with compressed air bounces better than one filled\nwith anything else; so air is elastic. Raise your arm horizontally\nfrom the water when you are lying in your bath; you will feel a\nterrible weight on it; so air is a heavy body. By establishing an\nequilibrium between air and other fluids its weight can be measured,\nhence the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump. All\nthe laws of statics and hydrostatics are discovered by such rough\nexperiments. For none of these would I take the child into a physical\ncabinet; I dislike that array of instruments and apparatus.  The\nscientific atmosphere destroys science. Either the child is\nfrightened by these instruments or his attention, which should be\nfixed on their effects, is distracted by their appearance.\n\nWe shall make all our apparatus ourselves, and I would not make it\nbeforehand, but having caught a glimpse of the experiment by chance\nwe mean to invent step by step an instrument for its verification.\nI would rather our apparatus was somewhat clumsy and imperfect,\nbut our ideas clear as to what the apparatus ought to be, and the\nresults to be obtained by means of it. For my first lesson in statics,\ninstead of fetching a balance, I lay a stick across the back of a\nchair, I measure the two parts when it is balanced; add equal or\nunequal weights to either end; by pulling or pushing it as required,\nI find at last that equilibrium is the result of a reciprocal\nproportion between the amount of the weights and the length of\nthe levers. Thus my little physicist is ready to rectify a balance\nbefore ever he sees one.\n\nUndoubtedly the notions of things thus acquired for oneself\nare clearer and much more convincing than those acquired from the\nteaching of others; and not only is our reason not accustomed to a\nslavish submission to authority, but we develop greater ingenuity\nin discovering relations, connecting ideas and inventing apparatus,\nthan when we merely accept what is given us and allow our minds to\nbe enfeebled by indifference, like the body of a man whose servants\nalways wait on him, dress him and put on his shoes, whose horse\ncarries him, till he loses the use of his limbs. Boileau used to\nboast that he had taught Racine the art of rhyming with difficulty.\nAmong the many short cuts to science, we badly need some one to\nteach us the art of learning with difficulty.\n\nThe most obvious advantage of these slow and laborious inquiries\nis this: the scholar, while engaged in speculative studies, is\nactively using his body, gaining suppleness of limb, and training\nhis hands to labour so that he will be able to make them useful\nwhen he is a man. Too much apparatus, designed to guide us in our\nexperiments and to supplement the exactness of our senses, makes\nus neglect to use those senses. The theodolite makes it unnecessary\nto estimate the size of angles; the eye which used to judge distances\nwith much precision, trusts to the chain for its measurements; the\nsteel yard dispenses with the need of judging weight by the hand\nas I used to do. The more ingenious our apparatus, the coarser and\nmore unskilful are our senses. We surround ourselves with tools\nand fail to use those with which nature has provided every one of\nus.\n\nBut when we devote to the making of these instruments the skill\nwhich did instead of them, when for their construction we use the\nintelligence which enabled us to dispense with them, this is gain\nnot loss, we add art to nature, we gain ingenuity without loss of\nskill. If instead of making a child stick to his books I employ\nhim in a workshop, his hands work for the development of his mind.\nWhile he fancies himself a workman he is becoming a philosopher.\nMoreover, this exercise has other advantages of which I shall speak\nlater; and you will see how, through philosophy in sport, one may\nrise to the real duties of man.\n\nI have said already that purely theoretical science is hardly\nsuitable for children, even for children approaching adolescence;\nbut without going far into theoretical physics, take care that all\ntheir experiments are connected together by some chain of reasoning,\nso that they may follow an orderly sequence in the mind, and may\nbe recalled at need; for it is very difficult to remember isolated\nfacts or arguments, when there is no cue for their recall.\n\nIn your inquiry into the laws of nature always begin with the\ncommonest and most conspicuous phenomena, and train your scholar\nnot to accept these phenomena as causes but as facts. I take a\nstone and pretend to place it in the air; I open my hand, the stone\nfalls. I see Emile watching my action and I say, \"Why does this\nstone fall?\"\n\nWhat child will hesitate over this question? None, not even Emile,\nunless I have taken great pains to teach him not to answer. Every\none will say, \"The stone falls because it is heavy.\" \"And what do\nyou mean by heavy?\" \"That which falls.\" \"So the stone falls because\nit falls?\" Here is a poser for my little philosopher. This is his\nfirst lesson in systematic physics, and whether he learns physics\nor no it is a good lesson in common-sense.\n\nAs the child develops in intelligence other important considerations\nrequire us to be still more careful in our choice of his occupations.\nAs soon as he has sufficient self-knowledge to understand what\nconstitutes his well-being, as soon as he can grasp such far-reaching\nrelations as to judge what is good for him and what is not, then\nhe is able to discern the difference between work and play, and\nto consider the latter merely as relaxation. The objects of real\nutility may be introduced into his studies and may lead him to more\nprolonged attention than he gave to his games. The ever-recurring\nlaw of necessity soon teaches a man to do what he does not like,\nso as to avert evils which he would dislike still more. Such is\nthe use of foresight, and this foresight, well or ill used, is the\nsource of all the wisdom or the wretchedness of mankind.\n\nEvery one desires happiness, but to secure it he must know what\nhappiness is. For the natural man happiness is as simple as his\nlife; it consists in the absence of pain; health, freedom, the\nnecessaries of life are its elements. The happiness of the moral man\nis another matter, but it does not concern us at present. I cannot\nrepeat too often that it is only objects which can be perceived\nby the senses which can have any interest for children, especially\nchildren whose vanity has not been stimulated nor their minds\ncorrupted by social conventions.\n\nAs soon as they foresee their needs before they feel them, their\nintelligence has made a great step forward, they are beginning to\nknow the value of time. They must then be trained to devote this\ntime to useful purposes, but this usefulness should be such as\nthey can readily perceive and should be within the reach of their\nage and experience. What concerns the moral order and the customs\nof society should not yet be given them, for they are not in a\ncondition to understand it. It is folly to expect them to attend\nto things vaguely described as good for them, when they do not know\nwhat this good is, things which they are assured will be to their\nadvantage when they are grown up, though for the present they take\nno interest in this so-called advantage, which they are unable to\nunderstand.\n\nLet the child do nothing because he is told; nothing is good for\nhim but what he recognises as good. When you are always urging him\nbeyond his present understanding, you think you are exercising a\nforesight which you really lack. To provide him with useless tools\nwhich he may never require, you deprive him of man's most useful\ntool--common-sense. You would have him docile as a child; he will\nbe a credulous dupe when he grows up. You are always saying, \"What\nI ask is for your good, though you cannot understand it. What does\nit matter to me whether you do it or not; my efforts are entirely\non your account.\" All these fine speeches with which you hope to\nmake him good, are preparing the way, so that the visionary, the\ntempter, the charlatan, the rascal, and every kind of fool may\ncatch him in his snare or draw him into his folly.\n\nA man must know many things which seem useless to a child, but\nneed the child learn, or can he indeed learn, all that the man must\nknow?  Try to teach the child what is of use to a child and you\nwill find that it takes all his time. Why urge him to the studies\nof an age he may never reach, to the neglect of those studies which\nmeet his present needs? \"But,\" you ask, \"will it not be too late\nto learn what he ought to know when the time comes to use it?\"\nI cannot tell; but this I do know, it is impossible to teach it\nsooner, for our real teachers are experience and emotion, and man\nwill never learn what befits a man except under its own conditions.\nA child knows he must become a man; all the ideas he may have as\nto man's estate are so many opportunities for his instruction, but\nhe should remain in complete ignorance of those ideas which are\nbeyond his grasp. My whole book is one continued argument in support\nof this fundamental principle of education.\n\nAs soon as we have contrived to give our pupil an idea of the\nword \"Useful,\" we have got an additional means of controlling him,\nfor this word makes a great impression on him, provided that its\nmeaning for him is a meaning relative to his own age, and provided\nhe clearly sees its relation to his own well-being. This word makes\nno impression on your scholars because you have taken no pains to\ngive it a meaning they can understand, and because other people\nalways undertake to supply their needs so that they never require\nto think for themselves, and do not know what utility is.\n\n\"What is the use of that?\" In future this is the sacred formula,\nthe formula by which he and I test every action of our lives. This\nis the question with which I invariably answer all his questions;\nit serves to check the stream of foolish and tiresome questions with\nwhich children weary those about them. These incessant questions\nproduce no result, and their object is rather to get a hold over\nyou than to gain any real advantage. A pupil, who has been really\ntaught only to want to know what is useful, questions like Socrates;\nhe never asks a question without a reason for it, for he knows he\nwill be required to give his reason before he gets an answer.\n\nSee what a powerful instrument I have put into your hands for use\nwith your pupil. As he does not know the reason for anything you\ncan reduce him to silence almost at will; and what advantages do\nyour knowledge and experience give you to show him the usefulness\nof what you suggest. For, make no mistake about it, when you put\nthis question to him, you are teaching him to put it to you, and\nyou must expect that whatever you suggest to him in the future he\nwill follow your own example and ask, \"What is the use of this?\"\n\nPerhaps this is the greatest of the tutor's difficulties. If you\nmerely try to put the child off when he asks a question, and if\nyou give him a single reason he is not able to understand, if he\nfinds that you reason according to your own ideas, not his, he will\nthink what you tell him is good for you but not for him; you will\nlose his confidence and all your labour is thrown away. But what\nmaster will stop short and confess his faults to his pupil? We\nall make it a rule never to own to the faults we really have. Now\nI would make it a rule to admit even the faults I have not, if I\ncould not make my reasons clear to him; as my conduct will always\nbe intelligible to him, he will never doubt me and I shall gain\nmore credit by confessing my imaginary faults than those who conceal\ntheir real defects.\n\nIn the first place do not forget that it is rarely your business\nto suggest what he ought to learn; it is for him to want to learn,\nto seek and to find it. You should put it within his reach, you\nshould skilfully awaken the desire and supply him with means for\nits satisfaction. So your questions should be few and well-chosen,\nand as he will always have more questions to put to you than you\nto him, you will always have the advantage and will be able to ask\nall the oftener, \"What is the use of that question?\" Moreover, as\nit matters little what he learns provided he understands it and\nknows how to use it, as soon as you cannot give him a suitable\nexplanation give him none at all. Do not hesitate to say, \"I have\nno good answer to give you; I was wrong, let us drop the subject.\"\nIf your teaching was really ill-chosen there is no harm in dropping\nit altogether; if it was not, with a little care you will soon find\nan opportunity of making its use apparent to him.\n\nI do not like verbal explanations. Young people pay little heed to\nthem, nor do they remember them. Things! Things! I cannot repeat it\ntoo often. We lay too much stress upon words; we teachers babble,\nand our scholars follow our example.\n\nSuppose we are studying the course of the sun and the way to find\nour bearings, when all at once Emile interrupts me with the question,\n\"What is the use of that?\" what a fine lecture I might give, how\nmany things I might take occasion to teach him in reply to his\nquestion, especially if there is any one there. I might speak of the\nadvantages of travel, the value of commerce, the special products\nof different lands and the peculiar customs of different nations,\nthe use of the calendar, the way to reckon the seasons for agriculture,\nthe art of navigation, how to steer our course at sea, how to find\nour way without knowing exactly where we are. Politics, natural\nhistory, astronomy, even morals and international law are involved\nin my explanation, so as to give my pupil some idea of all these\nsciences and a great wish to learn them. When I have finished I\nshall have shown myself a regular pedant, I shall have made a great\ndisplay of learning, and not one single idea has he understood.\nHe is longing to ask me again, \"What is the use of taking one's\nbearings?\" but he dare not for fear of vexing me. He finds it pays\nbest to pretend to listen to what he is forced to hear. This is\nthe practical result of our fine systems of education.\n\nBut Emile is educated in a simpler fashion. We take so much pains\nto teach him a difficult idea that he will have heard nothing of\nall this. At the first word he does not understand, he will run\naway, he will prance about the room, and leave me to speechify by\nmyself. Let us seek a more commonplace explanation; my scientific\nlearning is of no use to him.\n\nWe were observing the position of the forest to the north of\nMontmorency when he interrupted me with the usual question, \"What\nis the use of that?\" \"You are right,\" I said. \"Let us take time to\nthink it over, and if we find it is no use we will drop it, for we\nonly want useful games.\" We find something else to do and geography\nis put aside for the day.\n\nNext morning I suggest a walk before breakfast; there is nothing\nhe would like better; children are always ready to run about, and\nhe is a good walker. We climb up to the forest, we wander through\nits clearings and lose ourselves; we have no idea where we are,\nand when we want to retrace our steps we cannot find the way. Time\npasses, we are hot and hungry; hurrying vainly this way and that we\nfind nothing but woods, quarries, plains, not a landmark to guide\nus.  Very hot, very tired, very hungry, we only get further astray.\nAt last we sit down to rest and to consider our position. I assume\nthat Emile has been educated like an ordinary child. He does not\nthink, he begins to cry; he has no idea we are close to Montmorency,\nwhich is hidden from our view by a mere thicket; but this thicket\nis a forest to him, a man of his size is buried among bushes. After\na few minutes' silence I begin anxiously----\n\nJEAN JACQUES. My dear Emile, what shall we do get out?\n\nEMILE. I am sure I do not know. I am tired, I am hungry, I am\nthirsty. I cannot go any further.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Do you suppose I am any better off? I would cry too\nif I could make my breakfast off tears. Crying is no use, we must\nlook about us. Let us see your watch; what time is it?\n\nEMILE. It is noon and I am so hungry!\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Just so; it is noon and I am so hungry too.\n\nEMILE. You must be very hungry indeed.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Unluckily my dinner won't come to find me. It is\ntwelve o'clock. This time yesterday we were observing the position\nof the forest from Montmorency. If only we could see the position\nof Montmorency from the forest.\n\nEMILE. But yesterday we could see the forest, and here we cannot\nsee the town.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. That is just it. If we could only find it without\nseeing it.\n\nEMILE. Oh! my dear friend!\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Did not we say the forest was...\n\nEMILE. North of Montmorency.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Then Montmorency must lie...\n\nEMILE. South of the forest.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. We know how to find the north at midday.\n\nEMILE. Yes, by the direction of the shadows.\n\nJEAN JACQUES. But the south?\n\nEMILE. What shall we do?\n\nJEAN JACQUES. The south is opposite the north.\n\nEMILE. That is true; we need only find the opposite of the shadows.\nThat is the south! That is the south! Montmorency must be over\nthere! Let us look for it there!\n\nJEAN JACQUES. Perhaps you are right; let us follow this path through\nthe wood.\n\nEMILE. (Clapping his hands.) Oh, I can see Montmorency! there it\nis, quite plain, just in front of us! Come to luncheon, come to\ndinner, make haste! Astronomy is some use after all.\n\nBe sure that he thinks this if he does not say it; no matter which,\nprovided I do not say it myself. He will certainly never forget\nthis day's lesson as long as he lives, while if I had only led him\nto think of all this at home, my lecture would have been forgotten\nthe next day. Teach by doing whenever you can, and only fall back\nupon words when doing is out of the question.\n\nThe reader will not expect me to have such a poor opinion of\nhim as to supply him with an example of every kind of study; but,\nwhatever is taught, I cannot too strongly urge the tutor to adapt\nhis instances to the capacity of his scholar; for once more I repeat\nthe risk is not in what he does not know, but in what he thinks he\nknows.\n\nI remember how I once tried to give a child a taste for chemistry.\nAfter showing him several metallic precipitates, I explained how\nink was made. I told him how its blackness was merely the result of\nfine particles of iron separated from the vitriol and precipitated\nby an alkaline solution. In the midst of my learned explanation\nthe little rascal pulled me up short with the question I myself had\ntaught him.  I was greatly puzzled. After a few moments' thought\nI decided what to do. I sent for some wine from the cellar of our\nlandlord, and some very cheap wine from a wine-merchant. I took a\nsmall [Footnote: Before giving any explanation to a child a little\nbit of apparatus serves to fix his attention.] flask of an alkaline\nsolution, and placing two glasses before me filled with the two\nsorts of wine, I said.\n\nFood and drink are adulterated to make them seem better than\nthey really are. These adulterations deceive both the eye and the\npalate, but they are unwholesome and make the adulterated article\neven worse than before in spite of its fine appearance.\n\nAll sorts of drinks are adulterated, and wine more than others;\nfor the fraud is more difficult to detect, and more profitable to\nthe fraudulent person.\n\nSour wine is adulterated with litharge; litharge is a preparation\nof lead. Lead in combination with acids forms a sweet salt which\ncorrects the harsh taste of the sour wine, but it is poisonous. So\nbefore we drink wine of doubtful quality we should be able to tell\nif there is lead in it. This is how I should do it.\n\nWine contains not merely an inflammable spirit as you have seen\nfrom the brandy made from it; it also contains an acid as you know\nfrom the vinegar made from it.\n\nThis acid has an affinity for metals, it combines with them and\nforms salts, such as iron-rust, which is only iron dissolved by the\nacid in air or water, or such as verdegris, which is only copper\ndissolved in vinegar.\n\nBut this acid has a still greater affinity for alkalis than for\nmetals, so that when we add alkalis to the above-mentioned salts,\nthe acid sets free the metal with which it had combined, and combines\nwith the alkali.\n\nThen the metal, set free by the acid which held it in solution, is\nprecipitated and the liquid becomes opaque.\n\nIf then there is litharge in either of these glasses of wine, the\nacid holds the litharge in solution. When I pour into it an alkaline\nsolution, the acid will be forced to set the lead free in order\nto combine with the alkali. The lead, no longer held in solution,\nwill reappear, the liquor will become thick, and after a time the\nlead will be deposited at the bottom of the glass.\n\nIf there is no lead [Footnote: The wine sold by retail dealers in\nParis is rarely free from lead, though some of it does not contain\nlitharge, for the counters are covered with lead and when the wine\nis poured into the measures and some of it spilt upon the counter\nand the measures left standing on the counter, some of the lead\nis always dissolved. It is strange that so obvious and dangerous\nan abuse should be tolerated by the police. But indeed well-to-do\npeople, who rarely drink these wines, are not likely to be poisoned\nby them.] nor other metal in the wine the alkali will slowly\n[Footnote: The vegetable acid is very gentle in its action. If it\nwere a mineral acid and less diluted, the combination would not\ntake place without effervescence.] combine with the acid, all will\nremain clear and there will be no precipitate.\n\nThen I poured my alkaline solution first into one glass and then\ninto the other. The wine from our own house remained clear and\nunclouded, the other at once became turbid, and an hour later the\nlead might be plainly seen, precipitated at the bottom of the glass.\n\n\"This,\" said I, \"is a pure natural wine and fit to drink; the\nother is adulterated and poisonous. You wanted to know the use of\nknowing how to make ink. If you can make ink you can find out what\nwines are adulterated.\"\n\nI was very well pleased with my illustration, but I found it made\nlittle impression on my pupil. When I had time to think about it I\nsaw I had been a fool, for not only was it impossible for a child\nof twelve to follow my explanations, but the usefulness of the\nexperiment did not appeal to him; he had tasted both glasses of\nwine and found them both good, so he attached no meaning to the word\n\"adulterated\" which I thought I had explained so nicely. Indeed,\nthe other words, \"unwholesome\" and \"poison,\" had no meaning whatever\nfor him; he was in the same condition as the boy who told the story\nof Philip and his doctor. It is the condition of all children.\n\nThe relation of causes and effects whose connection is unknown\nto us, good and ill of which we have no idea, the needs we have\nnever felt, have no existence for us. It is impossible to interest\nourselves in them sufficiently to make us do anything connected\nwith them. At fifteen we become aware of the happiness of a good\nman, as at thirty we become aware of the glory of Paradise. If\nwe had no clear idea of either we should make no effort for their\nattainment; and even if we had a clear idea of them, we should make\nlittle or no effort unless we desired them and unless we felt we\nwere made for them. It is easy to convince a child that what you\nwish to teach him is useful, but it is useless to convince if you\ncannot also persuade. Pure reason may lead us to approve or censure,\nbut it is feeling which leads to action, and how shall we care\nabout that which does not concern us?\n\nNever show a child what he cannot see. Since mankind is almost\nunknown to him, and since you cannot make a man of him, bring the\nman down to the level of the child. While you are thinking what\nwill be useful to him when he is older, talk to him of what he\nknows he can use now. Moreover, as soon as he begins to reason let\nthere be no comparison with other children, no rivalry, no competition,\nnot even in running races. I would far rather he did not learn\nanything than have him learn it through jealousy or self-conceit.\nYear by year I shall just note the progress he had made, I shall\ncompare the results with those of the following year, I shall say,\n\"You have grown so much; that is the ditch you jumped, the weight\nyou carried, the distance you flung a pebble, the race you ran\nwithout stopping to take breath, etc.; let us see what you can do\nnow.\"\n\nIn this way he is stimulated to further effort without jealousy.\nHe wants to excel himself as he ought to do; I see no reason why\nhe should not emulate his own performances.\n\nI hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we know\nnothing about. Hermes, they say, engraved the elements of science\non pillars lest a deluge should destroy them. Had he imprinted\nthem on men's hearts they would have been preserved by tradition.\nWell-trained minds are the pillars on which human knowledge is most\ndeeply engraved.\n\nIs there no way of correlating so many lessons scattered through\nso many books, no way of focussing them on some common object, easy\nto see, interesting to follow, and stimulating even to a child?\nCould we but discover a state in which all man's needs appear in\nsuch a way as to appeal to the child's mind, a state in which the\nways of providing for these needs are as easily developed, the\nsimple and stirring portrayal of this state should form the earliest\ntraining of the child's imagination.\n\nEager philosopher, I see your own imagination at work. Spare yourself\nthe trouble; this state is already known, it is described, with\ndue respect to you, far better than you could describe it, at least\nwith greater truth and simplicity. Since we must have books, there\nis one book which, to my thinking, supplies the best treatise on\nan education according to nature. This is the first book Emile will\nread; for a long time it will form his whole library, and it will\nalways retain an honoured place. It will be the text to which all\nour talks about natural science are but the commentary. It will\nserve to test our progress towards a right judgment, and it will\nalways be read with delight, so long as our taste is unspoilt. What\nis this wonderful book? Is it Aristotle? Pliny? Buffon? No; it is\nRobinson Crusoe.\n\nRobinson Crusoe on his island, deprived of the help of his\nfellow-men, without the means of carrying on the various arts, yet\nfinding food, preserving his life, and procuring a certain amount\nof comfort; this is the thing to interest people of all ages, and\nit can be made attractive to children in all sorts of ways. We shall\nthus make a reality of that desert island which formerly served as\nan illustration. The condition, I confess, is not that of a social\nbeing, nor is it in all probability Emile's own condition, but he\nshould use it as a standard of comparison for all other conditions.\nThe surest way to raise him above prejudice and to base his judgments\non the true relations of things, is to put him in the place of a\nsolitary man, and to judge all things as they would be judged by\nsuch a man in relation to their own utility.\n\nThis novel, stripped of irrelevant matter, begins with Robinson's\nshipwreck on his island, and ends with the coming of the ship which\nbears him from it, and it will furnish Emile with material, both\nfor work and play, during the whole period we are considering.\nHis head should be full of it, he should always be busy with his\ncastle, his goats, his plantations. Let him learn in detail, not\nfrom books but from things, all that is necessary in such a case.\nLet him think he is Robinson himself; let him see himself clad in\nskins, wearing a tall cap, a great cutlass, all the grotesque get-up\nof Robinson Crusoe, even to the umbrella which he will scarcely\nneed. He should anxiously consider what steps to take; will this\nor that be wanting.  He should examine his hero's conduct; has he\nomitted nothing; is there nothing he could have done better? He\nshould carefully note his mistakes, so as not to fall into them\nhimself in similar circumstances, for you may be sure he will plan\nout just such a settlement for himself. This is the genuine castle\nin the air of this happy age, when the child knows no other happiness\nbut food and freedom.\n\nWhat a motive will this infatuation supply in the hands of a skilful\nteacher who has aroused it for the purpose of using it. The child\nwho wants to build a storehouse on his desert island will be more\neager to learn than the master to teach. He will want to know all\nsorts of useful things and nothing else; you will need the curb as\nwell as the spur. Make haste, therefore, to establish him on his\nisland while this is all he needs to make him happy; for the day is\nat hand, when, if he must still live on his island, he will not be\ncontent to live alone, when even the companionship of Man Friday,\nwho is almost disregarded now, will not long suffice.\n\nThe exercise of the natural arts, which may be carried on by\none man alone, leads on to the industrial arts which call for the\ncooperation of many hands. The former may be carried on by hermits,\nby savages, but the others can only arise in a society, and they\nmake society necessary. So long as only bodily needs are recognised\nman is self-sufficing; with superfluity comes the need for division\nand distribution of labour, for though one man working alone can\nearn a man's living, one hundred men working together can earn the\nliving of two hundred. As soon as some men are idle, others must\nwork to make up for their idleness.\n\nYour main object should be to keep out of your scholar's way all\nidea of such social relations as he cannot understand, but when\nthe development of knowledge compels you to show him the mutual\ndependence of mankind, instead of showing him its moral side, turn\nall his attention at first towards industry and the mechanical arts\nwhich make men useful to one another. While you take him from one\nworkshop to another, let him try his hand at every trade you show\nhim, and do not let him leave it till he has thoroughly learnt why\neverything is done, or at least everything that has attracted his\nattention. With this aim you should take a share in his work and\nset him an example. Be yourself the apprentice that he may become\na master; you may expect him to learn more in one hour's work than\nhe would retain after a whole day's explanation.\n\nThe value set by the general public on the various arts is in\ninverse ratio to their real utility. They are even valued directly\naccording to their uselessness. This might be expected. The most useful\narts are the worst paid, for the number of workmen is regulated by\nthe demand, and the work which everybody requires must necessarily be\npaid at a rate which puts it within the reach of the poor. On the\nother hand, those great people who are called artists, not artisans,\nwho labour only for the rich and idle, put a fancy price on their\ntrifles; and as the real value of this vain labour is purely\nimaginary, the price itself adds to their market value, and they\nare valued according to their costliness. The rich think so much\nof these things, not because they are useful, but because they are\nbeyond the reach of the poor. Nolo habere bona, nisi quibus populus\ninviderit.\n\nWhat will become of your pupils if you let them acquire this foolish\nprejudice, if you share it yourself? If, for instance, they see you\nshow more politeness in a jeweller's shop than in a locksmith's.\nWhat idea will they form of the true worth of the arts and the real\nvalue of things when they see, on the one hand, a fancy price and,\non the other, the price of real utility, and that the more a thing\ncosts the less it is worth? As soon as you let them get hold of\nthese ideas, you may give up all attempt at further education; in\nspite of you they will be like all the other scholars--you have\nwasted fourteen years.\n\nEmile, bent on furnishing his island, will look at things from another\npoint of view. Robinson would have thought more of a toolmaker's\nshop than all Saide's trifles put together. He would have reckoned\nthe toolmaker a very worthy man, and Saide little more than a\ncharlatan.\n\n\"My son will have to take the world as he finds it, he will not\nlive among the wise but among fools; he must therefore be acquainted\nwith their follies, since they must be led by this means. A real\nknowledge of things may be a good thing in itself, but the knowledge\nof men and their opinions is better, for in human society man is\nthe chief tool of man, and the wisest man is he who best knows the\nuse of this tool. What is the good of teaching children an imaginary\nsystem, just the opposite of the established order of things, among\nwhich they will have to live? First teach them wisdom, then show\nthem the follies of mankind.\"\n\nThese are the specious maxims by which fathers, who mistake them for\nprudence, strive to make their children the slaves of the prejudices\nin which they are educated, and the puppets of the senseless crowd,\nwhich they hope to make subservient to their passions. How much\nmust be known before we attain to a knowledge of man. This is the\nfinal study of the philosopher, and you expect to make it the first\nlesson of the child! Before teaching him our sentiments, first\nteach him to judge of their worth. Do you perceive folly when you\nmistake it for wisdom? To be wise we must discern between good and\nevil. How can your child know men, when he can neither judge of\ntheir judgments nor unravel their mistakes? It is a misfortune to\nknow what they think, without knowing whether their thoughts are\ntrue or false.  First teach him things as they really are, afterwards\nyou will teach him how they appear to us. He will then be able to\nmake a comparison between popular ideas and truth, and be able to\nrise above the vulgar crowd; for you are unaware of the prejudices\nyou adopt, and you do not lead a nation when you are like it. But\nif you begin to teach the opinions of other people before you teach\nhow to judge of their worth, of one thing you may be sure, your\npupil will adopt those opinions whatever you may do, and you will\nnot succeed in uprooting them. I am therefore convinced that to\nmake a young man judge rightly, you must form his judgment rather\nthan teach him your own.\n\nSo far you see I have not spoken to my pupil about men; he would\nhave too much sense to listen to me. His relations to other people\nare as yet not sufficiently apparent to him to enable him to judge\nothers by himself. The only person he knows is himself, and his\nknowledge of himself is very imperfect. But if he forms few opinions\nabout others, those opinions are correct. He knows nothing of\nanother's place, but he knows his own and keeps to it. I have bound\nhim with the strong cord of necessity, instead of social laws, which\nare beyond his knowledge. He is still little more than a body; let\nus treat him as such.\n\nEvery substance in nature and every work of man must be judged\nin relation to his own use, his own safety, his own preservation,\nhis own comfort. Thus he should value iron far more than gold, and\nglass than diamonds; in the same way he has far more respect for a\nshoemaker or a mason than for a Lempereur, a Le Blanc, or all the\njewellers in Europe. In his eyes a confectioner is a really great\nman, and he would give the whole academy of sciences for the smallest\npastrycook in Lombard Street. Goldsmiths, engravers, gilders, and\nembroiderers, he considers lazy people, who play at quite useless\ngames. He does not even think much of a clockmaker.  The happy\nchild enjoys Time without being a slave to it; he uses it, but he\ndoes not know its value. The freedom from passion which makes every\nday alike to him, makes any means of measuring time unnecessary.\nWhen I assumed that Emile had a watch, [Footnote: When our hearts\nare abandoned to the sway of passion, then it is that we need\na measure of time. The wise man's watch is his equable temper and\nhis peaceful heart. He is always punctual, and he always knows the\ntime.] just as I assumed that he cried, it was a commonplace Emile\nthat I chose to serve my purpose and make myself understood.  The\nreal Emile, a child so different from the rest, would not serve as\nan illustration for anything.\n\nThere is an order no less natural and even more accurate, by which\nthe arts are valued according to bonds of necessity which connect\nthem; the highest class consists of the most independent, the\nlowest of those most dependent on others. This classification,\nwhich suggests important considerations on the order of society in\ngeneral, is like the preceding one in that it is subject to the same\ninversion in popular estimation, so that the use of raw material\nis the work of the lowest and worst paid trades, while the oftener\nthe material changes hands, the more the work rises in price and\nin honour. I do not ask whether industry is really greater and more\ndeserving of reward when engaged in the delicate arts which give\nthe final shape to these materials, than in the labour which first\ngave them to man's use; but this I say, that in everything the\nart which is most generally useful and necessary, is undoubtedly\nthat which most deserves esteem, and that art which requires the\nleast help from others, is more worthy of honour than those which\nare dependent on other arts, since it is freer and more nearly\nindependent. These are the true laws of value in the arts; all\nothers are arbitrary and dependent on popular prejudice.\n\nAgriculture is the earliest and most honourable of arts; metal work\nI put next, then carpentry, and so on. This is the order in which\nthe child will put them, if he has not been spoilt by vulgar\nprejudices. What valuable considerations Emile will derive from\nhis Robinson in such matters. What will he think when he sees the\narts only brought to perfection by sub-division, by the infinite\nmultiplication of tools. He will say, \"All those people are as\nsilly as they are ingenious; one would think they were afraid to\nuse their eyes and their hands, they invent so many tools instead.\nTo carry on one trade they become the slaves of many others; every\nsingle workman needs a whole town. My friend and I try to gain\nskill; we only make tools we can take about with us; these people,\nwho are so proud of their talents in Paris, would be no use at all\non our island; they would have to become apprentices.\"\n\nReader, do not stay to watch the bodily exercises and manual skill\nof our pupil, but consider the bent we are giving to his childish\ncuriosity; consider his common-sense, his inventive spirit, his\nforesight; consider what a head he will have on his shoulders. He\nwill want to know all about everything he sees or does, to learn\nthe why and the wherefore of it; from tool to tool he will go back\nto the first beginning, taking nothing for granted; he will decline\nto learn anything that requires previous knowledge which he has not\nacquired. If he sees a spring made he will want to know how they\ngot the steel from the mine; if he sees the pieces of a chest put\ntogether, he will want to know how the tree was out down; when at\nwork he will say of each tool, \"If I had not got this, how could\nI make one like it, or how could I get along without it?\"\n\nIt is, however, difficult to avoid another error. When the master\nis very fond of certain occupations, he is apt to assume that\nthe child shares his tastes; beware lest you are carried away by\nthe interest of your work, while the child is bored by it, but is\nafraid to show it. The child must come first, and you must devote\nyourself entirely to him. Watch him, study him constantly, without\nhis knowing it; consider his feelings beforehand, and provide against\nthose which are undesirable, keep him occupied in such a way that\nhe not only feels the usefulness of the thing, but takes a pleasure\nin understanding the purpose which his work will serve.\n\nThe solidarity of the arts consists in the exchange of industry,\nthat of commerce in the exchange of commodities, that of banks in\nthe exchange of money or securities. All these ideas hang together,\nand their foundation has already been laid in early childhood\nwith the help of Robert the gardener. All we have now to do is to\nsubstitute general ideas for particular, and to enlarge these ideas\nby means of numerous examples, so as to make the child understand\nthe game of business itself, brought home to him by means of\nparticular instances of natural history with regard to the special\nproducts of each country, by particular instances of the arts and\nsciences which concern navigation and the difficulties of transport,\ngreater or less in proportion to the distance between places, the\nposition of land, seas, rivers, etc.\n\nThere can be no society without exchange, no exchange without a\ncommon standard of measurement, no common standard of measurement\nwithout equality. Hence the first law of every society is some\nconventional equality either in men or things.\n\nConventional equality between men, a very different thing from\nnatural equality, leads to the necessity for positive law, i.e.,\ngovernment and kings. A child's political knowledge should be clear\nand restricted; he should know nothing of government in general,\nbeyond what concerns the rights of property, of which he has already\nsome idea.\n\nConventional equality between things has led to the invention of\nmoney, for money is only one term in a comparison between the values\nof different sorts of things; and in this sense money is the real\nbond of society; but anything may be money; in former days it was\ncattle; shells are used among many tribes at the present day; Sparta\nused iron; Sweden, leather; while we use gold and silver.\n\nMetals, being easier to carry, have generally been chosen as the\nmiddle term of every exchange, and these metals have been made into\ncoin to save the trouble of continual weighing and measuring, for\nthe stamp on the coin is merely evidence that the coin is of given\nweight; and the sole right of coining money is vested in the ruler\nbecause he alone has the right to demand the recognition of his\nauthority by the whole nation.\n\nThe stupidest person can perceive the use of money when it is\nexplained in this way. It is difficult to make a direct comparison\nbetween various things, for instance, between cloth and corn;\nbut when we find a common measure, in money, it is easy for the\nmanufacturer and the farmer to estimate the value of the goods\nthey wish to exchange in terms of this common measure. If a given\nquantity of cloth is worth a given some of money, and a given\nquantity of corn is worth the same sum of money, then the seller,\nreceiving the corn in exchange for his cloth, makes a fair bargain.\nThus by means of money it becomes possible to compare the values\nof goods of various kinds.\n\nBe content with this, and do not touch upon the moral effects of\nthis institution. In everything you must show clearly the use before\nthe abuse. If you attempt to teach children how the sign has led\nto the neglect of the thing signified, how money is the source of\nall the false ideas of society, how countries rich in silver must\nbe poor in everything else, you will be treating these children\nas philosophers, and not only as philosophers but as wise men, for\nyou are professing to teach them what very few philosophers have\ngrasped.\n\nWhat a wealth of interesting objects, towards which the curiosity\nof our pupil may be directed without ever quitting the real\nand material relations he can understand, and without permitting\nthe formation of a single idea beyond his grasp! The teacher's\nart consists in this: To turn the child's attention from trivial\ndetails and to guide his thoughts continually towards relations of\nimportance which he will one day need to know, that he may judge\nrightly of good and evil in human society. The teacher must be\nable to adapt the conversation with which he amuses his pupil to\nthe turn already given to his mind. A problem which another child\nwould never heed will torment Emile half a year.\n\nWe are going to dine with wealthy people; when we get there\neverything is ready for a feast, many guests, many servants, many\ndishes, dainty and elegant china. There is something intoxicating\nin all these preparations for pleasure and festivity when you are\nnot used to them. I see how they will affect my young pupil. While\ndinner is going on, while course follows course, and conversation\nis loud around us, I whisper in his ear, \"How many hands do you\nsuppose the things on this table passed through before they got\nhere?\" What a crowd of ideas is called up by these few words. In\na moment the mists of excitement have rolled away. He is thinking,\nconsidering, calculating, and anxious. The child is philosophising,\nwhile philosophers, excited by wine or perhaps by female society,\nare babbling like children. If he asks questions I decline to answer\nand put him off to another day. He becomes impatient, he forgets\nto eat and drink, he longs to get away from table and talk as he\npleases.  What an object of curiosity, what a text for instruction.\nNothing has so far succeeded in corrupting his healthy reason;\nwhat will he think of luxury when he finds that every quarter of\nthe globe has been ransacked, that some 2,000,000 men have laboured\nfor years, that many lives have perhaps been sacrificed, and all\nto furnish him with fine clothes to be worn at midday and laid by\nin the wardrobe at night.\n\nBe sure you observe what private conclusions he draws from all his\nobservations. If you have watched him less carefully than I suppose,\nhis thoughts may be tempted in another direction; he may consider\nhimself a person of great importance in the world, when he sees so\nmuch labour concentrated on the preparation of his dinner. If you\nsuspect his thoughts will take this direction you can easily prevent\nit, or at any rate promptly efface the false impression. As yet\nhe can only appropriate things by personal enjoyment, he can only\njudge of their fitness or unfitness by their outward effects.\nCompare a plain rustic meal, preceded by exercise, seasoned by\nhunger, freedom, and delight, with this magnificent but tedious\nrepast. This will suffice to make him realise that he has got no\nreal advantage from the splendour of the feast, that his stomach\nwas as well satisfied when he left the table of the peasant, as\nwhen he left the table of the banker; from neither had he gained\nanything he could really call his own.\n\nJust fancy what a tutor might say to him on such an occasion.\nConsider the two dinners and decide for yourself which gave you\nmost pleasure, which seemed the merriest, at which did you eat\nand drink most heartily, which was the least tedious and required\nleast change of courses? Yet note the difference--this black bread\nyou so enjoy is made from the peasant's own harvest; his wine is\ndark in colour and of a common kind, but wholesome and refreshing;\nit was made in his own vineyard; the cloth is made of his own\nhemp, spun and woven in the winter by his wife and daughters and\nthe maid; no hands but theirs have touched the food. His world is\nbounded by the nearest mill and the next market. How far did you\nenjoy all that the produce of distant lands and the service of\nmany people had prepared for you at the other dinner? If you did\nnot get a better meal, what good did this wealth do you? how much\nof it was made for you? Had you been the master of the house, the\ntutor might say, it would have been of still less use to you; for\nthe anxiety of displaying your enjoyment before the eyes of others\nwould have robbed you of it; the pains would be yours, the pleasure\ntheirs.\n\nThis may be a very fine speech, but it would be thrown away upon\nEmile, as he cannot understand it, and he does not accept second-hand\nopinions. Speak more simply to him. After these two experiences,\nsay to him some day, \"Where shall we have our dinner to-day? Where\nthat mountain of silver covered three quarters of the table and\nthose beds of artificial flowers on looking glass were served with\nthe dessert, where those smart ladies treated you as a toy and\npretended you said what you did not mean; or in that village two\nleagues away, with those good people who were so pleased to see\nus and gave us such delicious cream?\" Emile will not hesitate; he\nis not vain and he is no chatterbox; he cannot endure constraint,\nand he does not care for fine dishes; but he is always ready for a\nrun in the country and is very fond of good fruit and vegetables,\nsweet cream and kindly people. [Footnote: This taste, which I assume\nmy pupil to have acquired, is a natural result of his education.\nMoreover, he has nothing foppish or affected about him, so that the\nladies take little notice of him and he is less petted than other\nchildren; therefore he does not care for them, and is less spoilt\nby their company; he is not yet of an age to feel its charm. I\nhave taken care not to teach him to kiss their hands, to pay them\ncompliments, or even to be more polite to them than to men. It is\nmy constant rule to ask nothing from him but what he can understand,\nand there is no good reason why a child should treat one sex\ndifferently from the other.] On our way, the thought will occur\nto him, \"All those people who laboured to prepare that grand feast\nwere either wasting their time or they have no idea how to enjoy\nthemselves.\"\n\nMy example may be right for one child and wrong for the rest. If\nyou enter into their way of looking at things you will know how to\nvary your instances as required; the choice depends on the study\nof the individual temperament, and this study in turn depends on\nthe opportunities which occur to show this temperament. You will\nnot suppose that, in the three or four years at our disposal, even\nthe most gifted child can get an idea of all the arts and sciences,\nsufficient to enable him to study them for himself when he is\nolder; but by bringing before him what he needs to know, we enable\nhim to develop his own tastes, his own talents, to take the first\nstep towards the object which appeals to his individuality and to\nshow us the road we must open up to aid the work of nature.\n\nThere is another advantage of these trains of limited but exact\nbits of knowledge; he learns by their connection and interdependence\nhow to rank them in his own estimation and to be on his guard\nagainst those prejudices, common to most men, which draw them towards\nthe gifts they themselves cultivate and away from those they have\nneglected. The man who clearly sees the whole, sees where each part\nshould be; the man who sees one part clearly and knows it thoroughly\nmay be a learned man, but the former is a wise man, and you remember\nit is wisdom rather than knowledge that we hope to acquire.\n\nHowever that may be, my method does not depend on my examples; it\ndepends on the amount of a man's powers at different ages, and the\nchoice of occupations adapted to those powers. I think it would be\neasy to find a method which appeared to give better results, but\nif it were less suited to the type, sex, and age of the scholar,\nI doubt whether the results would really be as good.\n\nAt the beginning of this second period we took advantage of the fact\nthat our strength was more than enough for our needs, to enable us\nto get outside ourselves. We have ranged the heavens and measured\nthe earth; we have sought out the laws of nature; we have explored\nthe whole of our island. Now let us return to ourselves, let us\nunconsciously approach our own dwelling. We are happy indeed if we\ndo not find it already occupied by the dreaded foe, who is preparing\nto seize it.\n\nWhat remains to be done when we have observed all that lies around\nus? We must turn to our own use all that we can get, we must increase\nour comfort by means of our curiosity. Hitherto we have provided\nourselves with tools of all kinds, not knowing which we require.\nPerhaps those we do not want will be useful to others, and perhaps\nwe may need theirs. Thus we discover the use of exchange; but for\nthis we must know each other's needs, what tools other people use,\nwhat they can offer in exchange. Given ten men, each of them has\nten different requirements. To get what he needs for himself each\nmust work at ten different trades; but considering our different\ntalents, one will do better at this trade, another at that. Each\nof them, fitted for one thing, will work at all, and will be badly\nserved. Let us form these ten men into a society, and let each\ndevote himself to the trade for which he is best adapted, and let\nhim work at it for himself and for the rest. Each will reap the\nadvantage of the others' talents, just as if they were his own; by\npractice each will perfect his own talent, and thus all the ten,\nwell provided for, will still have something to spare for others.\nThis is the plain foundation of all our institutions. It is not\nmy aim to examine its results here; I have done so in another book\n(Discours sur l'inegalite).\n\nAccording to this principle, any one who wanted to consider himself as\nan isolated individual, self-sufficing and independent of others,\ncould only be utterly wretched. He could not even continue to\nexist, for finding the whole earth appropriated by others while he\nhad only himself, how could he get the means of subsistence? When\nwe leave the state of nature we compel others to do the same; no one\ncan remain in a state of nature in spite of his fellow-creatures,\nand to try to remain in it when it is no longer practicable, would\nreally be to leave it, for self-preservation is nature's first law.\n\nThus the idea of social relations is gradually developed in the\nchild's mind, before he can really be an active member of human\nsociety. Emile sees that to get tools for his own use, other people\nmust have theirs, and that he can get in exchange what he needs and\nthey possess. I easily bring him to feel the need of such exchange\nand to take advantage of it.\n\n\"Sir, I must live,\" said a miserable writer of lampoons to the\nminister who reproved him for his infamous trade. \"I do not see the\nnecessity,\" replied the great man coldly. This answer, excellent\nfrom the minister, would have been barbarous and untrue in any\nother mouth. Every man must live; this argument, which appeals to\nevery one with more or less force in proportion to his humanity,\nstrikes me as unanswerable when applied to oneself. Since our dislike\nof death is the strongest of those aversions nature has implanted\nin us, it follows that everything is permissible to the man who has\nno other means of living. The principles, which teach the good man\nto count his life a little thing and to sacrifice it at duty's\ncall, are far removed from this primitive simplicity. Happy\nare those nations where one can be good without effort, and just\nwithout conscious virtue. If in this world there is any condition\nso miserable that one cannot live without wrong-doing, where the\ncitizen is driven into evil, you should hang, not the criminal,\nbut those who drove him into crime.\n\nAs soon as Emile knows what life is, my first care will be to\nteach him to preserve his life. Hitherto I have made no distinction\nof condition, rank, station, or fortune; nor shall I distinguish\nbetween them in the future, since man is the same in every station;\nthe rich man's stomach is no bigger than the poor man's, nor is\nhis digestion any better; the master's arm is neither longer nor\nstronger than the slave's; a great man is no taller than one of\nthe people, and indeed the natural needs are the same to all, and\nthe means of satisfying them should be equally within the reach of\nall.  Fit a man's education to his real self, not to what is no\npart of him. Do you not see that in striving to fit him merely for\none station, you are unfitting him for anything else, so that some\ncaprice of Fortune may make your work really harmful to him? What\ncould be more absurd than a nobleman in rags, who carries with him\ninto his poverty the prejudices of his birth? What is more despicable\nthan a rich man fallen into poverty, who recalls the scorn with\nwhich he himself regarded the poor, and feels that he has sunk to\nthe lowest depth of degradation? The one may become a professional\nthief, the other a cringing servant, with this fine saying, \"I must\nlive.\"\n\nYou reckon on the present order of society, without considering\nthat this order is itself subject to inscrutable changes, and that\nyou can neither foresee nor provide against the revolution which\nmay affect your children. The great become small, the rich poor,\nthe king a commoner. Does fate strike so seldom that you can count\non immunity from her blows? The crisis is approaching, and we are\non the edge of a revolution. [Footnote: In my opinion it is impossible\nthat the great kingdoms of Europe should last much longer. Each of\nthem has had its period of splendour, after which it must inevitably\ndecline. I have my own opinions as to the special applications of\nthis general statement, but this is not the place to enter into\ndetails, and they are only too evident to everybody.] Who can\nanswer for your fate? What man has made, man may destroy. Nature's\ncharacters alone are ineffaceable, and nature makes neither the\nprince, the rich man, nor the nobleman. This satrap whom you have\neducated for greatness, what will become of him in his degradation?\nThis farmer of the taxes who can only live on gold, what will\nhe do in poverty? This haughty fool who cannot use his own hands,\nwho prides himself on what is not really his, what will he do when\nhe is stripped of all? In that day, happy will he be who can give\nup the rank which is no longer his, and be still a man in Fate's\ndespite.  Let men praise as they will that conquered monarch who\nlike a madman would be buried beneath the fragments of his throne;\nI behold him with scorn; to me he is merely a crown, and when that\nis gone he is nothing. But he who loses his crown and lives without\nit, is more than a king; from the rank of a king, which may be held\nby a coward, a villain, or madman, he rises to the rank of a man,\na position few can fill. Thus he triumphs over Fortune, he dares\nto look her in the face; he depends on himself alone, and when he\nhas nothing left to show but himself he is not a nonentity, he is\nsomebody. Better a thousandfold the king of Corinth a schoolmaster\nat Syracuse, than a wretched Tarquin, unable to be anything but\na king, or the heir of the ruler of three kingdoms, the sport of\nall who would scorn his poverty, wandering from court to court in\nsearch of help, and finding nothing but insults, for want of knowing\nany trade but one which he can no longer practise.\n\nThe man and the citizen, whoever he may be, has no property to invest\nin society but himself, all his other goods belong to society in\nspite of himself, and when a man is rich, either he does not enjoy\nhis wealth, or the public enjoys it too; in the first case he robs\nothers as well as himself; in the second he gives them nothing.\nThus his debt to society is still unpaid, while he only pays with\nhis property. \"But my father was serving society while he was\nacquiring his wealth.\" Just so; he paid his own debt, not yours.\nYou owe more to others than if you had been born with nothing,\nsince you were born under favourable conditions. It is not fair\nthat what one man has done for society should pay another's debt,\nfor since every man owes all that he is, he can only pay his own\ndebt, and no father can transmit to his son any right to be of no\nuse to mankind. \"But,\" you say, \"this is just what he does when he\nleaves me his wealth, the reward of his labour.\" The man who eats\nin idleness what he has not himself earned, is a thief, and in\nmy eyes, the man who lives on an income paid him by the state for\ndoing nothing, differs little from a highwayman who lives on those\nwho travel his way. Outside the pale of society, the solitary, owing\nnothing to any man, may live as he pleases, but in society either\nhe lives at the cost of others, or he owes them in labour the cost\nof his keep; there is no exception to this rule. Man in society is\nbound to work; rich or poor, weak or strong, every idler is a thief.\n\nNow of all the pursuits by which a man may earn his living, the\nnearest to a state of nature is manual labour; of all stations that\nof the artisan is least dependent on Fortune. The artisan depends\non his labour alone, he is a free man while the ploughman is a\nslave; for the latter depends on his field where the crops may be\ndestroyed by others. An enemy, a prince, a powerful neighbour, or\na law-suit may deprive him of his field; through this field he may\nbe harassed in all sorts of ways. But if the artisan is ill-treated\nhis goods are soon packed and he takes himself off. Yet agriculture\nis the earliest, the most honest of trades, and more useful than\nall the rest, and therefore more honourable for those who practise\nit. I do not say to Emile, \"Study agriculture,\" he is already\nfamiliar with it. He is acquainted with every kind of rural labour,\nit was his first occupation, and he returns to it continually. So\nI say to him, \"Cultivate your father's lands, but if you lose this\ninheritance, or if you have none to lose, what will you do? Learn\na trade.\"\n\n\"A trade for my son! My son a working man! What are you thinking\nof, sir?\" Madam, my thoughts are wiser than yours; you want to make\nhim fit for nothing but a lord, a marquis, or a prince; and some\nday he may be less than nothing. I want to give him a rank which\nhe cannot lose, a rank which will always do him honour; I want to\nraise him to the status of a man, and, whatever you may say, he\nwill have fewer equals in that rank than in your own.\n\nThe letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Learning a trade matters\nless than overcoming the prejudices he despises. You will never be\nreduced to earning your livelihood; so much the worse for you. No\nmatter; work for honour, not for need: stoop to the position of a\nworking man, to rise above your own. To conquer Fortune and everything\nelse, begin by independence. To rule through public opinion, begin\nby ruling over it.\n\nRemember I demand no talent, only a trade, a genuine trade, a mere\nmechanical art, in which the hands work harder than the head, a\ntrade which does not lead to fortune but makes you independent of\nher. In households far removed from all danger of want I have known\nfathers carry prudence to such a point as to provide their children\nnot only with ordinary teaching but with knowledge by means of which\nthey could get a living if anything happened. These far-sighted\nparents thought they were doing a great thing. It is nothing, for\nthe resources they fancy they have secured depend on that very\nfortune of which they would make their children independent; so\nthat unless they found themselves in circumstances fitted for the\ndisplay of their talents, they would die of hunger as if they had\nnone.\n\nAs soon as it is a question of influence and intrigue you may as\nwell use these means to keep yourself in plenty, as to acquire,\nin the depths of poverty, the means of returning to your former\nposition. If you cultivate the arts which depend on the artist's\nreputation, if you fit yourself for posts which are only obtained\nby favour, how will that help you when, rightly disgusted with\nthe world, you scorn the steps by which you must climb. You have\nstudied politics and state-craft, so far so good; but how will you\nuse this knowledge, if you cannot gain the ear of the ministers,\nthe favourites, or the officials? if you have not the secret of\nwinning their favour, if they fail to find you a rogue to their\ntaste? You are an architect or a painter; well and good; but your\ntalents must be displayed. Do you suppose you can exhibit in the\nsalon without further ado? That is not the way to set about it.\nLay aside the rule and the pencil, take a cab and drive from door\nto door; there is the road to fame. Now you must know that the\ndoors of the great are guarded by porters and flunkeys, who only\nunderstand one language, and their ears are in their palms. If\nyou wish to teach what you have learned, geography, mathematics,\nlanguages, music, drawing, even to find pupils, you must have friends\nwho will sing your praises. Learning, remember, gains more credit\nthan skill, and with no trade but your own none will believe in\nyour skill. See how little you can depend on these fine \"Resources,\"\nand how many other resources are required before you can use what\nyou have got. And what will become of you in your degradation?\nMisfortune will make you worse rather than better. More than ever\nthe sport of public opinion, how will you rise above the prejudices\non which your fate depends? How will you despise the vices and\nthe baseness from which you get your living? You were dependent on\nwealth, now you are dependent on the wealthy; you are still a slave\nand a poor man into the bargain. Poverty without freedom, can a\nman sink lower than this!\n\nBut if instead of this recondite learning adapted to feed the mind,\nnot the body, you have recourse, at need, to your hands and your\nhandiwork, there is no call for deceit, your trade is ready when\nrequired. Honour and honesty will not stand in the way of your\nliving. You need no longer cringe and lie to the great, nor creep\nand crawl before rogues, a despicable flatterer of both, a borrower\nor a thief, for there is little to choose between them when you\nare penniless. Other people's opinions are no concern of yours,\nyou need not pay court to any one, there is no fool to flatter,\nno flunkey to bribe, no woman to win over. Let rogues conduct the\naffairs of state; in your lowly rank you can still be an honest\nman and yet get a living. You walk into the first workshop of your\ntrade. \"Master, I want work.\" \"Comrade, take your place and work.\"\nBefore dinner-time you have earned your dinner. If you are sober\nand industrious, before the week is out you will have earned your\nkeep for another week; you will have lived in freedom, health,\ntruth, industry, and righteousness. Time is not wasted when it\nbrings these returns.\n\nEmile shall learn a trade. \"An honest trade, at least,\" you say.\nWhat do you mean by honest? Is not every useful trade honest? I\nwould not make an embroiderer, a gilder, a polisher of him, like\nLocke's young gentleman. Neither would I make him a musician, an\nactor, or an author.[Footnote: You are an author yourself, you will\nreply. Yes, for my sins; and my ill deeds, which I think I have\nfully expiated, are no reason why others should be like me. I do not\nwrite to excuse my faults, but to prevent my readers from copying\nthem.] With the exception of these and others like them, let him\nchoose his own trade, I do not mean to interfere with his choice.\nI would rather have him a shoemaker than a poet, I would rather he\npaved streets than painted flowers on china. \"But,\" you will say,\n\"policemen, spies, and hangmen are useful people.\" There would be\nno use for them if it were not for the government. But let that\npass. I was wrong. It is not enough to choose an honest trade,\nit must be a trade which does not develop detestable qualities in\nthe mind, qualities incompatible with humanity. To return to our\noriginal expression, \"Let us choose an honest trade,\" but let us\nremember there can be no honesty without usefulness.\n\nA famous writer of this century, whose books are full of great\nschemes and narrow views, was under a vow, like the other priests\nof his communion, not to take a wife. Finding himself more scrupulous\nthan others with regard to his neighbour's wife, he decided, so\nthey say, to employ pretty servants, and so did his best to repair\nthe wrong done to the race by his rash promise. He thought it the\nduty of a citizen to breed children for the state, and he made\nhis children artisans. As soon as they were old enough they were\ntaught whatever trade they chose; only idle or useless trades were\nexcluded, such as that of the wigmaker who is never necessary, and\nmay any day cease to be required, so long as nature does not get\ntired of providing us with hair.\n\nThis spirit shall guide our choice of trade for Emile, or rather,\nnot our choice but his; for the maxims he has imbibed make him\ndespise useless things, and he will never be content to waste his\ntime on vain labours; his trade must be of use to Robinson on his\nisland.\n\nWhen we review with the child the productions of art and nature,\nwhen we stimulate his curiosity and follow its lead, we have great\nopportunities of studying his tastes and inclinations, and perceiving\nthe first spark of genius, if he has any decided talent in any\ndirection. You must, however, be on your guard against the common\nerror which mistakes the effects of environment for the ardour of\ngenius, or imagines there is a decided bent towards any one of the\narts, when there is nothing more than that spirit of emulation,\ncommon to men and monkeys, which impels them instinctively to do\nwhat they see others doing, without knowing why.  The world is full\nof artisans, and still fuller of artists, who have no native gift\nfor their calling, into which they were driven in early childhood,\neither through the conventional ideas of other people, or because\nthose about them were deceived by an appearance of zeal, which\nwould have led them to take to any other art they saw practised. One\nhears a drum and fancies he is a general; another sees a building\nand wants to be an architect. Every one is drawn towards the trade\nhe sees before him if he thinks it is held in honour.\n\nI once knew a footman who watched his master drawing and painting\nand took it into his head to become a designer and artist. He seized\na pencil which he only abandoned for a paint-brush, to which he\nstuck for the rest of his days. Without teaching or rules of art\nhe began to draw everything he saw. Three whole years were devoted\nto these daubs, from which nothing but his duties could stir him,\nnor was he discouraged by the small progress resulting from his\nvery mediocre talents. I have seen him spend the whole of a broiling\nsummer in a little ante-room towards the south, a room where one\nwas suffocated merely passing through it; there he was, seated\nor rather nailed all day to his chair, before a globe, drawing it\nagain and again and yet again, with invincible obstinacy till he\nhad reproduced the rounded surface to his own satisfaction. At last\nwith his master's help and under the guidance of an artist he got\nso far as to abandon his livery and live by his brush. Perseverance\ndoes instead of talent up to a certain point; he got so far,\nbut no further. This honest lad's perseverance and ambition are\npraiseworthy; he will always be respected for his industry and\nsteadfastness of purpose, but his paintings will always be third-rate.\nWho would not have been deceived by his zeal and taken it for real\ntalent! There is all the difference in the world between a liking\nand an aptitude. To make sure of real genius or real taste in a child\ncalls for more accurate observations than is generally suspected,\nfor the child displays his wishes not his capacity, and we judge by\nthe former instead of considering the latter. I wish some trustworthy\nperson would give us a treatise on the art of child-study. This\nart is well worth studying, but neither parents nor teachers have\nmastered its elements.\n\nPerhaps we are laying too much stress on the choice of a trade; as\nit is a manual occupation, Emile's choice is no great matter, and\nhis apprenticeship is more than half accomplished already, through\nthe exercises which have hitherto occupied him. What would you have\nhim do? He is ready for anything. He can handle the spade and hoe,\nhe can use the lathe, hammer, plane, or file; he is already familiar\nwith these tools which are common to many trades. He only needs\nto acquire sufficient skill in the use of any one of them to rival\nthe speed, the familiarity, and the diligence of good workmen, and\nhe will have a great advantage over them in suppleness of body and\nlimb, so that he can easily take any position and can continue any\nkind of movements without effort. Moreover his senses are acute\nand well-practised, he knows the principles of the various trades;\nto work like a master of his craft he only needs experience, and\nexperience comes with practice. To which of these trades which are\nopen to us will he give sufficient time to make himself master of\nit? That is the whole question.\n\nGive a man a trade befitting his sex, to a young man a trade befitting\nhis age. Sedentary indoor employments, which make the body tender\nand effeminate, are neither pleasing nor suitable. No lad ever\nwanted to be a tailor. It takes some art to attract a man to this\nwoman's work.[Footnote: There were no tailors among the ancients;\nmen's clothes were made at home by the women.] The same hand cannot\nhold the needle and the sword. If I were king I would only allow\nneedlework and dressmaking to be done by women and cripples who are\nobliged to work at such trades. If eunuchs were required I think\nthe Easterns were very foolish to make them on purpose. Why not\ntake those provided by nature, that crowd of base persons without\nnatural feeling? There would be enough and to spare.  The weak,\nfeeble, timid man is condemned by nature to a sedentary life, he\nis fit to live among women or in their fashion. Let him adopt one\nof their trades if he likes; and if there must be eunuchs let them\ntake those men who dishonour their sex by adopting trades unworthy\nof it. Their choice proclaims a blunder on the part of nature;\ncorrect it one way or other, you will do no harm.\n\nAn unhealthy trade I forbid to my pupil, but not a difficult or\ndangerous one. He will exercise himself in strength and courage;\nsuch trades are for men not women, who claim no share in them. Are\nnot men ashamed to poach upon the women's trades?\n\n    \"Luctantur paucae, comedunt coliphia paucae.\n     Vos lanam trahitis, calathisque peracta refertis\n     Vellera.\"--Juven. Sat. II. V. 55.\n\nWomen are not seen in shops in Italy, and to persons accustomed\nto the streets of England and France nothing could look gloomier.\nWhen I saw drapers selling ladies ribbons, pompons, net, and chenille,\nI thought these delicate ornaments very absurd in the coarse hands\nfit to blow the bellows and strike the anvil. I said to myself, \"In\nthis country women should set up as steel-polishers and armourers.\"\nLet each make and sell the weapons of his or her own sex; knowledge\nis acquired through use.\n\nI know I have said too much for my agreeable contemporaries, but\nI sometimes let myself be carried away by my argument. If any one\nis ashamed to be seen wearing a leathern apron or handling a plane,\nI think him a mere slave of public opinion, ready to blush for what\nis right when people poke fun at it. But let us yield to parents'\nprejudices so long as they do not hurt the children. To honour\ntrades we are not obliged to practise every one of them, so long\nas we do not think them beneath us. When the choice is ours and\nwe are under no compulsion, why not choose the pleasanter, more\nattractive and more suitable trade. Metal work is useful, more\nuseful, perhaps, than the rest, but unless for some special reason\nEmile shall not be a blacksmith, a locksmith nor an iron-worker.\nI do not want to see him a Cyclops at the forge. Neither would I\nhave him a mason, still less a shoemaker. All trades must be carried\non, but when the choice is ours, cleanliness should be taken into\naccount; this is not a matter of class prejudice, our senses are our\nguides. In conclusion, I do not like those stupid trades in which\nthe workmen mechanically perform the same action without pause\nand almost without mental effort. Weaving, stocking-knitting,\nstone-cutting; why employ intelligent men on such work? it is merely\none machine employed on another.\n\nAll things considered, the trade I should choose for my pupil,\namong the trades he likes, is that of a carpenter. It is clean and\nuseful; it may be carried on at home; it gives enough exercise; it\ncalls for skill and industry, and while fashioning articles for\neveryday use, there is scope for elegance and taste. If your pupil's\ntalents happened to take a scientific turn, I should not blame you\nif you gave him a trade in accordance with his tastes, for instance,\nhe might learn to make mathematical instruments, glasses, telescopes,\netc.\n\nWhen Emile learns his trade I shall learn it too. I am convinced he\nwill never learn anything thoroughly unless we learn it together.\nSo we shall both serve our apprenticeship, and we do not mean to\nbe treated as gentlemen, but as real apprentices who are not there\nfor fun; why should not we actually be apprenticed? Peter the Great\nwas a ship's carpenter and drummer to his own troops; was not that\nprince at least your equal in birth and merit? You understand this\nis addressed not to Emile but to you--to you, whoever you may be.\n\nUnluckily we cannot spend the whole of our time at the workshop.\nWe are not only 'prentice-carpenters but 'prentice-men--a trade\nwhose apprenticeship is longer and more exacting than the rest.\nWhat shall we do? Shall we take a master to teach us the use of the\nplane and engage him by the hour like the dancing-master? In that\ncase we should be not apprentices but students, and our ambition is\nnot merely to learn carpentry but to be carpenters. Once or twice\na week I think we should spend the whole day at our master's; we\nshould get up when he does, we should be at our work before him,\nwe should take our meals with him, work under his orders, and after\nhaving had the honour of supping at his table we may if we please\nreturn to sleep upon our own hard beds. This is the way to learn\nseveral trades at once, to learn to do manual work without neglecting\nour apprenticeship to life.\n\nLet us do what is right without ostentation; let us not fall into\nvanity through our efforts to resist it. To pride ourselves on\nour victory over prejudice is to succumb to prejudice. It is said\nthat in accordance with an old custom of the Ottomans, the sultan\nis obliged to work with his hands, and, as every one knows, the\nhandiwork of a king is a masterpiece. So he royally distributes\nhis masterpieces among the great lords of the Porte and the price\npaid is in accordance with the rank of the workman. It is not\nthis so-called abuse to which I object; on the contrary, it is an\nadvantage, and by compelling the lords to share with him the spoils\nof the people it is so much the less necessary for the prince to\nplunder the people himself. Despotism needs some such relaxation,\nand without it that hateful rule could not last.\n\nThe real evil in such a custom is the idea it gives that poor man\nof his own worth. Like King Midas he sees all things turn to gold\nat his touch, but he does not see the ass' ears growing. Let us\nkeep Emile's hands from money lest he should become an ass, let\nhim take the work but not the wages. Never let his work be judged\nby any standard but that of the work of a master. Let it be judged\nas work, not because it is his. If anything is well done, I say,\n\"That is a good piece of work,\" but do not ask who did it. If he\nis pleased and proud and says, \"I did it,\" answer indifferently,\n\"No matter who did it, it is well done.\"\n\nGood mother, be on your guard against the deceptions prepared for\nyou. If your son knows many things, distrust his knowledge; if he\nis unlucky enough to be rich and educated in Paris he is ruined.\nAs long as there are clever artists he will have every talent,\nbut apart from his masters he will have none. In Paris a rich man\nknows everything, it is the poor who are ignorant. Our capital\nis full of amateurs, especially women, who do their work as M.\nGillaume invents his colours. Among the men I know three striking\nexceptions, among the women I know no exceptions, and I doubt if\nthere are any. In a general way a man becomes an artist and a judge\nof art as he becomes a Doctor of Laws and a magistrate.\n\nIf then it is once admitted that it is a fine thing to have a trade,\nyour children would soon have one without learning it. They would\nbecome postmasters like the councillors of Zurich. Let us have no\nsuch ceremonies for Emile; let it be the real thing not the sham.\nDo not say what he knows, let him learn in silence. Let him make\nhis masterpiece, but not be hailed as master; let him be a workman\nnot in name but in deed.\n\nIf I have made my meaning clear you ought to realise how bodily\nexercise and manual work unconsciously arouse thought and reflexion\nin my pupil, and counteract the idleness which might result from\nhis indifference to men's judgments, and his freedom from passion.\nHe must work like a peasant and think like a philosopher, if he is\nnot to be as idle as a savage. The great secret of education is to\nuse exercise of mind and body as relaxation one to the other.\n\nBut beware of anticipating teaching which demands more maturity of\nmind. Emile will not long be a workman before he discovers those\nsocial inequalities he had not previously observed. He will want\nto question me in turn on the maxims I have given him, maxims he\nis able to understand. When he derives everything from me, when\nhe is so nearly in the position of the poor, he will want to know\nwhy I am so far removed from it. All of a sudden he may put scathing\nquestions to me. \"You are rich, you tell me, and I see you are. A\nrich man owes his work to the community like the rest because he\nis a man. What are you doing for the community?\" What would a fine\ntutor say to that? I do not know. He would perhaps be foolish enough\nto talk to the child of the care he bestows upon him. The workshop\nwill get me out of the difficulty. \"My dear Emile that is a very\ngood question; I will undertake to answer for myself, when you can\nanswer for yourself to your own satisfaction. Meanwhile I will take\ncare to give what I can spare to you and to the poor, and to make\na table or a bench every week, so as not to be quite useless.\"\n\nWe have come back to ourselves. Having entered into possession of\nhimself, our child is now ready to cease to be a child. He is more\nthan ever conscious of the necessity which makes him dependent on\nthings. After exercising his body and his senses you have exercised\nhis mind and his judgment. Finally we have joined together the\nuse of his limbs and his faculties. We have made him a worker and\na thinker; we have now to make him loving and tender-hearted, to\nperfect reason through feeling. But before we enter on this new\norder of things, let us cast an eye over the stage we are leaving\nbehind us, and perceive as clearly as we can how far we have got.\n\nAt first our pupil had merely sensations, now he has ideas; he\ncould only feel, now he reasons. For from the comparison of many\nsuccessive or simultaneous sensations and the judgment arrived\nat with regard to them, there springs a sort of mixed or complex\nsensation which I call an idea.\n\nThe way in which ideas are formed gives a character to the human\nmind. The mind which derives its ideas from real relations is\nthorough; the mind which relies on apparent relations is superficial.\nHe who sees relations as they are has an exact mind; he who fails\nto estimate them aright has an inaccurate mind; he who concocts\nimaginary relations, which have no real existence, is a madman; he\nwho does not perceive any relation at all is an imbecile.  Clever\nmen are distinguished from others by their greater or less aptitude\nfor the comparison of ideas and the discovery of relations between\nthem.\n\nSimple ideas consist merely of sensations compared one with another.\nSimple sensations involve judgments, as do the complex sensations\nwhich I call simple ideas. In the sensation the judgment is purely\npassive; it affirms that I feel what I feel. In the percept or idea\nthe judgment is active; it connects, compares, it discriminates\nbetween relations not perceived by the senses. That is the whole\ndifference; but it is a great difference. Nature never deceives\nus; we deceive ourselves.\n\nI see some one giving an ice-cream to an eight-year-old child; he\ndoes not know what it is and puts the spoon in his mouth. Struck\nby the cold he cries out, \"Oh, it burns!\" He feels a very keen\nsensation, and the heat of the fire is the keenest sensation he\nknows, so he thinks that is what he feels. Yet he is mistaken; cold\nhurts, but it does not burn; and these two sensations are different,\nfor persons with more experience do not confuse them. So it is not\nthe sensation that is wrong, but the judgment formed with regard\nto it.\n\nIt is just the same with those who see a mirror or some optical\ninstrument for the first time, or enter a deep cellar in the depths\nof winter or at midsummer, or dip a very hot or cold hand into tepid\nwater, or roll a little ball between two crossed fingers. If they\nare content to say what they really feel, their judgment, being\npurely passive, cannot go wrong; but when they judge according to\nappearances, their judgment is active; it compares and establishes\nby induction relations which are not really perceived. Then these\ninductions may or may not be mistaken. Experience is required to\ncorrect or prevent error.\n\nShow your pupil the clouds at night passing between himself and the\nmoon; he will think the moon is moving in the opposite direction\nand that the clouds are stationary. He will think this through\na hasty induction, because he generally sees small objects moving\nand larger ones at rest, and the clouds seems larger than the moon,\nwhose distance is beyond his reckoning. When he watches the shore\nfrom a moving boat he falls into the opposite mistake and thinks\nthe earth is moving because he does not feel the motion of the\nboat and considers it along with the sea or river as one motionless\nwhole, of which the shore, which appears to move, forms no part.\n\nThe first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water he thinks\nhe sees a broken stick; the sensation is true and would not cease\nto be true even if he knew the reason of this appearance. So if\nyou ask him what he sees, he replies, \"A broken stick,\" for he is\nquite sure he is experiencing this sensation. But when deceived\nby his judgment he goes further and, after saying he sees a broken\nstick, he affirms that it really is broken he says what is not true.\nWhy? Because he becomes active and judges no longer by observation\nbut by induction, he affirms what he does not perceive, i.e.,\nthat the judgment he receives through one of his senses would be\nconfirmed by another.\n\nSince all our errors arise in our judgment, it is clear, that had\nwe no need for judgment, we should not need to learn; we should\nnever be liable to mistakes, we should be happier in our ignorance\nthan we can be in our knowledge. Who can deny that a vast number\nof things are known to the learned, which the unlearned will never\nknow? Are the learned any nearer truth? Not so, the further they go\nthe further they get from truth, for their pride in their judgment\nincreases faster than their progress in knowledge, so that for\nevery truth they acquire they draw a hundred mistaken conclusions.\nEvery one knows that the learned societies of Europe are mere schools\nof falsehood, and there are assuredly more mistaken notions in the\nAcademy of Sciences than in a whole tribe of American Indians.\n\nThe more we know, the more mistakes we make; therefore ignorance\nis the only way to escape error. Form no judgments and you will\nnever be mistaken. This is the teaching both of nature and reason.\nWe come into direct contact with very few things, and these are very\nreadily perceived; the rest we regard with profound indifference.\nA savage will not turn his head to watch the working of the finest\nmachinery or all the wonders of electricity. \"What does that matter\nto me?\" is the common saying of the ignorant; it is the fittest\nphrase for the wise.\n\nUnluckily this phrase will no longer serve our turn. Everything\nmatters to us, as we are dependent on everything, and our curiosity\nnaturally increases with our needs. This is why I attribute much\ncuriosity to the man of science and none to the savage. The latter\nneeds no help from anybody; the former requires every one, and\nadmirers most of all.\n\nYou will tell me I am going beyond nature. I think not. She\nchooses her instruments and orders them, not according to fancy,\nbut necessity. Now a man's needs vary with his circumstances. There\nis all the difference in the world between a natural man living in\na state of nature, and a natural man living in society. Emile is\nno savage to be banished to the desert, he is a savage who has to\nlive in the town. He must know how to get his living in a town,\nhow to use its inhabitants, and how to live among them, if not of\nthem.\n\nIn the midst of so many new relations and dependent on them, he\nmust reason whether he wants to or no. Let us therefore teach him\nto reason correctly.\n\nThe best way of learning to reason aright is that which tends to\nsimplify our experiences, or to enable us to dispense with them\naltogether without falling into error. Hence it follows that we must\nlearn to confirm the experiences of each sense by itself, without\nrecourse to any other, though we have been in the habit of verifying\nthe experience of one sense by that of another. Then each of our\nsensations will become an idea, and this idea will always correspond\nto the truth. This is the sort of knowledge I have tried to accumulate\nduring this third phase of man's life.\n\nThis method of procedure demands a patience and circumspection\nwhich few teachers possess; without them the scholar will never\nlearn to reason. For example, if you hasten to take the stick out\nof the water when the child is deceived by its appearance, you may\nperhaps undeceive him, but what have you taught him? Nothing more\nthan he would soon have learnt for himself. That is not the right\nthing to do. You have not got to teach him truths so much as to\nshow him how to set about discovering them for himself. To teach\nhim better you must not be in such a hurry to correct his mistakes.\nLet us take Emile and myself as an illustration.\n\nTo begin with, any child educated in the usual way could not fail\nto answer the second of my imaginary questions in the affirmative.\nHe will say, \"That is certainly a broken stick.\" I very much doubt\nwhether Emile will give the same reply. He sees no reason for\nknowing everything or pretending to know it; he is never in a hurry\nto draw conclusions. He only reasons from evidence and on this\noccasion he has not got the evidence. He knows how appearances\ndeceive us, if only through perspective.\n\nMoreover, he knows by experience that there is always a reason for\nmy slightest questions, though he may not see it at once; so he has\nnot got into the habit of giving silly answers; on the contrary,\nhe is on his guard, he considers things carefully and attentively\nbefore answering. He never gives me an answer unless he is satisfied\nwith it himself, and he is hard to please. Lastly we neither of\nus take any pride in merely knowing a thing, but only in avoiding\nmistakes. We should be more ashamed to deceive ourselves with bad\nreasoning, than to find no explanation at all. There is no phrase\nso appropriate to us, or so often on our lips, as, \"I do not know;\"\nneither of us are ashamed to use it. But whether he gives the silly\nanswer or whether he avoids it by our convenient phrase \"I do not\nknow,\" my answer is the same. \"Let us examine it.\"\n\nThis stick immersed half way in the water is fixed in an upright\nposition. To know if it is broken, how many things must be done\nbefore we take it out of the water or even touch it.\n\n1. First we walk round it, and we see that the broken part follows\nus. So it is only our eye that changes it; looks do not make things\nmove.\n\n2. We look straight down on that end of the stick which is above\nthe water, the stick is no longer bent, [Footnote: I have since\nfound by more exact experiment that this is not the case. Refraction\nacts in a circle, and the stick appears larger at the end which is\nin the water, but this makes no difference to the strength of the\nargument, and the conclusion is correct.] the end near our eye\nexactly hides the other end. Has our eye set the stick straight?\n\n3. We stir the surface of the water; we see the stick break into\nseveral pieces, it moves in zigzags and follows the ripples of the\nwater. Can the motion we gave the water suffice to break, soften,\nor melt the stick like this?\n\n4. We draw the water off, and little by little we see the stick\nstraightening itself as the water sinks. Is not this more than\nenough to clear up the business and to discover refraction? So it\nis not true that our eyes deceive us, for nothing more has been\nrequired to correct the mistakes attributed to it.\n\nSuppose the child were stupid enough not to perceive the result of\nthese experiments, then you must call touch to the help of sight.\nInstead of taking the stick out of the water, leave it where it is\nand let the child pass his hand along it from end to end; he will\nfeel no angle, therefore the stick is not broken.\n\nYou will tell me this is not mere judgment but formal reasoning.\nJust so; but do not you see that as soon as the mind has got any\nideas at all, every judgment is a process of reasoning? So that\nas soon as we compare one sensation with another, we are beginning\nto reason. The art of judging and the art of reasoning are one and\nthe same.\n\nEmile will never learn dioptrics unless he learns with this stick.\nHe will not have dissected insects nor counted the spots on the\nsun; he will not know what you mean by a microscope or a telescope.\nYour learned pupils will laugh at his ignorance and rightly, I intend\nhim to invent these instruments before he uses them, and you will\nexpect that to take some time.\n\nThis is the spirit of my whole method at this stage. If the child\nrolls a little ball between two crossed fingers and thinks he feels\ntwo balls, I shall not let him look until he is convinced there is\nonly one.\n\nThis explanation will suffice, I hope, to show plainly the progress\nmade by my pupil hitherto and the route followed by him. But perhaps\nthe number of things I have brought to his notice alarms you. I\nshall crush his mind beneath this weight of knowledge. Not so, I am\nrather teaching him to be ignorant of things than to know them. I\nam showing him the path of science, easy indeed, but long, far-reaching\nand slow to follow. I am taking him a few steps along this path,\nbut I do not allow him to go far.\n\nCompelled to learn for himself, he uses his own reason not that of\nothers, for there must be no submission to authority if you would\nhave no submission to convention. Most of our errors are due to\nothers more than ourselves. This continual exercise should develop\na vigour of mind like that acquired by the body through labour and\nweariness. Another advantage is that his progress is in proportion\nto his strength, neither mind nor body carries more than it can\nbear. When the understanding lays hold of things before they are\nstored in the memory, what is drawn from that store is his own;\nwhile we are in danger of never finding anything of our own in a\nmemory over-burdened with undigested knowledge.\n\nEmile knows little, but what he knows is really his own; he has no\nhalf-knowledge. Among the few things he knows and knows thoroughly\nthis is the most valuable, that there are many things he does not\nknow now but may know some day, many more that other men know but\nhe will never know, and an infinite number which nobody will ever\nknow.  He is large-minded, not through knowledge, but through\nthe power of acquiring it; he is open-minded, intelligent, ready\nfor anything, and, as Montaigne says, capable of learning if not\nlearned. I am content if he knows the \"Wherefore\" of his actions\nand the \"Why\" of his beliefs. For once more my object is not to\nsupply him with exact knowledge, but the means of getting it when\nrequired, to teach him to value it at its true worth, and to love\ntruth above all things.  By this method progress is slow but sure,\nand we never need to retrace our steps.\n\nEmile's knowledge is confined to nature and things. The very name\nof history is unknown to him, along with metaphysics and morals. He\nknows the essential relations between men and things, but nothing\nof the moral relations between man and man. He has little power of\ngeneralisation, he has no skill in abstraction. He perceives that\ncertain qualities are common to certain things, without reasoning\nabout these qualities themselves. He is acquainted with the\nabstract idea of space by the help of his geometrical figures; he\nis acquainted with the abstract idea of quantity by the help of\nhis algebraical symbols. These figures and signs are the supports\non which these ideas may be said to rest, the supports on which his\nsenses repose. He does not attempt to know the nature of things,\nbut only to know things in so far as they affect himself. He only\njudges what is outside himself in relation to himself, and his\njudgment is exact and certain. Caprice and prejudice have no part\nin it. He values most the things which are of use to himself, and\nas he never departs from this standard of values, he owes nothing\nto prejudice.\n\nEmile is industrious, temperate, patient, stedfast, and full of\ncourage. His imagination is still asleep, so he has no exaggerated\nideas of danger; the few ills he feels he knows how to endure in\npatience, because he has not learnt to rebel against fate. As to\ndeath, he knows not what it means; but accustomed as he is to submit\nwithout resistance to the law of necessity, he will die, if die he\nmust, without a groan and without a struggle; that is as much as\nwe can demand of nature, in that hour which we all abhor. To live\nin freedom, and to be independent of human affairs, is the best\nway to learn how to die.\n\nIn a word Emile is possessed of all that portion of virtue which\nconcerns himself. To acquire the social virtues he only needs a\nknowledge of the relations which make those virtues necessary; he\nonly lacks knowledge which he is quite ready to receive.\n\nHe thinks not of others but of himself, and prefers that others\nshould do the same. He makes no claim upon them, and acknowledges\nno debt to them. He is alone in the midst of human society, he\ndepends on himself alone, for he is all that a boy can be at his\nage. He has no errors, or at least only such as are inevitable;\nhe has no vices, or only those from which no man can escape. His\nbody is healthy, his limbs are supple, his mind is accurate and\nunprejudiced, his heart is free and untroubled by passion. Pride,\nthe earliest and the most natural of passions, has scarcely shown\nitself. Without disturbing the peace of others, he has passed\nhis life contented, happy, and free, so far as nature allows. Do\nyou think that the earlier years of a child, who has reached his\nfifteenth year in this condition, have been wasted?\n\n\n\n\nBOOK IV\n\nHow swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is gone\nbefore we know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapable\nof enjoying life. At first we do not know how to live; and when\nwe know how to live it is too late. In the interval between these\ntwo useless extremes we waste three-fourths of our time sleeping,\nworking, sorrowing, enduring restraint and every kind of suffering.\nLife is short, not so much because of the short time it lasts, but\nbecause we are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain is\nthere a long interval between the hour of death and that of birth;\nlife is still too short, if this interval is not well spent.\n\nWe are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and born\ninto life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who regard woman\nas an imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they have external\nresemblance on their side. Up to the age of puberty children of\nboth sexes have little to distinguish them to the eye, the same\nface and form, the same complexion and voice, everything is the\nsame; girls are children and boys are children; one name is enough\nfor creatures so closely resembling one another. Males whose development\nis arrested preserve this resemblance all their lives; they are\nalways big children; and women who never lose this resemblance seem\nin many respects never to be more than children.\n\nBut, speaking generally, man is not meant to remain a child. He\nleaves childhood behind him at the time ordained by nature; and this\ncritical moment, short enough in itself, has far-reaching consequences.\n\nAs the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmur\nof rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressed\nexcitement warns us of the approaching danger. A change of temper,\nfrequent outbreaks of anger, a perpetual stirring of the mind,\nmake the child almost ungovernable. He becomes deaf to the voice\nhe used to obey; he is a lion in a fever; he distrusts his keeper\nand refuses to be controlled.\n\nWith the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptible\nchanges in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the stamp\nof his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks becomes\ndarker and stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he loses it\naltogether. He is neither a child nor a man and cannot speak like\neither of them. His eyes, those organs of the soul which till\nnow were dumb, find speech and meaning; a kindling fire illumines\nthem, there is still a sacred innocence in their ever brightening\nglance, but they have lost their first meaningless expression; he\nis already aware that they can say too much; he is beginning to\nlearn to lower his eyes and blush, he is becoming sensitive, though\nhe does not know what it is that he feels; he is uneasy without\nknowing why. All this may happen gradually and give you time enough;\nbut if his keenness becomes impatience, his eagerness madness, if\nhe is angry and sorry all in a moment, if he weeps without cause,\nif in the presence of objects which are beginning to be a source\nof danger his pulse quickens and his eyes sparkle, if he trembles\nwhen a woman's hand touches his, if he is troubled or timid in her\npresence, O Ulysses, wise Ulysses! have a care! The passages you\nclosed with so much pains are open; the winds are unloosed; keep\nyour hand upon the helm or all is lost.\n\nThis is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man really\nenters upon life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to him.\nOur efforts so far have been child's play, now they are of the\ngreatest importance. This period when education is usually finished\nis just the time to begin; but to explain this new plan properly,\nlet us take up our story where we left it.\n\nOur passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try to\ndestroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this would\nbe to overcome nature, to reshape God's handiwork. If God bade\nman annihilate the passions he has given him, God would bid him be\nand not be; He would contradict himself. He has never given such a\nfoolish commandment, there is nothing like it written on the heart\nof man, and what God will have a man do, He does not leave to the\nwords of another man. He speaks Himself; His words are written in\nthe secret heart.\n\nNow I consider those who would prevent the birth of the passions\nalmost as foolish as those who would destroy them, and those who\nthink this has been my object hitherto are greatly mistaken.\n\nBut should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passions\nare natural to man, we inferred that all the passions we feel in\nourselves and behold in others are natural? Their source, indeed,\nis natural; but they have been swollen by a thousand other streams;\nthey are a great river which is constantly growing, one in which\nwe can scarcely find a single drop of the original stream. Our\nnatural passions are few in number; they are the means to freedom,\nthey tend to self-preservation. All those which enslave and destroy\nus have another source; nature does not bestow them on us; we seize\non them in her despite.\n\nThe origin of our passions, the root and spring of all the rest,\nthe only one which is born with man, which never leaves him as long\nas he lives, is self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive,\nit precedes all the rest, which are in a sense only modifications\nof it. In this sense, if you like, they are all natural. But most\nof these modifications are the result of external influences,\nwithout which they would never occur, and such modifications, far\nfrom being advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the original\npurpose and work against its end; then it is that man finds himself\noutside nature and at strife with himself.\n\nSelf-love is always good, always in accordance with the order of\nnature. The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted to\neach one of us, and our first care is, and must be, to watch over\nour own life; and how can we continually watch over it, if we do\nnot take the greatest interest in it?\n\nSelf-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love ourselves;\nwe must love ourselves above everything, and it follows directly\nfrom this that we love what contributes to our preservation. Every\nchild becomes fond of its nurse; Romulus must have loved the she-wolf\nwho suckled him. At first this attachment is quite unconscious; the\nindividual is attracted to that which contributes to his welfare and\nrepelled by that which is harmful; this is merely blind instinct.\nWhat transforms this instinct into feeling, the liking into love,\nthe aversion into hatred, is the evident intention of helping\nor hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to objects\nwithout feeling, which only follow the direction given them; but\nthose from which we expect benefit or injury from their internal\ndisposition, from their will, those we see acting freely for or\nagainst us, inspire us with like feelings to those they exhibit\ntowards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but we love\nthe person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink from\nit, but we hate the person who tries to hurt us.\n\nThe child's first sentiment is self-love, his second, which is\nderived from it, is love of those about him; for in his present\nstate of weakness he is only aware of people through the help and\nattention received from them. At first his affection for his nurse\nand his governess is mere habit. He seeks them because he needs\nthem and because he is happy when they are there; it is rather\nperception than kindly feeling. It takes a long time to discover\nnot merely that they are useful to him, but that they desire to be\nuseful to him, and then it is that he begins to love them.\n\nSo a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because he\nsees that every one about him is inclined to help him, and from\nthis experience he gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards his\nspecies; but with the expansion of his relations, his needs, his\ndependence, active or passive, the consciousness of his relations\nto others is awakened, and leads to the sense of duties and\npreferences. Then the child becomes masterful, jealous, deceitful,\nand vindictive. If he is not compelled to obedience, when he does\nnot see the usefulness of what he is told to do, he attributes it\nto caprice, to an intention of tormenting him, and he rebels. If\npeople give in to him, as soon as anything opposes him he regards\nit as rebellion, as a determination to resist him; he beats the chair\nor table for disobeying him. Self-love, which concerns itself only\nwith ourselves, is content to satisfy our own needs; but selfishness,\nwhich is always comparing self with others, is never satisfied and\nnever can be; for this feeling, which prefers ourselves to others,\nrequires that they should prefer us to themselves, which is impossible.\nThus the tender and gentle passions spring from self-love, while\nthe hateful and angry passions spring from selfishness.  So it is\nthe fewness of his needs, the narrow limits within which he can\ncompare himself with others, that makes a man really good; what\nmakes him really bad is a multiplicity of needs and dependence on\nthe opinions of others. It is easy to see how we can apply this\nprinciple and guide every passion of children and men towards\ngood or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will be\nhard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increase\nof necessity as his relations with others are extended. For this\nreason, above all, the dangers of social life demand that the\nnecessary skill and care shall be devoted to guarding the human\nheart against the depravity which springs from fresh needs.\n\nMan's proper study is that of his relation to his environment. So\nlong as he only knows that environment through his physical nature,\nhe should study himself in relation to things; this is the business\nof his childhood; when he begins to be aware of his moral nature,\nhe should study himself in relation to his fellow-men; this is the\nbusiness of his whole life, and we have now reached the time when\nthat study should be begun.\n\nAs soon as a man needs a companion he is no longer an isolated\ncreature, his heart is no longer alone. All his relations with his\nspecies, all the affections of his heart, come into being along\nwith this. His first passion soon arouses the rest.\n\nThe direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attracted\nby the other; that is the impulse of nature. Choice, preferences,\nindividual likings, are the work of reason, prejudice, and habit;\ntime and knowledge are required to make us capable of love; we do\nnot love without reasoning or prefer without comparison. These judgments\nare none the less real, although they are formed unconsciously.\nTrue love, whatever you may say, will always be held in honour\nby mankind; for although its impulses lead us astray, although it\ndoes not bar the door of the heart to certain detestable qualities,\nalthough it even gives rise to these, yet it always presupposes\ncertain worthy characteristics, without which we should be incapable\nof love. This choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason,\nreally springs from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyes\nare better than ours, and he perceives relations which we cannot\ndiscern. All women would be alike to a man who had no idea of virtue\nor beauty, and the first comer would always be the most charming.\nLove does not spring from nature, far from it; it is the curb and\nlaw of her desires; it is love that makes one sex indifferent to\nthe other, the loved one alone excepted.\n\nWe wish to inspire the preference we feel; love must be mutual.\nTo be loved we must be worthy of love; to be preferred we must be\nmore worthy than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved.\nHence we begin to look around among our fellows; we begin to compare\nourselves with them, there is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy.\nA heart full to overflowing loves to make itself known; from the\nneed of a mistress there soon springs the need of a friend. He who\nfeels how sweet it is to be loved, desires to be loved by everybody;\nand there could be no preferences if there were not many that\nfail to find satisfaction. With love and friendship there begin\ndissensions, enmity, and hatred. I behold deference to other\npeople's opinions enthroned among all these divers passions, and\nfoolish mortals, enslaved by her power, base their very existence\nmerely on what other people think.\n\nExpand these ideas and you will see where we get that form of\nselfishness which we call natural selfishness, and how selfishness\nceases to be a simple feeling and becomes pride in great minds, vanity\nin little ones, and in both feeds continually at our neighbour's\ncost. Passions of this kind, not having any germ in the child's\nheart, cannot spring up in it of themselves; it is we who sow the\nseeds, and they never take root unless by our fault. Not so with\nthe young man; they will find an entrance in spite of us. It is\ntherefore time to change our methods.\n\nLet us begin with some considerations of importance with regard to\nthe critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood to\npuberty is not so clearly determined by nature but that it varies\naccording to individual temperament and racial conditions. Everybody\nknows the differences which have been observed with regard to this\nbetween hot and cold countries, and every one sees that ardent\ntemperaments mature earlier than others; but we may be mistaken as\nto the causes, and we may often attribute to physical causes what\nis really due to moral: this is one of the commonest errors in\nthe philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature comes slowly;\nman's lessons are mostly premature. In the former case, the senses\nkindle the imagination, in the latter the imagination kindles the\nsenses; it gives them a precocious activity which cannot fail to\nenervate the individual and, in the long run, the race. It is a more\ngeneral and more trustworthy fact than that of climatic influences,\nthat puberty and sexual power is always more precocious among\neducated and civilised races, than among the ignorant and barbarous.\n[Footnote: \"In towns,\" says M. Buffon, \"and among the well-to-do\nclasses, children accustomed to plentiful and nourishing food sooner\nreach this state; in the country and among the poor, children are\nmore backward, because of their poor and scanty food.\" I admit the\nfact but not the explanation, for in the districts where the food\nof the villagers is plentiful and good, as in the Valais and even\nin some of the mountain districts of Italy, such as Friuli, the\nage of puberty for both sexes is quite as much later than in the\nheart of the towns, where, in order to gratify their vanity, people\nare often extremely parsimonious in the matter of food, and where\nmost people, in the words of the proverb, have a velvet coat and\nan empty belly.  It is astonishing to find in these mountainous\nregions big lads as strong as a man with shrill voices and smooth\nchins, and tall girls, well developed in other respects, without\nany trace of the periodic functions of their sex. This difference\nis, in my opinion, solely due to the fact that in the simplicity of\ntheir manners the imagination remains calm and peaceful, and does\nnot stir the blood till much later, and thus their temperament\nis much less precocious.] Children are preternaturally quick to\ndiscern immoral habits under the cloak of decency with which they\nare concealed. The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessons\nin good behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang before\ntheir eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. It is plain,\nfrom the way you set about it, that they are meant to learn what\nyou profess to conceal; and of all you teach them this is most\nquickly assimilated.\n\nConsult experience and you will find how far this foolish method\nhastens the work of nature and ruins the character. This is one of\nthe chief causes of physical degeneration in our towns. The young\npeople, prematurely exhausted, remain small, puny, and misshapen,\nthey grow old instead of growing up, like a vine forced to bear\nfruit in spring, which fades and dies before autumn.\n\nTo know how far a happy ignorance may prolong the innocence of\nchildren, you must live among rude and simple people. It is a sight\nboth touching and amusing to see both sexes, left to the protection\nof their own hearts, continuing the sports of childhood in the\nflower of youth and beauty, showing by their very familiarity the\npurity of their pleasures. When at length those delightful young\npeople marry, they bestow on each other the first fruits of their\nperson, and are all the dearer therefore. Swarms of strong and healthy\nchildren are the pledges of a union which nothing can change, and\nthe fruit of the virtue of their early years.\n\nIf the age at which a man becomes conscious of his sex is deferred\nas much by the effects of education as by the action of nature,\nit follows that this age may be hastened or retarded according to\nthe way in which the child is brought up; and if the body gains\nor loses strength in proportion as its development is accelerated\nor retarded, it also follows that the more we try to retard it\nthe stronger and more vigorous will the young man be. I am still\nspeaking of purely physical consequences; you will soon see that\nthis is not all.\n\nFrom these considerations I arrive at the solution of the question\nso often discussed--Should we enlighten children at an early period\nas to the objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put them\noff with decent shams? I think we need do neither. In the first\nplace, this curiosity will not arise unless we give it a chance.\nWe must therefore take care not to give it an opportunity. In the\nnext place, questions one is not obliged to answer do not compel us\nto deceive those who ask them; it is better to bid the child hold\nhis tongue than to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly surprised\nat this treatment if you have already accustomed him to it in matters\nof no importance. Lastly, if you decide to answer his questions,\nlet it be with the greatest plainness, without mystery or confusion,\nwithout a smile. It is much less dangerous to satisfy a child's\ncuriosity than to stimulate it.\n\nLet your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without trace\nof hesitation. I need not add that they should be true. We cannot\nteach children the danger of telling lies to men without realising,\non the man's part, the danger of telling lies to children. A single\nuntruth on the part of the master will destroy the results of his\neducation.\n\nComplete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps the\nbest thing for children; but let them learn very early what it is\nimpossible to conceal from them permanently. Either their curiosity\nmust never be aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age when\nit becomes a source of danger. Your conduct towards your pupil\nin this respect depends greatly on his individual circumstances,\nthe society in which he moves, the position in which he may find\nhimself, etc. Nothing must be left to chance; and if you are not\nsure of keeping him in ignorance of the difference between the\nsexes till he is sixteen, take care you teach him before he is ten.\n\nI do not like people to be too fastidious in speaking with children,\nnor should they go out of their way to avoid calling a spade a\nspade; they are always found out if they do. Good manners in this\nrespect are always perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled by\nvice makes the ear over-sensitive and compels us to be constantly\nrefining our expressions. Plain words do not matter; it is lascivious\nideas which must be avoided.\n\nAlthough modesty is natural to man, it is not natural to children.\nModesty only begins with the knowledge of evil; and how should\nchildren without this knowledge of evil have the feeling which\nresults from it? To give them lessons in modesty and good conduct\nis to teach them that there are things shameful and wicked, and to\ngive them a secret wish to know what these things are. Sooner or\nlater they will find out, and the first spark which touches the\nimagination will certainly hasten the awakening of the senses.\nBlushes are the sign of guilt; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.\n\nChildren have not the same desires as men; but they are subject\nlike them to the same disagreeable needs which offend the senses,\nand by this means they may receive the same lessons in propriety.\nFollow the mind of nature which has located in the same place\nthe organs of secret pleasures and those of disgusting needs; she\nteaches us the same precautions at different ages, sometimes by means\nof one idea and sometimes by another; to the man through modesty,\nto the child through cleanliness.\n\nI can only find one satisfactory way of preserving the child's\ninnocence, to surround him by those who respect and love him.\nWithout this all our efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooner\nor later; a smile, a wink, a careless gesture tells him all we\nsought to hide; it is enough to teach him to perceive that there\nis something we want to hide from him. The delicate phrases and\nexpressions employed by persons of politeness assume a knowledge\nwhich children ought not to possess, and they are quite out of\nplace with them, but when we truly respect the child's innocence we\neasily find in talking to him the simple phrases which befit him.\nThere is a certain directness of speech which is suitable and\npleasing to innocence; this is the right tone to adopt in order\nto turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By speaking simply to\nhim about everything you do not let him suspect there is anything\nleft unsaid.  By connecting coarse words with the unpleasant ideas\nwhich belong to them, you quench the first spark of imagination;\nyou do not forbid the child to say these words or to form these\nideas; but without his knowing it you make him unwilling to recall\nthem. And how much confusion is spared to those who speaking from\nthe heart always say the right thing, and say it as they themselves\nhave felt it!\n\n\"Where do little children come from?\" This is an embarrassing question,\nwhich occurs very naturally to children, one which foolishly or\nwisely answered may decide their health and their morals for life.\nThe quickest way for a mother to escape from it without deceiving\nher son is to tell him to hold his tongue. That will serve its turn\nif he has always been accustomed to it in matters of no importance,\nand if he does not suspect some mystery from this new way of\nspeaking. But the mother rarely stops there.  \"It is the married\npeople's secret,\" she will say, \"little boys should not be so\ncurious.\" That is all very well so far as the mother is concerned,\nbut she may be sure that the little boy, piqued by her scornful\nmanner, will not rest till he has found out the married people's\nsecret, which will very soon be the case.\n\nLet me tell you a very different answer which I heard given to\nthe same question, one which made all the more impression on me,\ncoming, as it did, from a woman, modest in speech and behaviour,\nbut one who was able on occasion, for the welfare of her child\nand for the cause of virtue, to cast aside the false fear of blame\nand the silly jests of the foolish. Not long before the child had\npassed a small stone which had torn the passage, but the trouble\nwas over and forgotten.  \"Mamma,\" said the eager child, \"where do\nlittle children come from?\" \"My child,\" replied his mother without\nhesitation, \"women pass them with pains that sometimes cost their\nlife.\" Let fools laugh and silly people be shocked; but let the\nwise inquire if it is possible to find a wiser answer and one which\nwould better serve its purpose.\n\nIn the first place the thought of a need of nature with which\nthe child is well acquainted turns his thoughts from the idea\nof a mysterious process. The accompanying ideas of pain and death\ncover it with a veil of sadness which deadens the imagination and\nsuppresses curiosity; everything leads the mind to the results, not\nthe causes, of child-birth. This is the information to which this\nanswer leads. If the repugnance inspired by this answer should\npermit the child to inquire further, his thoughts are turned to the\ninfirmities of human nature, disgusting things, images of pain.\nWhat chance is there for any stimulation of desire in such a\nconversation? And yet you see there is no departure from truth, no\nneed to deceive the scholar in order to teach him.\n\nYour children read; in the course of their reading they meet\nwith things they would never have known without reading. Are they\nstudents, their imagination is stimulated and quickened in the\nsilence of the study. Do they move in the world of society, they hear\na strange jargon, they see conduct which makes a great impression\non them; they have been told so continually that they are men that\nin everything men do in their presence they at once try to find\nhow that will suit themselves; the conduct of others must indeed\nserve as their pattern when the opinions of others are their law.\nServants, dependent on them, and therefore anxious to please them,\nflatter them at the expense of their morals; giggling governesses\nsay things to the four-year-old child which the most shameless\nwoman would not dare to say to them at fifteen. They soon forget\nwhat they said, but the child has not forgotten what he heard.\nLoose conversation prepares the way for licentious conduct; the\nchild is debauched by the cunning lacquey, and the secret of the\none guarantees the secret of the other.\n\nThe child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knows\nno attachment but that of habit, he loves his sister like his watch,\nand his friend like his dog. He is unconscious of his sex and his\nspecies; men and women are alike unknown; he does not connect their\nsayings and doings with himself, he neither sees nor hears, or he\npays no heed to them; he is no more concerned with their talk than\ntheir actions; he has nothing to do with it. This is no artificial\nerror induced by our method, it is the ignorance of nature. The\ntime is at hand when that same nature will take care to enlighten\nher pupil, and then only does she make him capable of profiting\nby the lessons without danger. This is our principle; the details\nof its rules are outside my subject; and the means I suggest with\nregard to other matters will still serve to illustrate this.\n\nDo you wish to establish law and order among the rising passions,\nprolong the period of their development, so that they may have time\nto find their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlled\nby nature herself, not by man; your task is merely to leave it\nin her hands. If your pupil were alone, you would have nothing to\ndo; but everything about him enflames his imagination. He is swept\nalong on the torrent of conventional ideas; to rescue him you must\nurge him in the opposite direction. Imagination must be curbed\nby feeling and reason must silence the voice of conventionality.\nSensibility is the source of all the passions, imagination determines\ntheir course.  Every creature who is aware of his relations must\nbe disturbed by changes in these relations and when he imagines\nor fancies he imagines others better adapted to his nature. It is\nthe errors of the imagination which transmute into vices the passions\nof finite beings, of angels even, if indeed they have passions; for\nthey must needs know the nature of every creature to realise what\nrelations are best adapted to themselves.\n\nThis is the sum of human wisdom with regard to the use of\nthe passions. First, to be conscious of the true relations of man\nboth in the species and the individual; second, to control all the\naffections in accordance with these relations.\n\nBut is man in a position to control his affections according to\nsuch and such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix his\nimagination on this or that object, or to form this or that habit.\nMoreover, we are not so much concerned with what a man can do for\nhimself, as with what we can do for our pupil through our choice\nof the circumstances in which he shall be placed. To show the means\nby which he may be kept in the path of nature is to show plainly\nenough how he might stray from that path.\n\nSo long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is no\nmorality in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyond\nhimself that he forms first the sentiments and then the ideas of\ngood and ill, which make him indeed a man, and an integral part of\nhis species. To begin with we must therefore confine our observations\nto this point.\n\nThese observations are difficult to make, for we must reject the\nexamples before our eyes, and seek out those in which the successive\ndevelopments follow the order of nature.\n\nA child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only awaiting\nthe power to put into practice the precocious instruction he has\nreceived, is never mistaken with regard to the time when this power\nis acquired. Far from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he stirs his\nblood to a premature ferment; he knows what should be the object\nof his desires long before those desires are experienced. It is\nnot nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces the hand of\nnature; she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a man; he was\na man in thought long before he was a man in reality.\n\nThe true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little by\nlittle the blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the character\nis formed. The wise workman who directs the process is careful\nto perfect every tool before he puts it to use; the first desires\nare preceded by a long period of unrest, they are deceived by a\nprolonged ignorance, they know not what they want. The blood ferments\nand bubbles; overflowing vitality seeks to extend its sphere. The\neye grows brighter and surveys others, we begin to be interested\nin those about us, we begin to feel that we are not meant to live\nalone; thus the heart is thrown open to human affection, and becomes\ncapable of attachment.\n\nThe first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable is\nnot love but friendship. The first work of his rising imagination\nis to make known to him his fellows; the species affects him before\nthe sex. Here is another advantage to be gained from prolonged\ninnocence; you may take advantage of his dawning sensibility to sow\nthe first seeds of humanity in the heart of the young adolescent.\nThis advantage is all the greater because this is the only time in\nhis life when such efforts may be really successful.\n\nI have always observed that young men, corrupted in early youth\nand addicted to women and debauchery, are inhuman and cruel; their\npassionate temperament makes them impatient, vindictive, and angry;\ntheir imagination fixed on one object only, refuses all others;\nmercy and pity are alike unknown to them; they would have sacrificed\nfather, mother, the whole world, to the least of their pleasures.\nA young man, on the other hand, brought up in happy innocence, is\ndrawn by the first stirrings of nature to the tender and affectionate\npassions; his warm heart is touched by the sufferings of his\nfellow-creatures; he trembles with delight when he meets his comrade,\nhis arms can embrace tenderly, his eyes can shed tears of pity; he\nlearns to be sorry for offending others through his shame at causing\nannoyance. If the eager warmth of his blood makes him quick, hasty,\nand passionate, a moment later you see all his natural kindness of\nheart in the eagerness of his repentance; he weeps, he groans over\nthe wound he has given; he would atone for the blood he has shed\nwith his own; his anger dies away, his pride abases itself before\nthe consciousness of his wrong-doing. Is he the injured party, in\nthe height of his fury an excuse, a word, disarms him; he forgives\nthe wrongs of others as whole-heartedly as he repairs his own.\nAdolescence is not the age of hatred or vengeance; it is the age of\npity, mercy, and generosity. Yes, I maintain, and I am not afraid\nof the testimony of experience, a youth of good birth, one who has\npreserved his innocence up to the age of twenty, is at that age\nthe best, the most generous, the most loving, and the most lovable\nof men. You never heard such a thing; I can well believe that\nphilosophers such as you, brought up among the corruption of the\npublic schools, are unaware of it.\n\nMan's weakness makes him sociable. Our common sufferings draw our\nhearts to our fellow-creatures; we should have no duties to mankind\nif we were not men. Every affection is a sign of insufficiency;\nif each of us had no need of others, we should hardly think of\nassociating with them. So our frail happiness has its roots in our\nweakness. A really happy man is a hermit; God only enjoys absolute\nhappiness; but which of us has any idea what that means? If\nany imperfect creature were self-sufficing, what would he have to\nenjoy?  To our thinking he would be wretched and alone. I do not\nunderstand how one who has need of nothing could love anything,\nnor do I understand how he who loves nothing can be happy.\n\nHence it follows that we are drawn towards our fellow-creatures\nless by our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for in\nthem we discern more plainly a nature like our own, and a pledge\nof their affection for us. If our common needs create a bond\nof interest our common sufferings create a bond of affection. The\nsight of a happy man arouses in others envy rather than love, we\nare ready to accuse him of usurping a right which is not his, of\nseeking happiness for himself alone, and our selfishness suffers\nan additional pang in the thought that this man has no need of us.\nBut who does not pity the wretch when he beholds his sufferings?\nwho would not deliver him from his woes if a wish could do it?\nImagination puts us more readily in the place of the miserable man\nthan of the happy man; we feel that the one condition touches us\nmore nearly than the other.  Pity is sweet, because, when we put\nourselves in the place of one who suffers, we are aware, nevertheless,\nof the pleasure of not suffering like him. Envy is bitter, because\nthe sight of a happy man, far from putting the envious in his place,\ninspires him with regret that he is not there. The one seems to\nexempt us from the pains he suffers, the other seems to deprive us\nof the good things he enjoys.\n\nDo you desire to stimulate and nourish the first stirrings of\nawakening sensibility in the heart of a young man, do you desire\nto incline his disposition towards kindly deed and thought, do\nnot cause the seeds of pride, vanity, and envy to spring up in him\nthrough the misleading picture of the happiness of mankind; do not\nshow him to begin with the pomp of courts, the pride of palaces,\nthe delights of pageants; do not take him into society and into\nbrilliant assemblies; do not show him the outside of society till\nyou have made him capable of estimating it at its true worth.\nTo show him the world before he is acquainted with men, is not to\ntrain him, but to corrupt him; not to teach, but to mislead.\n\nBy nature men are neither kings, nobles, courtiers, nor millionaires.\nAll men are born poor and naked, all are liable to the sorrows of\nlife, its disappointments, its ills, its needs, its suffering of\nevery kind; and all are condemned at length to die.  This is what\nit really means to be a man, this is what no mortal can escape.\nBegin then with the study of the essentials of humanity, that which\nreally constitutes mankind.\n\nAt sixteen the adolescent knows what it is to suffer, for he himself\nhas suffered; but he scarcely realises that others suffer too; to\nsee without feeling is not knowledge, and as I have said again and\nagain the child who does not picture the feelings of others knows\nno ills but his own; but when his imagination is kindled by the\nfirst beginnings of growing sensibility, he begins to perceive\nhimself in his fellow-creatures, to be touched by their cries, to\nsuffer in their sufferings. It is at this time that the sorrowful\npicture of suffering humanity should stir his heart with the first\ntouch of pity he has ever known.\n\nIf it is not easy to discover this opportunity in your scholars,\nwhose fault is it? You taught them so soon to play at feeling, you\ntaught them so early its language, that speaking continually in\nthe same strain they turn your lessons against yourself, and give\nyou no chance of discovering when they cease to lie, and begin to\nfeel what they say. But look at Emile; I have led him up to this\nage, and he has neither felt nor pretended to feel. He has never\nsaid, \"I love you dearly,\" till he knew what it was to love; he has\nnever been taught what expression to assume when he enters the room\nof his father, his mother, or his sick tutor; he has not learnt the\nart of affecting a sorrow he does not feel. He has never pretended\nto weep for the death of any one, for he does not know what it is\nto die.  There is the same insensibility in his heart as in his\nmanners.  Indifferent, like every child, to every one but himself,\nhe takes no interest in any one; his only peculiarity is that he\nwill not pretend to take such an interest; he is less deceitful\nthan others.\n\nEmile having thought little about creatures of feeling will be a\nlong time before he knows what is meant by pain and death. Groans\nand cries will begin to stir his compassion, he will turn away his\neyes at the sight of blood; the convulsions of a dying animal will\ncause him I know not what anguish before he knows the source of\nthese impulses. If he were still stupid and barbarous he would not\nfeel them; if he were more learned he would recognise their source;\nhe has compared ideas too frequently already to be insensible, but\nnot enough to know what he feels.\n\nSo pity is born, the first relative sentiment which touches the\nhuman heart according to the order of nature. To become sensitive\nand pitiful the child must know that he has fellow-creatures who\nsuffer as he has suffered, who feel the pains he has felt, and\nothers which he can form some idea of, being capable of feeling\nthem himself. Indeed, how can we let ourselves be stirred by pity\nunless we go beyond ourselves, and identify ourselves with the\nsuffering animal, by leaving, so to speak, our own nature and taking\nhis. We only suffer so far as we suppose he suffers; the suffering\nis not ours but his. So no one becomes sensitive till his imagination\nis aroused and begins to carry him outside himself.\n\nWhat should we do to stimulate and nourish this growing sensibility,\nto direct it, and to follow its natural bent? Should we not present\nto the young man objects on which the expansive force of his heart\nmay take effect, objects which dilate it, which extend it to other\ncreatures, which take him outside himself? should we not carefully\nremove everything that narrows, concentrates, and strengthens the\npower of the human self? that is to say, in other words, we should\narouse in him kindness, goodness, pity, and beneficence, all the\ngentle and attractive passions which are naturally pleasing to man;\nthose passions prevent the growth of envy, covetousness, hatred,\nall the repulsive and cruel passions which make our sensibility\nnot merely a cipher but a minus quantity, passions which are the\ncurse of those who feel them.\n\nI think I can sum up the whole of the preceding reflections in two\nor three maxims, definite, straightforward, and easy to understand.\n\nFIRST MAXIM.--It is not in human nature to put ourselves in the place\nof those who are happier than ourselves, but only in the place of\nthose who can claim our pity.\n\nIf you find exceptions to this rule, they are more apparent than\nreal. Thus we do not put ourselves in the place of the rich or great\nwhen we become fond of them; even when our affection is real, we\nonly appropriate to ourselves a part of their welfare. Sometimes\nwe love the rich man in the midst of misfortunes; but so long as he\nprospers he has no real friend, except the man who is not deceived\nby appearances, who pities rather than envies him in spite of his\nprosperity.\n\nThe happiness belonging to certain states of life appeals to us;\ntake, for instance, the life of a shepherd in the country. The charm\nof seeing these good people so happy is not poisoned by envy; we\nare genuinely interested in them. Why is this? Because we feel we\ncan descend into this state of peace and innocence and enjoy the\nsame happiness; it is an alternative which only calls up pleasant\nthoughts, so long as the wish is as good as the deed. It is always\npleasant to examine our stores, to contemplate our own wealth, even\nwhen we do not mean to spend it.\n\nFrom this we see that to incline a young man to humanity you must\nnot make him admire the brilliant lot of others; you must show\nhim life in its sorrowful aspects and arouse his fears. Thus it\nbecomes clear that he must force his own way to happiness, without\ninterfering with the happiness of others.\n\nSECOND MAXIM.--We never pity another's woes unless we know we may\nsuffer in like manner ourselves.\n\n     \"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.\"--Virgil.\n\nI know nothing go fine, so full of meaning, so touching, so true\nas these words.\n\nWhy have kings no pity on their people? Because they never expect\nto be ordinary men. Why are the rich so hard on the poor? Because\nthey have no fear of becoming poor. Why do the nobles look down\nupon the people? Because a nobleman will never be one of the lower\nclasses.  Why are the Turks generally kinder and more hospitable\nthan ourselves? Because, under their wholly arbitrary system of\ngovernment, the rank and wealth of individuals are always uncertain\nand precarious, so that they do not regard poverty and degradation\nas conditions with which they have no concern; to-morrow, any one\nmay himself be in the same position as those on whom he bestows\nalms to-day. This thought, which occurs again and again in eastern\nromances, lends them a certain tenderness which is not to be found\nin our pretentious and harsh morality.\n\nSo do not train your pupil to look down from the height of his glory\nupon the sufferings of the unfortunate, the labours of the wretched,\nand do not hope to teach him to pity them while he considers them\nas far removed from himself. Make him thoroughly aware of the fact\nthat the fate of these unhappy persons may one day be his own, that\nhis feet are standing on the edge of the abyss, into which he may\nbe plunged at any moment by a thousand unexpected irresistible\nmisfortunes. Teach him to put no trust in birth, health, or riches;\nshow him all the changes of fortune; find him examples--there are\nonly too many of them--in which men of higher rank than himself\nhave sunk below the condition of these wretched ones. Whether by\ntheir own fault or another's is for the present no concern of ours;\ndoes he indeed know the meaning of the word fault? Never interfere\nwith the order in which he acquires knowledge, and teach him only\nthrough the means within his reach; it needs no great learning\nto perceive that all the prudence of mankind cannot make certain\nwhether he will be alive or dead in an hour's time, whether\nbefore nightfall he will not be grinding his teeth in the pangs of\nnephritis, whether a month hence he will be rich or poor, whether\nin a year's time he may not be rowing an Algerian galley under the\nlash of the slave-driver.  Above all do not teach him this, like\nhis catechism, in cold blood; let him see and feel the calamities\nwhich overtake men; surprise and startle his imagination with the\nperils which lurk continually about a man's path; let him see the\npitfalls all about him, and when he hears you speak of them, let\nhim cling more closely to you for fear lest he should fall. \"You\nwill make him timid and cowardly,\" do you say? We shall see; let\nus make him kindly to begin with, that is what matters most.\n\nTHIRD MAXIM.--The pity we feel for others is proportionate, not\nto the amount of the evil, but to the feelings we attribute to the\nsufferers.\n\nWe only pity the wretched so far as we think they feel the need of\npity. The bodily effect of our sufferings is less than one would\nsuppose; it is memory that prolongs the pain, imagination which\nprojects it into the future, and makes us really to be pitied.\nThis is, I think, one of the reasons why we are more callous to\nthe sufferings of animals than of men, although a fellow-feeling\nought to make us identify ourselves equally with either. We scarcely\npity the cart-horse in his shed, for we do not suppose that while\nhe is eating his hay he is thinking of the blows he has received\nand the labours in store for him. Neither do we pity the sheep\ngrazing in the field, though we know it is about to be slaughtered,\nfor we believe it knows nothing of the fate in store for it. In\nthis way we also become callous to the fate of our fellow-men, and\nthe rich console themselves for the harm done by them to the poor,\nby the assumption that the poor are too stupid to feel. I usually\njudge of the value any one puts on the welfare of his fellow-creatures\nby what he seems to think of them. We naturally think lightly of\nthe happiness of those we despise. It need not surprise you that\npoliticians speak so scornfully of the people, and philosophers\nprofess to think mankind so wicked.\n\nThe people are mankind; those who do not belong to the people are\nso few in number that they are not worth counting. Man is the same\nin every station of life; if that be so, those ranks to which most\nmen belong deserve most honour. All distinctions of rank fade away\nbefore the eyes of a thoughtful person; he sees the same passions,\nthe same feelings in the noble and the guttersnipe; there is merely\na slight difference in speech, and more or less artificiality\nof tone; and if there is indeed any essential difference between\nthem, the disadvantage is all on the side of those who are more\nsophisticated. The people show themselves as they are, and they are\nnot attractive; but the fashionable world is compelled to adopt a\ndisguise; we should be horrified if we saw it as it really is.\n\nThere is, so our wiseacres tell us, the same amount of happiness\nand sorrow in every station. This saying is as deadly in its effects\nas it is incapable of proof; if all are equally happy why should\nI trouble myself about any one? Let every one stay where he is;\nleave the slave to be ill-treated, the sick man to suffer, and\nthe wretched to perish; they have nothing to gain by any change in\ntheir condition. You enumerate the sorrows of the rich, and show the\nvanity of his empty pleasures; what barefaced sophistry! The rich\nman's sufferings do not come from his position, but from himself\nalone when he abuses it. He is not to be pitied were he indeed\nmore miserable than the poor, for his ills are of his own making,\nand he could be happy if he chose. But the sufferings of the poor\nman come from external things, from the hardships fate has imposed\nupon him.  No amount of habit can accustom him to the bodily ills\nof fatigue, exhaustion, and hunger. Neither head nor heart can serve\nto free him from the sufferings of his condition. How is Epictetus\nthe better for knowing beforehand that his master will break his\nleg for him; does he do it any the less? He has to endure not only\nthe pain itself but the pains of anticipation. If the people were\nas wise as we assume them to be stupid, how could they be other\nthan they are?  Observe persons of this class; you will see that,\nwith a different way of speaking, they have as much intelligence\nand more common-sense than yourself. Have respect then for your\nspecies; remember that it consists essentially of the people, that\nif all the kings and all the philosophers were removed they would\nscarcely be missed, and things would go on none the worse. In a word,\nteach your pupil to love all men, even those who fail to appreciate\nhim; act in such way that he is not a member of any class, but\ntakes his place in all alike: speak in his hearing of the human\nrace with tenderness, and even with pity, but never with scorn.\nYou are a man; do not dishonour mankind.\n\nIt is by these ways and others like them--how different from the\nbeaten paths--that we must reach the heart of the young adolescent,\nand stimulate in him the first impulses of nature; we must develop\nthat heart and open its doors to his fellow-creatures, and there\nmust be as little self-interest as possible mixed up with these\nimpulses; above all, no vanity, no emulation, no boasting, none of\nthose sentiments which force us to compare ourselves with others;\nfor such comparisons are never made without arousing some measure\nof hatred against those who dispute our claim to the first place,\nwere it only in our own estimation. Then we must be either blind\nor angry, a bad man or a fool; let us try to avoid this dilemma.\nSooner or later these dangerous passions will appear, so you tell\nme, in spite of us. I do not deny it. There is a time and place\nfor everything; I am only saying that we should not help to arouse\nthese passions.\n\nThis is the spirit of the method to be laid down. In this case examples\nand illustrations are useless, for here we find the beginning of\nthe countless differences of character, and every example I gave\nwould possibly apply to only one case in a hundred thousand. It is\nat this age that the clever teacher begins his real business, as\na student and a philosopher who knows how to probe the heart and\nstrives to guide it aright. While the young man has not learnt to\npretend, while he does not even know the meaning of pretence, you\nsee by his look, his manner, his gestures, the impression he has\nreceived from any object presented to him; you read in his countenance\nevery impulse of his heart; by watching his expression you learn\nto protect his impulses and actually to control them.\n\nIt has been commonly observed that blood, wounds, cries and groans,\nthe preparations for painful operations, and everything which directs\nthe senses towards things connected with suffering, are usually the\nfirst to make an impression on all men. The idea of destruction, a\nmore complex matter, does not have so great an effect; the thought\nof death affects us later and less forcibly, for no one knows from\nhis own experience what it is to die; you must have seen corpses\nto feel the agonies of the dying. But when once this idea is\nestablished in the mind, there is no spectacle more dreadful in our\neyes, whether because of the idea of complete destruction which it\narouses through our senses, or because we know that this moment must\ncome for each one of us and we feel ourselves all the more keenly\naffected by a situation from which we know there is no escape.\n\nThese various impressions differ in manner and in degree, according to\nthe individual character of each one of us and his former habits,\nbut they are universal and no one is altogether free from them.\nThere are other impressions less universal and of a later growth,\nimpressions most suited to sensitive souls, such impressions as we\nreceive from moral suffering, inward grief, the sufferings of the\nmind, depression, and sadness. There are men who can be touched by\nnothing but groans and tears; the suppressed sobs of a heart labouring\nunder sorrow would never win a sigh; the sight of a downcast visage, a\npale and gloomy countenance, eyes which can weep no longer, would\nnever draw a tear from them. The sufferings of the mind are as\nnothing to them; they weigh them, their own mind feels nothing;\nexpect nothing from such persons but inflexible severity, harshness,\ncruelty. They may be just and upright, but not merciful, generous,\nor pitiful. They may, I say, be just, if a man can indeed be just\nwithout being merciful.\n\nBut do not be in a hurry to judge young people by this standard,\nmore especially those who have been educated rightly, who have no\nidea of the moral sufferings they have never had to endure; for\nonce again they can only pity the ills they know, and this apparent\ninsensibility is soon transformed into pity when they begin to feel\nthat there are in human life a thousand ills of which they know\nnothing. As for Emile, if in childhood he was distinguished by\nsimplicity and good sense, in his youth he will show a warm and\ntender heart; for the reality of the feelings depends to a great\nextent on the accuracy of the ideas.\n\nBut why call him hither? More than one reader will reproach me\nno doubt for departing from my first intention and forgetting the\nlasting happiness I promised my pupil. The sorrowful, the dying,\nsuch sights of pain and woe, what happiness, what delight is this\nfor a young heart on the threshold of life? His gloomy tutor, who\nproposed to give him such a pleasant education, only introduces him\nto life that he may suffer. This is what they will say, but what\ncare I? I promised to make him happy, not to make him seem happy.\nAm I to blame if, deceived as usual by the outward appearances,\nyou take them for the reality?\n\nLet us take two young men at the close of their early education,\nand let them enter the world by opposite doors. The one mounts at\nonce to Olympus, and moves in the smartest society; he is taken\nto court, he is presented in the houses of the great, of the rich,\nof the pretty women. I assume that he is everywhere made much of,\nand I do not regard too closely the effect of this reception on his\nreason; I assume it can stand it. Pleasures fly before him, every\nday provides him with fresh amusements; he flings himself into\neverything with an eagerness which carries you away. You find him\nbusy, eager, and curious; his first wonder makes a great impression\non you; you think him happy; but behold the state of his heart;\nyou think he is rejoicing, I think he suffers.\n\nWhat does he see when first he opens his eyes? all sorts of so-called\npleasures, hitherto unknown. Most of these pleasures are only for\na moment within his reach, and seem to show themselves only to\ninspire regret for their loss. Does he wander through a palace;\nyou see by his uneasy curiosity that he is asking why his father's\nhouse is not like it. Every question shows you that he is comparing\nhimself all the time with the owner of this grand place. And all\nthe mortification arising from this comparison at once revolts and\nstimulates his vanity. If he meets a young man better dressed than\nhimself, I find him secretly complaining of his parents' meanness.\nIf he is better dressed than another, he suffers because the latter\nis his superior in birth or in intellect, and all his gold lace is\nput to shame by a plain cloth coat. Does he shine unrivalled in\nsome assembly, does he stand on tiptoe that they may see him better,\nwho is there who does not secretly desire to humble the pride and\nvanity of the young fop? Everybody is in league against him; the\ndisquieting glances of a solemn man, the biting phrases of some\nsatirical person, do not fail to reach him, and if it were only\none man who despised him, the scorn of that one would poison in a\nmoment the applause of the rest.\n\nLet us grant him everything, let us not grudge him charm and worth;\nlet him be well-made, witty, and attractive; the women will run\nafter him; but by pursuing him before he is in love with them,\nthey will inspire rage rather than love; he will have successes,\nbut neither rapture nor passion to enjoy them. As his desires are\nalways anticipated; they never have time to spring up among his\npleasures, so he only feels the tedium of restraint. Even before\nhe knows it he is disgusted and satiated with the sex formed to\nbe the delight of his own; if he continues its pursuit it is only\nthrough vanity, and even should he really be devoted to women, he\nwill not be the only brilliant, the only attractive young man, nor\nwill he always find his mistresses prodigies of fidelity.\n\nI say nothing of the vexation, the deceit, the crimes, and the\nremorse of all kinds, inseparable from such a life. We know that\nexperience of the world disgusts us with it; I am speaking only of\nthe drawbacks belonging to youthful illusions.\n\nHitherto the young man has lived in the bosom of his family and his\nfriends, and has been the sole object of their care; what a change\nto enter all at once into a region where he counts for so little; to\nfind himself plunged into another sphere, he who has been so long\nthe centre of his own. What insults, what humiliation, must he endure,\nbefore he loses among strangers the ideas of his own importance\nwhich have been formed and nourished among his own people! As\na child everything gave way to him, everybody flocked to him; as\na young man he must give place to every one, or if he preserves\never so little of his former airs, what harsh lessons will bring\nhim to himself! Accustomed to get everything he wants without any\ndifficulty, his wants are many, and he feels continual privations.\nHe is tempted by everything that flatters him; what others have,\nhe must have too; he covets everything, he envies every one, he\nwould always be master. He is devoured by vanity, his young heart\nis enflamed by unbridled passions, jealousy and hatred among the\nrest; all these violent passions burst out at once; their sting\nrankles in him in the busy world, they return with him at night, he\ncomes back dissatisfied with himself, with others; he falls asleep\namong a thousand foolish schemes disturbed by a thousand fancies,\nand his pride shows him even in his dreams those fancied pleasures;\nhe is tormented by a desire which will never be satisfied. So much\nfor your pupil; let us turn to mine.\n\nIf the first thing to make an impression on him is something\nsorrowful his first return to himself is a feeling of pleasure.\nWhen he sees how many ills he has escaped he thinks he is happier\nthan he fancied. He shares the suffering of his fellow-creatures,\nbut he shares it of his own free will and finds pleasure in it.\nHe enjoys at once the pity he feels for their woes and the joy of\nbeing exempt from them; he feels in himself that state of vigour\nwhich projects us beyond ourselves, and bids us carry elsewhere\nthe superfluous activity of our well-being. To pity another's woes\nwe must indeed know them, but we need not feel them. When we have\nsuffered, when we are in fear of suffering, we pity those who\nsuffer; but when we suffer ourselves, we pity none but ourselves.\nBut if all of us, being subject ourselves to the ills of life, only\nbestow upon others the sensibility we do not actually require for\nourselves, it follows that pity must be a very pleasant feeling,\nsince it speaks on our behalf; and, on the other hand, a hard-hearted\nman is always unhappy, since the state of his heart leaves him no\nsuperfluous sensibility to bestow on the sufferings of others.\n\nWe are too apt to judge of happiness by appearances; we suppose it\nis to be found in the most unlikely places, we seek for it where\nit cannot possibly be; mirth is a very doubtful indication of its\npresence. A merry man is often a wretch who is trying to deceive\nothers and distract himself. The men who are jovial, friendly,\nand contented at their club are almost always gloomy grumblers at\nhome, and their servants have to pay for the amusement they give\namong their friends. True contentment is neither merry nor noisy;\nwe are jealous of so sweet a sentiment, when we enjoy it we think\nabout it, we delight in it for fear it should escape us. A really\nhappy man says little and laughs little; he hugs his happiness, so\nto speak, to his heart. Noisy games, violent delight, conceal the\ndisappointment of satiety. But melancholy is the friend of pleasure;\ntears and pity attend our sweetest enjoyment, and great joys call\nfor tears rather than laughter.\n\nIf at first the number and variety of our amusements seem to\ncontribute to our happiness, if at first the even tenor of a quiet\nlife seems tedious, when we look at it more closely we discover\nthat the pleasantest habit of mind consists in a moderate enjoyment\nwhich leaves little scope for desire and aversion. The unrest of\npassion causes curiosity and fickleness; the emptiness of noisy\npleasures causes weariness. We never weary of our state when we\nknow none more delightful. Savages suffer less than other men from\ncuriosity and from tedium; everything is the same to them--themselves,\nnot their possessions--and they are never weary.\n\nThe man of the world almost always wears a mask. He is scarcely\never himself and is almost a stranger to himself; he is ill at ease\nwhen he is forced into his own company. Not what he is, but what\nhe seems, is all he cares for.\n\nI cannot help picturing in the countenance of the young man\nI have just spoken of an indefinable but unpleasant impertinence,\nsmoothness, and affectation, which is repulsive to a plain man,\nand in the countenance of my own pupil a simple and interesting\nexpression which indicates the real contentment and the calm\nof his mind; an expression which inspires respect and confidence,\nand seems only to await the establishment of friendly relations\nto bestow his own confidence in return. It is thought that the\nexpression is merely the development of certain features designed\nby nature. For my own part I think that over and above this\ndevelopment a man's face is shaped, all unconsciously, by the\nfrequent and habitual influence of certain affections of the heart.\nThese affections are shown on the face, there is nothing more\ncertain; and when they become habitual, they must surely leave lasting\ntraces. This is why I think the expression shows the character, and\nthat we can sometimes read one another without seeking mysterious\nexplanations in powers we do not possess.\n\nA child has only two distinct feelings, joy and sorrow; he laughs\nor he cries; he knows no middle course, and he is constantly passing\nfrom one extreme to the other. On account of these perpetual changes\nthere is no lasting impression on the face, and no expression; but\nwhen the child is older and more sensitive, his feelings are keener\nor more permanent, and these deeper impressions leave traces more\ndifficult to erase; and the habitual state of the feelings has an\neffect on the features which in course of time becomes ineffaceable.\nStill it is not uncommon to meet with men whose expression varies\nwith their age. I have met with several, and I have always found\nthat those whom I could observe and follow had also changed their\nhabitual temper. This one observation thoroughly confirmed would\nseem to me decisive, and it is not out of place in a treatise on\neducation, where it is a matter of importance, that we should learn\nto judge the feelings of the heart by external signs.\n\nI do not know whether my young man will be any the less amiable\nfor not having learnt to copy conventional manners and to feign\nsentiments which are not his own; that does not concern me at\npresent, I only know he will be more affectionate; and I find it\ndifficult to believe that he, who cares for nobody but himself,\ncan so far disguise his true feelings as to please as readily as he\nwho finds fresh happiness for himself in his affection for others.\nBut with regard to this feeling of happiness, I think I have said\nenough already for the guidance of any sensible reader, and to show\nthat I have not contradicted myself.\n\nI return to my system, and I say, when the critical age approaches,\npresent to young people spectacles which restrain rather than\nexcite them; put off their dawning imagination with objects which,\nfar from inflaming their senses, put a check to their activity.\nRemove them from great cities, where the flaunting attire and the\nboldness of the women hasten and anticipate the teaching of nature,\nwhere everything presents to their view pleasures of which they\nshould know nothing till they are of an age to choose for themselves.\nBring them back to their early home, where rural simplicity allows\nthe passions of their age to develop more slowly; or if their taste\nfor the arts keeps them in town, guard them by means of this very\ntaste from a dangerous idleness. Choose carefully their company,\ntheir occupations, and their pleasures; show them nothing but\nmodest and pathetic pictures which are touching but not seductive,\nand nourish their sensibility without stimulating their senses.\nRemember also, that the danger of excess is not confined to any one\nplace, and that immoderate passions always do irreparable damage.\nYou need not make your pupil a sick-nurse or a Brother of Pity; you\nneed not distress him by the perpetual sight of pain and suffering;\nyou need not take him from one hospital to another, from the gallows\nto the prison. He must be softened, not hardened, by the sight of\nhuman misery. When we have seen a sight it ceases to impress us,\nuse is second nature, what is always before our eyes no longer\nappeals to the imagination, and it is only through the imagination\nthat we can feel the sorrows of others; this is why priests and\ndoctors who are always beholding death and suffering become so\nhardened. Let your pupil therefore know something of the lot of\nman and the woes of his fellow-creatures, but let him not see them\ntoo often. A single thing, carefully selected and shown at the right\ntime, will fill him with pity and set him thinking for a month. His\nopinion about anything depends not so much on what he sees, but on\nhow it reacts on himself; and his lasting impression of any object\ndepends less on the object itself than on the point of view from\nwhich he regards it. Thus by a sparing use of examples, lessons,\nand pictures, you may blunt the sting of sense and delay nature\nwhile following her own lead.\n\nAs he acquires knowledge, choose what ideas he shall attach to it;\nas his passions awake, select scenes calculated to repress them.\nA veteran, as distinguished for his character as for his courage,\nonce told me that in early youth his father, a sensible man but\nextremely pious, observed that through his growing sensibility he\nwas attracted by women, and spared no pains to restrain him; but at\nlast when, in spite of all his care, his son was about to escape\nfrom his control, he decided to take him to a hospital, and,\nwithout telling him what to expect, he introduced him into a room\nwhere a number of wretched creatures were expiating, under a terrible\ntreatment, the vices which had brought them into this plight. This\nhideous and revolting spectacle sickened the young man. \"Miserable\nlibertine,\" said his father vehemently, \"begone; follow your vile\ntastes; you will soon be only too glad to be admitted to this ward,\nand a victim to the most shameful sufferings, you will compel your\nfather to thank God when you are dead.\"\n\nThese few words, together with the striking spectacle he beheld,\nmade an impression on the young man which could never be effaced.\nCompelled by his profession to pass his youth in garrison,\nhe preferred to face all the jests of his comrades rather than to\nshare their evil ways. \"I have been a man,\" he said to me, \"I have\nhad my weaknesses, but even to the present day the sight of a harlot\ninspires me with horror.\" Say little to your pupil, but choose\ntime, place, and people; then rely on concrete examples for your\nteaching, and be sure it will take effect.\n\nThe way childhood is spent is no great matter; the evil which may\nfind its way is not irremediable, and the good which may spring\nup might come later. But it is not so in those early years when\na youth really begins to live. This time is never long enough for\nwhat there is to be done, and its importance demands unceasing\nattention; this is why I lay so much stress on the art of prolonging\nit. One of the best rules of good farming is to keep things back as\nmuch as possible. Let your progress also be slow and sure; prevent\nthe youth from becoming a man all at once. While the body is growing\nthe spirits destined to give vigour to the blood and strength to\nthe muscles are in process of formation and elaboration. If you turn\nthem into another channel, and permit that strength which should\nhave gone to the perfecting of one person to go to the making of\nanother, both remain in a state of weakness and the work of nature\nis unfinished. The workings of the mind, in their turn, are affected\nby this change, and the mind, as sickly as the body, functions\nlanguidly and feebly. Length and strength of limb are not the same\nthing as courage or genius, and I grant that strength of mind does\nnot always accompany strength of body, when the means of connection\nbetween the two are otherwise faulty. But however well planned\nthey may be, they will always work feebly if for motive power they\ndepend upon an exhausted, impoverished supply of blood, deprived\nof the substance which gives strength and elasticity to all the\nsprings of the machinery. There is generally more vigour of mind\nto be found among men whose early years have been preserved from\nprecocious vice, than among those whose evil living has begun at the\nearliest opportunity; and this is no doubt the reason why nations\nwhose morals are pure are generally superior in sense and courage\nto those whose morals are bad. The latter shine only through I\nknow not what small and trifling qualities, which they call wit,\nsagacity, cunning; but those great and noble features of goodness\nand reason, by which a man is distinguished and honoured through\ngood deeds, virtues, really useful efforts, are scarcely to be\nfound except among the nations whose morals are pure.\n\nTeachers complain that the energy of this age makes their pupils\nunruly; I see that it is so, but are not they themselves to blame?\nWhen once they have let this energy flow through the channel of the\nsenses, do they not know that they cannot change its course? Will\nthe long and dreary sermons of the pedant efface from the mind of\nhis scholar the thoughts of pleasure when once they have found an\nentrance; will they banish from his heart the desires by which it\nis tormented; will they chill the heat of a passion whose meaning\nthe scholar realises? Will not the pupil be roused to anger by the\nobstacles opposed to the only kind of happiness of which he has\nany notion? And in the harsh law imposed upon him before he can\nunderstand it, what will he see but the caprice and hatred of a\nman who is trying to torment him? Is it strange that he rebels and\nhates you too?\n\nI know very well that if one is easy-going one may be tolerated,\nand one may keep up a show of authority. But I fail to see the use\nof an authority over the pupil which is only maintained by fomenting\nthe vices it ought to repress; it is like attempting to soothe a\nfiery steed by making it leap over a precipice.\n\nFar from being a hindrance to education, this enthusiasm of\nadolescence is its crown and coping-stone; this it is that gives\nyou a hold on the youth's heart when he is no longer weaker than\nyou.  His first affections are the reins by which you control his\nmovements; he was free, and now I behold him in your power. So long\nas he loved nothing, he was independent of everything but himself\nand his own necessities; as soon as he loves, he is dependent on\nhis affections. Thus the first ties which unite him to his species\nare already formed. When you direct his increasing sensibility in\nthis direction, do not expect that it will at once include all men,\nand that the word \"mankind\" will have any meaning for him. Not so;\nthis sensibility will at first confine itself to those like himself,\nand these will not be strangers to him, but those he knows, those\nwhom habit has made dear to him or necessary to him, those who are\nevidently thinking and feeling as he does, those whom he perceives\nto be exposed to the pains he has endured, those who enjoy the\npleasures he has enjoyed; in a word, those who are so like himself\nthat he is the more disposed to self-love. It is only after long\ntraining, after much consideration as to his own feelings and the\nfeelings he observes in others, that he will be able to generalise\nhis individual notions under the abstract idea of humanity, and\nadd to his individual affections those which may identify him with\nthe race.\n\nWhen he becomes capable of affection, he becomes aware of the\naffection of others, [Footnote: Affection may be unrequited; not\nso friendship. Friendship is a bargain, a contract like any other;\nthough a bargain more sacred than the rest. The word \"friend\" has\nno other correlation. Any man who is not the friend of his friend\nis undoubtedly a rascal; for one can only obtain friendship by\ngiving it, or pretending to give it.] and he is on the lookout for\nthe signs of that affection. Do you not see how you will acquire a\nfresh hold on him? What bands have you bound about his heart while\nhe was yet unaware of them! What will he feel, when he beholds\nhimself and sees what you have done for him; when he can compare\nhimself with other youths, and other tutors with you! I say, \"When\nhe sees it,\" but beware lest you tell him of it; if you tell him\nhe will not perceive it. If you claim his obedience in return for\nthe care bestowed upon him, he will think you have over-reached him;\nhe will see that while you profess to have cared for him without\nreward, you meant to saddle him with a debt and to bind him to\na bargain which he never made. In vain you will add that what you\ndemand is for his own good; you demand it, and you demand it in\nvirtue of what you have done without his consent. When a man down\non his luck accepts the shilling which the sergeant professes to\ngive him, and finds he has enlisted without knowing what he was\nabout, you protest against the injustice; is it not still more unjust\nto demand from your pupil the price of care which he has not even\naccepted!\n\nIngratitude would be rarer if kindness were less often the investment\nof a usurer. We love those who have done us a kindness; what a\nnatural feeling! Ingratitude is not to be found in the heart of man,\nbut self-interest is there; those who are ungrateful for benefits\nreceived are fewer than those who do a kindness for their own ends.\nIf you sell me your gifts, I will haggle over the price; but if\nyou pretend to give, in order to sell later on at your own price,\nyou are guilty of fraud; it is the free gift which is beyond price.\nThe heart is a law to itself; if you try to bind it, you lose it;\ngive it its liberty, and you make it your own.\n\nWhen the fisherman baits his line, the fish come round him without\nsuspicion; but when they are caught on the hook concealed in the\nbait, they feel the line tighten and they try to escape. Is the\nfisherman a benefactor? Is the fish ungrateful? Do we find a man\nforgotten by his benefactor, unmindful of that benefactor? On the\ncontrary, he delights to speak of him, he cannot think of him without\nemotion; if he gets a chance of showing him, by some unexpected\nservice, that he remembers what he did for him, how delighted\nhe is to satisfy his gratitude; what a pleasure it is to earn the\ngratitude of his benefactor. How delightful to say, \"It is my turn\nnow.\" This is indeed the teaching of nature; a good deed never\ncaused ingratitude.\n\nIf therefore gratitude is a natural feeling, and you do not destroy\nits effects by your blunders, be sure your pupil, as he begins to\nunderstand the value of your care for him, will be grateful for\nit, provided you have not put a price upon it; and this will give\nyou an authority over his heart which nothing can overthrow. But\nbeware of losing this advantage before it is really yours, beware\nof insisting on your own importance. Boast of your services and\nthey become intolerable; forget them and they will not be forgotten.\nUntil the time comes to treat him as a man let there be no question\nof his duty to you, but his duty to himself. Let him have his\nfreedom if you would make him docile; hide yourself so that he may\nseek you; raise his heart to the noble sentiment of gratitude by\nonly speaking of his own interest. Until he was able to understand\nI would not have him told that what was done was for his good; he\nwould only have understood such words to mean that you were dependent\non him and he would merely have made you his servant. But now that\nhe is beginning to feel what love is, he also knows what a tender\naffection may bind a man to what he loves; and in the zeal which\nkeeps you busy on his account, he now sees not the bonds of a slave,\nbut the affection of a friend. Now there is nothing which carries\nso much weight with the human heart as the voice of friendship\nrecognised as such, for we know that it never speaks but for our\ngood. We may think our friend is mistaken, but we never believe\nhe is deceiving us. We may reject his advice now and then, but we\nnever scorn it.\n\nWe have reached the moral order at last; we have just taken the\nsecond step towards manhood. If this were the place for it, I would\ntry to show how the first impulses of the heart give rise to the\nfirst stirrings of conscience, and how from the feelings of love\nand hatred spring the first notions of good and evil. I would show\nthat justice and kindness are no mere abstract terms, no mere moral\nconceptions framed by the understanding, but true affections of the\nheart enlightened by reason, the natural outcome of our primitive\naffections; that by reason alone, unaided by conscience, we cannot\nestablish any natural law, and that all natural right is a vain\ndream if it does not rest upon some instinctive need of the human\nheart. [Footnote: The precept \"Do unto others as you would have\nthem do unto you\" has no true foundation but that of conscience\nand feeling; for what valid reason is there why I, being myself,\nshould do what I would do if I were some one else, especially when\nI am morally certain I never shall find myself in exactly the same\ncase; and who will answer for it that if I faithfully follow out\nthis maxim, I shall get others to follow it with regard to me? The\nwicked takes advantage both of the uprightness of the just and of\nhis own injustice; he will gladly have everybody just but himself.\nThis bargain, whatever you may say, is not greatly to the advantage\nof the just. But if the enthusiasm of an overflowing heart identifies\nme with my fellow-creature, if I feel, so to speak, that I will not\nlet him suffer lest I should suffer too, I care for him because I\ncare for myself, and the reason of the precept is found in nature\nherself, which inspires me with the desire for my own welfare\nwherever I may be. From this I conclude that it is false to say that\nthe precepts of natural law are based on reason only; they have a\nfirmer and more solid foundation. The love of others springing from\nself-love, is the source of human justice. The whole of morality is\nsummed up in the gospel in this summary of the law.] But I do not\nthink it is my business at present to prepare treatises on metaphysics\nand morals, nor courses of study of any kind whatsoever; it is\nenough if I indicate the order and development of our feelings and\nour knowledge in relation to our growth. Others will perhaps work\nout what I have here merely indicated.\n\nHitherto my Emile has thought only of himself, so his first glance\nat his equals leads him to compare himself with them; and the first\nfeeling excited by this comparison is the desire to be first. It\nis here that self-love is transformed into selfishness, and this is\nthe starting point of all the passions which spring from selfishness.\nBut to determine whether the passions by which his life will be\ngoverned shall be humane and gentle or harsh and cruel, whether\nthey shall be the passions of benevolence and pity or those of envy\nand covetousness, we must know what he believes his place among men\nto be, and what sort of obstacles he expects to have to overcome\nin order to attain to the position he seeks.\n\nTo guide him in this inquiry, after we have shown him men by means\nof the accidents common to the species, we must now show him them\nby means of their differences. This is the time for estimating\ninequality natural and civil, and for the scheme of the whole social\norder.\n\nSociety must be studied in the individual and the individual in\nsociety; those who desire to treat politics and morals apart from\none another will never understand either. By confining ourselves\nat first to the primitive relations, we see how men should be\ninfluenced by them and what passions should spring from them; we\nsee that it is in proportion to the development of these passions\nthat a man's relations with others expand or contract. It is not so\nmuch strength of arm as moderation of spirit which makes men free\nand independent. The man whose wants are few is dependent on but\nfew people, but those who constantly confound our vain desires\nwith our bodily needs, those who have made these needs the basis\nof human society, are continually mistaking effects for causes,\nand they have only confused themselves by their own reasoning.\n\nSince it is impossible in the state of nature that the difference\nbetween man and man should be great enough to make one dependent\non another, there is in fact in this state of nature an actual and\nindestructible equality. In the civil state there is a vain and\nchimerical equality of right; the means intended for its maintenance,\nthemselves serve to destroy it; and the power of the community,\nadded to the power of the strongest for the oppression of the\nweak, disturbs the sort of equilibrium which nature has established\nbetween them. [Footnote: The universal spirit of the laws of every\ncountry is always to take the part of the strong against the weak,\nand the part of him who has against him who has not; this defect\nis inevitable, and there is no exception to it.] From this first\ncontradiction spring all the other contradictions between the real\nand the apparent, which are to be found in the civil order. The many\nwill always be sacrificed to the few, the common weal to private\ninterest; those specious words--justice and subordination--will\nalways serve as the tools of violence and the weapons of injustice;\nhence it follows that the higher classes which claim to be useful\nto the rest are really only seeking their own welfare at the expense\nof others; from this we may judge how much consideration is due to\nthem according to right and justice. It remains to be seen if the\nrank to which they have attained is more favourable to their own\nhappiness to know what opinion each one of us should form with regard\nto his own lot. This is the study with which we are now concerned;\nbut to do it thoroughly we must begin with a knowledge of the human\nheart.\n\nIf it were only a question of showing young people man in his mask,\nthere would be no need to point him out, and he would always be\nbefore their eyes; but since the mask is not the man, and since\nthey must not be led away by its specious appearance, when you paint\nmen for your scholar, paint them as they are, not that he may hate\nthem, but that he may pity them and have no wish to be like them.\nIn my opinion that is the most reasonable view a man can hold with\nregard to his fellow-men.\n\nWith this object in view we must take the opposite way from that\nhitherto followed, and instruct the youth rather through the experience\nof others than through his own. If men deceive him he will hate\nthem; but, if, while they treat him with respect, he sees them\ndeceiving each other, he will pity them. \"The spectacle of the\nworld,\" said Pythagoras, \"is like the Olympic games; some are buying\nand selling and think only of their gains; others take an active\npart and strive for glory; others, and these not the worst, are\ncontent to be lookers-on.\"\n\nI would have you so choose the company of a youth that he should\nthink well of those among whom he lives, and I would have you so\nteach him to know the world that he should think ill of all that\ntakes place in it. Let him know that man is by nature good, let\nhim feel it, let him judge his neighbour by himself; but let him\nsee how men are depraved and perverted by society; let him find the\nsource of all their vices in their preconceived opinions; let him\nbe disposed to respect the individual, but to despise the multitude;\nlet him see that all men wear almost the same mask, but let him\nalso know that some faces are fairer than the mask that conceals\nthem.\n\nIt must be admitted that this method has its drawbacks, and it is\nnot easy to carry it out; for if he becomes too soon engrossed in\nwatching other people, if you train him to mark too closely the\nactions of others, you will make him spiteful and satirical, quick\nand decided in his judgments of others; he will find a hateful\npleasure in seeking bad motives, and will fail to see the good even\nin that which is really good. He will, at least, get used to the\nsight of vice, he will behold the wicked without horror, just as we\nget used to seeing the wretched without pity. Soon the perversity\nof mankind will be not so much a warning as an excuse; he will say,\n\"Man is made so,\" and he will have no wish to be different from\nthe rest.\n\nBut if you wish to teach him theoretically to make him acquainted,\nnot only with the heart of man, but also with the application of\nthe external causes which turn our inclinations into vices; when\nyou thus transport him all at once from the objects of sense to the\nobjects of reason, you employ a system of metaphysics which he is\nnot in a position to understand; you fall back into the error, so\ncarefully avoided hitherto, of giving him lessons which are like\nlessons, of substituting in his mind the experience and the authority\nof the master for his own experience and the development of his\nown reason.\n\nTo remove these two obstacles at once, and to bring the human heart\nwithin his reach without risk of spoiling his own, I would show\nhim men from afar, in other times or in other places, so that he\nmay behold the scene but cannot take part in it. This is the time\nfor history; with its help he will read the hearts of men without\nany lessons in philosophy; with its help he will view them as a\nmere spectator, dispassionate and without prejudice; he will view\nthem as their judge, not as their accomplice or their accuser.\n\nTo know men you must behold their actions. In society we hear them\ntalk; they show their words and hide their deeds; but in history\nthe veil is drawn aside, and they are judged by their deeds. Their\nsayings even help us to understand them; for comparing what they\nsay and what they do, we see not only what they are but what they\nwould appear; the more they disguise themselves the more thoroughly\nthey stand revealed.\n\nUnluckily this study has its dangers, its drawbacks of several\nkinds. It is difficult to adopt a point of view which will enable\none to judge one's fellow-creatures fairly. It is one of the chief\ndefects of history to paint men's evil deeds rather than their\ngood ones; it is revolutions and catastrophes that make history\ninteresting; so long as a nation grows and prospers quietly in\nthe tranquillity of a peaceful government, history says nothing;\nshe only begins to speak of nations when, no longer able to be\nself-sufficing, they interfere with their neighbours' business, or\nallow their neighbours to interfere with their own; history only\nmakes them famous when they are on the downward path; all our\nhistories begin where they ought to end. We have very accurate\naccounts of declining nations; what we lack is the history of those\nnations which are multiplying; they are so happy and so good that\nhistory has nothing to tell us of them; and we see indeed in our\nown times that the most successful governments are least talked\nof. We only hear what is bad; the good is scarcely mentioned. Only\nthe wicked become famous, the good are forgotten or laughed to\nscorn, and thus history, like philosophy, is for ever slandering\nmankind.\n\nMoreover, it is inevitable that the facts described in history\nshould not give an exact picture of what really happened; they are\ntransformed in the brain of the historian, they are moulded by his\ninterests and coloured by his prejudices. Who can place the reader\nprecisely in a position to see the event as it really happened?\nIgnorance or partiality disguises everything. What a different\nimpression may be given merely by expanding or contracting the\ncircumstances of the case without altering a single historical\nincident. The same object may be seen from several points of view,\nand it will hardly seem the same thing, yet there has been no\nchange except in the eye that beholds it. Do you indeed do honour\nto truth when what you tell me is a genuine fact, but you make it\nappear something quite different? A tree more or less, a rock to\nthe right or to the left, a cloud of dust raised by the wind, how\noften have these decided the result of a battle without any one\nknowing it?  Does that prevent history from telling you the cause\nof defeat or victory with as much assurance as if she had been\non the spot? But what are the facts to me, while I am ignorant of\ntheir causes, and what lessons can I draw from an event, whose true\ncause is unknown to me? The historian indeed gives me a reason, but\nhe invents it; and criticism itself, of which we hear so much, is\nonly the art of guessing, the art of choosing from among several\nlies, the lie that is most like truth.\n\nHave you ever read Cleopatra or Cassandra or any books of the kind?\nThe author selects some well-known event, he then adapts it to his\npurpose, adorns it with details of his own invention, with people\nwho never existed, with imaginary portraits; thus he piles fiction\non fiction to lend a charm to his story. I see little difference\nbetween such romances and your histories, unless it is that the\nnovelist draws more on his own imagination, while the historian\nslavishly copies what another has imagined; I will also admit, if\nyou please, that the novelist has some moral purpose good or bad,\nabout which the historian scarcely concerns himself.\n\nYou will tell me that accuracy in history is of less interest than\na true picture of men and manners; provided the human heart is\ntruly portrayed, it matters little that events should be accurately\nrecorded; for after all you say, what does it matter to us what\nhappened two thousand years ago? You are right if the portraits are\nindeed truly given according to nature; but if the model is to be\nfound for the most part in the historian's imagination, are you not\nfalling into the very error you intended to avoid, and surrendering\nto the authority of the historian what you would not yield to\nthe authority of the teacher? If my pupil is merely to see fancy\npictures, I would rather draw them myself; they will, at least, be\nbetter suited to him.\n\nThe worst historians for a youth are those who give their opinions.\nFacts! Facts! and let him decide for himself; this is how he will\nlearn to know mankind. If he is always directed by the opinion of\nthe author, he is only seeing through the eyes of another person,\nand when those ayes are no longer at his disposal he can see nothing.\n\nI leave modern history on one side, not only because it has no\ncharacter and all our people are alike, but because our historians,\nwholly taken up with effect, think of nothing but highly coloured\nportraits, which often represent nothing. [Footnote: Take, for\ninstance, Guicciardini, Streda, Solis, Machiavelli, and sometimes\neven De Thou himself. Vertot is almost the only one who knows\nhow to describe without giving fancy portraits.] The old historians\ngenerally give fewer portraits and bring more intelligence\nand common-sense to their judgments; but even among them there is\nplenty of scope for choice, and you must not begin with the wisest\nbut with the simplest. I would not put Polybius or Sallust into\nthe hands of a youth; Tacitus is the author of the old, young men\ncannot understand him; you must learn to see in human actions the\nsimplest features of the heart of man before you try to sound its\ndepths. You must be able to read facts clearly before you begin\nto study maxims.  Philosophy in the form of maxims is only fit for\nthe experienced.  Youth should never deal with the general, all\nits teaching should deal with individual instances.\n\nTo my mind Thucydides is the true model of historians. He relates\nfacts without giving his opinion; but he omits no circumstance\nadapted to make us judge for ourselves. He puts everything that he\nrelates before his reader; far from interposing between the facts\nand the readers, he conceals himself; we seem not to read but to\nsee. Unfortunately he speaks of nothing but war, and in his stories\nwe only see the least instructive part of the world, that is to\nsay the battles. The virtues and defects of the Retreat of the Ten\nThousand and the Commentaries of Caesar are almost the same. The\nkindly Herodotus, without portraits, without maxims, yet flowing,\nsimple, full of details calculated to delight and interest in the\nhighest degree, would be perhaps the best historian if these very\ndetails did not often degenerate into childish folly, better adapted\nto spoil the taste of youth than to form it; we need discretion\nbefore we can read him. I say nothing of Livy, his turn will come;\nbut he is a statesman, a rhetorician, he is everything which is\nunsuitable for a youth.\n\nHistory in general is lacking because it only takes note of striking\nand clearly marked facts which may be fixed by names, places,\nand dates; but the slow evolution of these facts, which cannot be\ndefinitely noted in this way, still remains unknown. We often find\nin some battle, lost or won, the ostensible cause of a revolution\nwhich was inevitable before this battle took place. War only makes\nmanifest events already determined by moral causes, which few\nhistorians can perceive.\n\nThe philosophic spirit has turned the thoughts of many of the\nhistorians of our times in this direction; but I doubt whether\ntruth has profited by their labours. The rage for systems has got\npossession of all alike, no one seeks to see things as they are,\nbut only as they agree with his system.\n\nAdd to all these considerations the fact that history shows us\nactions rather than men, because she only seizes men at certain\nchosen times in full dress; she only portrays the statesman when\nhe is prepared to be seen; she does not follow him to his home, to\nhis study, among his family and his friends; she only shows him in\nstate; it is his clothes rather than himself that she describes.\n\nI would prefer to begin the study of the human heart with reading\nthe lives of individuals; for then the man hides himself in vain,\nthe historian follows him everywhere; he never gives him a moment's\ngrace nor any corner where he can escape the piercing eye of the\nspectator; and when he thinks he is concealing himself, then it is\nthat the writer shows him up most plainly.\n\n\"Those who write lives,\" says Montaigne, \"in so far as they delight\nmore in ideas than in events, more in that which comes from within\nthan in that which comes from without, these are the writers I\nprefer; for this reason Plutarch is in every way the man for me.\"\n\nIt is true that the genius of men in groups or nations is very\ndifferent from the character of the individual man, and that we\nhave a very imperfect knowledge of the human heart if we do not\nalso examine it in crowds; but it is none the less true that to\njudge of men we must study the individual man, and that he who had\na perfect knowledge of the inclinations of each individual might\nforesee all their combined effects in the body of the nation.\n\nWe must go back again to the ancients, for the reasons already\nstated, and also because all the details common and familiar, but\ntrue and characteristic, are banished by modern stylists, so that\nmen are as much tricked out by our modern authors in their private\nlife as in public. Propriety, no less strict in literature than\nin life, no longer permits us to say anything in public which we\nmight not do in public; and as we may only show the man dressed up\nfor his part, we never see a man in our books any more than we do\non the stage. The lives of kings may be written a hundred times,\nbut to no purpose; we shall never have another Suetonius.\n\nThe excellence of Plutarch consists in these very details which\nwe are no longer permitted to describe. With inimitable grace he\npaints the great man in little things; and he is so happy in the\nchoice of his instances that a word, a smile, a gesture, will often\nsuffice to indicate the nature of his hero. With a jest Hannibal\ncheers his frightened soldiers, and leads them laughing to the\nbattle which will lay Italy at his feet; Agesilaus riding on a\nstick makes me love the conqueror of the great king; Caesar passing\nthrough a poor village and chatting with his friends unconsciously\nbetrays the traitor who professed that he only wished to be Pompey's\nequal.  Alexander swallows a draught without a word--it is the\nfinest moment in his life; Aristides writes his own name on the\nshell and so justifies his title; Philopoemen, his mantle laid aside,\nchops firewood in the kitchen of his host. This is the true art of\nportraiture. Our disposition does not show itself in our features,\nnor our character in our great deeds; it is trifles that show what\nwe really are. What is done in public is either too commonplace\nor too artificial, and our modern authors are almost too grand to\ntell us anything else.\n\nM. de Turenne was undoubtedly one of the greatest men of the last\ncentury. They have had the courage to make his life interesting by\nthe little details which make us know and love him; but how many\ndetails have they felt obliged to omit which might have made us\nknow and love him better still? I will only quote one which I have\non good authority, one which Plutarch would never have omitted, and\none which Ramsai would never have inserted had he been acquainted\nwith it.\n\nOn a hot summer's day Viscount Turenne in a little white vest and\nnightcap was standing at the window of his antechamber; one of\nhis men came up and, misled by the dress, took him for one of the\nkitchen lads whom he knew. He crept up behind him and smacked him\nwith no light hand. The man he struck turned round hastily. The valet\nsaw it was his master and trembled at the sight of his face.  He\nfell on his knees in desperation. \"Sir, I thought it was George.\"\n\"Well, even if it was George,\" exclaimed Turenne rubbing the injured\npart, \"you need not have struck so hard.\" You do not dare to say\nthis, you miserable writers! Remain for ever without humanity and\nwithout feeling; steel your hard hearts in your vile propriety, make\nyourselves contemptible through your high-mightiness. But as for\nyou, dear youth, when you read this anecdote, when you are touched\nby all the kindliness displayed even on the impulse of the moment,\nread also the littleness of this great man when it was a question\nof his name and birth. Remember it was this very Turenne who always\nprofessed to yield precedence to his nephew, so that all men might\nsee that this child was the head of a royal house. Look on this\npicture and on that, love nature, despise popular prejudice, and\nknow the man as he was.\n\nThere are few people able to realise what an effect such reading,\ncarefully directed, will have upon the unspoilt mind of a youth.\nWeighed down by books from our earliest childhood, accustomed to\nread without thinking, what we read strikes us even less, because\nwe already bear in ourselves the passions and prejudices with which\nhistory and the lives of men are filled; all that they do strikes\nus as only natural, for we ourselves are unnatural and we judge\nothers by ourselves. But imagine my Emile, who has been carefully\nguarded for eighteen years with the sole object of preserving a\nright judgment and a healthy heart, imagine him when the curtain\ngoes up casting his eyes for the first time upon the world's stage;\nor rather picture him behind the scenes watching the actors don\ntheir costumes, and counting the cords and pulleys which deceive\nwith their feigned shows the eyes of the spectators. His first\nsurprise will soon give place to feelings of shame and scorn of his\nfellow-man; he will be indignant at the sight of the whole human\nrace deceiving itself and stooping to this childish folly; he will\ngrieve to see his brothers tearing each other limb from limb for\na mere dream, and transforming themselves into wild beasts because\nthey could not be content to be men.\n\nGiven the natural disposition of the pupil, there is no doubt that\nif the master exercises any sort of prudence or discretion in\nhis choice of reading, however little he may put him in the way\nof reflecting on the subject-matter, this exercise will serve as\na course in practical philosophy, a philosophy better understood\nand more thoroughly mastered than all the empty speculations with\nwhich the brains of lads are muddled in our schools. After following\nthe romantic schemes of Pyrrhus, Cineas asks him what real good he\nwould gain by the conquest of the world, which he can never enjoy\nwithout such great sufferings; this only arouses in us a passing\ninterest as a smart saying; but Emile will think it a very wise\nthought, one which had already occurred to himself, and one which\nhe will never forget, because there is no hostile prejudice in\nhis mind to prevent it sinking in. When he reads more of the life\nof this madman, he will find that all his great plans resulted in\nhis death at the hands of a woman, and instead of admiring this\npinchbeck heroism, what will he see in the exploits of this great\ncaptain and the schemes of this great statesman but so many steps\ntowards that unlucky tile which was to bring life and schemes alike\nto a shameful death?\n\nAll conquerors have not been killed; all usurpers have not failed\nin their plans; to minds imbued with vulgar prejudices many of them\nwill seem happy, but he who looks below the surface and reckons\nmen's happiness by the condition of their hearts will perceive\ntheir wretchedness even in the midst of their successes; he will\nsee them panting after advancement and never attaining their prize,\nhe will find them like those inexperienced travellers among the\nAlps, who think that every height they see is the last, who reach\nits summit only to find to their disappointment there are loftier\npeaks beyond.\n\nAugustus, when he had subdued his fellow-citizens and destroyed\nhis rivals, reigned for forty years over the greatest empire that\never existed; but all this vast power could not hinder him from\nbeating his head against the walls, and filling his palace with his\ngroans as he cried to Varus to restore his slaughtered legions. If\nhe had conquered all his foes what good would his empty triumphs\nhave done him, when troubles of every kind beset his path, when\nhis life was threatened by his dearest friends, and when he had to\nmourn the disgrace or death of all near and dear to him? The wretched\nman desired to rule the world and failed to rule his own household.\nWhat was the result of this neglect? He beheld his nephew, his\nadopted child, his son-in-law, perish in the flower of youth, his\ngrandson reduced to eat the stuffing of his mattress to prolong\nhis wretched existence for a few hours; his daughter and his\ngranddaughter, after they had covered him with infamy, died, the\none of hunger and want on a desert island, the other in prison by\nthe hand of a common archer. He himself, the last survivor of his\nunhappy house, found himself compelled by his own wife to acknowledge\na monster as his heir. Such was the fate of the master of the world,\nso famous for his glory and his good fortune. I cannot believe that\nany one of those who admire his glory and fortune would accept them\nat the same price.\n\nI have taken ambition as my example, but the play of every human\npassion offers similar lessons to any one who will study history\nto make himself wise and good at the expense of those who went\nbefore.  The time is drawing near when the teaching of the life\nof Anthony will appeal more forcibly to the youth than the life\nof Augustus.  Emile will scarcely know where he is among the many\nstrange sights in his new studies; but he will know beforehand how\nto avoid the illusion of passions before they arise, and seeing how\nin all ages they have blinded men's eyes, he will be forewarned of\nthe way in which they may one day blind his own should he abandon\nhimself to them. [Footnote: It is always prejudice which stirs\nup passion in our heart. He who only sees what really exists and\nonly values what he knows, rarely becomes angry. The errors of\nour judgment produce the warmth of our desires.] These lessons, I\nknow, are unsuited to him, perhaps at need they may prove scanty\nand ill-timed; but remember they are not the lessons I wished to\ndraw from this study.  To begin with, I had quite another end in\nview; and indeed, if this purpose is unfulfilled, the teacher will\nbe to blame.\n\nRemember that, as soon as selfishness has developed, the self\nin its relations to others is always with us, and the youth never\nobserves others without coming back to himself and comparing himself\nwith them. From the way young men are taught to study history I\nsee that they are transformed, so to speak, into the people they\nbehold, that you strive to make a Cicero, a Trajan, or an Alexander\nof them, to discourage them when they are themselves again, to\nmake every one regret that he is merely himself. There are certain\nadvantages in this plan which I do not deny; but, so far as Emile\nis concerned, should it happen at any time when he is making these\ncomparisons that he wishes to be any one but himself--were it\nSocrates or Cato--I have failed entirely; he who begins to regard\nhimself as a stranger will soon forget himself altogether.\n\nIt is not philosophers who know most about men; they only view them\nthrough the preconceived ideas of philosophy, and I know no one so\nprejudiced as philosophers. A savage would judge us more sanely.\nThe philosopher is aware of his own vices, he is indignant at ours,\nand he says to himself, \"We are all bad alike;\" the savage beholds\nus unmoved and says, \"You are mad.\" He is right, for no one does\nevil for evil's sake. My pupil is that savage, with this difference:\nEmile has thought more, he has compared ideas, seen our errors at\nclose quarters, he is more on his guard against himself, and only\njudges of what he knows.\n\nIt is our own passions that excite us against the passions of\nothers; it is our self-interest which makes us hate the wicked;\nif they did us no harm we should pity rather than hate them. We\nshould readily forgive their vices if we could perceive how their\nown heart punishes those vices. We are aware of the offence, but we\ndo not see the punishment; the advantages are plain, the penalty is\nhidden. The man who thinks he is enjoying the fruits of his vices\nis no less tormented by them than if they had not been successful; the\nobject is different, the anxiety is the same; in vain he displays\nhis good fortune and hides his heart; in spite of himself his\nconduct betrays him; but to discern this, our own heart must be\nutterly unlike his.\n\nWe are led astray by those passions which we share; we are disgusted\nby those that militate against our own interests; and with a want\nof logic due to these very passions, we blame in others what we fain\nwould imitate. Aversion and self-deception are inevitable when we\nare forced to endure at another's hands what we ourselves would do\nin his place.\n\nWhat then is required for the proper study of men? A great wish\nto know men, great impartiality of judgment, a heart sufficiently\nsensitive to understand every human passion, and calm enough to\nbe free from passion. If there is any time in our life when this\nstudy is likely to be appreciated, it is this that I have chosen\nfor Emile; before this time men would have been strangers to him;\nlater on he would have been like them. Convention, the effects of\nwhich he already perceives, has not yet made him its slave, the\npassions, whose consequences he realises, have not yet stirred his\nheart. He is a man; he takes an interest in his brethren; he is\na just man and he judges his peers. Now it is certain that if he\njudges them rightly he will not want to change places with any one\nof them, for the goal of all their anxious efforts is the result\nof prejudices which he does not share, and that goal seems to him\na mere dream.  For his own part, he has all he wants within his\nreach. How should he be dependent on any one when he is self-sufficing\nand free from prejudice? Strong arms, good health, [Footnote: I\nthink I may fairly reckon health and strength among the advantages\nhe has obtained by his education, or rather among the gifts of\nnature which his education has preserved for him.] moderation, few\nneeds, together with the means to satisfy those needs, are his.\nHe has been brought up in complete liberty and servitude is the\ngreatest ill he understands. He pities these miserable kings, the\nslaves of all who obey them; he pities these false prophets fettered\nby their empty fame; he pities these rich fools, martyrs to their\nown pomp; he pities these ostentatious voluptuaries, who spend their\nlife in deadly dullness that they may seem to enjoy its pleasures.\nHe would pity the very foe who harmed him, for he would discern his\nwretchedness beneath his cloak of spite. He would say to himself,\n\"This man has yielded to his desire to hurt me, and this need of\nhis places him at my mercy.\"\n\nOne step more and our goal is attained. Selfishness is a dangerous\ntool though a useful one; it often wounds the hand that uses it,\nand it rarely does good unmixed with evil. When Emile considers his\nplace among men, when he finds himself so fortunately situated, he\nwill be tempted to give credit to his own reason for the work of\nyours, and to attribute to his own deserts what is really the result\nof his good fortune. He will say to himself, \"I am wise and other\nmen are fools.\" He will pity and despise them and will congratulate\nhimself all the more heartily; and as he knows he is happier than\nthey, he will think his deserts are greater. This is the fault we\nhave most to fear, for it is the most difficult to eradicate. If\nhe remained in this state of mind, he would have profited little\nby all our care; and if I had to choose, I hardly know whether I\nwould not rather choose the illusions of prejudice than those of\npride.\n\nGreat men are under no illusion with respect to their superiority;\nthey see it and know it, but they are none the less modest. The\nmore they have, the better they know what they lack. They are less\nvain of their superiority over us than ashamed by the consciousness\nof their weakness, and among the good things they really possess,\nthey are too wise to pride themselves on a gift which is none of\ntheir getting. The good man may be proud of his virtue for it is\nhis own, but what cause for pride has the man of intellect? What\nhas Racine done that he is not Pradon, and Boileau that he is not\nCotin?\n\nThe circumstances with which we are concerned are quite different.\nLet us keep to the common level. I assumed that my pupil had neither\nsurpassing genius nor a defective understanding. I chose him of an\nordinary mind to show what education could do for man. Exceptions\ndefy all rules. If, therefore, as a result of my care, Emile\nprefers his way of living, seeing, and feeling to that of others,\nhe is right; but if he thinks because of this that he is nobler\nand better born than they, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself;\nhe must be undeceived, or rather let us prevent the mistake, lest\nit be too late to correct it.\n\nProvided a man is not mad, he can be cured of any folly but vanity;\nthere is no cure for this but experience, if indeed there is any\ncure for it at all; when it first appears we can at least prevent\nits further growth. But do not on this account waste your breath\non empty arguments to prove to the youth that he is like other men\nand subject to the same weaknesses. Make him feel it or he will\nnever know it. This is another instance of an exception to my own\nrules; I must voluntarily expose my pupil to every accident which\nmay convince him that he is no wiser than we. The adventure with\nthe conjurer will be repeated again and again in different ways; I\nshall let flatterers take advantage of him; if rash comrades draw\nhim into some perilous adventure, I will let him run the risk;\nif he falls into the hands of sharpers at the card-table, I will\nabandon him to them as their dupe.[Footnote: Moreover our pupil\nwill be little tempted by this snare; he has so many amusements\nabout him, he has never been bored in his life, and he scarcely knows\nthe use of money. As children have been led by these two motives,\nself-interest and vanity, rogues and courtesans use the same means\nto get hold of them later. When you see their greediness encouraged\nby prizes and rewards, when you find their public performances\nat ten years old applauded at school or college, you see too how\nat twenty they will be induced to leave their purse in a gambling\nhell and their health in a worse place. You may safely wager that\nthe sharpest boy in the class will become the greatest gambler and\ndebauchee. Now the means which have not been employed in childhood\nhave not the same effect in youth. But we must bear in mind\nmy constant plan and take the thing at its worst. First I try to\nprevent the vice; then I assume its existence in order to correct\nit.] I will let them flatter him, pluck him, and rob him; and when\nhaving sucked him dry they turn and mock him, I will even thank\nthem to his face for the lessons they have been good enough to give\nhim. The only snares from which I will guard him with my utmost\ncare are the wiles of wanton women. The only precaution I shall take\nwill be to share all the dangers I let him run, and all the insults\nI let him receive. I will bear everything in silence, without a\nmurmur or reproach, without a word to him, and be sure that if this\nwise conduct is faithfully adhered to, what he sees me endure on\nhis account will make more impression on his heart than what he\nhimself suffers.\n\nI cannot refrain at this point from drawing attention to the sham\ndignity of tutors, who foolishly pretend to be wise, who discourage\ntheir pupils by always professing to treat them as children, and\nby emphasising the difference between themselves and their scholars\nin everything they do. Far from damping their youthful spirits in\nthis fashion, spare no effort to stimulate their courage; that they\nmay become your equals, treat them as such already, and if they\ncannot rise to your level, do not scruple to come down to theirs\nwithout being ashamed of it. Remember that your honour is no longer\nin your own keeping but in your pupil's. Share his faults that\nyou may correct them, bear his disgrace that you may wipe it out;\nfollow the example of that brave Roman who, unable to rally his\nfleeing soldiers, placed himself at their head, exclaiming, \"They\ndo not flee, they follow their captain!\" Did this dishonour him?\nNot so; by sacrificing his glory he increased it. The power of\nduty, the beauty of virtue, compel our respect in spite of all our\nfoolish prejudices. If I received a blow in the course of my duties\nto Emile, far from avenging it I would boast of it; and I doubt\nwhether there is in the whole world a man so vile as to respect me\nany the less on this account.\n\nI do not intend the pupil to suppose his master to be as ignorant,\nor as liable to be led astray, as he is himself. This idea is\nall very well for a child who can neither see nor compare things,\nwho thinks everything is within his reach, and only bestows his\nconfidence on those who know how to come down to his level. But a\nyouth of Emile's age and sense is no longer so foolish as to make\nthis mistake, and it would not be desirable that he should. The\nconfidence he ought to have in his tutor is of another kind; it\nshould rest on the authority of reason, and on superior knowledge,\nadvantages which the young man is capable of appreciating while\nhe perceives how useful they are to himself. Long experience has\nconvinced him that his tutor loves him, that he is a wise and good\nman who desires his happiness and knows how to procure it. He ought\nto know that it is to his own advantage to listen to his advice.\nBut if the master lets himself be taken in like the disciple, he\nwill lose his right to expect deference from him, and to give him\ninstruction. Still less should the pupil suppose that his master\nis purposely letting him fall into snares or preparing pitfalls for\nhis inexperience. How can we avoid these two difficulties? Choose\nthe best and most natural means; be frank and straightforward like\nhimself; warn him of the dangers to which he is exposed, point them\nout plainly and sensibly, without exaggeration, without temper,\nwithout pedantic display, and above all without giving your opinions\nin the form of orders, until they have become such, and until this\nimperious tone is absolutely necessary. Should he still be obstinate as\nhe often will be, leave him free to follow his own choice, follow\nhim, copy his example, and that cheerfully and frankly; if possible\nfling yourself into things, amuse yourself as much as he does. If\nthe consequences become too serious, you are at hand to prevent\nthem; and yet when this young man has beheld your foresight and your\nkindliness, will he not be at once struck by the one and touched\nby the other? All his faults are but so many hands with which\nhe himself provides you to restrain him at need. Now under these\ncircumstances the great art of the master consists in controlling\nevents and directing his exhortations so that he may know beforehand\nwhen the youth will give in, and when he will refuse to do so,\nso that all around him he may encompass him with the lessons of\nexperience, and yet never let him run too great a risk.\n\nWarn him of his faults before he commits them; do not blame him\nwhen once they are committed; you would only stir his self-love to\nmutiny. We learn nothing from a lesson we detest. I know nothing\nmore foolish than the phrase, \"I told you so.\" The best way to make\nhim remember what you told him is to seem to have forgotten it. Go\nfurther than this, and when you find him ashamed of having refused\nto believe you, gently smooth away the shame with kindly words. He\nwill indeed hold you dear when he sees how you forget yourself on\nhis account, and how you console him instead of reproaching him.\nBut if you increase his annoyance by your reproaches he will hate\nyou, and will make it a rule never to heed you, as if to show you\nthat he does not agree with you as to the value of your opinion.\n\nThe turn you give to your consolation may itself be a lesson\nto him, and all the more because he does not suspect it. When you\ntell him, for example, that many other people have made the same\nmistakes, this is not what he was expecting; you are administering\ncorrection under the guise of pity; for when one thinks oneself\nbetter than other people it is a very mortifying excuse to console\noneself by their example; it means that we must realise that the\nmost we can say is that they are no better than we.\n\nThe time of faults is the time for fables. When we blame the guilty\nunder the cover of a story we instruct without offending him; and\nhe then understands that the story is not untrue by means of the\ntruth he finds in its application to himself. The child who has\nnever been deceived by flattery understands nothing of the fable I\nrecently examined; but the rash youth who has just become the dupe\nof a flatterer perceives only too readily that the crow was a fool.\nThus he acquires a maxim from the fact, and the experience he would\nsoon have forgotten is engraved on his mind by means of the fable.\nThere is no knowledge of morals which cannot be acquired through our\nown experience or that of others. When there is danger, instead of\nletting him try the experiment himself, we have recourse to history.\nWhen the risk is comparatively slight, it is just as well that\nthe youth should be exposed to it; then by means of the apologue\nthe special cases with which the young man is now acquainted are\ntransformed into maxims.\n\nIt is not, however, my intention that these maxims should be\nexplained, nor even formulated. Nothing is so foolish and unwise\nas the moral at the end of most of the fables; as if the moral\nwas not, or ought not to be so clear in the fable itself that the\nreader cannot fail to perceive it. Why then add the moral at the end,\nand go deprive him of the pleasure of discovering it for himself.\nThe art of teaching consists in making the pupil wish to learn.\nBut if the pupil is to wish to learn, his mind must not remain in\nsuch a passive state with regard to what you tell him that there\nis really nothing for him to do but listen to you. The master's\nvanity must always give way to the scholars; he must be able\nto say, I understand, I see it, I am getting at it, I am learning\nsomething.  One of the things which makes the Pantaloon in the\nItalian comedies so wearisome is the pains taken by him to explain\nto the audience the platitudes they understand only too well already.\nWe must always be intelligible, but we need not say all there is\nto be said. If you talk much you will say little, for at last no\none will listen to you. What is the sense of the four lines at the\nend of La Fontaine's fable of the frog who puffed herself up. Is\nhe afraid we should not understand it? Does this great painter need\nto write the names beneath the things he has painted? His morals,\nfar from generalising, restrict the lesson to some extent to the\nexamples given, and prevent our applying them to others. Before I\nput the fables of this inimitable author into the hands of a youth,\nI should like to cut out all the conclusions with which he strives\nto explain what he has just said so clearly and pleasantly. If\nyour pupil does not understand the fable without the explanation,\nhe will not understand it with it.\n\nMoreover, the fables would require to be arranged in a more didactic\norder, one more in agreement with the feelings and knowledge of\nthe young adolescent. Can you imagine anything so foolish as to\nfollow the mere numerical order of the book without regard to our\nrequirements or our opportunities. First the grasshopper, then the\ncrow, then the frog, then the two mules, etc. I am sick of these\ntwo mules; I remember seeing a child who was being educated for\nfinance; they never let him alone, but were always insisting on the\nprofession he was to follow; they made him read this fable, learn\nit, say it, repeat it again and again without finding in it the\nslightest argument against his future calling. Not only have I\nnever found children make any real use of the fables they learn,\nbut I have never found anybody who took the trouble to see that\nthey made such a use of them. The study claims to be instruction\nin morals; but the real aim of mother and child is nothing but to\nset a whole party watching the child while he recites his fables;\nwhen he is too old to recite them and old enough to make use of\nthem, they are altogether forgotten. Only men, I repeat, can learn\nfrom fables, and Emile is now old enough to begin.\n\nI do not mean to tell you everything, so I only indicate the paths\nwhich diverge from the right way, so that you may know how to avoid\nthem. If you follow the road I have marked out for you, I think\nyour pupil will buy his knowledge of mankind and his knowledge of\nhimself in the cheapest market; you will enable him to behold the\ntricks of fortune without envying the lot of her favourites, and\nto be content with himself without thinking himself better than\nothers. You have begun by making him an actor that he may learn to\nbe one of the audience; you must continue your task, for from the\ntheatre things are what they seem, from the stage they seem what\nthey are. For the general effect we must get a distant view, for\nthe details we must observe more closely. But how can a young man\ntake part in the business of life? What right has he to be initiated\ninto its dark secrets? His interests are confined within the limits\nof his own pleasures, he has no power over others, it is much the\nsame as if he had no power at all. Man is the cheapest commodity\non the market, and among all our important rights of property, the\nrights of the individual are always considered last of all.\n\nWhen I see the studies of young men at the period of their greatest\nactivity confined to purely speculative matters, while later on\nthey are suddenly plunged, without any sort of experience, into\nthe world of men and affairs, it strikes me as contrary alike to\nreason and to nature, and I cease to be surprised that so few men\nknow what to do.  How strange a choice to teach us so many useless\nthings, while the art of doing is never touched upon! They profess\nto fit us for society, and we are taught as if each of us were\nto live a life of contemplation in a solitary cell, or to discuss\ntheories with persons whom they did not concern. You think you\nare teaching your scholars how to live, and you teach them certain\nbodily contortions and certain forms of words without meaning.\nI, too, have taught Emile how to live; for I have taught him to\nenjoy his own society and, more than that, to earn his own bread.\nBut this is not enough.  To live in the world he must know how to\nget on with other people, he must know what forces move them, he\nmust calculate the action and re-action of self-interest in civil\nsociety, he must estimate the results so accurately that he will\nrarely fail in his undertakings, or he will at least have tried\nin the best possible way. The law does not allow young people to\nmanage their own affairs nor to dispose of their own property; but\nwhat would be the use of these precautions if they never gained any\nexperience until they were of age. They would have gained nothing\nby the delay, and would have no more experience at five-and-twenty\nthan at fifteen. No doubt we must take precautions, so that a youth,\nblinded by ignorance or misled by passion, may not hurt himself;\nbut at any age there are opportunities when deeds of kindness and\nof care for the weak may be performed under the direction of a wise\nman, on behalf of the unfortunate who need help.\n\nMothers and nurses grow fond of children because of the care they\nlavish on them; the practice of social virtues touches the very\nheart with the love of humanity; by doing good we become good; and\nI know no surer way to this end. Keep your pupil busy with the good\ndeeds that are within his power, let the cause of the poor be his\nown, let him help them not merely with his money, but with his\nservice; let him work for them, protect them, let his person and\nhis time be at their disposal; let him be their agent; he will\nnever all his life long have a more honourable office. How many of\nthe oppressed, who have never got a hearing, will obtain justice\nwhen he demands it for them with that courage and firmness which\nthe practice of virtue inspires; when he makes his way into the\npresence of the rich and great, when he goes, if need be, to the\nfootstool of the king himself, to plead the cause of the wretched,\nthe cause of those who find all doors closed to them by their poverty,\nthose who are so afraid of being punished for their misfortunes\nthat they do not dare to complain?\n\nBut shall we make of Emile a knight-errant, a redresser of wrongs,\na paladin? Shall he thrust himself into public life, play the sage\nand the defender of the laws before the great, before the magistrates,\nbefore the king? Shall he lay petitions before the judges and plead\nin the law courts? That I cannot say. The nature of things is not\nchanged by terms of mockery and scorn. He will do all that he knows\nto be useful and good. He will do nothing more, and he knows that\nnothing is useful and good for him which is unbefitting his age.\nHe knows that his first duty is to himself; that young men should\ndistrust themselves; that they should act circumspectly; that they\nshould show respect to those older than themselves, reticence and\ndiscretion in talking without cause, modesty in things indifferent, but\ncourage in well doing, and boldness to speak the truth. Such were\nthose illustrious Romans who, having been admitted into public life,\nspent their days in bringing criminals to justice and in protecting\nthe innocent, without any motives beyond those of learning, and of\nthe furtherance of justice and of the protection of right conduct.\n\nEmile is not fond of noise or quarrelling, not only among men, but\namong animals. [Footnote: \"But what will he do if any one seeks a\nquarrel with him?\" My answer is that no one will ever quarrel with\nhim, he will never lend himself to such a thing. But, indeed, you\ncontinue, who can be safe from a blow, or an insult from a bully,\na drunkard, a bravo, who for the joy of killing his man begins by\ndishonouring him? That is another matter. The life and honour of\nthe citizens should not be at the mercy of a bully, a drunkard, or\na bravo, and one can no more insure oneself against such an accident\nthan against a falling tile. A blow given, or a lie in the teeth,\nif he submit to them, have social consequences which no wisdom\ncan prevent and no tribunal can avenge. The weakness of the laws,\ntherefore, so far restores a man's independence; he is the sole\nmagistrate and judge between the offender and himself, the sole\ninterpreter and administrator of natural law. Justice is his due,\nand he alone can obtain it, and in such a case there is no government\non earth so foolish as to punish him for so doing. I do not say he\nmust fight; that is absurd; I say justice is his due, and he alone\ncan dispense it. If I were king, I promise you that in my kingdom\nno one would ever strike a man or call him a liar, and yet I would\ndo without all those useless laws against duels; the means are\nsimple and require no law courts. However that may be, Emile knows\nwhat is due to himself in such a case, and the example due from\nhim to the safety of men of honour. The strongest of men cannot\nprevent insult, but he can take good care that his adversary has\nno opportunity to boast of that insult.] He will never set two dogs\nto fight, he will never set a dog to chase a cat. This peaceful\nspirit is one of the results of his education, which has never\nstimulated self-love or a high opinion of himself, and so has\nnot encouraged him to seek his pleasure in domination and in the\nsufferings of others. The sight of suffering makes him suffer too;\nthis is a natural feeling. It is one of the after effects of vanity\nthat hardens a young man and makes him take a delight in seeing the\ntorments of a living and feeling creature; it makes him consider\nhimself beyond the reach of similar sufferings through his superior\nwisdom or virtue. He who is beyond the reach of vanity cannot fall\ninto the vice which results from vanity. So Emile loves peace.\nHe is delighted at the sight of happiness, and if he can help to\nbring it about, this is an additional reason for sharing it. I do\nnot assume that when he sees the unhappy he will merely feel for\nthem that barren and cruel pity which is content to pity the ills\nit can heal.  His kindness is active and teaches him much he would\nhave learnt far more slowly, or he would never have learnt at all,\nif his heart had been harder. If he finds his comrades at strife,\nhe tries to reconcile them; if he sees the afflicted, he inquires\nas to the cause of their sufferings; if he meets two men who hate\neach other, he wants to know the reason of their enmity; if he finds\none who is down-trodden groaning under the oppression of the rich\nand powerful, he tries to discover by what means he can counteract\nthis oppression, and in the interest he takes with regard to all\nthese unhappy persons, the means of removing their sufferings are\nnever out of his sight. What use shall we make of this disposition\nso that it may re-act in a way suited to his age? Let us direct\nhis efforts and his knowledge, and use his zeal to increase them.\n\nI am never weary of repeating: let all the lessons of young people\ntake the form of doing rather than talking; let them learn nothing\nfrom books which they can learn from experience. How absurd to\nattempt to give them practice in speaking when they have nothing\nto say, to expect to make them feel, at their school desks, the\nvigour of the language of passion and all the force of the arts\nof persuasion when they have nothing and nobody to persuade! All\nthe rules of rhetoric are mere waste of words to those who do not\nknow how to use them for their own purposes. How does it concern\na schoolboy to know how Hannibal encouraged his soldiers to cross\nthe Alps? If instead of these grand speeches you showed him how to\ninduce his prefect to give him a holiday, you may be sure he would\npay more attention to your rules.\n\nIf I wanted to teach rhetoric to a youth whose passions were as\nyet undeveloped, I would draw his attention continually to things\nthat would stir his passions, and I would discuss with him how\nhe should talk to people so as to get them to regard his wishes\nfavourably.  But Emile is not in a condition so favourable to the\nart of oratory.  Concerned mainly with his physical well-being,\nhe has less need of others than they of him; and having nothing to\nask of others on his own account, what he wants to persuade them\nto do does not affect him sufficiently to awake any very strong\nfeeling. From this it follows that his language will be on the\nwhole simple and literal.  He usually speaks to the point and only\nto make himself understood.  He is not sententious, for he has\nnot learnt to generalise; he does not speak in figures, for he is\nrarely impassioned.\n\nYet this is not because he is altogether cold and phlegmatic,\nneither his age, his character, nor his tastes permit of this. In\nthe fire of adolescence the life-giving spirits, retained in the\nblood and distilled again and again, inspire his young heart with\na warmth which glows in his eye, a warmth which is felt in his\nwords and perceived in his actions. The lofty feeling with which\nhe is inspired gives him strength and nobility; imbued with tender\nlove for mankind his words betray the thoughts of his heart;\nI know not how it is, but there is more charm in his open-hearted\ngenerosity than in the artificial eloquence of others; or rather\nthis eloquence of his is the only true eloquence, for he has only\nto show what he feels to make others share his feelings.\n\nThe more I think of it the more convinced I am that by thus\ntranslating our kindly impulses into action, by drawing from our\ngood or ill success conclusions as to their cause, we shall find\nthat there is little useful knowledge that cannot be imparted to a\nyouth; and that together with such true learning as may be got at\ncollege he will learn a science of more importance than all the rest\ntogether, the application of what he has learned to the purposes\nof life. Taking such an interest in his fellow-creatures, it is\nimpossible that he should fail to learn very quickly how to note\nand weigh their actions, their tastes, their pleasures, and to\nestimate generally at their true value what may increase or diminish\nthe happiness of men; he should do this better than those who care\nfor nobody and never do anything for any one. The feelings of those\nwho are always occupied with their own concerns are too keenly\naffected for them to judge wisely of things. They consider everything\nas it affects themselves, they form their ideas of good and ill\nsolely on their own experience, their minds are filled with all\nsorts of absurd prejudices, and anything which affects their own\nadvantage ever so little, seems an upheaval of the universe.\n\nExtend self-love to others and it is transformed into virtue,\na virtue which has its root in the heart of every one of us. The\nless the object of our care is directly dependent on ourselves, the\nless we have to fear from the illusion of self-interest; the more\ngeneral this interest becomes, the juster it is; and the love of\nthe human race is nothing but the love of justice within us. If\ntherefore we desire Emile to be a lover of truth, if we desire that\nhe should indeed perceive it, let us keep him far from self-interest\nin all his business. The more care he bestows upon the happiness of\nothers the wiser and better he is, and the fewer mistakes he will\nmake between good and evil; but never allow him any blind preference\nfounded merely on personal predilection or unfair prejudice. Why\nshould he harm one person to serve another? What does it matter to\nhim who has the greater share of happiness, providing he promotes\nthe happiness of all? Apart from self-interest this care for the\ngeneral well-being is the first concern of the wise man, for each\nof us forms part of the human race and not part of any individual\nmember of that race.\n\nTo prevent pity degenerating into weakness we must generalise it\nand extend it to mankind. Then we only yield to it when it is in\naccordance with justice, since justice is of all the virtues that\nwhich contributes most to the common good. Reason and self-love\ncompel us to love mankind even more than our neighbour, and to pity\nthe wicked is to be very cruel to other men.\n\nMoreover, you must bear in mind that all these means employed to\nproject my pupil beyond himself have also a distinct relation to\nhimself; since they not only cause him inward delight, but I am\nalso endeavouring to instruct him, while I am making him kindly\ndisposed towards others.\n\nFirst I showed the means employed, now I will show the result. What\nwide prospects do I perceive unfolding themselves before his mind!\nWhat noble feelings stifle the lesser passions in his heart! What\nclearness of judgment, what accuracy in reasoning, do I see developing\nfrom the inclinations we have cultivated, from the experience which\nconcentrates the desires of a great heart within the narrow bounds\nof possibility, so that a man superior to others can come down to\ntheir level if he cannot raise them to his own!  True principles\nof justice, true types of beauty, all moral relations between man\nand man, all ideas of order, these are engraved on his understanding;\nhe sees the right place for everything and the causes which drive\nit from that place; he sees what may do good, and what hinders it.\nWithout having felt the passions of mankind, he knows the illusions\nthey produce and their mode of action.\n\nI proceed along the path which the force of circumstances compels\nme to tread, but I do not insist that my readers shall follow me.\nLong ago they have made up their minds that I am wandering in the\nland of chimeras, while for my part I think they are dwelling in\nthe country of prejudice. When I wander so far from popular beliefs\nI do not cease to bear them in mind; I examine them, I consider\nthem, not that I may follow them or shun them, but that I may weigh\nthem in the balance of reason. Whenever reason compels me to abandon\nthese popular beliefs, I know by experience that my readers will\nnot follow my example; I know that they will persist in refusing\nto go beyond what they can see, and that they will take the youth\nI am describing for the creation of my fanciful imagination, merely\nbecause he is unlike the youths with whom they compare him; they\nforget that he must needs be different, because he has been brought\nup in a totally different fashion; he has been influenced by wholly\ndifferent feelings, instructed in a wholly different manner, so\nthat it would be far stranger if he were like your pupils than if\nhe were what I have supposed. He is a man of nature's making, not\nman's. No wonder men find him strange.\n\nWhen I began this work I took for granted nothing but what could be\nobserved as readily by others as by myself; for our starting-point,\nthe birth of man, is the same for all; but the further we go, while\nI am seeking to cultivate nature and you are seeking to deprave\nit, the further apart we find ourselves. At six years old my pupil\nwas not so very unlike yours, whom you had not yet had time to\ndisfigure; now there is nothing in common between them; and when\nthey reach the age of manhood, which is now approaching, they will\nshow themselves utterly different from each other, unless all my pains\nhave been thrown away. There may not be so very great a difference\nin the amount of knowledge they possess, but there is all the\ndifference in the world in the kind of knowledge. You are amazed\nto find that the one has noble sentiments of which the others have\nnot the smallest germ, but remember that the latter are already\nphilosophers and theologians while Emile does not even know what\nis meant by a philosopher and has scarcely heard the name of God.\n\nBut if you come and tell me, \"There are no such young men, young\npeople are not made that way; they have this passion or that, they\ndo this or that,\" it is as if you denied that a pear tree could\never be a tall tree because the pear trees in our gardens are all\ndwarfs.\n\nI beg these critics who are so ready with their blame to consider\nthat I am as well acquainted as they are with everything they say,\nthat I have probably given more thought to it, and that, as I have\nno private end to serve in getting them to agree with me, I have\na right to demand that they should at least take time to find out\nwhere I am mistaken. Let them thoroughly examine the nature of\nman, let them follow the earliest growth of the heart in any given\ncircumstances, so as to see what a difference education may make in\nthe individual; then let them compare my method of education with\nthe results I ascribe to it; and let them tell me where my reasoning\nis unsound, and I shall have no answer to give them.\n\nIt is this that makes me speak so strongly, and as I think with\ngood excuse: I have not pledged myself to any system, I depend as\nlittle as possible on arguments, and I trust to what I myself have\nobserved. I do not base my ideas on what I have imagined, but on\nwhat I have seen. It is true that I have not confined my observations\nwithin the walls of any one town, nor to a single class of people;\nbut having compared men of every class and every nation which\nI have been able to observe in the course of a life spent in this\npursuit, I have discarded as artificial what belonged to one nation\nand not to another, to one rank and not to another; and I have\nregarded as proper to mankind what was common to all, at any age,\nin any station, and in any nation whatsoever.\n\nNow if in accordance with this method you follow from infancy the\ncourse of a youth who has not been shaped to any special mould, one\nwho depends as little as possible on authority and the opinions of\nothers, which will he most resemble, my pupil or yours? It seems\nto me that this is the question you must answer if you would know\nif I am mistaken.\n\nIt is not easy for a man to begin to think; but when once he has\nbegun he will never leave off. Once a thinker, always a thinker,\nand the understanding once practised in reflection will never rest.\nYou may therefore think that I do too much or too little; that\nthe human mind is not by nature so quick to unfold; and that after\nhaving given it opportunities it has not got, I keep it too long\nconfined within a circle of ideas which it ought to have outgrown.\n\nBut remember, in the first place, that when I want to train\na natural man, I do not want to make him a savage and to send him\nback to the woods, but that living in the whirl of social life\nit is enough that he should not let himself be carried away by\nthe passions and prejudices of men; let him see with his eyes and\nfeel with his heart, let him own no sway but that of reason. Under\nthese conditions it is plain that many things will strike him;\nthe oft-recurring feelings which affect him, the different ways of\nsatisfying his real needs, must give him many ideas he would not\notherwise have acquired or would only have acquired much later.\nThe natural progress of the mind is quickened but not reversed.\nThe same man who would remain stupid in the forests should become\nwise and reasonable in towns, if he were merely a spectator in\nthem. Nothing is better fitted to make one wise than the sight of\nfollies we do not share, and even if we share them, we still learn,\nprovided we are not the dupe of our follies and provided we do not\nbring to them the same mistakes as the others.\n\nConsider also that while our faculties are confined to the things of\nsense, we offer scarcely any hold to the abstractions of philosophy\nor to purely intellectual ideas. To attain to these we require\neither to free ourselves from the body to which we are so strongly\nbound, or to proceed step by step in a slow and gradual course,\nor else to leap across the intervening space with a gigantic bound\nof which no child is capable, one for which grown men even require\nmany steps hewn on purpose for them; but I find it very difficult\nto see how you propose to construct such steps.\n\nThe Incomprehensible embraces all, he gives its motion to the\nearth, and shapes the system of all creatures, but our eyes cannot\nsee him nor can our hands search him out, he evades the efforts\nof our senses; we behold the work, but the workman is hidden from\nour eyes.  It is no small matter to know that he exists, and when\nwe have got so far, and when we ask. What is he? Where is he? our\nmind is overwhelmed, we lose ourselves, we know not what to think.\n\nLocke would have us begin with the study of spirits and go on to\nthat of bodies. This is the method of superstition, prejudice, and\nerror; it is not the method of nature, nor even that of well-ordered\nreason; it is to learn to see by shutting our eyes. We must have\nstudied bodies long enough before we can form any true idea of\nspirits, or even suspect that there are such beings. The contrary\npractice merely puts materialism on a firmer footing.\n\nSince our senses are the first instruments to our learning, corporeal\nand sensible bodies are the only bodies we directly apprehend. The\nword \"spirit\" has no meaning for any one who has not philosophised.\nTo the unlearned and to the child a spirit is merely a body. Do\nthey not fancy that spirits groan, speak, fight, and make noises?\nNow you must own that spirits with arms and voices are very like\nbodies. This is why every nation on the face of the earth, not even\nexcepting the Jews, have made to themselves idols. We, ourselves,\nwith our words, Spirit, Trinity, Persons, are for the most part quite\nanthropomorphic. I admit that we are taught that God is everywhere;\nbut we also believe that there is air everywhere, at least in our\natmosphere; and the word Spirit meant originally nothing more than\nbreath and wind. Once you teach people to say what they do not\nunderstand, it is easy enough to get them to say anything you like.\n\nThe perception of our action upon other bodies must have first\ninduced us to suppose that their action upon us was effected in\nlike manner. Thus man began by thinking that all things whose action\naffected him were alive. He did not recognise the limits of their\npowers, and he therefore supposed that they were boundless; as\nsoon as he had supplied them with bodies they became his gods. In\nthe earliest times men went in terror of everything and everything\nin nature seemed alive. The idea of matter was developed as slowly\nas that of spirit, for the former is itself an abstraction.\n\nThus the universe was peopled with gods like themselves. The stars,\nthe winds and the mountains, rivers, trees, and towns, their very\ndwellings, each had its soul, its god, its life. The teraphim of\nLaban, the manitos of savages, the fetishes of the negroes, every\nwork of nature and of man, were the first gods of mortals; polytheism\nwas their first religion and idolatry their earliest form of worship.\nThe idea of one God was beyond their grasp, till little by little\nthey formed general ideas, and they rose to the idea of a first\ncause and gave meaning to the word \"substance,\" which is at bottom\nthe greatest of abstractions. So every child who believes in God\nis of necessity an idolater or at least he regards the Deity as a\nman, and when once the imagination has perceived God, it is very\nseldom that the understanding conceives him. Locke's order leads\nus into this same mistake.\n\nHaving arrived, I know not how, at the idea of substance, it is\nclear that to allow of a single substance it must be assumed that\nthis substance is endowed with incompatible and mutually exclusive\nproperties, such as thought and size, one of which is by its nature\ndivisible and the other wholly incapable of division. Moreover it\nis assumed that thought or, if you prefer it, feeling is a primitive\nquality inseparable from the substance to which it belongs, that\nits relation to the substance is like the relation between substance\nand size. Hence it is inferred that beings who lose one of these\nattributes lose the substance to which it belongs, and that death\nis, therefore, but a separation of substances, and that those\nbeings in whom the two attributes are found are composed of the\ntwo substances to which those two qualities belong.\n\nBut consider what a gulf there still is between the idea of two\nsubstances and that of the divine nature, between the incomprehensible\nidea of the influence of our soul upon our body and the idea of the\ninfluence of God upon every living creature. The ideas of creation,\ndestruction, ubiquity, eternity, almighty power, those of the divine\nattributes--these are all ideas so confused and obscure that few\nmen succeed in grasping them; yet there is nothing obscure about\nthem to the common people, because they do not understand them in\nthe least; how then should they present themselves in full force,\nthat is to say in all their obscurity, to the young mind which is\nstill occupied with the first working of the senses, and fails to\nrealise anything but what it handles? In vain do the abysses of\nthe Infinite open around us, a child does not know the meaning of\nfear; his weak eyes cannot gauge their depths. To children everything\nis infinite, they cannot assign limits to anything; not that their\nmeasure is so large, but because their understanding is so small.\nI have even noticed that they place the infinite rather below than\nabove the dimensions known to them. They judge a distance to be\nimmense rather by their feet than by their eyes; infinity is bounded\nfor them, not so much by what they can see, but how far they can\ngo. If you talk to them of the power of God, they will think he\nis nearly as strong as their father. As their own knowledge is in\neverything the standard by which they judge of what is possible,\nthey always picture what is described to them as rather smaller\nthan what they know. Such are the natural reasonings of an ignorant\nand feeble mind. Ajax was afraid to measure his strength against\nAchilles, yet he challenged Jupiter to combat, for he knew Achilles\nand did not know Jupiter. A Swiss peasant thought himself the\nrichest man alive; when they tried to explain to him what a king\nwas, he asked with pride, \"Has the king got a hundred cows on the\nhigh pastures?\"\n\nI am aware that many of my readers will be surprised to find me\ntracing the course of my scholar through his early years without\nspeaking to him of religion. At fifteen he will not even know that\nhe has a soul, at eighteen even he may not be ready to learn about\nit. For if he learns about it too soon, there is the risk of his\nnever really knowing anything about it.\n\nIf I had to depict the most heart-breaking stupidity, I would paint\na pedant teaching children the catechism; if I wanted to drive\na child crazy I would set him to explain what he learned in his\ncatechism. You will reply that as most of the Christian doctrines\nare mysteries, you must wait, not merely till the child is a man,\nbut till the man is dead, before the human mind will understand\nthose doctrines. To that I reply, that there are mysteries which\nthe heart of man can neither conceive nor believe, and I see no\nuse in teaching them to children, unless you want to make liars of\nthem.  Moreover, I assert that to admit that there are mysteries,\nyou must at least realise that they are incomprehensible, and\nchildren are not even capable of this conception! At an age when\neverything is mysterious, there are no mysteries properly so-called.\n\n\"We must believe in God if we would be saved.\" This doctrine wrongly\nunderstood is the root of bloodthirsty intolerance and the cause of\nall the futile teaching which strikes a deadly blow at human reason\nby training it to cheat itself with mere words. No doubt there is\nnot a moment to be lost if we would deserve eternal salvation; but\nif the repetition of certain words suffices to obtain it, I do not\nsee why we should not people heaven with starlings and magpies as\nwell as with children.\n\nThe obligation of faith assumes the possibility of belief.\nThe philosopher who does not believe is wrong, for he misuses the\nreason he has cultivated, and he is able to understand the truths\nhe rejects. But the child who professes the Christian faith--what\ndoes he believe? Just what he understands; and he understands so\nlittle of what he is made to repeat that if you tell him to say\njust the opposite he will be quite ready to do it. The faith of\nchildren and the faith of many men is a matter of geography. Will\nthey be rewarded for having been born in Rome rather than in Mecca?\nOne is told that Mahomet is the prophet of God and he says, \"Mahomet\nis the prophet of God.\" The other is told that Mahomet is a rogue\nand he says, \"Mahomet is a rogue.\" Either of them would have said\njust the opposite had he stood in the other's shoes. When they are\nso much alike to begin with, can the one be consigned to Paradise\nand the other to Hell? When a child says he believes in God, it is\nnot God he believes in, but Peter or James who told him that there\nis something called God, and he believes it after the fashion of\nEuripides--\n\n\"O Jupiter, of whom I know nothing but thy name.\"\n\n[Footnote: Plutarch. It is thus that the tragedy of Menalippus\noriginally began, but the clamour of the Athenians compelled\nEuripides to change these opening lines.]\n\nWe hold that no child who dies before the age of reason will be\ndeprived of everlasting happiness; the Catholics believe the same\nof all children who have been baptised, even though they have never\nheard of God. There are, therefore, circumstances in which one can\nbe saved without belief in God, and these circumstances occur in\nthe case of children or madmen when the human mind is incapable of\nthe operations necessary to perceive the Godhead. The only difference\nI see between you and me is that you profess that children of seven\nyears old are able to do this and I do not think them ready for it\nat fifteen. Whether I am right or wrong depends, not on an article\nof the creed, but on a simple observation in natural history.\n\nFrom the same principle it is plain that any man having reached\nold age without faith in God will not, therefore, be deprived of\nGod's presence in another life if his blindness was not wilful;\nand I maintain that it is not always wilful. You admit that it is\nso in the case of lunatics deprived by disease of their spiritual\nfaculties, but not of their manhood, and therefore still entitled\nto the goodness of their Creator. Why then should we not admit it\nin the case of those brought up from infancy in seclusion, those\nwho have led the life of a savage and are without the knowledge that\ncomes from intercourse with other men. [Footnote: For the natural\ncondition of the human mind and its slow development, cf. the first\npart of the Discours sur Inegalite.] For it is clearly impossible\nthat such a savage could ever raise his thoughts to the knowledge\nof the true God. Reason tells that man should only be punished\nfor his wilful faults, and that invincible ignorance can never\nbe imputed to him as a crime. Hence it follows that in the sight\nof the Eternal Justice every man who would believe if he had the\nnecessary knowledge is counted a believer, and that there will be\nno unbelievers to be punished except those who have closed their\nhearts against the truth.\n\nLet us beware of proclaiming the truth to those who cannot as yet\ncomprehend it, for to do so is to try to inculcate error. It would\nbe better to have no idea at all of the Divinity than to have\nmean, grotesque, harmful, and unworthy ideas; to fail to perceive\nthe Divine is a lesser evil than to insult it. The worthy Plutarch\nsays, \"I would rather men said, 'There is no such person as Plutarch,'\nthan that they should say, 'Plutarch is unjust, envious, jealous,\nand such a tyrant that he demands more than can be performed.'\"\n\nThe chief harm which results from the monstrous ideas of God which\nare instilled into the minds of children is that they last all their\nlife long, and as men they understand no more of God than they did\nas children. In Switzerland I once saw a good and pious mother who\nwas so convinced of the truth of this maxim that she refused to\nteach her son religion when he was a little child for fear lest he\nshould be satisfied with this crude teaching and neglect a better\nteaching when he reached the age of reason. This child never heard\nthe name of God pronounced except with reverence and devotion,\nand as soon as he attempted to say the word he was told to hold\nhis tongue, as if the subject were too sublime and great for him.\nThis reticence aroused his curiosity and his self-love; he looked\nforward to the time when he would know this mystery so carefully\nhidden from him. The less they spoke of God to him, the less he was\nhimself permitted to speak of God, the more he thought about Him;\nthis child beheld God everywhere. What I should most dread as the\nresult of this unwise affectation of mystery is this: by over-stimulating\nthe youth's imagination you may turn his head, and make him at the\nbest a fanatic rather than a believer.\n\nBut we need fear nothing of the sort for Emile, who always declines\nto pay attention to what is beyond his reach, and listens with\nprofound indifference to things he does not understand. There are\nso many things of which he is accustomed to say, \"That is no concern\nof mine,\" that one more or less makes little difference to him;\nand when he does begin to perplex himself with these great matters,\nit is because the natural growth of his knowledge is turning his\nthoughts that way.\n\nWe have seen the road by which the cultivated human mind approaches\nthese mysteries, and I am ready to admit that it would not attain\nto them naturally, even in the bosom of society, till a much later\nage.  But as there are in this same society inevitable causes which\nhasten the development of the passions, if we did not also hasten\nthe development of the knowledge which controls these passions\nwe should indeed depart from the path of nature and disturb her\nequilibrium.  When we can no longer restrain a precocious development\nin one direction we must promote a corresponding development in\nanother direction, so that the order of nature may not be inverted,\nand so that things should progress together, not separately, so\nthat the man, complete at every moment of his life, may never find\nhimself at one stage in one of his faculties and at another stage\nin another faculty.\n\nWhat a difficulty do I see before me! A difficulty all the greater\nbecause it depends less on actual facts than on the cowardice of\nthose who dare not look the difficulty in the face. Let us at least\nventure to state our problem. A child should always be brought up\nin his father's religion; he is always given plain proofs that this\nreligion, whatever it may be, is the only true religion, that all\nothers are ridiculous and absurd. The force of the argument depends\nentirely on the country in which it is put forward. Let a Turk,\nwho thinks Christianity so absurd at Constantinople, come to Paris\nand see what they think of Mahomet. It is in matters of religion\nmore than in anything else that prejudice is triumphant. But when\nwe who profess to shake off its yoke entirely, we who refuse to yield\nany homage to authority, decline to teach Emile anything which he\ncould not learn for himself in any country, what religion shall\nwe give him, to what sect shall this child of nature belong? The\nanswer strikes me as quite easy. We will not attach him to any sect,\nbut we will give him the means to choose for himself according to\nthe right use of his own reason.\n\n     Incedo per ignes\n     Suppositos cineri doloso.--Horace, lib. ii. ode I.\n\nNo matter! Thus far zeal and prudence have taken the place of\ncaution. I hope that these guardians will not fail me now. Reader,\ndo not fear lest I should take precautions unworthy of a lover of\ntruth; I shall never forget my motto, but I distrust my own judgment\nall too easily. Instead of telling you what I think myself, I will\ntell you the thoughts of one whose opinions carry more weight than\nmine. I guarantee the truth of the facts I am about to relate;\nthey actually happened to the author whose writings I am about to\ntranscribe; it is for you to judge whether we can draw from them\nany considerations bearing on the matter in hand. I do not offer\nyou my own idea or another's as your rule; I merely present them\nfor your examination.\n\nThirty years ago there was a young man in an Italian town; he was\nan exile from his native land and found himself reduced to the depths\nof poverty. He had been born a Calvinist, but the consequences of\nhis own folly had made him a fugitive in a strange land; he had\nno money and he changed his religion for a morsel of bread. There\nwas a hostel for proselytes in that town to which he gained admission.\nThe study of controversy inspired doubts he had never felt before,\nand he made acquaintance with evil hitherto unsuspected by him; he\nheard strange doctrines and he met with morals still stranger to\nhim; he beheld this evil conduct and nearly fell a victim to it.\nHe longed to escape, but he was locked up; he complained, but his\ncomplaints were unheeded; at the mercy of his tyrants, he found\nhimself treated as a criminal because he would not share their\ncrimes. The anger kindled in a young and untried heart by the first\nexperience of violence and injustice may be realised by those who\nhave themselves experienced it. Tears of anger flowed from his\neyes, he was wild with rage; he prayed to heaven and to man, and\nhis prayers were unheard; he spoke to every one and no one listened\nto him. He saw no one but the vilest servants under the control\nof the wretch who insulted him, or accomplices in the same crime\nwho laughed at his resistance and encouraged him to follow their\nexample. He would have been ruined had not a worthy priest visited\nthe hostel on some matter of business. He found an opportunity\nof consulting him secretly. The priest was poor and in need of\nhelp himself, but the victim had more need of his assistance, and\nhe did not hesitate to help him to escape at the risk of making a\ndangerous enemy.\n\nHaving escaped from vice to return to poverty, the young\nman struggled vainly against fate: for a moment he thought he had\ngained the victory. At the first gleam of good fortune his woes and\nhis protector were alike forgotten. He was soon punished for this\ningratitude; all his hopes vanished; youth indeed was on his side,\nbut his romantic ideas spoiled everything. He had neither talent\nnor skill to make his way easily, he could neither be commonplace\nnor wicked, he expected so much that he got nothing. When he had\nsunk to his former poverty, when he was without food or shelter\nand ready to die of hunger, he remembered his benefactor.\n\nHe went back to him, found him, and was kindly welcomed; the sight of\nhim reminded the priest of a good deed he had done; such a memory\nalways rejoices the heart. This man was by nature humane and\npitiful; he felt the sufferings of others through his own, and his\nheart had not been hardened by prosperity; in a word, the lessons\nof wisdom and an enlightened virtue had reinforced his natural\nkindness of heart. He welcomed the young man, found him a lodging,\nand recommended him; he shared with him his living which was barely\nenough for two. He did more, he instructed him, consoled him, and\ntaught him the difficult art of bearing adversity in patience. You\nprejudiced people, would you have expected to find all this in a\npriest and in Italy?\n\nThis worthy priest was a poor Savoyard clergyman who had offended\nhis bishop by some youthful fault; he had crossed the Alps to find\na position which he could not obtain in his own country. He lacked\nneither wit nor learning, and with his interesting countenance\nhe had met with patrons who found him a place in the household of\none of the ministers, as tutor to his son. He preferred poverty to\ndependence, and he did not know how to get on with the great. He\ndid not stay long with this minister, and when he departed he took\nwith him his good opinion; and as he lived a good life and gained\nthe hearts of everybody, he was glad to be forgiven by his bishop\nand to obtain from him a small parish among the mountains, where he\nmight pass the rest of his life. This was the limit of his ambition.\n\nHe was attracted by the young fugitive and he questioned him closely.\nHe saw that ill-fortune had already seared his heart, that scorn\nand disgrace had overthrown his courage, and that his pride,\ntransformed into bitterness and spite, led him to see nothing in\nthe harshness and injustice of men but their evil disposition and\nthe vanity of all virtue. He had seen that religion was but a mask\nfor selfishness, and its holy services but a screen for hypocrisy;\nhe had found in the subtleties of empty disputations heaven and\nhell awarded as prizes for mere words; he had seen the sublime and\nprimitive idea of Divinity disfigured by the vain fancies of men;\nand when, as he thought, faith in God required him to renounce\nthe reason God himself had given him, he held in equal scorn our\nfoolish imaginings and the object with which they are concerned.\nWith no knowledge of things as they are, without any idea of their\norigins, he was immersed in his stubborn ignorance and utterly\ndespised those who thought they knew more than himself.\n\nThe neglect of all religion soon leads to the neglect of a man's\nduties. The heart of this young libertine was already far on this\nroad. Yet his was not a bad nature, though incredulity and misery\nwere gradually stifling his natural disposition and dragging him\ndown to ruin; they were leading him into the conduct of a rascal\nand the morals of an atheist.\n\nThe almost inevitable evil was not actually consummated. The young\nman was not ignorant, his education had not been neglected. He was\nat that happy age when the pulse beats strongly and the heart is\nwarm, but is not yet enslaved by the madness of the senses. His heart\nhad not lost its elasticity. A native modesty, a timid disposition\nrestrained him, and prolonged for him that period during which\nyou watch your pupil so carefully. The hateful example of brutal\ndepravity, of vice without any charm, had not merely failed to\nquicken his imagination, it had deadened it. For a long time disgust\nrather than virtue preserved his innocence, which would only succumb\nto more seductive charms.\n\nThe priest saw the danger and the way of escape. He was not discouraged\nby difficulties, he took a pleasure in his task; he determined to\ncomplete it and to restore to virtue the victim he had snatched\nfrom vice. He set about it cautiously; the beauty of the motive\ngave him courage and inspired him with means worthy of his zeal.\nWhatever might be the result, his pains would not be wasted.  We\nare always successful when our sole aim is to do good.\n\nHe began to win the confidence of the proselyte by not asking any\nprice for his kindness, by not intruding himself upon him, by not\npreaching at him, by always coming down to his level, and treating\nhim as an equal. It was, so I think, a touching sight to see a\nserious person becoming the comrade of a young scamp, and virtue\nputting up with the speech of licence in order to triumph over it\nmore completely. When the young fool came to him with his silly\nconfidences and opened his heart to him, the priest listened and\nset him at his ease; without giving his approval to what was bad,\nhe took an interest in everything; no tactless reproof checked his\nchatter or closed his heart; the pleasure which he thought was given\nby his conversation increased his pleasure in telling everything;\nthus he made his general confession without knowing he was confessing\nanything.\n\nAfter he had made a thorough study of his feelings and disposition,\nthe priest saw plainly that, although he was not ignorant for his\nage, he had forgotten everything that he most needed to know, and\nthat the disgrace which fortune had brought upon him had stifled in\nhim all real sense of good and evil. There is a stage of degradation\nwhich robs the soul of its life; and the inner voice cannot be\nheard by one whose whole mind is bent on getting food. To protect\nthe unlucky youth from the moral death which threatened him, he\nbegan to revive his self-love and his good opinion of himself. He\nshowed him a happier future in the right use of his talents; he\nrevived the generous warmth of his heart by stories of the noble\ndeeds of others; by rousing his admiration for the doers of these\ndeeds he revived his desire to do like deeds himself. To draw him\ngradually from his idle and wandering life, he made him copy out\nextracts from well-chosen books; he pretended to want these extracts,\nand so nourished in him the noble feeling of gratitude. He taught\nhim indirectly through these books, and thus he made him sufficiently\nregain his good opinion of himself so that he would no longer think\nhimself good for nothing, and would not make himself despicable in\nhis own eyes.\n\nA trifling incident will show how this kindly man tried, unknown\nto him, to raise the heart of his disciple out of its degradation,\nwithout seeming to think of teaching. The priest was so well known\nfor his uprightness and his discretion, that many people preferred\nto entrust their alms to him, rather than to the wealthy clergy of\nthe town. One day some one had given him some money to distribute\namong the poor, and the young man was mean enough to ask for some\nof it on the score of poverty. \"No,\" said he, \"we are brothers,\nyou belong to me and I must not touch the money entrusted to me.\"\nThen he gave him the sum he had asked for out of his own pocket.\nLessons of this sort seldom fail to make an impression on the heart\nof young people who are not wholly corrupt.\n\nI am weary of speaking in the third person, and the precaution is\nunnecessary; for you are well aware, my dear friend, that I myself\nwas this unhappy fugitive; I think I am so far removed from the\ndisorders of my youth that I may venture to confess them, and the\nhand which rescued me well deserves that I should at least do honour\nto its goodness at the cost of some slight shame.\n\nWhat struck me most was to see in the private life of my worthy\nmaster, virtue without hypocrisy, humanity without weakness, speech\nalways plain and straightforward, and conduct in accordance with\nthis speech. I never saw him trouble himself whether those whom he\nassisted went to vespers or confession, whether they fasted at the\nappointed seasons and went without meat; nor did he impose upon them\nany other like conditions, without which you might die of hunger\nbefore you could hope for any help from the devout.\n\nFar from displaying before him the zeal of a new convert, I was\nencouraged by these observations and I made no secret of my way of\nthinking, nor did he seem to be shocked by it. Sometimes I would\nsay to myself, he overlooks my indifference to the religion I have\nadopted because he sees I am equally indifferent to the religion\nin which I was brought up; he knows that my scorn for religion is\nnot confined to one sect. But what could I think when I sometimes\nheard him give his approval to doctrines contrary to those of the\nRoman Catholic Church, and apparently having but a poor opinion of\nits ceremonies. I should have thought him a Protestant in disguise\nif I had not beheld him so faithful to those very customs which he\nseemed to value so lightly; but I knew he fulfilled his priestly\nduties as carefully in private as in public, and I knew not what\nto think of these apparent contradictions. Except for the fault\nwhich had formerly brought about his disgrace, a fault which he\nhad only partially overcome, his life was exemplary, his conduct\nbeyond reproach, his conversation honest and discreet. While I lived\non very friendly terms with him, I learnt day by day to respect\nhim more; and when he had completely won my heart by such great\nkindness, I awaited with eager curiosity the time when I should\nlearn what was the principle on which the uniformity of this strange\nlife was based.\n\nThis opportunity was a long time coming. Before taking his disciple\ninto his confidence, he tried to get the seeds of reason and kindness\nwhich he had sown in my heart to germinate. The most difficult\nfault to overcome in me was a certain haughty misanthropy, a certain\nbitterness against the rich and successful, as if their wealth\nand happiness had been gained at my own expense, and as if their\nsupposed happiness had been unjustly taken from my own. The foolish\nvanity of youth, which kicks against the pricks of humiliation,\nmade me only too much inclined to this angry temper; and the\nself-respect, which my mentor strove to revive, led to pride, which\nmade men still more vile in my eyes, and only added scorn to my\nhatred.\n\nWithout directly attacking this pride, he prevented it from\ndeveloping into hardness of heart; and without depriving me of my\nself-esteem, he made me less scornful of my neighbours. By continually\ndrawing my attention from the empty show, and directing it to the\ngenuine sufferings concealed by it, he taught me to deplore the\nfaults of my fellows and feel for their sufferings, to pity rather\nthan envy them. Touched with compassion towards human weaknesses\nthrough the profound conviction of his own failings, he viewed\nall men as the victims of their own vices and those of others; he\nbeheld the poor groaning under the tyranny of the rich, and the\nrich under the tyranny of their own prejudices. \"Believe me,\" said\nhe, \"our illusions, far from concealing our woes, only increase them\nby giving value to what is in itself valueless, in making us aware\nof all sorts of fancied privations which we should not otherwise\nfeel. Peace of heart consists in despising everything that might\ndisturb that peace; the man who clings most closely to life is the\nman who can least enjoy it; and the man who most eagerly desires\nhappiness is always most miserable.\"\n\n\"What gloomy ideas!\" I exclaimed bitterly. \"If we must deny ourselves\neverything, we might as well never have been born; and if we must\ndespise even happiness itself who can be happy?\" \"I am,\" replied\nthe priest one day, in a tone which made a great impression on me.\n\"You happy! So little favoured by fortune, so poor, an exile and\npersecuted, you are happy! How have you contrived to be happy?\"\n\"My child,\" he answered, \"I will gladly tell you.\"\n\nThereupon he explained that, having heard my confessions, he would\nconfess to me. \"I will open my whole heart to yours,\" he said,\nembracing me. \"You will see me, if not as I am, at least as I\nseem to myself. When you have heard my whole confession of faith,\nwhen you really know the condition of my heart, you will know why\nI think myself happy, and if you think as I do, you will know how\nto be happy too. But these explanations are not the affair of a\nmoment, it will take time to show you all my ideas about the lot\nof man and the true value of life; let us choose a fitting time and\na place where we may continue this conversation without interruption.\"\n\nI showed him how eager I was to hear him. The meeting was fixed\nfor the very next morning. It was summer time; we rose at daybreak.\nHe took me out of the town on to a high hill above the river Po,\nwhose course we beheld as it flowed between its fertile banks; in\nthe distance the landscape was crowned by the vast chain of the\nAlps; the beams of the rising sun already touched the plains and\ncast across the fields long shadows of trees, hillocks, and houses,\nand enriched with a thousand gleams of light the fairest picture\nwhich the human eye can see. You would have thought that nature\nwas displaying all her splendour before our eyes to furnish a text\nfor our conversation. After contemplating this scene for a space\nin silence, the man of peace spoke to me.\n\nTHE CREED OF A SAVOYARD PRIEST\n\nMy child, do not look to me for learned speeches or profound\narguments. I am no great philosopher, nor do I desire to be one.\nI have, however, a certain amount of common-sense and a constant\ndevotion to truth. I have no wish to argue with you nor even to\nconvince you; it is enough for me to show you, in all simplicity of\nheart, what I really think. Consult your own heart while I speak;\nthat is all I ask. If I am mistaken, I am honestly mistaken, and\ntherefore my error will not be counted to me as a crime; if you,\ntoo, are honestly mistaken, there is no great harm done. If I am\nright, we are both endowed with reason, we have both the same motive\nfor listening to the voice of reason. Why should not you think as\nI do?\n\nBy birth I was a peasant and poor; to till the ground was my portion;\nbut my parents thought it a finer thing that I should learn to get\nmy living as a priest and they found means to send me to college.\nI am quite sure that neither my parents nor I had any idea of\nseeking after what was good, useful, or true; we only sought what\nwas wanted to get me ordained. I learned what was taught me, I\nsaid what I was told to say, I promised all that was required, and\nI became a priest. But I soon discovered that when I promised not\nto be a man, I had promised more than I could perform.\n\nConscience, they tell us, is the creature of prejudice, but I know\nfrom experience that conscience persists in following the order\nof nature in spite of all the laws of man. In vain is this or that\nforbidden; remorse makes her voice heard but feebly when what we\ndo is permitted by well-ordered nature, and still more when we are\ndoing her bidding. My good youth, nature has not yet appealed to\nyour senses; may you long remain in this happy state when her voice\nis the voice of innocence. Remember that to anticipate her teaching\nis to offend more deeply against her than to resist her teaching;\nyou must first learn to resist, that you may know when to yield\nwithout wrong-doing.\n\nFrom my youth up I had reverenced the married state as the first\nand most sacred institution of nature. Having renounced the right\nto marry, I was resolved not to profane the sanctity of marriage;\nfor in spite of my education and reading I had always led a simple\nand regular life, and my mind had preserved the innocence of its\nnatural instincts; these instincts had not been obscured by worldly\nwisdom, while my poverty kept me remote from the temptations dictated\nby the sophistry of vice.\n\nThis very resolution proved my ruin. My respect for marriage led\nto the discovery of my misconduct. The scandal must be expiated;\nI was arrested, suspended, and dismissed; I was the victim of\nmy scruples rather than of my incontinence, and I had reason to\nbelieve, from the reproaches which accompanied my disgrace, that\none can often escape punishment by being guilty of a worse fault.\n\nA thoughtful mind soon learns from such experiences. I found my\nformer ideas of justice, honesty, and every duty of man overturned\nby these painful events, and day by day I was losing my hold on\none or another of the opinions I had accepted. What was left was\nnot enough to form a body of ideas which could stand alone, and\nI felt that the evidence on which my principles rested was being\nweakened; at last I knew not what to think, and I came to the same\nconclusion as yourself, but with this difference: My lack of faith\nwas the slow growth of manhood, attained with great difficulty,\nand all the harder to uproot.\n\nI was in that state of doubt and uncertainty which Descartes\nconsiders essential to the search for truth. It is a state which\ncannot continue, it is disquieting and painful; only vicious\ntendencies and an idle heart can keep us in that state. My heart\nwas not so corrupt as to delight in it, and there is nothing which\nso maintains the habit of thinking as being better pleased with\noneself than with one's lot.\n\nI pondered, therefore, on the sad fate of mortals, adrift upon this\nsea of human opinions, without compass or rudder, and abandoned\nto their stormy passions with no guide but an inexperienced pilot\nwho does not know whence he comes or whither he is going. I said\nto myself, \"I love truth, I seek her, and cannot find her. Show\nme truth and I will hold her fast; why does she hide her face from\nthe eager heart that would fain worship her?\"\n\nAlthough I have often experienced worse sufferings, I have never\nled a life so uniformly distressing as this period of unrest and\nanxiety, when I wandered incessantly from one doubt to another,\ngaining nothing from my prolonged meditations but uncertainty,\ndarkness, and contradiction with regard to the source of my being\nand the rule of my duties.\n\nI cannot understand how any one can be a sceptic sincerely and on\nprinciple. Either such philosophers do not exist or they are the\nmost miserable of men. Doubt with regard to what we ought to know\nis a condition too violent for the human mind; it cannot long be\nendured; in spite of itself the mind decides one way or another,\nand it prefers to be deceived rather than to believe nothing.\n\nMy perplexity was increased by the fact that I had been brought\nup in a church which decides everything and permits no doubts, so\nthat having rejected one article of faith I was forced to reject\nthe rest; as I could not accept absurd decisions, I was deprived of\nthose which were not absurd. When I was told to believe everything,\nI could believe nothing, and I knew not where to stop.\n\nI consulted the philosophers, I searched their books and examined\ntheir various theories; I found them all alike proud, assertive,\ndogmatic, professing, even in their so-called scepticism, to know\neverything, proving nothing, scoffing at each other. This last\ntrait, which was common to all of them, struck me as the only point\nin which they were right. Braggarts in attack, they are weaklings\nin defence. Weigh their arguments, they are all destructive; count\ntheir voices, every one speaks for himself; they are only agreed in\narguing with each other. I could find no way out of my uncertainty\nby listening to them.\n\nI suppose this prodigious diversity of opinion is caused, in the\nfirst place, by the weakness of the human intellect; and, in the\nsecond, by pride. We have no means of measuring this vast machine,\nwe are unable to calculate its workings; we know neither its guiding\nprinciples nor its final purpose; we do not know ourselves, we know\nneither our nature nor the spirit that moves us; we scarcely know\nwhether man is one or many; we are surrounded by impenetrable\nmysteries. These mysteries are beyond the region of sense, we think\nwe can penetrate them by the light of reason, but we fall back on\nour imagination. Through this imagined world each forces a way for\nhimself which he holds to be right; none can tell whether his path\nwill lead him to the goal. Yet we long to know and understand it\nall. The one thing we do not know is the limit of the knowable. We\nprefer to trust to chance and to believe what is not true, rather\nthan to own that not one of us can see what really is. A fragment\nof some vast whole whose bounds are beyond our gaze, a fragment\nabandoned by its Creator to our foolish quarrels, we are vain\nenough to want to determine the nature of that whole and our own\nrelations with regard to it.\n\nIf the philosophers were in a position to declare the truth, which\nof them would care to do so? Every one of them knows that his own\nsystem rests on no surer foundations than the rest, but he maintains\nit because it is his own. There is not one of them who, if he chanced\nto discover the difference between truth and falsehood, would not\nprefer his own lie to the truth which another had discovered. Where\nis the philosopher who would not deceive the whole world for his\nown glory? If he can rise above the crowd, if he can excel his\nrivals, what more does he want? Among believers he is an atheist;\namong atheists he would be a believer.\n\nThe first thing I learned from these considerations was to restrict\nmy inquiries to what directly concerned myself, to rest in profound\nignorance of everything else, and not even to trouble myself to\ndoubt anything beyond what I required to know.\n\nI also realised that the philosophers, far from ridding me of my\nvain doubts, only multiplied the doubts that tormented me and failed\nto remove any one of them. So I chose another guide and said, \"Let\nme follow the Inner Light; it will not lead me so far astray as\nothers have done, or if it does it will be my own fault, and I shall\nnot go so far wrong if I follow my own illusions as if I trusted\nto their deceits.\"\n\nI then went over in my mind the various opinions which I had held\nin the course of my life, and I saw that although no one of them was\nplain enough to gain immediate belief, some were more probable than\nothers, and my inward consent was given or withheld in proportion\nto this improbability. Having discovered this, I made an unprejudiced\ncomparison of all these different ideas, and I perceived that the\nfirst and most general of them was also the simplest and the most\nreasonable, and that it would have been accepted by every one if only\nit had been last instead of first. Imagine all your philosophers,\nancient and modern, having exhausted their strange systems of force,\nchance, fate, necessity, atoms, a living world, animated matter,\nand every variety of materialism. Then comes the illustrious Clarke\nwho gives light to the world and proclaims the Being of beings\nand the Giver of things. What universal admiration, what unanimous\napplause would have greeted this new system--a system so great, so\nilluminating, and so simple. Other systems are full of absurdities;\nthis system seems to me to contain fewer things which are beyond\nthe understanding of the human mind. I said to myself, \"Every\nsystem has its insoluble problems, for the finite mind of man is\ntoo small to deal with them; these difficulties are therefore no\nfinal arguments, against any system. But what a difference there\nis between the direct evidence on which these systems are based!\nShould we not prefer that theory which alone explains all the facts,\nwhen it is no more difficult than the rest?\"\n\nBearing thus within my heart the love of truth as my only philosophy,\nand as my only method a clear and simple rule which dispensed with\nthe need for vain and subtle arguments, I returned with the help\nof this rule to the examination of such knowledge as concerned\nmyself; I was resolved to admit as self-evident all that I could\nnot honestly refuse to believe, and to admit as true all that seemed\nto follow directly from this; all the rest I determined to leave\nundecided, neither accepting nor rejecting it, nor yet troubling\nmyself to clear up difficulties which did not lead to any practical\nends.\n\nBut who am I? What right have I to decide? What is it that determines\nmy judgments? If they are inevitable, if they are the results of the\nimpressions I receive, I am wasting my strength in such inquiries;\nthey would be made or not without any interference of mine. I must\ntherefore first turn my eyes upon myself to acquaint myself with the\ninstrument I desire to use, and to discover how far it is reliable.\n\nI exist, and I have senses through which I receive impressions.\nThis is the first truth that strikes me and I am forced to accept\nit.  Have I any independent knowledge of my existence, or am I only\naware of it through my sensations? This is my first difficulty, and\nso far I cannot solve it. For I continually experience sensations,\neither directly or indirectly through memory, so how can I know if\nthe feeling of self is something beyond these sensations or if it\ncan exist independently of them?\n\nMy sensations take place in myself, for they make me aware of my\nown existence; but their cause is outside me, for they affect me\nwhether I have any reason for them or not, and they are produced\nor destroyed independently of me. So I clearly perceive that my\nsensation, which is within me, and its cause or its object, which\nis outside me, are different things.\n\nThus, not only do I exist, but other entities exist also, that is\nto say, the objects of my sensations; and even if these objects\nare merely ideas, still these ideas are not me.\n\nBut everything outside myself, everything which acts upon my senses,\nI call matter, and all the particles of matter which I suppose to be\nunited into separate entities I call bodies. Thus all the disputes\nof the idealists and the realists have no meaning for me; their\ndistinctions between the appearance and the reality of bodies are\nwholly fanciful.\n\nI am now as convinced of the existence of the universe as of\nmy own.  I next consider the objects of my sensations, and I find\nthat I have the power of comparing them, so I perceive that I am\nendowed with an active force of which I was not previously aware.\n\nTo perceive is to feel; to compare is to judge; to judge and to feel\nare not the same. Through sensation objects present themselves to\nme separately and singly as they are in nature; by comparing them\nI rearrange them, I shift them so to speak, I place one upon another\nto decide whether they are alike or different, or more generally\nto find out their relations. To my mind, the distinctive faculty of\nan active or intelligent being is the power of understanding this\nword \"is.\" I seek in vain in the merely sensitive entity that\nintelligent force which compares and judges; I can find no trace of\nit in its nature. This passive entity will be aware of each object\nseparately, it will even be aware of the whole formed by the two\ntogether, but having no power to place them side by side it can\nnever compare them, it can never form a judgment with regard to\nthem.\n\nTo see two things at once is not to see their relations nor to judge\nof their differences; to perceive several objects, one beyond the\nother, is not to relate them. I may have at the same moment an idea\nof a big stick and a little stick without comparing them, without\njudging that one is less than the other, just as I can see my whole\nhand without counting my fingers. [Footnote: M. de le Cordamines'\nnarratives tell of a people who only know how to count up to three.\nYet the men of this nation, having hands, have often seen their\nfingers without learning to count up to five.] These comparative\nideas, 'greater', 'smaller', together with number ideas of 'one',\n'two', etc. are certainly not sensations, although my mind only\nproduces them when my sensations occur.\n\nWe are told that a sensitive being distinguishes sensations from each\nother by the inherent differences in the sensations; this requires\nexplanation. When the sensations are different, the sensitive\nbeing distinguishes them by their differences; when they are alike,\nhe distinguishes them because he is aware of them one beyond the\nother. Otherwise, how could he distinguish between two equal objects\nsimultaneously experienced? He would necessarily confound the two\nobjects and take them for one object, especially under a system\nwhich professed that the representative sensations of space have\nno extension.\n\nWhen we become aware of the two sensations to be compared, their\nimpression is made, each object is perceived, both are perceived,\nbut for all that their relation is not perceived. If the judgment\nof this relation were merely a sensation, and came to me solely\nfrom the object itself, my judgments would never be mistaken, for\nit is never untrue that I feel what I feel.\n\nWhy then am I mistaken as to the relation between these two sticks,\nespecially when they are not parallel? Why, for example, do I say\nthe small stick is a third of the large, when it is only a quarter?\nWhy is the picture, which is the sensation, unlike its model which\nis the object? It is because I am active when I judge, because\nthe operation of comparison is at fault; because my understanding,\nwhich judges of relations, mingles its errors with the truth of\nsensations, which only reveal to me things.\n\nAdd to this a consideration which will, I feel sure, appeal to\nyou when you have thought about it: it is this--If we were purely\npassive in the use of our senses, there would be no communication\nbetween them; it would be impossible to know that the body we are\ntouching and the thing we are looking at is the same. Either we\nshould never perceive anything outside ourselves, or there would\nbe for us five substances perceptible by the senses, whose identity\nwe should have no means of perceiving.\n\nThis power of my mind which brings my sensations together and\ncompares them may be called by any name; let it be called attention,\nmeditation, reflection, or what you will; it is still true that\nit is in me and not in things, that it is I alone who produce it,\nthough I only produce it when I receive an impression from things.\nThough I am compelled to feel or not to feel, I am free to examine\nmore or less what I feel.\n\nBeing now, so to speak, sure of myself, I begin to look at things\noutside myself, and I behold myself with a sort of shudder flung\nat random into this vast universe, plunged as it were into the vast\nnumber of entities, knowing nothing of what they are in themselves\nor in relation to me. I study them, I observe them; and the first\nobject which suggests itself for comparison with them is myself.\n\nAll that I perceive through the senses is matter, and I deduce\nall the essential properties of matter from the sensible qualities\nwhich make me perceive it, qualities which are inseparable from it.\nI see it sometimes in motion, sometimes at rest, [Footnote: This\nrepose is, if you prefer it, merely relative; but as we perceive\nmore or less of motion, we may plainly conceive one of two extremes,\nwhich is rest; and we conceive it so clearly that we are even\ndisposed to take for absolute rest what is only relative. But it\nis not true that motion is of the essence of matter, if matter may\nbe conceived of as at rest.] hence I infer that neither motion nor\nrest is essential to it, but motion, being an action, is the result\nof a cause of which rest is only the absence. When, therefore,\nthere is nothing acting upon matter it does not move, and for the\nvery reason that rest and motion are indifferent to it, its natural\nstate is a state of rest.\n\nI perceive two sorts of motions of bodies, acquired motion and\nspontaneous or voluntary motion. In the first the cause is external\nto the body moved, in the second it is within. I shall not conclude\nfrom that that the motion, say of a watch, is spontaneous, for if no\nexternal cause operated upon the spring it would run down and the\nwatch would cease to go. For the same reason I should not admit\nthat the movements of fluids are spontaneous, neither should I\nattribute spontaneous motion to fire which causes their fluidity.\n[Footnote: Chemists regard phlogiston or the element of fire as\ndiffused, motionless, and stagnant in the compounds of which it\nforms part, until external forces set it free, collect it and set\nit in motion, and change it into fire.]\n\nYou ask me if the movements of animals are spontaneous; my answer\nis, \"I cannot tell,\" but analogy points that way. You ask me again,\nhow do I know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, \"I\nknow it because I feel them.\" I want to move my arm and I move it\nwithout any other immediate cause of the movement but my own will.\nIn vain would any one try to argue me out of this feeling, it is\nstronger than any proofs; you might as well try to convince me that\nI do not exist.\n\nIf there were no spontaneity in men's actions, nor in anything\nthat happens on this earth, it would be all the more difficult to\nimagine a first cause for all motion. For my own part, I feel myself\nso thoroughly convinced that the natural state of matter is a state\nof rest, and that it has no power of action in itself, that when\nI see a body in motion I at once assume that it is either a living\nbody or that this motion has been imparted to it. My mind declines\nto accept in any way the idea of inorganic matter moving of its\nown accord, or giving rise to any action.\n\nYet this visible universe consists of matter, matter diffused and\ndead, [Footnote: I have tried hard to grasp the idea of a living\nmolecule, but in vain. The idea of matter feeling without any senses\nseems to me unintelligible and self-contradictory. To accept or\nreject this idea one must first understand it, and I confess that\nso far I have not succeeded.] matter which has none of the cohesion,\nthe organisation, the common feeling of the parts of a living body,\nfor it is certain that we who are parts have no consciousness of\nthe whole. This same universe is in motion, and in its movements,\nordered, uniform, and subject to fixed laws, it has none of that\nfreedom which appears in the spontaneous movements of men and\nanimals. So the world is not some huge animal which moves of its\nown accord; its movements are therefore due to some external cause,\na cause which I cannot perceive, but the inner voice makes this\ncause so apparent to me that I cannot watch the course of the\nsun without imagining a force which drives it, and when the earth\nrevolves I think I see the hand that sets it in motion.\n\nIf I must accept general laws whose essential relation to matter\nis unperceived by me, how much further have I got? These laws, not\nbeing real things, not being substances, have therefore some other\nbasis unknown to me. Experiment and observation have acquainted us\nwith the laws of motion; these laws determine the results without\nshowing their causes; they are quite inadequate to explain the\nsystem of the world and the course of the universe. With the help\nof dice Descartes made heaven and earth; but he could not set his\ndice in motion, nor start the action of his centrifugal force without\nthe help of rotation. Newton discovered the law of gravitation; but\ngravitation alone would soon reduce the universe to a motionless\nmass; he was compelled to add a projectile force to account for\nthe elliptical course of the celestial bodies; let Newton show us\nthe hand that launched the planets in the tangent of their orbits.\n\nThe first causes of motion are not to be found in matter; matter\nreceives and transmits motion, but does not produce it. The more\nI observe the action and reaction of the forces of nature playing\non one another, the more I see that we must always go back from one\neffect to another, till we arrive at a first cause in some will;\nfor to assume an infinite succession of causes is to assume that\nthere is no first cause. In a word, no motion which is not caused\nby another motion can take place, except by a spontaneous, voluntary\naction; inanimate bodies have no action but motion, and there is\nno real action without will. This is my first principle. I believe,\ntherefore, that there is a will which sets the universe in motion\nand gives life to nature. This is my first dogma, or the first\narticle of my creed.\n\nHow does a will produce a physical and corporeal action? I cannot\ntell, but I perceive that it does so in myself; I will to do\nsomething and I do it; I will to move my body and it moves, but\nif an inanimate body, when at rest, should begin to move itself,\nthe thing is incomprehensible and without precedent. The will is\nknown to me in its action, not in its nature. I know this will as\na cause of motion, but to conceive of matter as producing motion\nis clearly to conceive of an effect without a cause, which is not\nto conceive at all.\n\nIt is no more possible for me to conceive how my will moves my body\nthan to conceive how my sensations affect my mind. I do not even\nknow why one of these mysteries has seemed less inexplicable than the\nother. For my own part, whether I am active or passive, the means\nof union of the two substances seem to me absolutely incomprehensible.\nIt is very strange that people make this very incomprehensibility a\nstep towards the compounding of the two substances, as if operations\nso different in kind were more easily explained in one case than\nin two.\n\nThe doctrine I have just laid down is indeed obscure; but at least\nit suggests a meaning and there is nothing in it repugnant to reason\nor experience; can we say as much of materialism? Is it not plain\nthat if motion is essential to matter it would be inseparable from\nit, it would always be present in it in the same degree, always\npresent in every particle of matter, always the same in each\nparticle of matter, it would not be capable of transmission, it\ncould neither increase nor diminish, nor could we ever conceive of\nmatter at rest. When you tell me that motion is not essential to\nmatter but necessary to it, you try to cheat me with words which\nwould be easier to refute if there was a little more sense in them.\nFor either the motion of matter arises from the matter itself and\nis therefore essential to it; or it arises from an external cause\nand is not necessary to the matter, because the motive cause acts\nupon it; we have got back to our original difficulty.\n\nThe chief source of human error is to be found in general and abstract\nideas; the jargon of metaphysics has never led to the discovery of\nany single truth, and it has filled philosophy with absurdities of\nwhich we are ashamed as soon as we strip them of their long words.\nTell me, my friend, when they talk to you of a blind force diffused\nthroughout nature, do they present any real idea to your mind? They\nthink they are saying something by these vague expressions--universal\nforce, essential motion--but they are saying nothing at all. The idea\nof motion is nothing more than the idea of transference from place\nto place; there is no motion without direction; for no individual\ncan move all ways at once. In what direction then does matter move\nof necessity? Has the whole body of matter a uniform motion, or\nhas each atom its own motion? According to the first idea the whole\nuniverse must form a solid and indivisible mass; according to the\nsecond it can only form a diffused and incoherent fluid, which\nwould make the union of any two atoms impossible. What direction\nshall be taken by this motion common to all matter? Shall it be\nin a straight line, in a circle, or from above downwards, to the\nright or to the left? If each molecule has its own direction, what\nare the causes of all these directions and all these differences?\nIf every molecule or atom only revolved on its own axis, nothing\nwould ever leave its place and there would be no transmitted motion,\nand even then this circular movement would require to follow some\ndirection. To set matter in motion by an abstraction is to utter\nwords without meaning, and to attribute to matter a given direction\nis to assume a determining cause. The more examples I take, the\nmore causes I have to explain, without ever finding a common agent\nwhich controls them. Far from being able to picture to myself an\nentire absence of order in the fortuitous concurrence of elements,\nI cannot even imagine such a strife, and the chaos of the universe\nis less conceivable to me than its harmony. I can understand that\nthe mechanism of the universe may not be intelligible to the human\nmind, but when a man sets to work to explain it, he must say what\nmen can understand.\n\nIf matter in motion points me to a will, matter in motion according\nto fixed laws points me to an intelligence; that is the second article\nof my creed. To act, to compare, to choose, are the operations of\nan active, thinking being; so this being exists. Where do you find\nhim existing, you will say? Not merely in the revolving heavens,\nnor in the sun which gives us light, not in myself alone, but in\nthe sheep that grazes, the bird that flies, the stone that falls,\nand the leaf blown by the wind.\n\nI judge of the order of the world, although I know nothing of its\npurpose, for to judge of this order it is enough for me to compare\nthe parts one with another, to study their co-operation, their\nrelations, and to observe their united action. I know not why the\nuniverse exists, but I see continually how it is changed; I never\nfail to perceive the close connection by which the entities of\nwhich it consists lend their aid one to another. I am like a man\nwho sees the works of a watch for the first time; he is never weary\nof admiring the mechanism, though he does not know the use of the\ninstrument and has never seen its face. I do not know what this is\nfor, says he, but I see that each part of it is fitted to the rest,\nI admire the workman in the details of his work, and I am quite\ncertain that all these wheels only work together in this fashion\nfor some common end which I cannot perceive.\n\nLet us compare the special ends, the means, the ordered relations\nof every kind, then let us listen to the inner voice of feeling;\nwhat healthy mind can reject its evidence? Unless the eyes are\nblinded by prejudices, can they fail to see that the visible order\nof the universe proclaims a supreme intelligence? What sophisms\nmust be brought together before we fail to understand the harmony\nof existence and the wonderful co-operation of every part for the\nmaintenance of the rest? Say what you will of combinations and\nprobabilities; what do you gain by reducing me to silence if you\ncannot gain my consent? And how can you rob me of the spontaneous\nfeeling which, in spite of myself, continually gives you the lie?\nIf organised bodies had come together fortuitously in all sorts of\nways before assuming settled forms, if stomachs are made without\nmouths, feet without heads, hands without arms, imperfect organs of\nevery kind which died because they could not preserve their life,\nwhy do none of these imperfect attempts now meet our eyes; why has\nnature at length prescribed laws to herself which she did not at\nfirst recognise? I must not be surprised if that which is possible\nshould happen, and if the improbability of the event is compensated\nfor by the number of the attempts. I grant this; yet if any one\ntold me that printed characters scattered broadcast had produced\nthe Aeneid all complete, I would not condescend to take a single\nstep to verify this falsehood. You will tell me I am forgetting the\nmultitude of attempts. But how many such attempts must I assume to\nbring the combination within the bounds of probability? For my own\npart the only possible assumption is that the chances are infinity\nto one that the product is not the work of chance. In addition to\nthis, chance combinations yield nothing but products of the same\nnature as the elements combined, so that life and organisation will\nnot be produced by a flow of atoms, and a chemist when making his\ncompounds will never give them thought and feeling in his crucible.\n[Footnote: Could one believe, if one had not seen it, that human\nabsurdity could go so far? Amatus Lusitanus asserts that he saw a\nlittle man an inch long enclosed in a glass, which Julius Camillus,\nlike a second Prometheus, had made by alchemy. Paracelsis (De\nnatura rerum) teaches the method of making these tiny men, and he\nmaintains that the pygmies, fauns, satyrs, and nymphs have been made\nby chemistry.  Indeed I cannot see that there is anything more to\nbe done, to establish the possibility of these facts, unless it\nis to assert that organic matter resists the heat of fire and that\nits molecules can preserve their life in the hottest furnace.]\n\nI was surprised and almost shocked when I read Neuwentit. How\ncould this man desire to make a book out of the wonders of nature,\nwonders which show the wisdom of the author of nature? His book would\nhave been as large as the world itself before he had exhausted his\nsubject, and as soon as we attempt to give details, that greatest\nwonder of all, the concord and harmony of the whole, escapes us.\nThe mere generation of living organic bodies is the despair of the\nhuman mind; the insurmountable barrier raised by nature between the\nvarious species, so that they should not mix with one another, is\nthe clearest proof of her intention. She is not content to have\nestablished order, she has taken adequate measures to prevent the\ndisturbance of that order.\n\nThere is not a being in the universe which may not be regarded as\nin some respects the common centre of all, around which they are\ngrouped, so that they are all reciprocally end and means in relation\nto each other. The mind is confused and lost amid these innumerable\nrelations, not one of which is itself confused or lost in the\ncrowd.  What absurd assumptions are required to deduce all this\nharmony from the blind mechanism of matter set in motion by chance!\nIn vain do those who deny the unity of intention manifested in the\nrelations of all the parts of this great whole, in vain do they\nconceal their nonsense under abstractions, co-ordinations, general\nprinciples, symbolic expressions; whatever they do I find it\nimpossible to conceive of a system of entities so firmly ordered\nunless I believe in an intelligence that orders them. It is not in\nmy power to believe that passive and dead matter can have brought\nforth living and feeling beings, that blind chance has brought\nforth intelligent beings, that that which does not think has brought\nforth thinking beings.\n\nI believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise and\npowerful will; I see it or rather I feel it, and it is a great\nthing to know this. But has this same world always existed, or has\nit been created? Is there one source of all things? Are there two\nor many?  What is their nature? I know not; and what concern is it\nof mine?  When these things become of importance to me I will try\nto learn them; till then I abjure these idle speculations, which may\ntrouble my peace, but cannot affect my conduct nor be comprehended\nby my reason.\n\nRecollect that I am not preaching my own opinion but explaining\nit.  Whether matter is eternal or created, whether its origin is\npassive or not, it is still certain that the whole is one, and that\nit proclaims a single intelligence; for I see nothing that is not\npart of the same ordered system, nothing which does not co-operate\nto the same end, namely, the conservation of all within the\nestablished order. This being who wills and can perform his will,\nthis being active through his own power, this being, whoever he may\nbe, who moves the universe and orders all things, is what I call\nGod. To this name I add the ideas of intelligence, power, will,\nwhich I have brought together, and that of kindness which is their\nnecessary consequence; but for all this I know no more of the being\nto which I ascribe them. He hides himself alike from my senses\nand my understanding; the more I think of him, the more perplexed\nI am; I know full well that he exists, and that he exists of himself\nalone; I know that my existence depends on his, and that everything\nI know depends upon him also. I see God everywhere in his works;\nI feel him within myself; I behold him all around me; but if I try\nto ponder him himself, if I try to find out where he is, what he\nis, what is his substance, he escapes me and my troubled spirit\nfinds nothing.\n\nConvinced of my unfitness, I shall never argue about the nature of\nGod unless I am driven to it by the feeling of his relations with\nmyself. Such reasonings are always rash; a wise man should venture\non them with trembling, he should be certain that he can never\nsound their abysses; for the most insolent attitude towards God is\nnot to abstain from thinking of him, but to think evil of him.\n\nAfter the discovery of such of his attributes as enable me to conceive\nof his existence, I return to myself, and I try to discover what is\nmy place in the order of things which he governs, and I can myself\nexamine. At once, and beyond possibility of doubt, I discover my\nspecies; for by my own will and the instruments I can control to\ncarry out my will, I have more power to act upon all bodies about\nme, either to make use of or to avoid their action at my pleasure,\nthan any of them has power to act upon me against my will by mere\nphysical impulsion; and through my intelligence I am the only one\nwho can examine all the rest. What being here below, except man,\ncan observe others, measure, calculate, forecast their motions,\ntheir effects, and unite, so to speak, the feeling of a common\nexistence with that of his individual existence? What is there so\nabsurd in the thought that all things are made for me, when I alone\ncan relate all things to myself?\n\nIt is true, therefore, that man is lord of the earth on which he\ndwells; for not only does he tame all the beasts, not only does he\ncontrol its elements through his industry; but he alone knows how\nto control it; by contemplation he takes possession of the stars\nwhich he cannot approach. Show me any other creature on earth who\ncan make a fire and who can behold with admiration the sun. What!\ncan I observe and know all creatures and their relations; can\nI feel what is meant by order, beauty, and virtue; can I consider\nthe universe and raise myself towards the hand that guides it; can\nI love good and perform it; and should I then liken myself to the\nbeasts?  Wretched soul, it is your gloomy philosophy which makes\nyou like the beasts; or rather in vain do you seek to degrade\nyourself; your genius belies your principles, your kindly heart\nbelies your doctrines, and even the abuse of your powers proves\ntheir excellence in your own despite.\n\nFor myself, I am not pledged to the support of any system. I am a\nplain and honest man, one who is not carried away by party spirit,\none who has no ambition to be head of a sect; I am content with\nthe place where God has set me; I see nothing, next to God himself,\nwhich is better than my species; and if I had to choose my place in\nthe order of creation, what more could I choose than to be a man!\n\nI am not puffed up by this thought, I am deeply moved by it; for\nthis state was no choice of mine, it was not due to the deserts\nof a creature who as yet did not exist. Can I behold myself thus\ndistinguished without congratulating myself on this post of honour,\nwithout blessing the hand which bestowed it? The first return to\nself has given birth to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness\nto the author of my species, and this feeling calls forth my first\nhomage to the beneficent Godhead. I worship his Almighty power and\nmy heart acknowledges his mercies. Is it not a natural consequence\nof our self-love to honour our protector and to love our benefactor?\n\nBut when, in my desire to discover my own place within my species,\nI consider its different ranks and the men who fill them, where am\nI now? What a sight meets my eyes! Where is now the order I perceived?\nNature showed me a scene of harmony and proportion; the human race\nshows me nothing but confusion and disorder. The elements agree\ntogether; men are in a state of chaos. The beasts are happy; their\nking alone is wretched. O Wisdom, where are thy laws? O Providence,\nis this thy rule over the world? Merciful God, where is thy Power?\nI behold the earth, and there is evil upon it.\n\nWould you believe it, dear friend, from these gloomy thoughts and\napparent contradictions, there was shaped in my mind the sublime\nidea of the soul, which all my seeking had hitherto failed to\ndiscover? While I meditated upon man's nature, I seemed to discover\ntwo distinct principles in it; one of them raised him to the study\nof the eternal truths, to the love of justice, and of true morality,\nto the regions of the world of thought, which the wise delight to\ncontemplate; the other led him downwards to himself, made him the\nslave of his senses, of the passions which are their instruments,\nand thus opposed everything suggested to him by the former principle.\nWhen I felt myself carried away, distracted by these conflicting\nmotives, I said, No; man is not one; I will and I will not; I feel\nmyself at once a slave and a free man; I perceive what is right, I\nlove it, and I do what is wrong; I am active when I listen to the\nvoice of reason; I am passive when I am carried away by my passions;\nand when I yield, my worst suffering is the knowledge that I might\nhave resisted.\n\nYoung man, hear me with confidence. I will always be honest with\nyou. If conscience is the creature of prejudice, I am certainly\nwrong, and there is no such thing as a proof of morality; but if\nto put oneself first is an inclination natural to man, and if the\nfirst sentiment of justice is moreover inborn in the human heart,\nlet those who say man is a simple creature remove these contradictions\nand I will grant that there is but one substance.\n\nYou will note that by this term 'substance' I understand generally\nthe being endowed with some primitive quality, apart from all special\nand secondary modifications. If then all the primitive qualities\nwhich are known to us can be united in one and the same being, we\nshould only acknowledge one substance; but if there are qualities\nwhich are mutually exclusive, there are as many different substances\nas there are such exclusions. You will think this over; for my\nown part, whatever Locke may say, it is enough for me to recognise\nmatter as having merely extension and divisibility to convince\nmyself that it cannot think, and if a philosopher tells me that\ntrees feel and rocks think [Footnote: It seems to me that modern\nphilosophy, far from saying that rocks think, has discovered that\nmen do not think. It perceives nothing more in nature than sensitive\nbeings; and the only difference it finds between a man and a stone\nis that a man is a sensitive being which experiences sensations, and\na stone is a sensitive being which does not experience sensations.\nBut if it is true that all matter feels, where shall I find the\nsensitive unit, the individual ego? Shall it be in each molecule of\nmatter or in bodies as aggregates of molecules? Shall I place this\nunity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements? You\ntell me nature consists of individuals. But what are these individuals?\nIs that stone an individual or an aggregate of individuals? Is\nit a single sensitive being, or are there as many beings in it as\nthere are grains of sand? If every elementary atom is a sensitive\nbeing, how shall I conceive of that intimate communication by which\none feels within the other, so that their two egos are blended in\none? Attraction may be a law of nature whose mystery is unknown to\nus; but at least we conceive that there is nothing in attraction\nacting in proportion to mass which is contrary to extension and\ndivisibility. Can you conceive of sensation in the same way? The\nsensitive parts have extension, but the sensitive being is one and\nindivisible; he cannot be cut in two, he is a whole or he is nothing;\ntherefore the sensitive being is not a material body. I know not\nhow our materialists understand it, but it seems to me that the\nsame difficulties which have led them to reject thought, should\nhave made them also reject feeling; and I see no reason why, when\nthe first step has been taken, they should not take the second\ntoo; what more would it cost them? Since they are certain they do\nnot think, why do they dare to affirm that they feel?] in vain will\nhe perplex me with his cunning arguments; I merely regard him as\na dishonest sophist, who prefers to say that stones have feeling\nrather than that men have souls.\n\nSuppose a deaf man denies the existence of sounds because he has\nnever heard them. I put before his eyes a stringed instrument and\ncause it to sound in unison by means of another instrument concealed\nfrom him; the deaf man sees the chord vibrate. I tell him, \"The\nsound makes it do that.\" \"Not at all,\" says he, \"the string itself\nis the cause of the vibration; to vibrate in that way is a quality\ncommon to all bodies.\" \"Then show me this vibration in other\nbodies,\" I answer, \"or at least show me its cause in this string.\"\n\"I cannot,\" replies the deaf man; \"but because I do not understand\nhow that string vibrates why should I try to explain it by means of\nyour sounds, of which I have not the least idea? It is explaining\none obscure fact by means of a cause still more obscure. Make me\nperceive your sounds; or I say there are no such things.\"\n\nThe more I consider thought and the nature of the human mind, the\nmore likeness I find between the arguments of the materialists and\nthose of the deaf man. Indeed, they are deaf to the inner voice\nwhich cries aloud to them, in a tone which can hardly be mistaken.\nA machine does not think, there is neither movement nor form which\ncan produce reflection; something within thee tries to break the\nbands which confine it; space is not thy measure, the whole universe\ndoes not suffice to contain thee; thy sentiments, thy desires, thy\nanxiety, thy pride itself, have another origin than this small body\nin which thou art imprisoned.\n\nNo material creature is in itself active, and I am active. In vain\ndo you argue this point with me; I feel it, and it is this feeling\nwhich speaks to me more forcibly than the reason which disputes it.\nI have a body which is acted upon by other bodies, and it acts in\nturn upon them; there is no doubt about this reciprocal action;\nbut my will is independent of my senses; I consent or I resist;\nI yield or I win the victory, and I know very well in myself when\nI have done what I wanted and when I have merely given way to\nmy passions.  I have always the power to will, but not always the\nstrength to do what I will. When I yield to temptation I surrender\nmyself to the action of external objects. When I blame myself for\nthis weakness, I listen to my own will alone; I am a slave in my\nvices, a free man in my remorse; the feeling of freedom is never\neffaced in me but when I myself do wrong, and when I at length\nprevent the voice of the soul from protesting against the authority\nof the body.\n\nI am only aware of will through the consciousness of my own will,\nand intelligence is no better known to me. When you ask me what\nis the cause which determines my will, it is my turn to ask what\ncause determines my judgment; for it is plain that these two causes\nare but one; and if you understand clearly that man is active in\nhis judgments, that his intelligence is only the power to compare\nand judge, you will see that his freedom is only a similar power\nor one derived from this; he chooses between good and evil as he\njudges between truth and falsehood; if his judgment is at fault, he\nchooses amiss. What then is the cause that determines his will? It\nis his judgment. And what is the cause that determines his judgment?\nIt is his intelligence, his power of judging; the determining cause\nis in himself. Beyond that, I understand nothing.\n\nNo doubt I am not free not to desire my own welfare, I am not free\nto desire my own hurt; but my freedom consists in this very thing,\nthat I can will what is for my own good, or what I esteem as such,\nwithout any external compulsion. Does it follow that I am not my\nown master because I cannot be other than myself?\n\nThe motive power of all action is in the will of a free creature; we\ncan go no farther. It is not the word freedom that is meaningless, but\nthe word necessity. To suppose some action which is not the effect\nof an active motive power is indeed to suppose effects without\ncause, to reason in a vicious circle. Either there is no original\nimpulse, or every original impulse has no antecedent cause, and\nthere is no will properly so-called without freedom. Man is therefore\nfree to act, and as such he is animated by an immaterial substance;\nthat is the third article of my creed. From these three you will\neasily deduce the rest, so that I need not enumerate them.\n\nIf man is at once active and free, he acts of his own accord; what\nhe does freely is no part of the system marked out by Providence\nand it cannot be imputed to Providence. Providence does not will\nthe evil that man does when he misuses the freedom given to him;\nneither does Providence prevent him doing it, either because the\nwrong done by so feeble a creature is as nothing in its eyes, or\nbecause it could not prevent it without doing a greater wrong and\ndegrading his nature. Providence has made him free that he may\nchoose the good and refuse the evil. It has made him capable of this\nchoice if he uses rightly the faculties bestowed upon him, but it\nhas so strictly limited his powers that the misuse of his freedom\ncannot disturb the general order. The evil that man does reacts\nupon himself without affecting the system of the world, without\npreventing the preservation of the human species in spite of\nitself. To complain that God does not prevent us from doing wrong\nis to complain because he has made man of so excellent a nature,\nthat he has endowed his actions with that morality by which they\nare ennobled, that he has made virtue man's birthright. Supreme\nhappiness consists in self-content; that we may gain this self-content\nwe are placed upon this earth and endowed with freedom, we are\ntempted by our passions and restrained by conscience. What more\ncould divine power itself have done on our behalf? Could it have made\nour nature a contradiction, and have given the prize of well-doing\nto one who was incapable of evil? To prevent a man from wickedness,\nshould Providence have restricted him to instinct and made him\na fool? Not so, O God of my soul, I will never reproach thee that\nthou hast created me in thine own image, that I may be free and\ngood and happy like my Maker!\n\nIt is the abuse of our powers that makes us unhappy and wicked.\nOur cares, our sorrows, our sufferings are of our own making. Moral\nills are undoubtedly the work of man, and physical ills would be\nnothing but for our vices which have made us liable to them. Has\nnot nature made us feel our needs as a means to our preservation!\nIs not bodily suffering a sign that the machine is out of order\nand needs attention? Death.... Do not the wicked poison their own\nlife and ours? Who would wish to live for ever? Death is the cure\nfor the evils you bring upon yourself; nature would not have you\nsuffer perpetually. How few sufferings are felt by man living in\na state of primitive simplicity! His life is almost entirely free\nfrom suffering and from passion; he neither fears nor feels death;\nif he feels it, his sufferings make him desire it; henceforth it\nis no evil in his eyes. If we were but content to be ourselves we\nshould have no cause to complain of our lot; but in the search for\nan imaginary good we find a thousand real ills. He who cannot bear\na little pain must expect to suffer greatly. If a man injures his\nconstitution by dissipation, you try to cure him with medicine;\nthe ill he fears is added to the ill he feels; the thought of\ndeath makes it horrible and hastens its approach; the more we seek\nto escape from it, the more we are aware of it; and we go through\nlife in the fear of death, blaming nature for the evils we have\ninflicted on ourselves by our neglect of her laws.\n\nO Man! seek no further for the author of evil; thou art he. There\nis no evil but the evil you do or the evil you suffer, and both\ncome from yourself. Evil in general can only spring from disorder,\nand in the order of the world I find a never failing system. Evil\nin particular cases exists only in the mind of those who experience\nit; and this feeling is not the gift of nature, but the work of\nman himself. Pain has little power over those who, having thought\nlittle, look neither before nor after. Take away our fatal progress,\ntake away our faults and our vices, take away man's handiwork, and\nall is well.\n\nWhere all is well, there is no such thing as injustice. Justice and\ngoodness are inseparable; now goodness is the necessary result of\nboundless power and of that self-love which is innate in all sentient\nbeings. The omnipotent projects himself, so to speak, into the being\nof his creatures. Creation and preservation are the everlasting\nwork of power; it does not act on that which has no existence; God\nis not the God of the dead; he could not harm and destroy without\ninjury to himself. The omnipotent can only will what is good.\n[Footnote: The ancients were right when they called the supreme\nGod Optimus Maximus, but it would have been better to say Maximus\nOptimus, for his goodness springs from his power, he is good\nbecause he is great.] Therefore he who is supremely good, because\nhe is supremely powerful, must also be supremely just, otherwise\nhe would contradict himself; for that love of order which creates\norder we call goodness and that love of order which preserves order\nwe call justice.\n\nMen say God owes nothing to his creatures. I think he owes them\nall he promised when he gave them their being. Now to give them\nthe idea of something good and to make them feel the need of it,\nis to promise it to them. The more closely I study myself, the more\ncarefully I consider, the more plainly do I read these words, \"Be\njust and you will be happy.\" It is not so, however, in the present\ncondition of things, the wicked prospers and the oppression of the\nrighteous continues. Observe how angry we are when this expectation\nis disappointed. Conscience revolts and murmurs against her Creator;\nshe exclaims with cries and groans, \"Thou hast deceived me.\"\n\n\"I have deceived thee, rash soul! Who told thee this? Is thy soul\ndestroyed? Hast thou ceased to exist? O Brutus! O my son! let there\nbe no stain upon the close of thy noble life; do not abandon thy\nhope and thy glory with thy corpse upon the plains of Philippi.\nWhy dost thou say, 'Virtue is naught,' when thou art about to enjoy\nthe reward of virtue? Thou art about to die! Nay, thou shalt live,\nand thus my promise is fulfilled.\"\n\nOne might judge from the complaints of impatient men that God owes\nthem the reward before they have deserved it, that he is bound to\npay for virtue in advance. Oh! let us first be good and then we\nshall be happy. Let us not claim the prize before we have won it,\nnor demand our wages before we have finished our work. \"It is not\nin the lists that we crown the victors in the sacred games,\" says\nPlutarch, \"it is when they have finished their course.\"\n\nIf the soul is immaterial, it may survive the body; and if\nit so survives, Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of\nthe immaterial nature of the soul, the triumph of the wicked and\nthe oppression of the righteous in this world would be enough to\nconvince me. I should seek to resolve so appalling a discord in the\nuniversal harmony. I should say to myself, \"All is not over with\nlife, everything finds its place at death.\" I should still have to\nanswer the question, \"What becomes of man when all we know of him\nthrough our senses has vanished?\" This question no longer presents\nany difficulty to me when I admit the two substances. It is easy\nto understand that what is imperceptible to those senses escapes\nme, during my bodily life, when I perceive through my senses only.\nWhen the union of soul and body is destroyed, I think one may be\ndissolved and the other may be preserved. Why should the destruction\nof the one imply the destruction of the other? On the contrary, so\nunlike in their nature, they were during their union in a highly\nunstable condition, and when this union comes to an end they both\nreturn to their natural state; the active vital substance regains\nall the force which it expended to set in motion the passive dead\nsubstance. Alas! my vices make me only too well aware that man is\nbut half alive during this life; the life of the soul only begins\nwith the death of the body.\n\nBut what is that life? Is the soul of man in its nature immortal?\nI know not. My finite understanding cannot hold the infinite; what\nis called eternity eludes my grasp. What can I assert or deny, how\ncan I reason with regard to what I cannot conceive? I believe that\nthe soul survives the body for the maintenance of order; who knows\nif this is enough to make it eternal? However, I know that the\nbody is worn out and destroyed by the division of its parts, but\nI cannot conceive a similar destruction of the conscious nature,\nand as I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume that it does not\ndie. As this assumption is consoling and in itself not unreasonable,\nwhy should I fear to accept it?\n\nI am aware of my soul; it is known to me in feeling and in thought;\nI know what it is without knowing its essence; I cannot reason\nabout ideas which are unknown to me. What I do know is this, that\nmy personal identity depends upon memory, and that to be indeed\nthe same self I must remember that I have existed. Now after death\nI could not recall what I was when alive unless I also remembered\nwhat I felt and therefore what I did; and I have no doubt that\nthis remembrance will one day form the happiness of the good and\nthe torment of the bad. In this world our inner consciousness is\nabsorbed by the crowd of eager passions which cheat remorse. The\nhumiliation and disgrace involved in the practice of virtue do not\npermit us to realise its charm. But when, freed from the illusions\nof the bodily senses, we behold with joy the supreme Being and\nthe eternal truths which flow from him; when all the powers of our\nsoul are alive to the beauty of order and we are wholly occupied in\ncomparing what we have done with what we ought to have done, then\nit is that the voice of conscience will regain its strength and sway;\nthen it is that the pure delight which springs from self-content,\nand the sharp regret for our own degradation of that self, will\ndecide by means of overpowering feeling what shall be the fate\nwhich each has prepared for himself. My good friend, do not ask me\nwhether there are other sources of happiness or suffering; I cannot\ntell; that which my fancy pictures is enough to console me in this\nlife and to bid me look for a life to come. I do not say the good\nwill be rewarded, for what greater good can a truly good being expect\nthan to exist in accordance with his nature? But I do assert that\nthe good will be happy, because their maker, the author of all\njustice, who has made them capable of feeling, has not made them\nthat they may suffer; moreover, they have not abused their freedom\nupon earth and they have not changed their fate through any fault\nof their own; yet they have suffered in this life and it will be made\nup to them in the life to come. This feeling relies not so much on\nman's deserts as on the idea of good which seems to me inseparable\nfrom the divine essence. I only assume that the laws of order are\nconstant and that God is true to himself.\n\nDo not ask me whether the torments of the wicked will endure for\never, whether the goodness of their creator can condemn them to\nthe eternal suffering; again, I cannot tell, and I have no empty\ncuriosity for the investigation of useless problems. How does the\nfate of the wicked concern me? I take little interest in it. All\nthe same I find it hard to believe that they will be condemned to\neverlasting torments. If the supreme justice calls for vengeance,\nit claims it in this life. The nations of the world with their errors\nare its ministers. Justice uses self-inflicted ills to punish the\ncrimes which have deserved them. It is in your own insatiable souls,\ndevoured by envy, greed, and ambition, it is in the midst of your\nfalse prosperity, that the avenging passions find the due reward\nof your crimes. What need to seek a hell in the future life? It is\nhere in the breast of the wicked.\n\nWhen our fleeting needs are over, and our mad desires are at rest,\nthere should also be an end of our passions and our crimes. Can\npure spirits be capable of any perversity? Having need of nothing,\nwhy should they be wicked? If they are free from our gross senses,\nif their happiness consists in the contemplation of other beings,\nthey can only desire what is good; and he who ceases to be bad can\nnever be miserable. This is what I am inclined to think though I\nhave not been at the pains to come to any decision. O God, merciful\nand good, whatever thy decrees may be I adore them; if thou shouldst\ncommit the wicked to everlasting punishment, I abandon my feeble\nreason to thy justice; but if the remorse of these wretched beings\nshould in the course of time be extinguished, if their sufferings\nshould come to an end, and if the same peace shall one day be the\nlot of all mankind, I give thanks to thee for this. Is not the\nwicked my brother? How often have I been tempted to be like him?\nLet him be delivered from his misery and freed from the spirit of\nhatred that accompanied it; let him be as happy as I myself; his\nhappiness, far from arousing my jealousy, will only increase my\nown.\n\nThus it is that, in the contemplation of God in his works, and in\nthe study of such of his attributes as it concerned me to know,\nI have slowly grasped and developed the idea, at first partial\nand imperfect, which I have formed of this Infinite Being. But if\nthis idea has become nobler and greater it is also more suited to\nthe human reason. As I approach in spirit the eternal light, I am\nconfused and dazzled by its glory, and compelled to abandon all\nthe earthly notions which helped me to picture it to myself. God\nis no longer corporeal and sensible; the supreme mind which rules\nthe world is no longer the world itself; in vain do I strive to\ngrasp his inconceivable essence. When I think that it is he that\ngives life and movement to the living and moving substance which\ncontrols all living bodies; when I hear it said that my soul is\nspiritual and that God is a spirit, I revolt against this abasement\nof the divine essence; as if God and my soul were of one and the\nsame nature! As if God were not the one and only absolute being,\nthe only really active, feeling, thinking, willing being, from whom\nwe derive our thought, feeling, motion, will, our freedom and our\nvery existence!  We are free because he wills our freedom, and his\ninexplicable substance is to our souls what our souls are to our\nbodies. I know not whether he has created matter, body, soul, the\nworld itself. The idea of creation confounds me and eludes my grasp;\nso far as I can conceive of it I believe it; but I know that he has\nformed the universe and all that is, that he has made and ordered\nall things.  No doubt God is eternal; but can my mind grasp the idea\nof eternity?  Why should I cheat myself with meaningless words?\nThis is what I do understand; before things were--God was; he will\nbe when they are no more, and if all things come to an end he will\nstill endure. That a being beyond my comprehension should give life\nto other beings, this is merely difficult and beyond my understanding;\nbut that Being and Nothing should be convertible terms, this is\nindeed a palpable contradiction, an evident absurdity.\n\nGod is intelligent, but how? Man is intelligent when he reasons, but\nthe Supreme Intelligence does not need to reason; there is neither\npremise nor conclusion for him, there is not even a proposition.\nThe Supreme Intelligence is wholly intuitive, it sees what is and\nwhat shall be; all truths are one for it, as all places are but one\npoint and all time but one moment. Man's power makes use of means,\nthe divine power is self-active. God can because he wills; his\nwill is his power. God is good; this is certain; but man finds his\nhappiness in the welfare of his kind. God's happiness consists in\nthe love of order; for it is through order that he maintains what\nis, and unites each part in the whole. God is just; of this I am\nsure, it is a consequence of his goodness; man's injustice is not\nGod's work, but his own; that moral justice which seems to the\nphilosophers a presumption against Providence, is to me a proof of\nits existence.  But man's justice consists in giving to each his\ndue; God's justice consists in demanding from each of us an account\nof that which he has given us.\n\nIf I have succeeded in discerning these attributes of which I have\nno absolute idea, it is in the form of unavoidable deductions, and\nby the right use of my reason; but I affirm them without understanding\nthem, and at bottom that is no affirmation at all. In vain do I\nsay, God is thus, I feel it, I experience it, none the more do I\nunderstand how God can be thus.\n\nIn a word: the more I strive to envisage his infinite essence the\nless do I comprehend it; but it is, and that is enough for me; the\nless I understand, the more I adore. I abase myself, saying, \"Being\nof beings, I am because thou art; to fix my thoughts on thee is\nto ascend to the source of my being. The best use I can make of my\nreason is to resign it before thee; my mind delights, my weakness\nrejoices, to feel myself overwhelmed by thy greatness.\"\n\nHaving thus deduced from the perception of objects of sense and\nfrom my inner consciousness, which leads me to judge of causes by\nmy native reason, the principal truths which I require to know, I\nmust now seek such principles of conduct as I can draw from them,\nand such rules as I must lay down for my guidance in the fulfilment\nof my destiny in this world, according to the purpose of my Maker.\nStill following the same method, I do not derive these rules from\nthe principles of the higher philosophy, I find them in the depths\nof my heart, traced by nature in characters which nothing can efface.\nI need only consult myself with regard to what I wish to do; what\nI feel to be right is right, what I feel to be wrong is wrong;\nconscience is the best casuist; and it is only when we haggle with\nconscience that we have recourse to the subtleties of argument.\nOur first duty is towards ourself; yet how often does the voice of\nothers tell us that in seeking our good at the expense of others\nwe are doing ill? We think we are following the guidance of nature,\nand we are resisting it; we listen to what she says to our senses,\nand we neglect what she says to our heart; the active being obeys,\nthe passive commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, the\npassions are the voice of the body. It is strange that these voices\noften contradict each other? And then to which should we give heed?\nToo often does reason deceive us; we have only too good a right to\ndoubt her; but conscience never deceives us; she is the true guide\nof man; it is to the soul what instinct is to the body, [Footnote:\nModern philosophy, which only admits what it can understand, is\ncareful not to admit this obscure power called instinct which seems\nto guide the animals to some end without any acquired experience.\nInstinct, according to some of our wise philosophers, is only a\nsecret habit of reflection, acquired by reflection; and from the\nway in which they explain this development one ought to suppose\nthat children reflect more than grown-up people: a paradox strange\nenough to be worth examining. Without entering upon this discussion I\nmust ask what name I shall give to the eagerness with which my dog\nmakes war on the moles he does not eat, or to the patience with\nwhich he sometimes watches them for hours and the skill with which\nhe seizes them, throws them to a distance from their earth as soon\nas they emerge, and then kills them and leaves them. Yet no one\nhas trained him to this sport, nor even told him there were such\nthings as moles. Again, I ask, and this is a more important question,\nwhy, when I threatened this same dog for the first time, why did\nhe throw himself on the ground with his paws folded, in such a\nsuppliant attitude .....calculated to touch me, a position which\nhe would have maintained if, without being touched by it, I had\ncontinued to beat him in that position? What! Had my dog, little\nmore than a puppy, acquired moral ideas? Did he know the meaning\nof mercy and generosity? By what acquired knowledge did he seek\nto appease my wrath by yielding to my discretion? Every dog in the\nworld does almost the same thing in similar circumstances, and I\nam asserting nothing but what any one can verify for himself. Will\nthe philosophers, who so scornfully reject instinct, kindly explain\nthis fact by the mere play of sensations and experience which they\nassume we have acquired? Let them give an account of it which will\nsatisfy any sensible man; in that case I have nothing further to\nurge, and I will say no more of instinct.] he who obeys his conscience\nis following nature and he need not fear that he will go astray.\nThis is a matter of great importance, continued my benefactor,\nseeing that I was about to interrupt him; let me stop awhile to\nexplain it more fully.\n\nThe morality of our actions consists entirely in the judgments we\nourselves form with regard to them. If good is good, it must be\ngood in the depth of our heart as well as in our actions; and the\nfirst reward of justice is the consciousness that we are acting\njustly. If moral goodness is in accordance with our nature, man can\nonly be healthy in mind and body when he is good. If it is not so,\nand if man is by nature evil, he cannot cease to be evil without\ncorrupting his nature, and goodness in him is a crime against\nnature. If he is made to do harm to his fellow-creatures, as the\nwolf is made to devour his prey, a humane man would be as depraved\na creature as a pitiful wolf; and virtue alone would cause remorse.\n\nMy young friend, let us look within, let us set aside all personal\nprejudices and see whither our inclinations lead us. Do we take\nmore pleasure in the sight of the sufferings of others or their\njoys? Is it pleasanter to do a kind action or an unkind action,\nand which leaves the more delightful memory behind it? Why do you\nenjoy the theatre? Do you delight in the crimes you behold? Do you\nweep over the punishment which overtakes the criminal? They say\nwe are indifferent to everything but self-interest; yet we find\nour consolation in our sufferings in the charms of friendship and\nhumanity, and even in our pleasures we should be too lonely and\nmiserable if we had no one to share them with us. If there is no\nsuch thing as morality in man's heart, what is the source of his\nrapturous admiration of noble deeds, his passionate devotion to\ngreat men? What connection is there between self-interest and this\nenthusiasm for virtue? Why should I choose to be Cato dying by his\nown hand, rather than Caesar in his triumphs? Take from our hearts\nthis love of what is noble and you rob us of the joy of life. The\nmean-spirited man in whom these delicious feelings have been stifled\namong vile passions, who by thinking of no one but himself comes\nat last to love no one but himself, this man feels no raptures, his\ncold heart no longer throbs with joy, and his eyes no longer fill\nwith the sweet tears of sympathy, he delights in nothing; the wretch\nhas neither life nor feeling, he is already dead.\n\nThere are many bad men in this world, but there are few of these\ndead souls, alive only to self-interest, and insensible to all that\nis right and good. We only delight in injustice so long as it is\nto our own advantage; in every other case we wish the innocent to\nbe protected. If we see some act of violence or injustice in town\nor country, our hearts are at once stirred to their depths by an\ninstinctive anger and wrath, which bids us go to the help of the\noppressed; but we are restrained by a stronger duty, and the law\ndeprives us of our right to protect the innocent. On the other hand,\nif some deed of mercy or generosity meets our eye, what reverence\nand love does it inspire! Do we not say to ourselves, \"I should\nlike to have done that myself\"? What does it matter to us that two\nthousand years ago a man was just or unjust? and yet we take the\nsame interest in ancient history as if it happened yesterday. What\nare the crimes of Cataline to me? I shall not be his victim. Why\nthen have I the same horror of his crimes as if he were living\nnow?  We do not hate the wicked merely because of the harm they do\nto ourselves, but because they are wicked. Not only do we wish to\nbe happy ourselves, we wish others to be happy too, and if this\nhappiness does not interfere with our own happiness, it increases\nit. In conclusion, whether we will or not, we pity the unfortunate;\nwhen we see their suffering we suffer too. Even the most depraved\nare not wholly without this instinct, and it often leads them to\nself-contradiction. The highwayman who robs the traveller, clothes\nthe nakedness of the poor; the fiercest murderer supports a fainting\nman.\n\nMen speak of the voice of remorse, the secret punishment of hidden\ncrimes, by which such are often brought to light. Alas! who does\nnot know its unwelcome voice? We speak from experience, and we\nwould gladly stifle this imperious feeling which causes us such\nagony. Let us obey the call of nature; we shall see that her yoke\nis easy and that when we give heed to her voice we find a joy in\nthe answer of a good conscience. The wicked fears and flees from\nher; he delights to escape from himself; his anxious eyes look\naround him for some object of diversion; without bitter satire and\nrude mockery he would always be sorrowful; the scornful laugh is\nhis one pleasure. Not so the just man, who finds his peace within\nhimself; there is joy not malice in his laughter, a joy which\nsprings from his own heart; he is as cheerful alone as in company,\nhis satisfaction does not depend on those who approach him; it\nincludes them.\n\nCast your eyes over every nation of the world; peruse every volume\nof its history; in the midst of all these strange and cruel forms\nof worship, among this amazing variety of manners and customs, you\nwill everywhere find the same ideas of right and justice; everywhere\nthe same principles of morality, the same ideas of good and evil.\nThe old paganism gave birth to abominable gods who would have been\npunished as scoundrels here below, gods who merely offered, as a\npicture of supreme happiness, crimes to be committed and lust to\nbe gratified. But in vain did vice descend from the abode of the\ngods armed with their sacred authority; the moral instinct refused to\nadmit it into the heart of man. While the debaucheries of Jupiter\nwere celebrated, the continence of Xenocrates was revered; the\nchaste Lucrece adored the shameless Venus; the bold Roman offered\nsacrifices to Fear; he invoked the god who mutilated his father,\nand he died without a murmur at the hand of his own father. The\nmost unworthy gods were worshipped by the noblest men. The sacred\nvoice of nature was stronger than the voice of the gods, and won\nreverence upon earth; it seemed to relegate guilt and the guilty\nalike to heaven.\n\nThere is therefore at the bottom of our hearts an innate principle\nof justice and virtue, by which, in spite of our maxims, we judge\nour own actions or those of others to be good or evil; and it is\nthis principle that I call conscience.\n\nBut at this word I hear the murmurs of all the wise men so-called.\nChildish errors, prejudices of our upbringing, they exclaim in\nconcert! There is nothing in the human mind but what it has gained\nby experience; and we judge everything solely by means of the ideas\nwe have acquired. They go further; they even venture to reject the\nclear and universal agreement of all peoples, and to set against\nthis striking unanimity in the judgment of mankind, they seek out\nsome obscure exception known to themselves alone; as if the whole\ntrend of nature were rendered null by the depravity of a single\nnation, and as if the existence of monstrosities made an end\nof species. But to what purpose does the sceptic Montaigne strive\nhimself to unearth in some obscure corner of the world a custom\nwhich is contrary to the ideas of justice? To what purpose does\nhe credit the most untrustworthy travellers, while he refuses to\nbelieve the greatest writers? A few strange and doubtful customs,\nbased on local causes, unknown to us; shall these destroy a general\ninference based on the agreement of all the nations of the earth,\ndiffering from each other in all else, but agreed in this? O\nMontaigne, you pride yourself on your truth and honesty; be sincere\nand truthful, if a philosopher can be so, and tell me if there is\nany country upon earth where it is a crime to keep one's plighted\nword, to be merciful, helpful, and generous, where the good man is\nscorned, and the traitor is held in honour.\n\nSelf-interest, so they say, induces each of us to agree for the\ncommon good. But how is it that the good man consents to this to\nhis own hurt? Does a man go to death from self-interest? No doubt\neach man acts for his own good, but if there is no such thing as\nmoral good to be taken into consideration, self-interest will only\nenable you to account for the deeds of the wicked; possibly you\nwill not attempt to do more. A philosophy which could find no place\nfor good deeds would be too detestable; you would find yourself\ncompelled either to find some mean purpose, some wicked motive, or\nto abuse Socrates and slander Regulus. If such doctrines ever took\nroot among us, the voice of nature, together with the voice of\nreason, would constantly protest against them, till no adherent of\nsuch teaching could plead an honest excuse for his partisanship.\n\nIt is no part of my scheme to enter at present into metaphysical\ndiscussions which neither you nor I can understand, discussions\nwhich really lead nowhere. I have told you already that I do not\nwish to philosophise with you, but to help you to consult your own\nheart. If all the philosophers in the world should prove that I am\nwrong, and you feel that I am right, that is all I ask.\n\nFor this purpose it is enough to lead you to distinguish between\nour acquired ideas and our natural feelings; for feeling precedes\nknowledge; and since we do not learn to seek what is good for us\nand avoid what is bad for us, but get this desire from nature, in\nthe same way the love of good and the hatred of evil are as natural\nto us as our self-love. The decrees of conscience are not judgments\nbut feelings. Although all our ideas come from without, the feelings\nby which they are weighed are within us, and it is by these feelings\nalone that we perceive fitness or unfitness of things in relation\nto ourselves, which leads us to seek or shun these things.\n\nTo exist is to feel; our feeling is undoubtedly earlier than our\nintelligence, and we had feelings before we had ideas.[Footnote:\nIn some respects ideas are feelings and feelings are ideas. Both\nterms are appropriate to any perception with which we are concerned,\nappropriate both to the object of that perception and to ourselves\nwho are affected by it; it is merely the order in which we are\naffected which decides the appropriate term. When we are chiefly\nconcerned with the object and only think of ourselves as it were by\nreflection, that is an idea; when, on the other hand, the impression\nreceived excites our chief attention and we only think in the second\nplace of the object which caused it, it is a feeling.] Whatever may\nbe the cause of our being, it has provided for our preservation by\ngiving us feelings suited to our nature; and no one can deny that\nthese at least are innate. These feelings, so far as the individual\nis concerned, are self-love, fear, pain, the dread of death, the\ndesire for comfort. Again, if, as it is impossible to doubt, man\nis by nature sociable, or at least fitted to become sociable, he\ncan only be so by means of other innate feelings, relative to his\nkind; for if only physical well-being were considered, men would\ncertainly be scattered rather than brought together. But the motive\npower of conscience is derived from the moral system formed through\nthis twofold relation to himself and to his fellow-men. To know\ngood is not to love it; this knowledge is not innate in man; but as\nsoon as his reason leads him to perceive it, his conscience impels\nhim to love it; it is this feeling which is innate.\n\nSo I do not think, my young friend, that it is impossible to explain\nthe immediate force of conscience as a result of our own nature,\nindependent of reason itself. And even should it be impossible,\nit is unnecessary; for those who deny this principle, admitted and\nreceived by everybody else in the world, do not prove that there\nis no such thing; they are content to affirm, and when we affirm\nits existence we have quite as good grounds as they, while we have\nmoreover the witness within us, the voice of conscience, which\nspeaks on its own behalf. If the first beams of judgment dazzle\nus and confuse the objects we behold, let us wait till our feeble\nsight grows clear and strong, and in the light of reason we shall\nsoon behold these very objects as nature has already showed them\nto us.  Or rather let us be simpler and less pretentious; let us be\ncontent with the first feelings we experience in ourselves, since\nscience always brings us back to these, unless it has led us astray.\n\nConscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice from\nheaven; sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yet\nintelligent and free; infallible judge of good and evil, making\nman like to God! In thee consists the excellence of man's nature\nand the morality of his actions; apart from thee, I find nothing in\nmyself to raise me above the beasts--nothing but the sad privilege\nof wandering from one error to another, by the help of an unbridled\nunderstanding and a reason which knows no principle.\n\nThank heaven we have now got rid of all that alarming show of\nphilosophy; we may be men without being scholars; now that we need\nnot spend our life in the study of morality, we have found a less\ncostly and surer guide through this vast labyrinth of human thought.\nBut it is not enough to be aware that there is such a guide;\nwe must know her and follow her. If she speaks to all hearts, how\nis it that so few give heed to her voice? She speaks to us in the\nlanguage of nature, and everything leads us to forget that tongue.\nConscience is timid, she loves peace and retirement; she is startled\nby noise and numbers; the prejudices from which she is said to arise\nare her worst enemies. She flees before them or she is silent; their\nnoisy voices drown her words, so that she cannot get a hearing;\nfanaticism dares to counterfeit her voice and to inspire crimes\nin her name.  She is discouraged by ill-treatment; she no longer\nspeaks to us, no longer answers to our call; when she has been\nscorned so long, it is as hard to recall her as it was to banish\nher.\n\nHow often in the course of my inquiries have I grown weary of my\nown coldness of heart! How often have grief and weariness poured\ntheir poison into my first meditations and made them hateful to me!\nMy barren heart yielded nothing but a feeble zeal and a lukewarm\nlove of truth. I said to myself: Why should I strive to find what\ndoes not exist? Moral good is a dream, the pleasures of sense\nare the only real good. When once we have lost the taste for the\npleasures of the soul, how hard it is to recover it! How much more\ndifficult to acquire it if we have never possessed it! If there\nwere any man so wretched as never to have done anything all his life\nlong which he could remember with pleasure, and which would make him\nglad to have lived, that man would be incapable of self-knowledge,\nand for want of knowledge of goodness, of which his nature is\ncapable, he would be constrained to remain in his wickedness and\nwould be for ever miserable. But do you think there is any one man\nupon earth so depraved that he has never yielded to the temptation\nof well-doing?  This temptation is so natural, so pleasant, that it\nis impossible always to resist it; and the thought of the pleasure\nit has once afforded is enough to recall it constantly to our\nmemory. Unluckily it is hard at first to find satisfaction for it;\nwe have any number of reasons for refusing to follow the inclinations\nof our heart; prudence, so called, restricts the heart within the\nlimits of the self; a thousand efforts are needed to break these\nbonds. The joy of well-doing is the prize of having done well,\nand we must deserve the prize before we win it. There is nothing\nsweeter than virtue; but we do not know this till we have tried it.\nLike Proteus in the fable, she first assumes a thousand terrible\nshapes when we would embrace her, and only shows her true self to\nthose who refuse to let her go.\n\nEver at strife between my natural feelings, which spoke of the\ncommon weal, and my reason, which spoke of self, I should have\ndrifted through life in perpetual uncertainty, hating evil, loving\ngood, and always at war with myself, if my heart had not received\nfurther light, if that truth which determined my opinions had not\nalso settled my conduct, and set me at peace with myself. Reason\nalone is not a sufficient foundation for virtue; what solid ground\ncan be found? Virtue we are told is love of order. But can this\nlove prevail over my love for my own well-being, and ought it so\nto prevail? Let them give me clear and sufficient reason for this\npreference. Their so-called principle is in truth a mere playing\nwith words; for I also say that vice is love of order, differently\nunderstood. Wherever there is feeling and intelligence, there\nis some sort of moral order. The difference is this: the good man\norders his life with regard to all men; the wicked orders it for\nself alone. The latter centres all things round himself; the other\nmeasures his radius and remains on the circumference. Thus his\nplace depends on the common centre, which is God, and on all the\nconcentric circles which are His creatures. If there is no God,\nthe wicked is right and the good man is nothing but a fool.\n\nMy child! May you one day feel what a burden is removed when, having\nfathomed the vanity of human thoughts and tasted the bitterness of\npassion, you find at length near at hand the path of wisdom, the\nprize of this life's labours, the source of that happiness which\nyou despaired of. Every duty of natural law, which man's injustice\nhad almost effaced from my heart, is engraven there, for the second\ntime in the name of that eternal justice which lays these duties\nupon me and beholds my fulfilment of them. I feel myself merely the\ninstrument of the Omnipotent, who wills what is good, who performs\nit, who will bring about my own good through the co-operation of my\nwill with his own, and by the right use of my liberty. I acquiesce\nin the order he establishes, certain that one day I shall enjoy\nthat order and find my happiness in it; for what sweeter joy is\nthere than this, to feel oneself a part of a system where all is\ngood? A prey to pain, I bear it in patience, remembering that it\nwill soon be over, and that it results from a body which is not\nmine. If I do a good deed in secret, I know that it is seen, and\nmy conduct in this life is a pledge of the life to come. When I\nsuffer injustice, I say to myself, the Almighty who does all things\nwell will reward me: my bodily needs, my poverty, make the idea\nof death less intolerable. There will be all the fewer bonds to be\nbroken when my hour comes.\n\nWhy is my soul subjected to my senses, and imprisoned in this body\nby which it is enslaved and thwarted? I know not; have I entered\ninto the counsels of the Almighty? But I may, without rashness,\nventure on a modest conjecture. I say to myself: If man's soul\nhad remained in a state of freedom and innocence, what merit would\nthere have been in loving and obeying the order he found established,\nan order which it would not have been to his advantage to disturb?\nHe would be happy, no doubt, but his happiness would not attain to\nthe highest point, the pride of virtue, and the witness of a good\nconscience within him; he would be but as the angels are, and\nno doubt the good man will be more than they. Bound to a mortal\nbody, by bonds as strange as they are powerful, his care for the\npreservation of this body tempts the soul to think only of self,\nand gives it an interest opposed to the general order of things,\nwhich it is still capable of knowing and loving; then it is that\nthe right use of his freedom becomes at once the merit and the\nreward; then it is that it prepares for itself unending happiness, by\nresisting its earthly passions and following its original direction.\n\nIf even in the lowly position in which we are placed during our present\nlife our first impulses are always good, if all our vices are of\nour own making, why should we complain that they are our masters?\nWhy should we blame the Creator for the ills we have ourselves\ncreated, and the enemies we ourselves have armed against us? Oh,\nlet us leave man unspoilt; he will always find it easy to be good\nand he will always be happy without remorse. The guilty, who assert\nthat they are driven to crime, are liars as well as evil-doers; how\nis it that they fail to perceive that the weakness they bewail is\nof their own making; that their earliest depravity was the result\nof their own will; that by dint of wishing to yield to temptations,\nthey at length yield to them whether they will or no and make them\nirresistible? No doubt they can no longer avoid being weak and\nwicked, but they need not have become weak and wicked. Oh, how easy\nwould it be to preserve control of ourselves and of our passions,\neven in this life, if with habits still unformed, with a mind\nbeginning to expand, we were able to keep to such things as we ought\nto know, in order to value rightly what is unknown; if we really\nwished to learn, not that we might shine before the eyes of others,\nbut that we might be wise and good in accordance with our nature,\nthat we might be happy in the performance of our duty. This study\nseems tedious and painful to us, for we do not attempt it till we\nare already corrupted by vice and enslaved by our passions. Our\njudgments and our standards of worth are determined before we have\nthe knowledge of good and evil; and then we measure all things by\nthis false standard, and give nothing its true worth.\n\nThere is an age when the heart is still free, but eager, unquiet,\ngreedy of a happiness which is still unknown, a happiness which it\nseeks in curiosity and doubt; deceived by the senses it settles at\nlength upon the empty show of happiness and thinks it has found it\nwhere it is not. In my own case these illusions endured for a long\ntime. Alas! too late did I become aware of them, and I have not\nsucceeded in overcoming them altogether; they will last as long as\nthis mortal body from which they arise. If they lead me astray, I\nam at least no longer deceived by them; I know them for what they\nare, and even when I give way to them, I despise myself; far from\nregarding them as the goal of my happiness, I behold in them an\nobstacle to it. I long for the time when, freed from the fetters\nof the body, I shall be myself, at one with myself, no longer torn\nin two, when I myself shall suffice for my own happiness. Meanwhile\nI am happy even in this life, for I make small account of all its\nevils, in which I regard myself as having little or no part, while\nall the real good that I can get out of this life depends on myself\nalone.\n\nTo raise myself so far as may be even now to this state of happiness,\nstrength, and freedom, I exercise myself in lofty contemplation. I\nconsider the order of the universe, not to explain it by any futile\nsystem, but to revere it without ceasing, to adore the wise Author\nwho reveals himself in it. I hold intercourse with him; I immerse\nall my powers in his divine essence; I am overwhelmed by his kindness,\nI bless him and his gifts, but I do not pray to him. What should I\nask of him--to change the order of nature, to work miracles on my\nbehalf? Should I, who am bound to love above all things the order\nwhich he has established in his wisdom and maintained by his\nprovidence, should I desire the disturbance of that order on my own\naccount? No, that rash prayer would deserve to be punished rather\nthan to be granted. Neither do I ask of him the power to do right;\nwhy should I ask what he has given me already?  Has he not given\nme conscience that I may love the right, reason that I may perceive\nit, and freedom that I may choose it? If I do evil, I have no\nexcuse; I do it of my own free will; to ask him to change my will\nis to ask him to do what he asks of me; it is to want him to do\nthe work while I get the wages; to be dissatisfied with my lot is\nto wish to be no longer a man, to wish to be other than what I am,\nto wish for disorder and evil. Thou source of justice and truth,\nmerciful and gracious God, in thee do I trust, and the desire of\nmy heart is--Thy will be done. When I unite my will with thine, I\ndo what thou doest; I have a share in thy goodness; I believe that\nI enjoy beforehand the supreme happiness which is the reward of\ngoodness.\n\nIn my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God,\nor rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I go\nastray, if that error is dangerous to me. To be honest I need not\nthink myself infallible; my opinions, which seem to me true, may\nbe so many lies; for what man is there who does not cling to his\nown beliefs; and how many men are agreed in everything? The illusion\nwhich deceives me may indeed have its source in myself, but it\nis God alone who can remove it. I have done all I can to attain\nto truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if my\nstrength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to draw\nnear to me.\n\nThe good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcome\nwith emotion. It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divine\nOrpheus when he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worship\nof the gods. I saw any number of objections which might be raised;\nyet I raised none, for I perceived that they were more perplexing\nthan serious, and that my inclination took his part. When he spoke\nto me according to his conscience, my own seemed to confirm what\nhe said.\n\n\"The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me,\" said\nI, \"strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do not\nknow, than because of what you say you believe. They seem to be very\nlike that theism or natural religion, which Christians profess to\nconfound with atheism or irreligion which is their exact opposite.\nBut in the present state of my faith I should have to ascend\nrather than descend to accept your views, and I find it difficult\nto remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you. That I\nmay be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself.\nBy your own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you have\nyourself told me that when it has long been silenced it cannot be\nrecalled in a moment. I take what you have said to heart, and I must\nconsider it. If after I have thought things out, I am as convinced\nas you are, you will be my final teacher, and I will be your disciple\ntill death. Continue your teaching however; you have only told me\nhalf what I must know. Speak to me of revelation, of the Scriptures,\nof those difficult doctrines among which I have strayed ever since\nI was a child, incapable either of understanding or believing them,\nunable to adopt or reject them.\"\n\n\"Yes, my child,\" said he, embracing me, \"I will tell you all I\nthink; I will not open my heart to you by halves; but the desire\nyou express was necessary before I could cast aside all reserve. So\nfar I have told you nothing but what I thought would be of service\nto you, nothing but what I was quite convinced of. The inquiry\nwhich remains to be made is very difficult. It seems to me full\nof perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to it only doubt\nand distrust. I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you my\ndoubts rather than my convictions. If your own opinions were more\nsettled I should hesitate to show you mine; but in your present\ncondition, to think like me would be gain. [Footnote: I think the\nworthy clergyman might say this at the present time to the general\npublic.] Moreover, give to my words only the authority of reason;\nI know not whether I am mistaken. It is difficult in discussion\nto avoid assuming sometimes a dogmatic tone; but remember in this\nrespect that all my assertions are but reasons to doubt me. Seek\ntruth for yourself, for my own part I only promise you sincerity.\n\n\"In my exposition you find nothing but natural religion; strange\nthat we should need more! How shall I become aware of this need?\nWhat guilt can be mine so long as I serve God according to the\nknowledge he has given to my mind, and the feelings he has put\ninto my heart? What purity of morals, what dogma useful to man and\nworthy of its author, can I derive from a positive doctrine which\ncannot be derived without the aid of this doctrine by the right\nuse of my faculties? Show me what you can add to the duties of the\nnatural law, for the glory of God, for the good of mankind, and for\nmy own welfare; and what virtue you will get from the new form of\nreligion which does not result from mine. The grandest ideas of\nthe Divine nature come to us from reason only. Behold the spectacle\nof nature; listen to the inner voice. Has not God spoken it all to\nour eyes, to our conscience, to our reason? What more can man tell\nus? Their revelations do but degrade God, by investing him with\npassions like our own. Far from throwing light upon the ideas of\nthe Supreme Being, special doctrines seem to me to confuse these\nideas; far from ennobling them, they degrade them; to the inconceivable\nmysteries which surround the Almighty, they add absurd contradictions,\nthey make man proud, intolerant, and cruel; instead of bringing\npeace upon earth, they bring fire and sword. I ask myself what\nis the use of it all, and I find no answer. I see nothing but the\ncrimes of men and the misery of mankind.\n\n\"They tell me a revelation was required to teach men how God would\nbe served; as a proof of this they point to the many strange rites\nwhich men have instituted, and they do not perceive that this very\ndiversity springs from the fanciful nature of the revelations. As\nsoon as the nations took to making God speak, every one made him\nspeak in his own fashion, and made him say what he himself wanted.\nHad they listened only to what God says in the heart of man, there\nwould have been but one religion upon earth.\n\n\"One form of worship was required; just so, but was this a matter\nof such importance as to require all the power of the Godhead to\nestablish it? Do not let us confuse the outward forms of religion\nwith religion itself. The service God requires is of the heart; and\nwhen the heart is sincere that is ever the same. It is a strange\nsort of conceit which fancies that God takes such an interest in\nthe shape of the priest's vestments, the form of words he utters,\nthe gestures he makes before the altar and all his genuflections.\nOh, my friend, stand upright, you will still be too near the earth.\nGod desires to be worshipped in spirit and in truth; this duty\nbelongs to every religion, every country, every individual. As to\nthe form of worship, if order demands uniformity, that is only a\nmatter of discipline and needs no revelation.\n\n\"These thoughts did not come to me to begin with. Carried away by\nthe prejudices of my education, and by that dangerous vanity which\nalways strives to lift man out of his proper sphere, when I could\nnot raise my feeble thoughts up to the great Being, I tried to\nbring him down to my own level. I tried to reduce the distance he\nhas placed between his nature and mine. I desired more immediate\nrelations, more individual instruction; not content to make God\nin the image of man that I might be favoured above my fellows,\nI desired supernatural knowledge; I required a special form of\nworship; I wanted God to tell me what he had not told others, or\nwhat others had not understood like myself.\n\n\"Considering the point I had now reached as the common centre from\nwhich all believers set out on the quest for a more enlightened\nform of religion, I merely found in natural religion the elements\nof all religion. I beheld the multitude of diverse sects which hold\nsway upon earth, each of which accuses the other of falsehood and\nerror; which of these, I asked, is the right? Every one replied,\n'My own;' every one said, 'I alone and those who agree with me\nthink rightly, all the others are mistaken.' And how do you know\nthat your sect is in the right? Because God said so. And how do\nyou know God said so?  [Footnote: \"All men,\" said a wise and good\npriest, \"maintain that they hold and believe their religion (and\nall use the same jargon), not of man, nor of any creature, but of\nGod. But to speak truly, without pretence or flattery, none of them\ndo so; whatever they may say, religions are taught by human hands\nand means; take, for example, the way in which religions have been\nreceived by the world, the way in which they are still received\nevery day by individuals; the nation, the country, the locality\ngives the religion; we belong to the religion of the place where\nwe are born and brought up; we are baptised or circumcised, we are\nChristians, Jews, Mohametans before we know that we are men; we\ndo not pick and choose our religion for see how ill the life and\nconduct agree with the religion, see for what slight and human\ncauses men go against the teaching of their religion.\"--Charron,\nDe la Sagesse.--It seems clear that the honest creed of the holy\ntheologian of Condom would not have differed greatly from that of\nthe Savoyard priest.] And who told you that God said it? My pastor,\nwho knows all about it. My pastor tells me what to believe and I\nbelieve it; he assures me that any one who says anything else is\nmistaken, and I give not heed to them.\n\n\"What! thought I, is not truth one; can that which is true for me\nbe false for you? If those who follow the right path and those who\ngo astray have the same method, what merit or what blame can be\nassigned to one more than to the other? Their choice is the result\nof chance; it is unjust to hold them responsible for it, to reward\nor punish them for being born in one country or another. To dare to\nsay that God judges us in this manner is an outrage on his justice.\n\n\"Either all religions are good and pleasing to God, or if there\nis one which he prescribes for men, if they will be punished for\ndespising it, he will have distinguished it by plain and certain\nsigns by which it can be known as the only true religion; these\nsigns are alike in every time and place, equally plain to all men,\ngreat or small, learned or unlearned, Europeans, Indians, Africans,\nsavages. If there were but one religion upon earth, and if all\nbeyond its pale were condemned to eternal punishment, and if there\nwere in any corner of the world one single honest man who was not\nconvinced by this evidence, the God of that religion would be the\nmost unjust and cruel of tyrants.\n\n\"Let us therefore seek honestly after truth; let us yield nothing\nto the claims of birth, to the authority of parents and pastors,\nbut let us summon to the bar of conscience and of reason all that\nthey have taught us from our childhood. In vain do they exclaim,\n'Submit your reason;' a deceiver might say as much; I must have\nreasons for submitting my reason.\n\n\"All the theology I can get for myself by observation of the universe\nand by the use of my faculties is contained in what I have already\ntold you. To know more one must have recourse to strange means.\nThese means cannot be the authority of men, for every man is of\nthe same species as myself, and all that a man knows by nature I am\ncapable of knowing, and another may be deceived as much as I; when\nI believe what he says, it is not because he says it but because\nhe proves its truth. The witness of man is therefore nothing more\nthan the witness of my own reason, and it adds nothing to the\nnatural means which God has given me for the knowledge of truth.\n\n\"Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am not the\nsole judge? God himself has spoken; give heed to his revelation.\nThat is another matter. God has spoken, these are indeed words which\ndemand attention. To whom has he spoken? He has spoken to men. Why\nthen have I heard nothing? He has instructed others to make known\nhis words to you. I understand; it is men who come and tell me what\nGod has said. I would rather have heard the words of God himself;\nit would have been as easy for him and I should have been secure\nfrom fraud. He protects you from fraud by showing that his envoys\ncome from him. How does he show this? By miracles. Where are these\nmiracles? In the books. And who wrote the books? Men. And who\nsaw the miracles? The men who bear witness to them. What! Nothing\nbut human testimony! Nothing but men who tell me what others told\nthem!  How many men between God and me! Let us see, however, let\nus examine, compare, and verify. Oh! if God had but deigned to free\nme from all this labour, I would have served him with all my heart.\n\n\"Consider, my friend, the terrible controversy in which I am now\nengaged; what vast learning is required to go back to the remotest\nantiquity, to examine, weigh, confront prophecies, revelations,\nfacts, all the monuments of faith set forth throughout the world,\nto assign their date, place, authorship, and occasion. What exactness\nof critical judgment is needed to distinguish genuine documents from\nforgeries, to compare objections with their answers, translations\nwith their originals; to decide as to the impartiality of witnesses,\ntheir common-sense, their knowledge; to make sure that nothing\nhas been omitted, nothing added, nothing transposed, altered, or\nfalsified; to point out any remaining contradictions, to determine\nwhat weight should be given to the silence of our adversaries\nwith regard to the charges brought against them; how far were they\naware of those charges; did they think them sufficiently serious\nto require an answer; were books sufficiently well known for our\nbooks to reach them; have we been honest enough to allow their\nbooks to circulate among ourselves and to leave their strongest\nobjections unaltered?\n\n\"When the authenticity of all these documents is accepted, we must\nnow pass to the evidence of their authors' mission; we must know the\nlaws of chance, and probability, to decide which prophecy cannot\nbe fulfilled without a miracle; we must know the spirit of the\noriginal languages, to distinguish between prophecy and figures of\nspeech; we must know what facts are in accordance with nature and\nwhat facts are not, so that we may say how far a clever man may\ndeceive the eyes of the simple and may even astonish the learned;\nwe must discover what are the characteristics of a prodigy and how\nits authenticity may be established, not only so far as to gain\ncredence, but so that doubt may be deserving of punishment; we must\ncompare the evidence for true and false miracles, and find sure\ntests to distinguish between them; lastly we must say why God chose\nas a witness to his words means which themselves require so much\nevidence on their behalf, as if he were playing with human credulity,\nand avoiding of set purpose the true means of persuasion.\n\n\"Assuming that the divine majesty condescends so far as to make a\nman the channel of his sacred will, is it reasonable, is it fair,\nto demand that the whole of mankind should obey the voice of this\nminister without making him known as such? Is it just to give him\nas his sole credentials certain private signs, performed in the\npresence of a few obscure persons, signs which everybody else can\nonly know by hearsay? If one were to believe all the miracles that\nthe uneducated and credulous profess to have seen in every country\nupon earth, every sect would be in the right; there would be more\nmiracles than ordinary events; and it would be the greatest miracle\nif there were no miracles wherever there were persecuted fanatics.\nThe unchangeable order of nature is the chief witness to the wise\nhand that guides it; if there were many exceptions, I should hardly\nknow what to think; for my own part I have too great a faith in God\nto believe in so many miracles which are so little worthy of him.\n\n\"Let a man come and say to us: Mortals, I proclaim to you the will\nof the Most Highest; accept my words as those of him who has sent\nme; I bid the sun to change his course, the stars to range themselves\nin a fresh order, the high places to become smooth, the floods to\nrise up, the earth to change her face. By these miracles who will\nnot recognise the master of nature? She does not obey impostors,\ntheir miracles are wrought in holes and corners, in deserts, within\nclosed doors, where they find easy dupes among a small company\nof spectators already disposed to believe them. Who will venture\nto tell me how many eye-witnesses are required to make a miracle\ncredible! What use are your miracles, performed if proof of your\ndoctrine, if they themselves require so much proof! You might as\nwell have let them alone.\n\n\"There still remains the most important inquiry of all with regard\nto the doctrine proclaimed; for since those who tell us God works\nmiracles in this world, profess that the devil sometimes imitates\nthem, when we have found the best attested miracles we have got\nvery little further; and since the magicians of Pharaoh dared in\nthe presence of Moses to counterfeit the very signs he wrought at\nGod's command, why should they not, behind his back, claim a like\nauthority? So when we have proved our doctrine by means of miracles,\nwe must prove our miracles by means of doctrine, [Footnote: This\nis expressly stated in many passages of Scripture, among others in\nDeuteronomy xiii., where it is said that when a prophet preaching\nstrange gods confirms his words by means of miracles and what he\nforetells comes to pass, far from giving heed to him, this prophet\nmust be put to death. If then the heathen put the apostles to\ndeath when they preached a strange god and confirmed their words by\nmiracles which came to pass I cannot see what grounds we have for\ncomplaint which they could not at once turn against us. Now, what\nshould be done in such a case? There is only one course; to return\nto argument and let the miracles alone. It would have been better\nnot to have had recourse to them at all. That is plain common-sense\nwhich can only be obscured by great subtlety of distinction.  Subtleties\nin Christianity! So Jesus Christ was mistaken when he promised the\nkingdom of heaven to the simple, he was mistaken when he began his\nfinest discourse with the praise of the poor in spirit, if so much\nwit is needed to understand his teaching and to get others to believe\nin him. When you have convinced me that submission is my duty, all\nwill be well; but to convince me of this, come down to my level;\nadapt your arguments to a lowly mind, or I shall not recognise you\nas a true disciple of your master, and it is not his doctrine that\nyou are teaching me.] for fear lest we should take the devil's\ndoings for the handiwork of God. What think you of this dilemma?\n\n\"This doctrine, if it comes from God, should bear the sacred stamp\nof the godhead; not only should it illumine the troubled thoughts\nwhich reason imprints on our minds, but it should also offer us\na form of worship, a morality, and rules of conduct in accordance\nwith the attributes by means of which we alone conceive of God's\nessence.  If then it teaches us what is absurd and unreasonable, if\nit inspires us with feelings of aversion for our fellows and terror\nfor ourselves, if it paints us a God, angry, jealous, revengeful,\npartial, hating men, a God of war and battles, ever ready to strike\nand to destroy, ever speaking of punishment and torment, boasting\neven of the punishment of the innocent, my heart would not be drawn\ntowards this terrible God, I would take good care not to quit the\nrealm of natural religion to embrace such a religion as that; for\nyou see plainly I must choose between them. Your God is not ours.\nHe who begins by selecting a chosen people, and proscribing the rest\nof mankind, is not our common father; he who consigns to eternal\npunishment the greater part of his creatures, is not the merciful\nand gracious God revealed to me by my reason.\n\n\"Reason tells me that dogmas should be plain, clear, and striking\nin their simplicity. If there is something lacking in natural\nreligion, it is with respect to the obscurity in which it leaves\nthe great truths it teaches; revelation should teach us these truths\nin a way which the mind of man can understand; it should bring them\nwithin his reach, make him comprehend them, so that he may believe\nthem.  Faith is confirmed and strengthened by understanding; the\nbest religion is of necessity the simplest. He who hides beneath\nmysteries and contradictions the religion that he preaches to me,\nteaches me at the same time to distrust that religion. The God whom\nI adore is not the God of darkness, he has not given me understanding\nin order to forbid me to use it; to tell me to submit my reason\nis to insult the giver of reason. The minister of truth does not\ntyrannise over my reason, he enlightens it.\n\n\"We have set aside all human authority, and without it I do not see\nhow any man can convince another by preaching a doctrine contrary\nto reason. Let them fight it out, and let us see what they have to\nsay with that harshness of speech which is common to both.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Reason tells you that the whole is greater than the\npart; but I tell you, in God's name, that the part is greater than\nthe whole.\n\n\"REASON: And who are you to dare to tell me that God contradicts\nhimself? And which shall I choose to believe. God who teaches me,\nthrough my reason, the eternal truth, or you who, in his name,\nproclaim an absurdity?\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Believe me, for my teaching is more positive; and I\nwill prove to you beyond all manner of doubt that he has sent me.\n\n\"REASON: What! you will convince me that God has sent you to bear\nwitness against himself? What sort of proofs will you adduce to\nconvince me that God speaks more surely by your mouth than through\nthe understanding he has given me?\n\n\"INSPIRATION: The understanding he has given you! Petty, conceited\ncreature! As if you were the first impious person who had been led\nastray through his reason corrupted by sin.\n\n\"REASON: Man of God, you would not be the first scoundrel who\nasserts his arrogance as a proof of his mission.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: What! do even philosophers call names?\n\n\"REASON: Sometimes, when the saints set them the example.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Oh, but I have a right to do it, for I am speaking\non God's behalf.\n\n\"REASON: You would do well to show your credentials before you make\nuse of your privileges.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: My credentials are authentic, earth and heaven will\nbear witness on my behalf. Follow my arguments carefully, if you\nplease.\n\n\"REASON: Your arguments! You forget what you are saying. When you\nteach me that my reason misleads me, do you not refute what it might\nhave said on your behalf? He who denies the right of reason, must\nconvince me without recourse to her aid. For suppose you have\nconvinced me by reason, how am I to know that it is not my reason,\ncorrupted by sin, which makes me accept what you say? besides,\nwhat proof, what demonstration, can you advance, more self-evident\nthan the axiom it is to destroy? It is more credible that a good\nsyllogism is a lie, than that the part is greater than the whole.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: What a difference! There is no answer to my evidence;\nit is of a supernatural kind.\n\n\"REASON: Supernatural! What do you mean by the word? I do not\nunderstand it.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: I mean changes in the order of nature, prophecies,\nsigns, and wonders of every kind.\n\n\"REASON: Signs and wonders! I have never seen anything of the kind.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Others have seen them for you. Clouds of witnesses--the\nwitness of whole nations....\n\n\"REASON: Is the witness of nations supernatural?\n\n\"INSPIRATION: No; but when it is unanimous, it is incontestable.\n\n\"REASON: There is nothing so incontestable as the principles of\nreason, and one cannot accept an absurdity on human evidence. Once\nmore, let us see your supernatural evidence, for the consent of\nmankind is not supernatural.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Oh, hardened heart, grace does not speak to you.\n\n\"REASON: That is not my fault; for by your own showing, one must\nhave already received grace before one is able to ask for it. Begin\nby speaking to me in its stead.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: But that is just what I am doing, and you will not\nlisten. But what do you say to prophecy?\n\n\"REASON: In the first place, I say I have no more heard a prophet\nthan I have seen a miracle. In the next, I say that no prophet\ncould claim authority over me.\n\n\"INSPIRATION: Follower of the devil! Why should not the words of\nthe prophets have authority over you?\n\n\"REASON: Because three things are required, three things which will\nnever happen: firstly, I must have heard the prophecy; secondly,\nI must have seen its fulfilment; and thirdly, it must be clearly\nproved that the fulfilment of the prophecy could not by any possibility\nhave been a mere coincidence; for even if it was as precise, as\nplain, and clear as an axiom of geometry, since the clearness of\na chance prediction does not make its fulfilment impossible, this\nfulfilment when it does take place does not, strictly speaking,\nprove what was foretold.\n\n\"See what your so-called supernatural proofs, your miracles, your\nprophecies come to: believe all this upon the word of another.\nSubmit to the authority of men the authority of God which speaks to\nmy reason. If the eternal truths which my mind conceives of could\nsuffer any shock, there would be no sort of certainty for me; and\nfar from being sure that you speak to me on God's behalf, I should\nnot even be sure that there is a God.\n\n\"My child, here are difficulties enough, but these are not all.\nAmong so many religions, mutually excluding and proscribing each\nother, one only is true, if indeed any one of them is true. To\nrecognise the true religion we must inquire into, not one, but all;\nand in any question whatsoever we have no right to condemn unheard.\n[Footnote: On the other hand, Plutarch relates that the Stoics\nmaintained, among other strange paradoxes, that it was no use hearing\nboth sides; for, said they, the first either proves his point or\nhe does not prove it; if he has proved it, there is an end of it,\nand the other should be condemned: if he has not proved it, he\nhimself is in the wrong and judgment should be given against him.\nI consider the method of those who accept an exclusive revelation\nvery much like that of these Stoics. When each of them claims to\nbe the sole guardian of truth, we must hear them all before we can\nchoose between them without injustice.] The objections must be\ncompared with the evidence; we must know what accusation each brings\nagainst the other, and what answers they receive. The plainer any\nfeeling appears to us, the more we must try to discover why so many\nother people refuse to accept it. We should be simple, indeed, if\nwe thought it enough to hear the doctors on our own side, in order\nto acquaint ourselves with the arguments of the other. Where can\nyou find theologians who pride themselves on their honesty? Where\nare those who, to refute the arguments of their opponents, do\nnot begin by making out that they are of little importance? A man\nmay make a good show among his own friends, and be very proud of\nhis arguments, who would cut a very poor figure with those same\narguments among those who are on the other side. Would you find\nout for yourself from books? What learning you will need! What\nlanguages you must learn; what libraries you must ransack; what an\namount of reading must be got through! Who will guide me in such\na choice? It will be hard to find the best books on the opposite\nside in any one country, and all the harder to find those on all\nsides; when found they would be easily answered. The absent are\nalways in the wrong, and bad arguments boldly asserted easily efface\ngood arguments put forward with scorn. Besides books are often very\nmisleading, and scarcely express the opinions of their authors.\nIf you think you can judge the Catholic faith from the writings\nof Bossuet, you will find yourself greatly mistaken when you have\nlived among us. You will see that the doctrines with which Protestants\nare answered are quite different from those of the pulpit. To\njudge a religion rightly, you must not study it in the books of its\npartisans, you must learn it in their lives; this is quite another\nmatter. Each religion has its own traditions, meaning, customs,\nprejudices, which form the spirit of its creed, and must be taken\nin connection with it.\n\n\"How many great nations neither print books of their own nor read\nours! How shall they judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We\nlaugh at them, they despise us; and if our travellers turn them\ninto ridicule, they need only travel among us to pay us back in\nour own coin. Are there not, in every country, men of common-sense,\nhonesty, and good faith, lovers of truth, who only seek to know\nwhat truth is that they may profess it? Yet every one finds truth\nin his own religion, and thinks the religion of other nations\nabsurd; so all these foreign religions are not so absurd as they\nseem to us, or else the reason we find for our own proves nothing.\n\n\"We have three principal forms of religion in Europe. One accepts\none revelation, another two, and another three. Each hates the\nothers, showers curses on them, accuses them of blindness, obstinacy,\nhardness of heart, and falsehood. What fair-minded man will dare\nto decide between them without first carefully weighing their\nevidence, without listening attentively to their arguments?  That\nwhich accepts only one revelation is the oldest and seems the best\nestablished; that which accepts three is the newest and seems the\nmost consistent; that which accepts two revelations and rejects the\nthird may perhaps be the best, but prejudice is certainly against\nit; its inconsistency is glaring.\n\n\"In all three revelations the sacred books are written in languages\nunknown to the people who believe in them. The Jews no longer\nunderstand Hebrew, the Christians understand neither Hebrew nor\nGreek; the Turks and Persians do not understand Arabic, and the\nArabs of our time do not speak the language of Mahomet. Is not\nit a very foolish way of teaching, to teach people in an unknown\ntongue?  These books are translated, you say. What an answer! How\nam I to know that the translations are correct, or how am I to\nmake sure that such a thing as a correct translation is possible?\nIf God has gone so far as to speak to men, why should he require\nan interpreter?\n\n\"I can never believe that every man is obliged to know what is\ncontained in books, and that he who is out of reach of these books,\nand of those who understand them, will be punished for an ignorance\nwhich is no fault of his. Books upon books! What madness! As\nall Europe is full of books, Europeans regard them as necessary,\nforgetting that they are unknown throughout three-quarters of the\nglobe. Were not all these books written by men? Why then should a\nman need them to teach him his duty, and how did he learn his duty\nbefore these books were in existence? Either he must have learnt\nhis duties for himself, or his ignorance must have been excused.\n\n\"Our Catholics talk loudly of the authority of the Church; but what\nis the use of it all, if they also need just as great an array of\nproofs to establish that authority as the other seeks to establish\ntheir doctrine? The Church decides that the Church has a right to\ndecide. What a well-founded authority! Go beyond it, and you are\nback again in our discussions.\n\n\"Do you know many Christians who have taken the trouble to inquire\nwhat the Jews allege against them? If any one knows anything at\nall about it, it is from the writings of Christians. What a way of\nascertaining the arguments of our adversaries! But what is to be\ndone? If any one dared to publish in our day books which were openly\nin favour of the Jewish religion, we should punish the author,\npublisher, and bookseller. This regulation is a sure and certain\nplan for always being in the right. It is easy to refute those who\ndare not venture to speak.\n\n\"Those among us who have the opportunity of talking with Jews are\nlittle better off. These unhappy people feel that they are in our\npower; the tyranny they have suffered makes them timid; they know\nthat Christian charity thinks nothing of injustice and cruelty;\nwill they dare to run the risk of an outcry against blasphemy? Our\ngreed inspires us with zeal, and they are so rich that they must\nbe in the wrong. The more learned, the more enlightened they are,\nthe more cautious. You may convert some poor wretch whom you have\npaid to slander his religion; you get some wretched old-clothes-man\nto speak, and he says what you want; you may triumph over their\nignorance and cowardice, while all the time their men of learning\nare laughing at your stupidity. But do you think you would get\noff so easily in any place where they knew they were safe! At the\nSorbonne it is plain that the Messianic prophecies refer to Jesus\nChrist. Among the rabbis of Amsterdam it is just as clear that they\nhave nothing to do with him. I do not think I have ever heard the\narguments of the Jews as to why they should not have a free state,\nschools and universities, where they can speak and argue without\ndanger. Then alone can we know what they have to say.\n\n\"At Constantinople the Turks state their arguments, but we dare not\ngive ours; then it is our turn to cringe. Can we blame the Turks\nif they require us to show the same respect for Mahomet, in whom\nwe do not believe, as we demand from the Jews with regard to Jesus\nChrist in whom they do not believe? Are we right? On what grounds\nof justice can we answer this question?\n\n\"Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Mahometans, nor Christians;\nand how many millions of men have never heard the name of Moses,\nJesus Christ, or Mahomet? They deny it; they maintain that our\nmissionaries go everywhere. That is easily said. But do they go into\nthe heart of Africa, still undiscovered, where as yet no European\nhas ever ventured? Do they go to Eastern Tartary to follow on\nhorseback the wandering tribes, whom no stranger approaches, who\nnot only know nothing of the pope, but have scarcely heard tell\nof the Grand Lama! Do they penetrate into the vast continents\nof America, where there are still whole nations unaware that the\npeople of another world have set foot on their shores? Do they\ngo to Japan, where their intrigues have led to their perpetual\nbanishment, where their predecessors are only known to the rising\ngeneration as skilful plotters who came with feigned zeal to take\npossession in secret of the empire? Do they reach the harems of the\nAsiatic princes to preach the gospel to those thousands of poor\nslaves? What have the women of those countries done that no missionary\nmay preach the faith to them? Will they all go to hell because of\ntheir seclusion?\n\n\"If it were true that the gospel is preached throughout the world,\nwhat advantage would there be? The day before the first missionary\nset foot in any country, no doubt somebody died who could not hear\nhim. Now tell me what we shall do with him? If there were a single\nsoul in the whole world, to whom Jesus Christ had never been\npreached, this objection would be as strong for that man as for a\nquarter of the human race.\n\n\"If the ministers of the gospel have made themselves heard among\nfar-off nations, what have they told them which might reasonably be\naccepted on their word, without further and more exact verification?\nYou preach to me God, born and dying, two thousand years ago, at\nthe other end of the world, in some small town I know not where;\nand you tell me that all who have not believed this mystery are\ndamned.  These are strange things to be believed so quickly on the\nauthority of an unknown person. Why did your God make these things\nhappen so far off, if he would compel me to know about them? Is\nit a crime to be unaware of what is happening half a world away?\nCould I guess that in another hemisphere there was a Hebrew nation\nand a town called Jerusalem? You might as well expect me to know\nwhat was happening in the moon. You say you have come to teach me;\nbut why did you not come and teach my father, or why do you consign\nthat good old man to damnation because he knew nothing of all\nthis? Must he be punished everlastingly for your laziness, he who\nwas so kind and helpful, he who sought only for truth? Be honest;\nput yourself in my place; see if I ought to believe, on your word\nalone, all these incredible things which you have told me, and\nreconcile all this injustice with the just God you proclaim to\nme. At least allow me to go and see this distant land where such\nwonders, unheard of in my own country, took place; let me go and\nsee why the inhabitants of Jerusalem put their God to death as a\nrobber. You tell me they did not know he was God. What then shall\nI do, I who have only heard of him from you? You say they have been\npunished, dispersed, oppressed, enslaved; that none of them dare\napproach that town. Indeed they richly deserved it; but what do its\npresent inhabitants say of their crime in slaying their God! They\ndeny him; they too refuse to recognise God as God. They are no\nbetter than the children of the original inhabitants.\n\n\"What! In the very town where God was put to death, neither the\nformer nor the latter inhabitants knew him, and you expect that I\nshould know him, I who was born two thousand years after his time,\nand two thousand leagues away? Do you not see that before I can\nbelieve this book which you call sacred, but which I do not in the\nleast understand, I must know from others than yourself when and by\nwhom it was written, how it has been preserved, how it came into\nyour possession, what they say about it in those lands where it is\nrejected, and what are their reasons for rejecting it, though they\nknow as well as you what you are telling me? You perceive I must\ngo to Europe, Asia, Palestine, to examine these things for myself;\nit would be madness to listen to you before that.\n\n\"Not only does this seem reasonable to me, but I maintain that it\nis what every wise man ought to say in similar circumstances; that\nhe ought to banish to a great distance the missionary who wants\nto instruct and baptise him all of a sudden before the evidence is\nverified. Now I maintain that there is no revelation against which\nthese or similar objections cannot be made, and with more force\nthan against Christianity. Hence it follows that if there is but\none true religion and if every man is bound to follow it under pain\nof damnation, he must spend his whole life in studying, testing,\ncomparing all these religions, in travelling through the countries\nin which they are established. No man is free from a man's first\nduty; no one has a right to depend on another's judgment. The\nartisan who earns his bread by his daily toil, the ploughboy who\ncannot read, the delicate and timid maiden, the invalid who can\nscarcely leave his bed, all without exception must study, consider,\nargue, travel over the whole world; there will be no more fixed\nand settled nations; the whole earth will swarm with pilgrims on\ntheir way, at great cost of time and trouble, to verify, compare,\nand examine for themselves the various religions to be found. Then\nfarewell to the trades, the arts, the sciences of mankind, farewell\nto all peaceful occupations; there can be no study but that\nof religion, even the strongest, the most industrious, the most\nintelligent, the oldest, will hardly be able in his last years to\nknow where he is; and it will be a wonder if he manages to find\nout what religion he ought to live by, before the hour of his death.\n\n\"Hard pressed by these arguments, some prefer to make God unjust\nand to punish the innocent for the sins of their fathers, rather\nthan to renounce their barbarous dogmas. Others get out of the\ndifficulty by kindly sending an angel to instruct all those who\nin invincible ignorance have lived a righteous life. A good idea,\nthat angel! Not content to be the slaves of their own inventions\nthey expect God to make use of them also!\n\n\"Behold, my son, the absurdities to which pride and intolerance\nbring us, when everybody wants others to think as he does, and\neverybody fancies that he has an exclusive claim upon the rest of\nmankind. I call to witness the God of Peace whom I adore, and whom\nI proclaim to you, that my inquiries were honestly made; but when\nI discovered that they were and always would be unsuccessful, and\nthat I was embarked upon a boundless ocean, I turned back, and\nrestricted my faith within the limits of my primitive ideas. I\ncould never convince myself that God would require such learning\nof me under pain of hell. So I closed all my books. There is one\nbook which is open to every one--the book of nature. In this good\nand great volume I learn to serve and adore its Author. There\nis no excuse for not reading this book, for it speaks to all in a\nlanguage they can understand. Suppose I had been born in a desert\nisland, suppose I had never seen any man but myself, suppose I had\nnever heard what took place in olden days in a remote corner of\nthe world; yet if I use my reason, if I cultivate it, if I employ\nrightly the innate faculties which God bestows upon me, I shall\nlearn by myself to know and love him, to love his works, to will\nwhat he wills, and to fulfil all my duties upon earth, that I may\ndo his pleasure. What more can all human learning teach me?\n\n\"With regard to revelation, if I were a more accomplished disputant,\nor a more learned person, perhaps I should feel its truth, its\nusefulness for those who are happy enough to perceive it; but if I\nfind evidence for it which I cannot combat, I also find objections\nagainst it which I cannot overcome. There are so many weighty\nreasons for and against that I do not know what to decide, so that\nI neither accept nor reject it. I only reject all obligation to be\nconvinced of its truth; for this so-called obligation is incompatible\nwith God's justice, and far from removing objections in this way\nit would multiply them, and would make them insurmountable for the\ngreater part of mankind. In this respect I maintain an attitude of\nreverent doubt. I do not presume to think myself infallible; other\nmen may have been able to make up their minds though the matter\nseems doubtful to myself; I am speaking for myself, not for them;\nI neither blame them nor follow in their steps; their judgment may\nbe superior to mine, but it is no fault of mine that my judgment\ndoes not agree with it.\n\n\"I own also that the holiness of the gospel speaks to my heart,\nand that this is an argument which I should be sorry to refute.\nConsider the books of the philosophers with all their outward show;\nhow petty they are in comparison! Can a book at once so grand and\nso simple be the work of men? Is it possible that he whose history\nis contained in this book is no more than man? Is the tone of this\nbook, the tone of the enthusiast or the ambitious sectary? What\ngentleness and purity in his actions, what a touching grace in his\nteaching, how lofty are his sayings, how profoundly wise are his\nsermons, how ready, how discriminating, and how just are his answers!\nWhat man, what sage, can live, suffer, and die without weakness\nor ostentation? When Plato describes his imaginary good man,\noverwhelmed with the disgrace of crime, and deserving of all the\nrewards of virtue, every feature of the portrait is that of Christ;\nthe resemblance is so striking that it has been noticed by all\nthe Fathers, and there can be no doubt about it. What prejudices\nand blindness must there be before we dare to compare the son of\nSophronisca with the son of Mary. How far apart they are! Socrates\ndies a painless death, he is not put to open shame, and he plays\nhis part easily to the last; and if this easy death had not done\nhonour to his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with all\nhis intellect, was more than a mere sophist. He invented morality,\nso they say; others before him had practised it; he only said\nwhat they had done, and made use of their example in his teaching.\nAristides was just before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas died\nfor his country before Socrates declared that patriotism was a\nvirtue; Sparta was sober before Socrates extolled sobriety; there\nwere plenty of virtuous men in Greece before he defined virtue.\nBut among the men of his own time where did Jesus find that pure\nand lofty morality of which he is both the teacher and pattern?\n[Footnote: Cf.  in the Sermon on the Mount the parallel he himself\ndraws between the teaching of Moses and his own.--Matt. v.] The\nvoice of loftiest wisdom arose among the fiercest fanaticism, the\nsimplicity of the most heroic virtues did honour to the most degraded\nof nations. One could wish no easier death than that of Socrates,\ncalmly discussing philosophy with his friends; one could fear nothing\nworse than that of Jesus, dying in torment, among the insults,\nthe mockery, the curses of the whole nation. In the midst of these\nterrible sufferings, Jesus prays for his cruel murderers. Yes,\nif the life and death of Socrates are those of a philosopher, the\nlife and death of Christ are those of a God. Shall we say that the\ngospel story is the work of the imagination? My friend, such things\nare not imagined; and the doings of Socrates, which no one doubts,\nare less well attested than those of Jesus Christ. At best, you\nonly put the difficulty from you; it would be still more incredible\nthat several persons should have agreed together to invent such a\nbook, than that there was one man who supplied its subject matter.\nThe tone and morality of this story are not those of any Jewish\nauthors, and the gospel indeed contains characters so great, so\nstriking, so entirely inimitable, that their invention would be\nmore astonishing than their hero. With all this the same gospel\nis full of incredible things, things repugnant to reason, things\nwhich no natural man can understand or accept. What can you do\namong so many contradictions?  You can be modest and wary, my child;\nrespect in silence what you can neither reject nor understand, and\nhumble yourself in the sight of the Divine Being who alone knows\nthe truth.\n\n\"This is the unwilling scepticism in which I rest; but this scepticism\nis in no way painful to me, for it does not extend to matters of\npractice, and I am well assured as to the principles underlying all\nmy duties. I serve God in the simplicity of my heart; I only seek\nto know what affects my conduct. As to those dogmas which have\nno effect upon action or morality, dogmas about which so many men\ntorment themselves, I give no heed to them. I regard all individual\nreligions as so many wholesome institutions which prescribe a\nuniform method by which each country may do honour to God in public\nworship; institutions which may each have its reason in the country,\nthe government, the genius of the people, or in other local causes\nwhich make one preferable to another in a given time or place. I\nthink them all good alike, when God is served in a fitting manner.\nTrue worship is of the heart. God rejects no homage, however offered,\nprovided it is sincere. Called to the service of the Church in\nmy own religion, I fulfil as scrupulously as I can all the duties\nprescribed to me, and my conscience would reproach me if I were\nknowingly wanting with regard to any point. You are aware that after\nbeing suspended for a long time, I have, through the influence of\nM. Mellarede, obtained permission to resume my priestly duties,\nas a means of livelihood. I used to say Mass with the levity that\ncomes from long experience even of the most serious matters when\nthey are too familiar to us; with my new principles I now celebrate\nit with more reverence; I dwell upon the majesty of the Supreme\nBeing, his presence, the insufficiency of the human mind, which\nso little realises what concerns its Creator. When I consider how\nI present before him the prayers of all the people in a form laid\ndown for me, I carry out the whole ritual exactly; I give heed\nto what I say, I am careful not to omit the least word, the least\nceremony; when the moment of the consecration approaches, I collect my\npowers, that I may do all things as required by the Church and by\nthe greatness of this sacrament; I strive to annihilate my own reason\nbefore the Supreme Mind; I say to myself, Who art thou to measure\ninfinite power? I reverently pronounce the sacramental words, and\nI give to their effect all the faith I can bestow.  Whatever may\nbe this mystery which passes understanding, I am not afraid that\nat the day of judgment I shall be punished for having profaned it\nin my heart.\"\n\nHonoured with the sacred ministry, though in its lowest ranks, I\nwill never do or say anything which may make me unworthy to fulfil\nthese sublime duties. I will always preach virtue and exhort men\nto well-doing; and so far as I can I will set them a good example.\nIt will be my business to make religion attractive; it will be my\nbusiness to strengthen their faith in those doctrines which are\nreally useful, those which every man must believe; but, please God,\nI shall never teach them to hate their neighbour, to say to other\nmen, You will be damned; to say, No salvation outside the Church.\n[Footnote: The duty of following and loving the religion of our\ncountry does not go so far as to require us to accept doctrines\ncontrary to good morals, such as intolerance. This horrible\ndoctrine sets men in arms against their fellow-men, and makes them\nall enemies of mankind. The distinction between civil toleration\nand theological toleration is vain and childish. These two kinds\nof toleration are inseparable, and we cannot accept one without the\nother. Even the angels could not live at peace with men whom they\nregarded as the enemies of God.] If I were in a more conspicuous\nposition, this reticence might get me into trouble; but I am too\nobscure to have much to fear, and I could hardly sink lower than I\nam. Come what may, I will never blaspheme the justice of God, nor\nlie against the Holy Ghost.\n\n\"I have long desired to have a parish of my own; it is still\nmy ambition, but I no longer hope to attain it. My dear friend, I\nthink there is nothing so delightful as to be a parish priest. A\ngood clergyman is a minister of mercy, as a good magistrate is a\nminister of justice. A clergyman is never called upon to do evil;\nif he cannot always do good himself, it is never out of place for\nhim to beg for others, and he often gets what he asks if he knows\nhow to gain respect. Oh! if I should ever have some poor mountain\nparish where I might minister to kindly folk, I should be happy\nindeed; for it seems to me that I should make my parishioners happy.\nI should not bring them riches, but I should share their poverty;\nI should remove from them the scorn and opprobrium which are harder\nto bear than poverty. I should make them love peace and equality,\nwhich often remove poverty, and always make it tolerable. When they\nsaw that I was in no way better off than themselves, and that yet\nI was content with my lot, they would learn to put up with their\nfate and to be content like me. In my sermons I would lay more stress\non the spirit of the gospel than on the spirit of the church; its\nteaching is simple, its morality sublime; there is little in it\nabout the practices of religion, but much about works of charity.\nBefore I teach them what they ought to do, I would try to practise\nit myself, that they might see that at least I think what I say.\nIf there were Protestants in the neighbourhood or in my parish, I\nwould make no difference between them and my own congregation so\nfar as concerns Christian charity; I would get them to love one\nanother, to consider themselves brethren, to respect all religions,\nand each to live peaceably in his own religion. To ask any one to\nabandon the religion in which he was born is, I consider, to ask\nhim to do wrong, and therefore to do wrong oneself. While we await\nfurther knowledge, let us respect public order; in every country\nlet us respect the laws, let us not disturb the form of worship\nprescribed by law; let us not lead its citizens into disobedience;\nfor we have no certain knowledge that it is good for them to abandon\ntheir own opinions for others, and on the other hand we are quite\ncertain that it is a bad thing to disobey the law.\n\n\"My young friend, I have now repeated to you my creed as God reads\nit in my heart; you are the first to whom I have told it; perhaps\nyou will be the last. As long as there is any true faith left among\nmen, we must not trouble quiet souls, nor scare the faith of the\nignorant with problems they cannot solve, with difficulties which\ncause them uneasiness, but do not give them any guidance. But\nwhen once everything is shaken, the trunk must be preserved at the\ncost of the branches. Consciences, restless, uncertain, and almost\nquenched like yours, require to be strengthened and aroused; to\nset the feet again upon the foundation of eternal truth, we must\nremove the trembling supports on which they think they rest.\n\n\"You are at that critical age when the mind is open to conviction,\nwhen the heart receives its form and character, when we decide our\nown fate for life, either for good or evil. At a later date, the\nmaterial has hardened and fresh impressions leave no trace. Young\nman, take the stamp of truth upon your heart which is not yet\nhardened, if I were more certain of myself, I should have adopted\na more decided and dogmatic tone; but I am a man ignorant and\nliable to error; what could I do? I have opened my heart fully to\nyou; and I have told what I myself hold for certain and sure; I\nhave told you my doubts as doubts, my opinions as opinions; I have\ngiven you my reasons both for faith and doubt. It is now your turn\nto judge; you have asked for time; that is a wise precaution and\nit makes me think well of you. Begin by bringing your conscience\ninto that state in which it desires to see clearly; be honest with\nyourself. Take to yourself such of my opinions as convince you,\nreject the rest. You are not yet so depraved by vice as to run the\nrisk of choosing amiss. I would offer to argue with you, but as\nsoon as men dispute they lose their temper; pride and obstinacy\ncome in, and there is an end of honesty. My friend, never argue;\nfor by arguing we gain no light for ourselves or for others. So far\nas I myself am concerned, I have only made up my mind after many\nyears of meditation; here I rest, my conscience is at peace, my\nheart is satisfied. If I wanted to begin afresh the examination of\nmy feelings, I should not bring to the task a purer love of truth;\nand my mind, which is already less active, would be less able to\nperceive the truth. Here I shall rest, lest the love of contemplation,\ndeveloping step by step into an idle passion, should make me\nlukewarm in the performance of my duties, lest I should fall into\nmy former scepticism without strength to struggle out of it. More\nthan half my life is spent; I have barely time to make good use of\nwhat is left, to blot out my faults by my virtues. If I am mistaken,\nit is against my will. He who reads my inmost heart knows that\nI have no love for my blindness. As my own knowledge is powerless\nto free me from this blindness, my only way out of it is by a good\nlife; and if God from the very stones can raise up children to\nAbraham, every man has a right to hope that he may be taught the\ntruth, if he makes himself worthy of it.\n\n\"If my reflections lead you to think as I do, if you share my\nfeelings, if we have the same creed, I give you this advice: Do\nnot continue to expose your life to the temptations of poverty and\ndespair, nor waste it in degradation and at the mercy of strangers;\nno longer eat the shameful bread of charity. Return to your own\ncountry, go back to the religion of your fathers, and follow it in\nsincerity of heart, and never forsake it; it is very simple and very\nholy; I think there is no other religion upon earth whose morality\nis purer, no other more satisfying to the reason. Do not trouble\nabout the cost of the journey, that will be provided for you.\nNeither do you fear the false shame of a humiliating return; we\nshould blush to commit a fault, not to repair it. You are still at\nan age when all is forgiven, but when we cannot go on sinning with\nimpunity. If you desire to listen to your conscience, a thousand\nempty objections will disappear at her voice. You will feel that, in\nour present state of uncertainty, it is an inexcusable presumption\nto profess any faith but that we were born into, while it is\ntreachery not to practise honestly the faith we profess. If we go\nastray, we deprive ourselves of a great excuse before the tribunal\nof the sovereign judge. Will he not pardon the errors in which we\nwere brought up, rather than those of our own choosing?\n\n\"My son, keep your soul in such a state that you always desire\nthat there should be a God and you will never doubt it. Moreover,\nwhatever decision you come to, remember that the real duties of\nreligion are independent of human institutions; that a righteous\nheart is the true temple of the Godhead; that in every land, in\nevery sect, to love God above all things and to love our neighbour\nas ourself is the whole law; remember there is no religion which\nabsolves us from our moral duties; that these alone are really\nessential, that the service of the heart is the first of these duties,\nand that without faith there is no such thing as true virtue.\n\n\"Shun those who, under the pretence of explaining nature, sow\ndestructive doctrines in the heart of men, those whose apparent\nscepticism is a hundredfold more self-assertive and dogmatic than\nthe firm tone of their opponents. Under the arrogant claim, that\nthey alone are enlightened, true, honest, they subject us imperiously\nto their far-reaching decisions, and profess to give us, as the\ntrue principles of all things, the unintelligible systems framed by\ntheir imagination. Moreover, they overthrow, destroy, and trample\nunder foot all that men reverence; they rob the afflicted of\ntheir last consolation in their misery; they deprive the rich and\npowerful of the sole bridle of their passions; they tear from the\nvery depths of man's heart all remorse for crime, and all hope of\nvirtue; and they boast, moreover, that they are the benefactors of\nthe human race. Truth, they say, can never do a man harm. I think\nso too, and to my mind that is strong evidence that what they\nteach is not true. [Footnote: The rival parties attack each other\nwith so many sophistries that it would be a rash and overwhelming\nenterprise to attempt to deal with all of them; it is difficult\nenough to note some of them as they occur. One of the commonest\nerrors among the partisans of philosophy is to contrast a nation\nof good philosophers with a nation of bad Christians; as if it were\neasier to make a nation of good philosophers than a nation of good\nChristians. I know not whether in individual cases it is easier to\ndiscover one rather than the other; but I am quite certain that,\nas far as nations are concerned, we must assume that there will\nbe those who misuse their philosophy without religion, just as our\npeople misuse their religion without philosophy, and that seems\nto put quite a different face upon the matter.]--Bayle has proved\nvery satisfactorily that fanaticism is more harmful than atheism,\nand that cannot be denied; but what he has not taken the trouble to\nsay, though it is none the less true, is this: Fanaticism, though\ncruel and bloodthirsty, is still a great and powerful passion,\nwhich stirs the heart of man, teaching him to despise death, and\ngiving him an enormous motive power, which only needs to be guided\nrightly to produce the noblest virtues; while irreligion, and the\nargumentative philosophic spirit generally, on the other hand,\nassaults the life and enfeebles it, degrades the soul, concentrates\nall the passions in the basest self-interest, in the meanness of\nthe human self; thus it saps unnoticed the very foundations of all\nsociety, for what is common to all these private interests is so\nsmall that it will never outweigh their opposing interests.--If\natheism does not lead to bloodshed, it is less from love of peace\nthan from indifference to what is good; as if it mattered little\nwhat happened to others, provided the sage remained undisturbed in\nhis study. His principles do not kill men, but they prevent their\nbirth, by destroying the morals by which they were multiplied, by\ndetaching them from their fellows, by reducing all their affections\nto a secret selfishness, as fatal to population as to virtue. The\nindifference of the philosopher is like the peace in a despotic state;\nit is the repose of death; war itself is not more destructive.--Thus\nfanaticism though its immediate results are more fatal than those\nof what is now called the philosophic mind, is much less fatal in\nits after effects. Moreover, it is an easy matter to exhibit fine\nmaxims in books; but the real question is--Are they really in\naccordance with your teaching, are they the necessary consequences\nof it? and this has not been clearly proved so far. It remains\nto be seen whether philosophy, safely enthroned, could control\nsuccessfully man's petty vanity, his self-interest, his ambition,\nall the lesser passions of mankind, and whether it would practise\nthat sweet humanity which it boasts of, pen in hand.--In theory,\nthere is no good which philosophy can bring about which is not equally\nsecured by religion, while religion secures much that philosophy\ncannot secure.--In practice, it is another matter; but still we\nmust put it to the proof. No man follows his religion in all things,\neven if his religion is true; most people have hardly any religion,\nand they do not in the least follow what they have; that is still\nmore true; but still there are some people who have a religion\nand follow it, at least to some extent; and beyond doubt religious\nmotives do prevent them from wrong-doing, and win from them virtues,\npraiseworthy actions, which would not have existed but for these\nmotives.--A monk denies that money was entrusted to him; what of\nthat? It only proves that the man who entrusted the money to him\nwas a fool. If Pascal had done the same, that would have proved that\nPascal was a hypocrite. But a monk! Are those who make a trade of\nreligion religious people? All the crimes committed by the clergy,\nas by other men, do not prove that religion is useless, but that\nvery few people are religious.--Most certainly our modern governments\nowe to Christianity their more stable authority, their less frequent\nrevolutions; it has made those governments less bloodthirsty; this\ncan be shown by comparing them with the governments of former times.\nApart from fanaticism, the best known religion has given greater\ngentleness to Christian conduct. This change is not the result of\nlearning; for wherever learning has been most illustrious humanity\nhas been no more respected on that account; the cruelties of the\nAthenians, the Egyptians, the Roman emperors, the Chinese bear\nwitness to this. What works of mercy spring from the gospel! How\nmany acts of restitution, reparation, confession does the gospel\nlead to among Catholics! Among ourselves, as the times of communion\ndraw near, do they not lead us to reconciliation and to alms-giving?\nDid not the Hebrew Jubilee make the grasping less greedy, did it\nnot prevent much poverty? The brotherhood of the Law made the nation\none; no beggar was found among them. Neither are there beggars\namong the Turks, where there are countless pious institutions;\nfrom motives of religion they even show hospitality to the foes of\ntheir religion.--\"The Mahometans say, according to Chardin, that\nafter the interrogation which will follow the general resurrection,\nall bodies will traverse a bridge called Poul-Serrho, which is\nthrown across the eternal fires, a bridge which may be called the\nthird and last test of the great Judgment, because it is there that\nthe good and bad will be separated, etc.--\"The Persians, continues\nChardin, make a great point of this bridge; and when any one suffers\na wrong which he can never hope to wipe out by any means or at any\ntime, he finds his last consolation in these words: 'By the living\nGod, you will pay me double at the last day; you will never get\nacross the Poul-Serrho if you do not first do me justice; I will\nhold the hem of your garment, I will cling about your knees.' I\nhave seen many eminent men, of every profession, who for fear lest\nthis hue and cry should be raised against them as they cross that\nfearful bridge, beg pardon of those who complained against them;\nit has happened to me myself on many occasions. Men of rank, who\nhad compelled me by their importunity to do what I did not wish\nto do, have come to me when they thought my anger had had time to\ncool, and have said to me; I pray you \"Halal becon antchisra,\" that\nis, \"Make this matter lawful and right.\" Some of them have even\nsent gifts and done me service, so that I might forgive them and\nsay I did it willingly; the cause of this is nothing else but this\nbelief that they will not be able to get across the bridge of hell\nuntil they have paid the uttermost farthing to the oppressed.\"--Must\nI think that the idea of this bridge where so many iniquities are\nmade good is of no avail? If the Persians were deprived of this\nidea, if they were persuaded that there was no Poul-Serrho, nor\nanything of the kind, where the oppressed were avenged of their\ntyrants after death, is it not clear that they would be very much\nat their ease, and they would be freed from the care of appeasing\nthe wretched? But it is false to say that this doctrine is hurtful;\nyet it would not be true.--O Philosopher, your moral laws are all\nvery fine; but kindly show me their sanction. Cease to shirk the\nquestion, and tell me plainly what you would put in the place of\nPoul-Serrho.\n\n\"My good youth, be honest and humble; learn how to be ignorant, then\nyou will never deceive yourself or others. If ever your talents are\nso far cultivated as to enable you to speak to other men, always\nspeak according to your conscience, without caring for their\napplause. The abuse of knowledge causes incredulity. The learned\nalways despise the opinions of the crowd; each of them must have his\nown opinion. A haughty philosophy leads to atheism just as blind\ndevotion leads to fanaticism. Avoid these extremes; keep steadfastly\nto the path of truth, or what seems to you truth, in simplicity of\nheart, and never let yourself be turned aside by pride or weakness.\nDare to confess God before the philosophers; dare to preach humanity\nto the intolerant. It may be you will stand alone, but you will\nbear within you a witness which will make the witness of men of no\naccount with you. Let them love or hate, let them read your writings\nor despise them; no matter. Speak the truth and do the right; the\none thing that really matters is to do one's duty in this world;\nand when we forget ourselves we are really working for ourselves.\nMy child, self-interest misleads us; the hope of the just is the\nonly sure guide.\"\n\nI have transcribed this document not as a rule for the sentiments\nwe should adopt in matters of religion, but as an example of the way\nin which we may reason with our pupil without forsaking the method\nI have tried to establish. So long as we yield nothing to human\nauthority, nor to the prejudices of our native land, the light of\nreason alone, in a state of nature, can lead us no further than to\nnatural religion; and this is as far as I should go with Emile. If\nhe must have any other religion, I have no right to be his guide;\nhe must choose for himself.\n\nWe are working in agreement with nature, and while she is shaping\nthe physical man, we are striving to shape his moral being, but\nwe do not make the same progress. The body is already strong and\nvigorous, the soul is still frail and delicate, and whatever can be\ndone by human art, the body is always ahead of the mind. Hitherto\nall our care has been devoted to restrain the one and stimulate\nthe other, so that the man might be as far as possible at one with\nhimself. By developing his individuality, we have kept his growing\nsusceptibilities in check; we have controlled it by cultivating\nhis reason. Objects of thought moderate the influence of objects\nof sense. By going back to the causes of things, we have withdrawn\nhim from the sway of the senses; it is an easy thing to raise him\nfrom the study of nature to the search for the author of nature.\n\nWhen we have reached this point, what a fresh hold we have got over\nour pupil; what fresh ways of speaking to his heart! Then alone\ndoes he find a real motive for being good, for doing right when he\nis far from every human eye, and when he is not driven to it by\nlaw. To be just in his own eyes and in the sight of God, to do his\nduty, even at the cost of life itself, and to bear in his heart\nvirtue, not only for the love of order which we all subordinate\nto the love of self, but for the love of the Author of his being,\na love which mingles with that self-love, so that he may at length\nenjoy the lasting happiness which the peace of a good conscience\nand the contemplation of that supreme being promise him in another\nlife, after he has used this life aright. Go beyond this, and I see\nnothing but injustice, hypocrisy, and falsehood among men; private\ninterest, which in competition necessarily prevails over everything\nelse, teaches all things to adorn vice with the outward show of\nvirtue. Let all men do what is good for me at the cost of what is\ngood for themselves; let everything depend on me alone; let the\nwhole human race perish, if needs be, in suffering and want, to\nspare me a moment's pain or hunger. Yes, I shall always maintain\nthat whoso says in his heart, \"There is no God,\" while he takes\nthe name of God upon his lips, is either a liar or a madman.\n\nReader, it is all in vain; I perceive that you and I shall never\nsee Emile with the same eyes; you will always fancy him like your\nown young people, hasty, impetuous, flighty, wandering from fete to\nfete, from amusement to amusement, never able to settle to anything.\nYou smile when I expect to make a thinker, a philosopher, a young\ntheologian, of an ardent, lively, eager, and fiery young man,\nat the most impulsive period of youth. This dreamer, you say, is\nalways in pursuit of his fancy; when he gives us a pupil of his\nown making, he does not merely form him, he creates him, he makes\nhim up out of his own head; and while he thinks he is treading in\nthe steps of nature, he is getting further and further from her.\nAs for me, when I compare my pupil with yours, I can scarcely find\nanything in common between them. So differently brought up, it is\nalmost a miracle if they are alike in any respect. As his childhood\nwas passed in the freedom they assume in youth, in his youth he\nbegins to bear the yoke they bore as children; this yoke becomes\nhateful to them, they are sick of it, and they see in it nothing\nbut their masters' tyranny; when they escape from childhood, they\nthink they must shake off all control, they make up for the prolonged\nrestraint imposed upon them, as a prisoner, freed from his fetters,\nmoves and stretches and shakes his limbs. [Footnote: There is no\none who looks down upon childhood with such lofty scorn as those\nwho are barely grown-up; just as there is no country where rank is\nmore strictly regarded than that where there is little real inequality;\neverybody is afraid of being confounded with his inferiors.] Emile,\nhowever, is proud to be a man, and to submit to the yoke of his\ngrowing reason; his body, already well grown, no longer needs so\nmuch action, and begins to control itself, while his half-fledged\nmind tries its wings on every occasion. Thus the age of reason\nbecomes for the one the age of licence; for the other, the age of\nreasoning.\n\nWould you know which of the two is nearer to the order of nature!\nConsider the differences between those who are more or less removed\nfrom a state of nature. Observe young villagers and see if they\nare as undisciplined as your scholars. The Sieur de Beau says that\nsavages in childhood are always active, and ever busy with sports\nthat keep the body in motion; but scarcely do they reach adolescence\nthan they become quiet and dreamy; they no longer devote themselves\nto games of skill or chance. Emile, who has been brought up in full\nfreedom like young peasants and savages, should behave like them\nand change as he grows up. The whole difference is in this, that\ninstead of merely being active in sport or for food, he has, in the\ncourse of his sports, learned to think. Having reached this stage,\nand by this road, he is quite ready to enter upon the next stage to\nwhich I introduce him; the subjects I suggest for his consideration\nrouse his curiosity, because they are fine in themselves, because\nthey are quite new to him, and because he is able to understand\nthem. Your young people, on the other hand, are weary and overdone\nwith your stupid lessons, your long sermons, and your tedious\ncatechisms; why should they not refuse to devote their minds to\nwhat has made them sad, to the burdensome precepts which have been\ncontinually piled upon them, to the thought of the Author of their\nbeing, who has been represented as the enemy of their pleasures?\nAll this has only inspired in them aversion, disgust, and weariness;\nconstraint has set them against it; why then should they devote\nthemselves to it when they are beginning to choose for themselves?\nThey require novelty, you must not repeat what they learned\nas children. Just so with my own pupil, when he is a man I speak\nto him as a man, and only tell him what is new to him; it is just\nbecause they are tedious to your pupils that he will find them to\nhis taste.\n\nThis is how I doubly gain time for him by retarding nature to the\nadvantage of reason. But have I indeed retarded the progress of\nnature? No, I have only prevented the imagination from hastening\nit; I have employed another sort of teaching to counterbalance\nthe precocious instruction which the young man receives from other\nsources. When he is carried away by the flood of existing customs\nand I draw him in the opposite direction by means of other customs,\nthis is not to remove him from his place, but to keep him in it.\n\nNature's due time comes at length, as come it must. Since man must\ndie, he must reproduce himself, so that the species may endure and\nthe order of the world continue. When by the signs I have spoken of\nyou perceive that the critical moment is at hand, at once abandon\nfor ever your former tone. He is still your disciple, but not your\nscholar. He is a man and your friend; henceforth you must treat\nhim as such.\n\nWhat! Must I abdicate my authority when most I need it? Must I\nabandon the adult to himself just when he least knows how to control\nhimself, when he may fall into the gravest errors! Must I renounce\nmy rights when it matters most that I should use them on his behalf?\nWho bids you renounce them; he is only just becoming conscious of\nthem. Hitherto all you have gained has been won by force or guile;\nauthority, the law of duty, were unknown to him, you had to constrain\nor deceive him to gain his obedience. But see what fresh chains\nyou have bound about his heart. Reason, friendship, affection,\ngratitude, a thousand bonds of affection, speak to him in a voice\nhe cannot fail to hear. His ears are not yet dulled by vice, he\nis still sensitive only to the passions of nature. Self-love, the\nfirst of these, delivers him into your hands; habit confirms this.\nIf a passing transport tears him from you, regret restores him to\nyou without delay; the sentiment which attaches him to you is the\nonly lasting sentiment, all the rest are fleeting and self-effacing.\nDo not let him become corrupt, and he will always be docile; he\nwill not begin to rebel till he is already perverted.\n\nI grant you, indeed, that if you directly oppose his growing desires\nand foolishly treat as crimes the fresh needs which are beginning\nto make themselves felt in him, he will not listen to you for\nlong; but as soon as you abandon my method I cannot be answerable\nfor the consequences. Remember that you are nature's minister; you\nwill never be her foe.\n\nBut what shall we decide to do? You see no alternative but either\nto favour his inclinations or to resist them; to tyrannise or to\nwink at his misconduct; and both of these may lead to such dangerous\nresults that one must indeed hesitate between them.\n\nThe first way out of the difficulty is a very early marriage; this\nis undoubtedly the safest and most natural plan. I doubt, however,\nwhether it is the best or the most useful. I will give my reasons\nlater; meanwhile I admit that young men should marry when they reach\na marriageable age. But this age comes too soon; we have made them\nprecocious; marriage should be postponed to maturity.\n\nIf it were merely a case of listening to their wishes and following\ntheir lead it would be an easy matter; but there are so many\ncontradictions between the rights of nature and the laws of society\nthat to conciliate them we must continually contradict ourselves.\nMuch art is required to prevent man in society from being altogether\nartificial.\n\nFor the reasons just stated, I consider that by the means I have\nindicated and others like them the young man's desires may be kept\nin ignorance and his senses pure up to the age of twenty. This is\nso true that among the Germans a young man who lost his virginity\nbefore that age was considered dishonoured; and the writers justly\nattribute the vigour of constitution and the number of children\namong the Germans to the continence of these nations during youth.\n\nThis period may be prolonged still further, and a few centuries\nago nothing was more common even in France. Among other well-known\nexamples, Montaigne's father, a man no less scrupulously truthful\nthan strong and healthy, swore that his was a virgin marriage at\nthree and thirty, and he had served for a long time in the Italian\nwars. We may see in the writings of his son what strength and\nspirit were shown by the father when he was over sixty. Certainly\nthe contrary opinion depends rather on our own morals and our own\nprejudices than on the experience of the race as a whole.\n\nI may, therefore, leave on one side the experience of our young\npeople; it proves nothing for those who have been educated in\nanother fashion. Considering that nature has fixed no exact limits\nwhich cannot be advanced or postponed, I think I may, without going\nbeyond the law of nature, assume that under my care Emil has so far\nremained in his first innocence, but I see that this happy period\nis drawing to a close. Surrounded by ever-increasing perils, he\nwill escape me at the first opportunity in spite of all my efforts,\nand this opportunity will not long be delayed; he will follow the\nblind instinct of his senses; the chances are a thousand to one on\nhis ruin. I have considered the morals of mankind too profoundly\nnot to be aware of the irrevocable influence of this first moment\non all the rest of his life. If I dissimulate and pretend to see\nnothing, he will take advantage of my weakness; if he thinks he\ncan deceive me, he will despise me, and I become an accomplice in\nhis destruction. If I try to recall him, the time is past, he no\nlonger heeds me, he finds me tiresome, hateful, intolerable; it\nwill not be long before he is rid of me. There is therefore only\none reasonable course open to me; I must make him accountable for\nhis own actions, I must at least preserve him from being taken\nunawares, and I must show him plainly the dangers which beset his\npath. I have restrained him so far through his ignorance; henceforward\nhis restraint must be his own knowledge.\n\nThis new teaching is of great importance, and we will take up our\nstory where we left it. This is the time to present my accounts,\nto show him how his time and mine have been spent, to make known\nto him what he is and what I am; what I have done, and what he has\ndone; what we owe to each other; all his moral relations, all the\nundertakings to which he is pledged, all those to which others\nhave pledged themselves in respect to him; the stage he has reached\nin the development of his faculties, the road that remains to be\ntravelled, the difficulties he will meet, and the way to overcome\nthem; how I can still help him and how he must henceforward help\nhimself; in a word, the critical time which he has reached, the\nnew dangers round about him, and all the valid reasons which should\ninduce him to keep a close watch upon himself before giving heed\nto his growing desires.\n\nRemember that to guide a grown man you must reverse all that you\ndid to guide the child. Do not hesitate to speak to him of those\ndangerous mysteries which you have so carefully concealed from him\nhitherto. Since he must become aware of them, let him not learn\nthem from another, nor from himself, but from you alone; since he\nmust henceforth fight against them, let him know his enemy, that\nhe may not be taken unawares.\n\nYoung people who are found to be aware of these matters, without\nour knowing how they obtained their knowledge, have not obtained it\nwith impunity. This unwise teaching, which can have no honourable\nobject, stains the imagination of those who receive it if it does\nnothing worse, and it inclines them to the vices of their instructors.\nThis is not all; servants, by this means, ingratiate themselves\nwith a child, gain his confidence, make him regard his tutor as a\ngloomy and tiresome person; and one of the favourite subjects of\ntheir secret colloquies is to slander him. When the pupil has got\nso far, the master may abandon his task; he can do no good.\n\nBut why does the child choose special confidants? Because of the\ntyranny of those who control him. Why should he hide himself from\nthem if he were not driven to it? Why should he complain if he had\nnothing to complain of? Naturally those who control him are his\nfirst confidants; you can see from his eagerness to tell them what\nhe thinks that he feels he has only half thought till he has told\nhis thoughts to them. You may be sure that when the child knows you\nwill neither preach nor scold, he will always tell you everything,\nand that no one will dare to tell him anything he must conceal from\nyou, for they will know very well that he will tell you everything.\n\nWhat makes me most confident in my method is this: when I follow\nit out as closely as possible, I find no situation in the life of\nmy scholar which does not leave me some pleasing memory of him.\nEven when he is carried away by his ardent temperament or when he\nrevolts against the hand that guides him, when he struggles and is\non the point of escaping from me, I still find his first simplicity\nin his agitation and his anger; his heart as pure as his body, he\nhas no more knowledge of pretence than of vice; reproach and scorn\nhave not made a coward of him; base fears have never taught him\nthe art of concealment. He has all the indiscretion of innocence;\nhe is absolutely out-spoken; he does not even know the use of\ndeceit.  Every impulse of his heart is betrayed either by word or\nlook, and I often know what he is feeling before he is aware of it\nhimself.\n\nSo long as his heart is thus freely opened to me, so long as he\ndelights to tell me what he feels, I have nothing to fear; the danger\nis not yet at hand; but if he becomes more timid, more reserved,\nif I perceive in his conversation the first signs of confusion and\nshame, his instincts are beginning to develop, he is beginning to\nconnect the idea of evil with these instincts, there is not a moment\nto lose, and if I do not hasten to instruct him, he will learn in\nspite of me.\n\nSome of my readers, even of those who agree with me, will think\nthat it is only a question of a conversation with the young man at\nany time. Oh, this is not the way to control the human heart. What\nwe say has no meaning unless the opportunity has been carefully\nchosen.  Before we sow we must till the ground; the seed of virtue\nis hard to grow; and a long period of preparation is required before\nit will take root. One reason why sermons have so little effect is\nthat they are offered to everybody alike, without discrimination\nor choice.  How can any one imagine that the same sermon could be\nsuitable for so many hearers, with their different dispositions,\nso unlike in mind, temper, age, sex, station, and opinion. Perhaps\nthere are not two among those to whom what is addressed to all is\nreally suitable; and all our affections are so transitory that perhaps\nthere are not even two occasions in the life of any man when the\nsame speech would have the same effect on him. Judge for yourself\nwhether the time when the eager senses disturb the understanding\nand tyrannise over the will, is the time to listen to the solemn\nlessons of wisdom.  Therefore never reason with young men, even\nwhen they have reached the age of reason, unless you have first\nprepared the way. Most lectures miss their mark more through the\nmaster's fault than the disciple's. The pedant and the teacher say\nmuch the same; but the former says it at random, and the latter\nonly when he is sure of its effect.\n\nAs a somnambulist, wandering in his sleep, walks along the edge\nof a precipice, over which he would fall if he were awake, so my\nEmile, in the sleep of ignorance, escapes the perils which he does\nnot see; were I to wake him with a start, he might fall. Let us\nfirst try to withdraw him from the edge of the precipice, and then\nwe will awake him to show him it from a distance.\n\nReading, solitude, idleness, a soft and sedentary life, intercourse\nwith women and young people, these are perilous paths for a young\nman, and these lead him constantly into danger. I divert his senses\nby other objects of sense; I trace another course for his spirits\nby which I distract them from the course they would have taken; it\nis by bodily exercise and hard work that I check the activity of\nthe imagination, which was leading him astray. When the arms are\nhard at work, the imagination is quiet; when the body is very weary,\nthe passions are not easily inflamed. The quickest and easiest\nprecaution is to remove him from immediate danger. At once I take\nhim away from towns, away from things which might lead him into\ntemptation. But that is not enough; in what desert, in what wilds,\nshall he escape from the thoughts which pursue him? It is not\nenough to remove dangerous objects; if I fail to remove the memory\nof them, if I fail to find a way to detach him from everything,\nif I fail to distract him from himself, I might as well have left\nhim where he was.\n\nEmile has learned a trade, but we do not have recourse to it; he\nis fond of farming and understands it, but farming is not enough;\nthe occupations he is acquainted with degenerate into routine; when\nhe is engaged in them he is not really occupied; he is thinking of\nother things; head and hand are at work on different subjects. He\nmust have some fresh occupation which has the interest of novelty--an\noccupation which keeps him busy, diligent, and hard at work, an\noccupation which he may become passionately fond of, one to which\nhe will devote himself entirely. Now the only one which seems to\npossess all these characteristics is the chase. If hunting is ever\nan innocent pleasure, if it is ever worthy of a man, now is the\ntime to betake ourselves to it. Emile is well-fitted to succeed in\nit. He is strong, skilful, patient, unwearied. He is sure to take\na fancy to this sport; he will bring to it all the ardour of youth;\nin it he will lose, at least for a time, the dangerous inclinations\nwhich spring from softness. The chase hardens the heart a well as\nthe body; we get used to the sight of blood and cruelty. Diana is\nrepresented as the enemy of love; and the allegory is true to life;\nthe languors of love are born of soft repose, and tender feelings\nare stifled by violent exercise. In the woods and fields, the lover\nand the sportsman are so diversely affected that they receive very\ndifferent impressions. The fresh shade, the arbours, the pleasant\nresting-places of the one, to the other are but feeding grounds, or\nplaces where the quarry will hide or turn to bay. Where the lover\nhears the flute and the nightingale, the hunter hears the horn\nand the hounds; one pictures to himself the nymphs and dryads, the\nother sees the horses, the huntsman, and the pack. Take a country\nwalk with one or other of these men; their different conversation\nwill soon show you that they behold the earth with other eyes,\nand that the direction of their thoughts is as different as their\nfavourite pursuit.\n\nI understand how these tastes may be combined, and that at last men\nfind time for both. But the passions of youth cannot be divided in\nthis way. Give the youth a single occupation which he loves, and\nthe rest will soon be forgotten. Varied desires come with varied\nknowledge, and the first pleasures we know are the only ones we\ndesire for long enough. I would not have the whole of Emile's youth\nspent in killing creatures, and I do not even profess to justify\nthis cruel passion; it is enough for me that it serves to delay a\nmore dangerous passion, so that he may listen to me calmly when I\nspeak of it, and give me time to describe it without stimulating\nit.\n\nThere are moments in human life which can never be forgotten. Such\nis the time when Emile receives the instruction of which I have\nspoken; its influence should endure all his life through. Let us\ntry to engrave it on his memory so that it may never fade away. It\nis one of the faults of our age to rely too much on cold reason,\nas if men were all mind. By neglecting the language of expression\nwe have lost the most forcible mode of speech. The spoken word is\nalways weak, and we speak to the heart rather through the eyes than\nthe ears. In our attempt to appeal to reason only, we have reduced\nour precepts to words, we have not embodied them in deed. Mere\nreason is not active; occasionally she restrains, more rarely she\nstimulates, but she never does any great thing. Small minds have a\nmania for reasoning. Strong souls speak a very different language,\nand it is by this language that men are persuaded and driven to\naction.\n\nI observe that in modern times men only get a hold over others by\nforce or self-interest, while the ancients did more by persuasion,\nby the affections of the heart; because they did not neglect the\nlanguage; of symbolic expression. All agreements were drawn up\nsolemnly, so that they might be more inviolable; before the reign\nof force, the gods were the judges of mankind; in their presence,\nindividuals made their treaties and alliances, and pledged themselves\nto perform their promises; the face of the earth was the book in\nwhich the archives were preserved. The leaves of this book were\nrocks, trees, piles of stones, made sacred by these transactions,\nand regarded with reverence by barbarous men; and these pages were\nalways open before their eyes. The well of the oath, the well of\nthe living and seeing one; the ancient oak of Mamre, the stones of\nwitness, such were the simple but stately monuments of the sanctity\nof contracts; none dared to lay a sacrilegious hand on these\nmonuments, and man's faith was more secure under the warrant of\nthese dumb witnesses than it is to-day upon all the rigour of the\nlaw.\n\nIn government the people were over-awed by the pomp and splendour\nof royal power. The symbols of greatness, a throne, a sceptre, a\npurple robe, a crown, a fillet, these were sacred in their sight.\nThese symbols, and the respect which they inspired, led them to\nreverence the venerable man whom they beheld adorned with them;\nwithout soldiers and without threats, he spoke and was obeyed.\n[Footnote: The Roman Catholic clergy have very wisely retained\nthese symbols, and certain republics, such as Venice, have followed\ntheir example.  Thus the Venetian government, despite the fallen\ncondition of the state, still enjoys, under the trappings of\nits former greatness, all the affection, all the reverence of the\npeople; and next to the pope in his triple crown, there is perhaps\nno king, no potentate, no person in the world so much respected\nas the Doge of Venice; he has no power, no authority, but he is\nrendered sacred by his pomp, and he wears beneath his ducal coronet\na woman's flowing locks. That ceremony of the Bucentaurius, which\nstirs the laughter of fools, stirs the Venetian populace to shed\nits life-blood for the maintenance of this tyrannical government.]\nIn our own day men profess to do away with these symbols. What are\nthe consequences of this contempt? The kingly majesty makes no\nimpression on all hearts, kings can only gain obedience by the help\nof troops, and the respect of their subjects is based only on the\nfear of punishment. Kings are spared the trouble of wearing their\ncrowns, and our nobles escape from the outward signs of their\nstation, but they must have a hundred thousand men at their command\nif their orders are to be obeyed. Though this may seem a finer\nthing, it is easy to see that in the long run they will gain nothing.\n\nIt is amazing what the ancients accomplished with the aid of\neloquence; but this eloquence did not merely consist in fine speeches\ncarefully prepared; and it was most effective when the orator said\nleast. The most startling speeches were expressed not in words but\nin signs; they were not uttered but shown. A thing beheld by the\neyes kindles the imagination, stirs the curiosity, and keeps the\nmind on the alert for what we are about to say, and often enough\nthe thing tells the whole story. Thrasybulus and Tarquin cutting\noff the heads of the poppies, Alexander placing his seal on the\nlips of his favourite, Diogenes marching before Zeno, do not these\nspeak more plainly than if they had uttered long orations? What\nflow of words could have expressed the ideas as clearly? Darius,\nin the course of the Scythian war, received from the king of the\nScythians a bird, a frog, a mouse, and five arrows. The ambassador\ndeposited this gift and retired without a word. In our days he would\nhave been taken for a madman. This terrible speech was understood,\nand Darius withdrew to his own country with what speed he could.\nSubstitute a letter for these symbols and the more threatening it\nwas the less terror it would inspire; it would have been merely a\npiece of bluff, to which Darius would have paid no attention.\n\nWhat heed the Romans gave to the language of signs! Different ages\nand different ranks had their appropriate garments, toga, tunic,\npatrician robes, fringes and borders, seats of honour, lictors,\nrods and axes, crowns of gold, crowns of leaves, crowns of flowers,\novations, triumphs, everything had its pomp, its observances,\nits ceremonial, and all these spoke to the heart of the citizens.\nThe state regarded it as a matter of importance that the populace\nshould assemble in one place rather than another, that they should\nor should not behold the Capitol, that they should or should not\nturn towards the Senate, that this day or that should be chosen for\ntheir deliberations. The accused wore a special dress, so did the\ncandidates for election; warriors did not boast of their exploits,\nthey showed their scars. I can fancy one of our orators at the\ndeath of Caesar exhausting all the commonplaces of rhetoric to give\na pathetic description of his wounds, his blood, his dead body;\nAnthony was an orator, but he said none of this; he showed the\nmurdered Caesar. What rhetoric was this!\n\nBut this digression, like many others, is drawing me unawares away\nfrom my subject; and my digressions are too frequent to be borne\nwith patience. I therefore return to the point.\n\nDo not reason coldly with youth. Clothe your reason with a body,\nif you would make it felt. Let the mind speak the language of the\nheart, that it may be understood. I say again our opinions, not our\nactions, may be influenced by cold argument; they set us thinking,\nnot doing; they show us what we ought to think, not what we ought\nto do. If this is true of men, it is all the truer of young people\nwho are still enwrapped in their senses and cannot think otherwise\nthan they imagine.\n\nEven after the preparations of which I have spoken, I shall take\ngood care not to go all of a sudden to Emile's room and preach a\nlong and heavy sermon on the subject in which he is to be instructed.\nI shall begin by rousing his imagination; I shall choose the time,\nplace, and surroundings most favourable to the impression I wish\nto make; I shall, so to speak, summon all nature as witness to our\nconversations; I shall call upon the eternal God, the Creator of\nnature, to bear witness to the truth of what I say. He shall judge\nbetween Emile and myself; I will make the rocks, the woods, the\nmountains round about us, the monuments of his promises and mine;\neyes, voice, and gesture shall show the enthusiasm I desire to\ninspire. Then I will speak and he will listen, and his emotion will\nbe stirred by my own. The more impressed I am by the sanctity of\nmy duties, the more sacred he will regard his own. I will enforce\nthe voice of reason with images and figures, I will not give him\nlong-winded speeches or cold precepts, but my overflowing feelings\nwill break their bounds; my reason shall be grave and serious, but\nmy heart cannot speak too warmly. Then when I have shown him all\nthat I have done for him, I will show him how he is made for me;\nhe will see in my tender affection the cause of all my care. How\ngreatly shall I surprise and disturb him when I change my tone.\nInstead of shrivelling up his soul by always talking of his own\ninterests, I shall henceforth speak of my own; he will be more\ndeeply touched by this. I will kindle in his young heart all the\nsentiments of affection, generosity, and gratitude which I have\nalready called into being, and it will indeed be sweet to watch\ntheir growth. I will press him to my bosom, and weep over him in\nmy emotion; I will say to him: \"You are my wealth, my child, my\nhandiwork; my happiness is bound up in yours; if you frustrate my\nhopes, you rob me of twenty years of my life, and you bring my grey\nhairs with sorrow to the grave.\" This is the way to gain a hearing\nand to impress what is said upon the heart and memory of the young\nman.\n\nHitherto I have tried to give examples of the way in which a tutor\nshould instruct his pupil in cases of difficulty. I have tried to\ndo so in this instance; but after many attempts I have abandoned\nthe task, convinced that the French language is too artificial\nto permit in print the plainness of speech required for the first\nlessons in certain subjects.\n\nThey say French is more chaste than other languages; for my own\npart I think it more obscene; for it seems to me that the purity\nof a language does not consist in avoiding coarse expressions but\nin having none. Indeed, if we are to avoid them, they must be in\nour thoughts, and there is no language in which it is so difficult\nto speak with purity on every subject than French. The reader is\nalways quicker to detect than the author to avoid a gross meaning,\nand he is shocked and startled by everything. How can what is heard\nby impure ears avoid coarseness? On the other hand, a nation whose\nmorals are pure has fit terms for everything, and these terms are\nalways right because they are rightly used. One could not imagine\nmore modest language than that of the Bible, just because of its\nplainness of speech. The same things translated into French would\nbecome immodest. What I ought to say to Emile will sound pure and\nhonourable to him; but to make the same impression in print would\ndemand a like purity of heart in the reader.\n\nI should even think that reflections on true purity of speech\nand the sham delicacy of vice might find a useful place in the\nconversations as to morality to which this subject brings us; for\nwhen he learns the language of plain-spoken goodness, he must also\nlearn the language of decency, and he must know why the two are\nso different. However this may be, I maintain that if instead of\nthe empty precepts which are prematurely dinned into the ears of\nchildren, only to be scoffed at when the time comes when they might\nprove useful, if instead of this we bide our time, if we prepare\nthe way for a hearing, if we then show him the laws of nature in\nall their truth, if we show him the sanction of these laws in the\nphysical and moral evils which overtake those who neglect them,\nif while we speak to him of this great mystery of generation, we\njoin to the idea of the pleasure which the Author of nature has\ngiven to this act the idea of the exclusive affection which makes\nit delightful, the idea of the duties of faithfulness and modesty\nwhich surround it, and redouble its charm while fulfilling its\npurpose; if we paint to him marriage, not only as the sweetest form\nof society, but also as the most sacred and inviolable of contracts,\nif we tell him plainly all the reasons which lead men to respect\nthis sacred bond, and to pour hatred and curses upon him who dares\nto dishonour it; if we give him a true and terrible picture of the\nhorrors of debauch, of its stupid brutality, of the downward road\nby which a first act of misconduct leads from bad to worse, and at\nlast drags the sinner to his ruin; if, I say, we give him proofs\nthat on a desire for chastity depends health, strength, courage,\nvirtue, love itself, and all that is truly good for man--I maintain\nthat this chastity will be so dear and so desirable in his eyes,\nthat his mind will be ready to receive our teaching as to the way\nto preserve it; for so long as we are chaste we respect chastity;\nit is only when we have lost this virtue that we scorn it.\n\nIt is not true that the inclination to evil is beyond our control,\nand that we cannot overcome it until we have acquired the habit of\nyielding to it. Aurelius Victor says that many men were mad enough\nto purchase a night with Cleopatra at the price of their life,\nand this is not incredible in the madness of passion. But let us\nsuppose the maddest of men, the man who has his senses least under\ncontrol; let him see the preparations for his death, let him realise\nthat he will certainly die in torment a quarter of an hour later;\nnot only would that man, from that time forward, become able\nto resist temptation, he would even find it easy to do so; the\nterrible picture with which they are associated will soon distract\nhis attention from these temptations, and when they are continually\nput aside they will cease to recur. The sole cause of our weakness\nis the feebleness of our will, and we have always strength to\nperform what we strongly desire. \"Volenti nihil difficile!\" Oh! if\nonly we hated vice as much as we love life, we should abstain as\neasily from a pleasant sin as from a deadly poison in a delicious\ndish.\n\nHow is it that you fail to perceive that if all the lessons given\nto a young man on this subject have no effect, it is because they\nare not adapted to his age, and that at every age reason must be\npresented in a shape which will win his affection? Speak seriously\nto him if required, but let what you say to him always have a charm\nwhich will compel him to listen. Do not coldly oppose his wishes;\ndo not stifle his imagination, but direct it lest it should bring\nforth monsters. Speak to him of love, of women, of pleasure; let\nhim find in your conversation a charm which delights his youthful\nheart; spare no pains to make yourself his confidant; under this\nname alone will you really be his master. Then you need not fear\nhe will find your conversation tedious; he will make you talk more\nthan you desire.\n\nIf I have managed to take all the requisite precautions in accordance\nwith these maxims, and have said the right things to Emile at the\nage he has now reached, I am quite convinced that he will come of\nhis own accord to the point to which I would lead him, and will\neagerly confide himself to my care. When he sees the dangers by\nwhich he is surrounded, he will say to me with all the warmth of\nyouth, \"Oh, my friend, my protector, my master! resume the authority\nyou desire to lay aside at the very time when I most need it;\nhitherto my weakness has given you this power. I now place it in\nyour hands of my own free-will, and it will be all the more sacred\nin my eyes. Protect me from all the foes which are attacking me,\nand above all from the traitors within the citadel; watch over\nyour work, that it may still be worthy of you. I mean to obey your\nlaws, I shall ever do so, that is my steadfast purpose; if I ever\ndisobey you, it will be against my will; make me free by guarding\nme against the passions which do me violence; do not let me become\ntheir slave; compel me to be my own master and to obey, not my\nsenses, but my reason.\"\n\nWhen you have led your pupil so far (and it will be your own fault\nif you fail to do so), beware of taking him too readily at his word,\nlest your rule should seem too strict to him, and lest he should\nthink he has a right to escape from it, by accusing you of taking\nhim by surprise. This is the time for reserve and seriousness; and\nthis attitude will have all the more effect upon him seeing that\nit is the first time you have adopted it towards him.\n\nYou will say to him therefore: \"Young man, you readily make promises\nwhich are hard to keep; you must understand what they mean before\nyou have a right to make them; you do not know how your fellows\nare drawn by their passions into the whirlpool of vice masquerading\nas pleasure. You are honourable, I know; you will never break your\nword, but how often will you repent of having given it? How often\nwill you curse your friend, when, in order to guard you from the\nills which threaten you, he finds himself compelled to do violence\nto your heart. Like Ulysses who, hearing the song of the Sirens,\ncried aloud to his rowers to unbind him, you will break your\nchains at the call of pleasure; you will importune me with your\nlamentations, you will reproach me as a tyrant when I have your\nwelfare most at heart; when I am trying to make you happy, I shall\nincur your hatred. Oh, Emile, I can never bear to be hateful in\nyour eyes; this is too heavy a price to pay even for your happiness.\nMy dear young man, do you not see that when you undertake to obey\nme, you compel me to promise to be your guide, to forget myself\nin my devotion to you, to refuse to listen to your murmurs and\ncomplaints, to wage unceasing war against your wishes and my own.\nBefore we either of us undertake such a task, let us count our\nresources; take your time, give me time to consider, and be sure\nthat the slower we are to promise, the more faithfully will our\npromises be kept.\"\n\nYou may be sure that the more difficulty he finds in getting your\npromise, the easier you will find it to carry it out. The young\nman must learn that he is promising a great deal, and that you\nare promising still more. When the time is come, when he has, so\nto say, signed the contract, then change your tone, and make your\nrule as gentle as you said it would be severe. Say to him, \"My\nyoung friend, it is experience that you lack; but I have taken care\nthat you do not lack reason. You are ready to see the motives of\nmy conduct in every respect; to do this you need only wait till\nyou are free from excitement. Always obey me first, and then ask\nthe reasons for my commands; I am always ready to give my reasons\nso soon as you are ready to listen to them, and I shall never be\nafraid to make you the judge between us. You promise to follow my\nteaching, and I promise only to use your obedience to make you the\nhappiest of men. For proof of this I have the life you have lived\nhitherto. Show me any one of your age who has led as happy a life\nas yours, and I promise you nothing more.\"\n\nWhen my authority is firmly established, my first care will be to\navoid the necessity of using it. I shall spare no pains to become\nmore and more firmly established in his confidence, to make myself\nthe confidant of his heart and the arbiter of his pleasures. Far\nfrom combating his youthful tastes, I shall consult them that I\nmay be their master; I will look at things from his point of view\nthat I may be his guide; I will not seek a remote distant good at\nthe cost of his present happiness. I would always have him happy\nalways if that may be.\n\nThose who desire to guide young people rightly and to preserve them\nfrom the snares of sense give them a disgust for love, and would\nwillingly make the very thought of it a crime, as if love were\nfor the old. All these mistaken lessons have no effect; the heart\ngives the lie to them. The young man, guided by a surer instinct,\nlaughs to himself over the gloomy maxims which he pretends to\naccept, and only awaits the chance of disregarding them. All that\nis contrary to nature. By following the opposite course I reach\nthe same end more safely. I am not afraid to encourage in him the\ntender feeling for which he is so eager, I shall paint it as the\nsupreme joy of life, as indeed it is; when I picture it to him, I\ndesire that he shall give himself up to it; by making him feel the\ncharm which the union of hearts adds to the delights of sense, I\nshall inspire him with a disgust for debauchery; I shall make him\na lover and a good man.\n\nHow narrow-minded to see nothing in the rising desires of a young\nheart but obstacles to the teaching of reason. In my eyes, these\nare the right means to make him obedient to that very teaching.\nOnly through passion can we gain the mastery over passions; their\ntyranny must be controlled by their legitimate power, and nature\nherself must furnish us with the means to control her.\n\nEmile is not made to live alone, he is a member of society, and must\nfulfil his duties as such. He is made to live among his fellow-men\nand he must get to know them. He knows mankind in general; he has\nstill to learn to know individual men. He knows what goes on in the\nworld; he has now to learn how men live in the world. It is time\nto show him the front of that vast stage, of which he already\nknows the hidden workings. It will not arouse in him the foolish\nadmiration of a giddy youth, but the discrimination of an exact\nand upright spirit. He may no doubt be deceived by his passions;\nwho is there who yields to his passions without being led astray\nby them? At least he will not be deceived by the passions of other\npeople. If he sees them, he will regard them with the eye of the\nwise, and will neither be led away by their example nor seduced by\ntheir prejudices.\n\nAs there is a fitting age for the study of the sciences, so there\nis a fitting age for the study of the ways of the world. Those who\nlearn these too soon, follow them throughout life, without choice\nor consideration, and although they follow them fairly well they\nnever really know what they are about. But he who studies the ways\nof the world and sees the reason for them, follows them with more\ninsight, and therefore more exactly and gracefully. Give me a child\nof twelve who knows nothing at all; at fifteen I will restore him\nto you knowing as much as those who have been under instruction\nfrom infancy; with this difference, that your scholars only know\nthings by heart, while mine knows how to use his knowledge. In\nthe same way plunge a young man of twenty into society; under good\nguidance, in a year's time, he will be more charming and more truly\npolite than one brought up in society from childhood. For the former\nis able to perceive the reasons for all the proceedings relating\nto age, position, and sex, on which the customs of society depend,\nand can reduce them to general principles, and apply them to\nunforeseen emergencies; while the latter, who is guided solely by\nhabit, is at a loss when habit fails him.\n\nYoung French ladies are all brought up in convents till they are\nmarried. Do they seem to find any difficulty in acquiring the ways\nwhich are so new to them, and is it possible to accuse the ladies\nof Paris of awkward and embarrassed manners or of ignorance of the\nways of society, because they have not acquired them in infancy!\nThis is the prejudice of men of the world, who know nothing of more\nimportance than this trifling science, and wrongly imagine that\nyou cannot begin to acquire it too soon.\n\nOn the other hand, it is quite true that we must not wait too long.\nAny one who has spent the whole of his youth far from the great\nworld is all his life long awkward, constrained, out of place; his\nmanners will be heavy and clumsy, no amount of practice will get\nrid of this, and he will only make himself more ridiculous by trying\nto do so. There is a time for every kind of teaching and we ought\nto recognise it, and each has its own dangers to be avoided. At this\nage there are more dangers than at any other; but I do not expose\nmy pupil to them without safeguards.\n\nWhen my method succeeds completely in attaining one object, and\nwhen in avoiding one difficulty it also provides against another,\nI then consider that it is a good method, and that I am on the\nright track.  This seems to be the case with regard to the expedient\nsuggested by me in the present case. If I desire to be stern and\ncold towards my pupil, I shall lose his confidence, and he will soon\nconceal himself from me. If I wish to be easy and complaisant, to\nshut my eyes, what good does it do him to be under my care? I only\ngive my authority to his excesses, and relieve his conscience at\nthe expense of my own.  If I introduce him into society with no\nobject but to teach him, he will learn more than I want. If I keep\nhim apart from society, what will he have learnt from me? Everything\nperhaps, except the one art absolutely necessary to a civilised\nman, the art of living among his fellow-men. If I try to attend to\nthis at a distance, it will be of no avail; he is only concerned\nwith the present. If I am content to supply him with amusement, he\nwill acquire habits of luxury and will learn nothing.\n\nWe will have none of this. My plan provides for everything. Your\nheart, I say to the young man, requires a companion; let us go\nin search of a fitting one; perhaps we shall not easily find such\na one, true worth is always rare, but we will be in no hurry, nor\nwill we be easily discouraged. No doubt there is such a one, and\nwe shall find her at last, or at least we shall find some one like\nher. With an end so attractive to himself, I introduce him into\nsociety. What more need I say? Have I not achieved my purpose?\n\nBy describing to him his future mistress, you may imagine whether\nI shall gain a hearing, whether I shall succeed in making the\nqualities he ought to love pleasing and dear to him, whether I shall\nsway his feelings to seek or shun what is good or bad for him. I\nshall be the stupidest of men if I fail to make him in love with he\nknows not whom. No matter that the person I describe is imaginary,\nit is enough to disgust him with those who might have attracted\nhim; it is enough if it is continually suggesting comparisons which\nmake him prefer his fancy to the real people he sees; and is not\nlove itself a fancy, a falsehood, an illusion? We are far more in\nlove with our own fancy than with the object of it. If we saw the\nobject of our affections as it is, there would be no such thing as\nlove.  When we cease to love, the person we used to love remains\nunchanged, but we no longer see with the same eyes; the magic veil\nis drawn aside, and love disappears. But when I supply the object\nof imagination, I have control over comparisons, and I am able\neasily to prevent illusion with regard to realities.\n\nFor all that I would not mislead a young man by describing a model\nof perfection which could never exist; but I would so choose the\nfaults of his mistress that they will suit him, that he will be\npleased by them, and they may serve to correct his own. Neither\nwould I lie to him and affirm that there really is such a person;\nlet him delight in the portrait, he will soon desire to find the\noriginal. From desire to belief the transition is easy; it is a\nmatter of a little skilful description, which under more perceptible\nfeatures will give to this imaginary object an air of greater reality.\nI would go so far as to give her a name; I would say, smiling. Let\nus call your future mistress Sophy; Sophy is a name of good omen;\nif it is not the name of the lady of your choice at least she will\nbe worthy of the name; we may honour her with it meanwhile.  If\nafter all these details, without affirming or denying, we excuse\nourselves from giving an answer, his suspicions will become certainty;\nhe will think that his destined bride is purposely concealed from\nhim, and that he will see her in good time. If once he has arrived\nat this conclusion and if the characteristics to be shown to him\nhave been well chosen, the rest is easy; there will be little risk\nin exposing him to the world; protect him from his senses, and his\nheart is safe.\n\nBut whether or no he personifies the model I have contrived to\nmake so attractive to him, this model, if well done, will attach\nhim none the less to everything that resembles itself, and will\ngive him as great a distaste for all that is unlike it as if Sophy\nreally existed. What a means to preserve his heart from the dangers\nto which his appearance would expose him, to repress his senses\nby means of his imagination, to rescue him from the hands of those\nwomen who profess to educate young men, and make them pay so dear\nfor their teaching, and only teach a young man manners by making\nhim utterly shameless. Sophy is so modest? What would she think of\ntheir advances! Sophy is so simple! How would she like their airs?\nThey are too far from his thoughts and his observations to be\ndangerous.\n\nEvery one who deals with the control of children follows the same\nprejudices and the same maxima, for their observation is at fault,\nand their reflection still more so. A young man is led astray in\nthe first place neither by temperament nor by the senses, but by\npopular opinion. If we were concerned with boys brought up in boarding\nschools or girls in convents, I would show that this applies even\nto them; for the first lessons they learn from each other, the only\nlessons that bear fruit, are those of vice; and it is not nature\nthat corrupts them but example. But let us leave the boarders in\nschools and convents to their bad morals; there is no cure for them.\nI am dealing only with home training. Take a young man carefully\neducated in his father's country house, and examine him when he\nreaches Paris and makes his entrance into society; you will find\nhim thinking clearly about honest matters, and you will find his\nwill as wholesome as his reason. You will find scorn of vice and\ndisgust for debauchery; his face will betray his innocent horror at\nthe very mention of a prostitute. I maintain that no young man could\nmake up his mind to enter the gloomy abodes of these unfortunates\nby himself, if indeed he were aware of their purpose and felt their\nnecessity.\n\nSee the same young man six months later, you will not know him;\nfrom his bold conversation, his fashionable maxims, his easy air,\nyou would take him for another man, if his jests over his former\nsimplicity and his shame when any one recalls it did not show that\nit is he indeed and that he is ashamed of himself. How greatly has\nhe changed in so short a time! What has brought about so sudden and\ncomplete a change? His physical development? Would not that have\ntaken place in his father's house, and certainly he would not have\nacquired these maxims and this tone at home? The first charms of\nsense? On the contrary; those who are beginning to abandon themselves\nto these pleasures are timid and anxious, they shun the light and\nnoise. The first pleasures are always mysterious, modesty gives\nthem their savour, and modesty conceals them; the first mistress\ndoes not make a man bold but timid. Wholly absorbed in a situation\nso novel to him, the young man retires into himself to enjoy it,\nand trembles for fear it should escape him. If he is noisy he knows\nneither passion nor love; however he may boast, he has not enjoyed.\n\nThese changes are merely the result of changed ideas. His heart is\nthe same, but his opinions have altered. His feelings, which change\nmore slowly, will at length yield to his opinions and it is then\nthat he is indeed corrupted. He has scarcely made his entrance\ninto society before he receives a second education quite unlike the\nfirst, which teaches him to despise what he esteemed, and esteem\nwhat he despised; he learns to consider the teaching of his parents\nand masters as the jargon of pedants, and the duties they have\ninstilled into him as a childish morality, to be scorned now that\nhe is grown up. He thinks he is bound in honour to change his\nconduct; he becomes forward without desire, and he talks foolishly\nfrom false shame. He rails against morality before he has any taste\nfor vice, and prides himself on debauchery without knowing how to\nset about it. I shall never forget the confession of a young officer\nin the Swiss Guards, who was utterly sick of the noisy pleasures\nof his comrades, but dared not refuse to take part in them lest he\nshould be laughed at. \"I am getting used to it,\" he said, \"as I am\ngetting used to taking snuff; the taste will come with practice;\nit will not do to be a child for ever.\"\n\nSo a young man when he enters society must be preserved from vanity\nrather than from sensibility; he succumbs rather to the tastes\nof others than to his own, and self-love is responsible for more\nlibertines than love.\n\nThis being granted, I ask you. Is there any one on earth better\narmed than my pupil against all that may attack his morals, his\nsentiments, his principles; is there any one more able to resist the\nflood? What seduction is there against which he is not forearmed?\nIf his desires attract him towards women, he fails to find what\nhe seeks, and his heart, already occupied, holds him back. If he\nis disturbed and urged onward by his senses, where will he find\nsatisfaction? His horror of adultery and debauch keeps him at a\ndistance from prostitutes and married women, and the disorders of\nyouth may always be traced to one or other of these. A maiden may\nbe a coquette, but she will not be shameless, she will not fling\nherself at the head of a young man who may marry her if he believes\nin her virtue; besides she is always under supervision. Emile, too,\nwill not be left entirely to himself; both of them will be under\nthe guardianship of fear and shame, the constant companions of\na first passion; they will not proceed at once to misconduct, and\nthey will not have time to come to it gradually without hindrance.\nIf he behaves otherwise, he must have taken lessons from his comrades,\nhe must have learned from them to despise his self-control, and to\nimitate their boldness. But there is no one in the whole world so\nlittle given to imitation as Emile. What man is there who is so\nlittle influenced by mockery as one who has no prejudices himself\nand yields nothing to the prejudices of others. I have laboured\ntwenty years to arm him against mockery; they will not make him\ntheir dupe in a day; for in his eyes ridicule is the argument of\nfools, and nothing makes one less susceptible to raillery than to\nbe beyond the influence of prejudice. Instead of jests he must have\narguments, and while he is in this frame of mind, I am not afraid\nthat he will be carried away by young fools; conscience and truth\nare on my side. If prejudice is to enter into the matter at all,\nan affection of twenty years' standing counts for something; no one\nwill ever convince him that I have wearied him with vain lessons;\nand in a heart so upright and so sensitive the voice of a tried and\ntrusted friend will soon efface the shouts of twenty libertines.\nAs it is therefore merely a question of showing him that he is\ndeceived, that while they pretend to treat him as a man they are\nreally treating him as a child, I shall choose to be always simple\nbut serious and plain in my arguments, so that he may feel that I\ndo indeed treat him as a man. I will say to him, You will see that\nyour welfare, in which my own is bound up, compels me to speak; I\ncan do nothing else. But why do these young men want to persuade\nyou?  Because they desire to seduce you; they do not care for you,\nthey take no real interest in you; their only motive is a secret\nspite because they see you are better than they; they want to\ndrag you down to their own level, and they only reproach you with\nsubmitting to control that they may themselves control you. Do you\nthink you have anything to gain by this? Are they so much wiser\nthan I, is the affection of a day stronger than mine? To give any\nweight to their jests they must give weight to their authority; and\nby what experience do they support their maxima above ours? They\nhave only followed the example of other giddy youths, as they would\nhave you follow theirs. To escape from the so-called prejudices\nof their fathers, they yield to those of their comrades. I cannot\nsee that they are any the better off; but I see that they lose two\nthings of value--the affection of their parents, whose advice is\nthat of tenderness and truth, and the wisdom of experience which\nteaches us to judge by what we know; for their fathers have once\nbeen young, but the young men have never been fathers.\n\nBut you think they are at least sincere in their foolish precepts.\nNot so, dear Emile; they deceive themselves in order to deceive you;\nthey are not in agreement with themselves; their heart continually\nrevolts, and their very words often contradict themselves. This man\nwho mocks at everything good would be in despair if his wife held\nthe same views. Another extends his indifference to good morals even\nto his future wife, or he sinks to such depths of infamy as to be\nindifferent to his wife's conduct; but go a step further; speak to\nhim of his mother; is he willing to be treated as the child of an\nadulteress and the son of a woman of bad character, is he ready\nto assume the name of a family, to steal the patrimony of the true\nheir, in a word will he bear being treated as a bastard? Which of\nthem will permit his daughter to be dishonoured as he dishonours\nthe daughter of another? There is not one of them who would not kill\nyou if you adopted in your conduct towards him all the principles\nhe tries to teach you. Thus they prove their inconsistency, and\nwe know they do not believe what they say. Here are reasons, dear\nEmile; weigh their arguments if they have any, and compare them\nwith mine.  If I wished to have recourse like them to scorn and\nmockery, you would see that they lend themselves to ridicule as\nmuch or more than myself. But I am not afraid of serious inquiry.\nThe triumph of mockers is soon over; truth endures, and their\nfoolish laughter dies away.\n\nYou do not think that Emile, at twenty, can possibly be docile. How\ndifferently we think! I cannot understand how he could be docile\nat ten, for what hold have I on him at that age? It took me fifteen\nyears of careful preparation to secure that hold. I was not educating\nhim, but preparing him for education. He is now sufficiently educated\nto be docile; he recognises the voice of friendship and he knows\nhow to obey reason. It is true I allow him a show of freedom, but\nhe was never more completely under control, because he obeys of\nhis own free will. So long as I could not get the mastery over his\nwill, I retained my control over his person; I never left him for\na moment. Now I sometimes leave him to himself because I control\nhim continually. When I leave him I embrace him and I say with\nconfidence: Emile, I trust you to my friend, I leave you to his\nhonour; he will answer for you.\n\nTo corrupt healthy affections which have not been previously\ndepraved, to efface principles which are directly derived from our\nown reasoning, is not the work of a moment. If any change takes\nplace during my absence, that absence will not be long, he will\nnever be able to conceal himself from me, so that I shall perceive\nthe danger before any harm comes of it, and I shall be in time to\nprovide a remedy. As we do not become depraved all at once, neither\ndo we learn to deceive all at once; and if ever there was a man\nunskilled in the art of deception it is Emile, who has never had\nany occasion for deceit.\n\nBy means of these precautions and others like them, I expect to\nguard him so completely against strange sights and vulgar precepts\nthat I would rather see him in the worst company in Paris than alone\nin his room or in a park left to all the restlessness of his age.\nWhatever we may do, a young man's worst enemy is himself, and\nthis is an enemy we cannot avoid. Yet this is an enemy of our own\nmaking, for, as I have said again and again, it is the imagination\nwhich stirs the senses. Desire is not a physical need; it is not\ntrue that it is a need at all. If no lascivious object had met our\neye, if no unclean thought had entered our mind, this so-called\nneed might never have made itself felt, and we should have remained\nchaste, without temptation, effort, or merit. We do not know how\nthe blood of youth is stirred by certain situations and certain\nsights, while the youth himself does not understand the cause of\nhis uneasiness-an uneasiness difficult to subdue and certain to\nrecur. For my own part, the more I consider this serious crisis\nand its causes, immediate and remote, the more convinced I am that\na solitary brought up in some desert, apart from books, teaching,\nand women, would die a virgin, however long he lived.\n\nBut we are not concerned with a savage of this sort. When we\neducate a man among his fellow-men and for social life, we cannot,\nand indeed we ought not to, bring him up in this wholesome ignorance,\nand half knowledge is worse than none. The memory of things we have\nobserved, the ideas we have acquired, follow us into retirement\nand people it, against our will, with images more seductive than\nthe things themselves, and these make solitude as fatal to those\nwho bring such ideas with them as it is wholesome for those who\nhave never left it.\n\nTherefore, watch carefully over the young man; he can protect\nhimself from all other foes, but it is for you to protect him\nagainst himself. Never leave him night or day, or at least share\nhis room; never let him go to bed till he is sleepy, and let him\nrise as soon as he wakes. Distrust instinct as soon as you cease\nto rely altogether upon it. Instinct was good while he acted under\nits guidance only; now that he is in the midst of human institutions,\ninstinct is not to be trusted; it must not be destroyed, it must\nbe controlled, which is perhaps a more difficult matter. It would\nbe a dangerous matter if instinct taught your pupil to abuse his\nsenses; if once he acquires this dangerous habit he is ruined. From\nthat time forward, body and soul will be enervated; he will carry\nto the grave the sad effects of this habit, the most fatal habit\nwhich a young man can acquire. If you cannot attain to the mastery\nof your passions, dear Emile, I pity you; but I shall not hesitate\nfor a moment, I will not permit the purposes of nature to be evaded.\nIf you must be a slave, I prefer to surrender you to a tyrant from\nwhom I may deliver you; whatever happens, I can free you more easily\nfrom the slavery of women than from yourself.\n\nUp to the age of twenty, the body is still growing and requires\nall its strength; till that age continence is the law of nature,\nand this law is rarely violated without injury to the constitution.\nAfter twenty, continence is a moral duty; it is an important\nduty, for it teaches us to control ourselves, to be masters of our\nown appetites. But moral duties have their modifications, their\nexceptions, their rules. When human weakness makes an alternative\ninevitable, of two evils choose the least; in any case it is better\nto commit a misdeed than to contract a vicious habit.\n\nRemember, I am not talking of my pupil now, but of yours. His\npassions, to which you have given way, are your master; yield to\nthem openly and without concealing his victory. If you are able\nto show him it in its true light, he will be ashamed rather than\nproud of it, and you will secure the right to guide him in his\nwanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices. The disciple must\ndo nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge and consent of his\nmaster; it is a hundredfold better that the tutor should approve\nof a misdeed than that he should deceive himself or be deceived by\nhis pupil, and the wrong should be done without his knowledge. He\nwho thinks he must shut his eyes to one thing, must soon shut them\naltogether; the first abuse which is permitted leads to others, and\nthis chain of consequences only ends in the complete overthrow of\nall order and contempt for every law.\n\nThere is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistake\ncontinually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affect\nthe dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciples\nas perfect. This method is just the contrary of what should be\ndone.  How is it that they fail to perceive that when they try to\nstrengthen their authority they are really destroying it; that to\ngain a hearing one must put oneself in the place of our hearers,\nand that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All these\nperfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say, \"It\nis easy for them to fight against passions they do not feel.\" Show\nyour pupil your own weaknesses if you want to cure his; let him\nsee in you struggles like his own; let him learn by your example\nto master himself and let him not say like other young men, \"These\nold people, who are vexed because they are no longer young, want to\ntreat all young people as if they were old; and they make a crime\nof our passions because their own passions are dead.\"\n\nMontaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often,\nin his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king's\nservice. I would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young man\nhow often he has entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil's sake.\nHow often? I am wrong. If the first time has not cured the young\nlibertine of all desire to go there again, if he does not return\npenitent and ashamed, if he does not shed torrents of tears upon\nyour bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a monster or you\nare a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have done\nwith these last expedients, which are as distressing as they are\ndangerous; our kind of education has no need of them.\n\nWhat precautions we must take with a young man of good birth before\nexposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautions\nare painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin of\nall our young men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses,\nand it is these excesses which make men what they are. Old and base\nin their vices, their hearts are shrivelled, because their worn-out\nbodies were corrupted at an early age; they have scarcely strength\nto stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a mind lacking in\nsubstance; they are incapable of any great or noble feeling, they\nhave neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject and meanly\nwicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false; they have\nnot even courage enough to be distinguished criminals. Such are\nthe despicable men produced by early debauchery; if there were but\none among them who knew how to be sober and temperate, to guard his\nheart, his body, his morals from the contagion of bad example, at\nthe age of thirty he would crush all these insects, and would become\ntheir master with far less trouble than it cost him to become master\nof himself.\n\nHowever little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be this\nman if he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescend\nto make them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst, as he\nenters into society, not to claim the first place, but to acquaint\nhimself with it and to seek a helpmeet worthy of himself.\n\nWhatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which he\nis introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple and\nunaffected; God grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine in\nsociety; the qualities which make a good impression at the first\nglance are not his, he neither possesses them, nor desires to\npossess them. He cares too little for the opinions of other people\nto value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether people\nesteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither shy nor\nconceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of constraint\nor concealment, and he is just the same among a group of people\nas he is when he is alone. Will this make him rude, scornful, and\ncareless of others? On the contrary; if he were not heedless of\nothers when he lived alone, why should he be heedless of them now\nthat he is living among them? He does not prefer them to himself\nin his manners, because he does not prefer them to himself in his\nheart, but neither does he show them an indifference which he is far\nfrom feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms of politeness,\nhe is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated by humanity.\nHe cannot bear to see any one suffer; he will not give up his place\nto another from mere external politeness, but he will willingly\nyield it to him out of kindness if he sees that he is being neglected\nand that this neglect hurts him; for it will be less disagreeable\nto Emile to remain standing of his own accord than to see another\ncompelled to stand.\n\nAlthough Emile has no very high opinion of people in general, he\ndoes not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and is sorry\nfor them. As he cannot give them a taste for what is truly good, he\nleaves them the imaginary good with which they are satisfied, lest\nby robbing them of this he should leave them worse off than before.\nSo he neither argues nor contradicts; neither does he flatter nor\nagree; he states his opinion without arguing with others, because\nhe loves liberty above all things, and freedom is one of the fairest\ngifts of liberty.\n\nHe says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for the\nsame reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce him\nto speak otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box.\nA great flow of words comes either from a pretentious spirit, of\nwhich I shall speak presently, or from the value laid upon trifles\nwhich we foolishly think to be as important in the eyes of others\nas in our own. He who knows enough of things to value them at\ntheir true worth never says too much; for he can also judge of the\nattention bestowed on him and the interest aroused by what he says.\nPeople who know little are usually great talkers, while men who\nknow much say little. It is plain that an ignorant person thinks\neverything he does know important, and he tells it to everybody.\nBut a well-educated man is not so ready to display his learning;\nhe would have too much to say, and he sees that there is much more\nto be said, so he holds his peace.\n\nFar from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms to\nthem readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about them,\nnor yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the contrary\nfor fear lest he should attract attention, and in order to pass\nunnoticed; he is most at his ease when no one pays any attention\nto him.\n\nAlthough when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothing\nof its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps in\nthe background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because,\nif you want to see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubles\nhimself at all about what people think of him, and he is not the\nleast afraid of ridicule. Hence he is always quiet and self-possessed\nand is not troubled with shyness. All he has to do is done as well\nas he knows how to do it, whether people are looking at him or\nnot; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people, he\nacquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of other\npeople's opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways of society\njust because he cares so little about them.\n\nBut do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to be\ncompared with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed, not\nconceited; his manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent look is\nthe mark of a slave, there is nothing affected in independence. I\nnever saw a man of lofty soul who showed it in his bearing; this\naffectation is more suited to vile and frivolous souls, who have\nno other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere that a\nforeigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous Marcel,\nwho asked him what country he came from. \"I am an Englishman,\"\nreplied the stranger. \"You are an Englishman!\" replied the dancer,\n\"You come from that island where the citizens have a share in the\ngovernment, and form part of the sovereign power? [Footnote: As if\nthere were citizens who were not part of the city and had not, as\nsuch, a share in sovereign power! But the French, who have thought\nfit to usurp the honourable name of citizen which was formerly the\nright of the members of the Gallic cities, have degraded the idea\ntill it has no longer any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrote\na number of silly criticisms on the \"Nouvelle Heloise\" added to\nhis signature the title \"Citizen of Paimboeuf,\" and he thought it\na capital joke.] No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance,\nthat hesitating manner, proclaim only a slave adorned with the\ntitle of an elector.\"\n\nI cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the true\nrelation between a man's character and his appearance. I have not\nthe honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought just\nthe opposite. I should have said, \"This Englishman is no courtier;\nI never heard that courtiers have a timid bearing and a hesitating\nmanner. A man whose appearance is timid in the presence of a dancer\nmight not be timid in the House of Commons.\" Surely this M. Marcel\nmust take his fellow-countrymen for so many Romans.\n\nHe who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows and\ndesires to please them. Even more does he wish to please the women;\nhis age, his character, the object he has in view, all increase\nthis desire. I say his character, for this has a great effect; men\nof good character are those who really adore women. They have not\nthe mocking jargon of gallantry like the rest, but their eagerness\nis more genuinely tender, because it comes from the heart. In the\npresence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of character\nand self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines. Consider\nwhat Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth and so\nmany reasons for resistance! For in the presence of women\nI think he will sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness will\ncertainly not be displeasing, and the least foolish of them will\nonly too often find a way to enjoy it and augment it. Moreover, his\neagerness will take a different shape according to those he has to\ndo with. He will be more modest and respectful to married women,\nmore eager and tender towards young girls. He never loses sight of\nhis purpose, and it is always those who most recall it to him who\nreceive the greater share of his attentions.\n\nNo one could be more attentive to every consideration based upon\nthe laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but the\nformer are always preferred before the latter, and Emile will show\nmore respect to an elderly person in private life than to a young\nmagistrate of his own age. As he is generally one of the youngest\nin the company, he will always be one of the most modest, not from\nthe vanity which apes humility, but from a natural feeling founded\nupon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the young fop,\nwho speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in order to\namuse the company. He will never give any cause for the reply given\nto Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether he preferred\nthis century or the last: \"Sire, I spent my youth in reverence\ntowards the old; I find myself compelled to spend my old age in\nreverence towards the young.\"\n\nHis heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for the\nweight of popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure to\nothers; so he will care little to be thought a person of importance.\nHence he will be affectionate rather than polite, he will never be\npompous or affected, and he will be always more touched by a caress\nthan by much praise. For the same reasons he will never be careless\nof his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be rather particular\nabout his dress, not that he may show himself a man of taste, but\nto make his appearance more pleasing; he will never require a gilt\nframe, and he will never spoil his style by a display of wealth.\n\nAll this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it is\nall the result of his early education. People make a great mystery\nof the ways of society, as if, at the age when these ways are\nacquired, we did not take to them quite naturally, and as if the\nfirst laws of politeness were not to be found in a kindly heart.\nTrue politeness consists in showing our goodwill towards men; it\nshows its presence without any difficulty; those only who lack this\ngoodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs of it to an art.\n\n\"The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teaches\nus how to dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our education\nteaches us kindness and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shall\nhave no need of politeness.\n\n\"If we have not those qualities which display themselves gracefully\nwe shall have those which proclaim the honest man and the citizen;\nwe shall have no need for falsehood.\n\n\"Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will suffice\nthat we are kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of others\nby falsehood, it will suffice to tolerate them.\n\n\"Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up nor\ncorrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful and will\nbe informed by it.\" [Footnote: Considerations sur les moeurs de ce\nsiecle, par M. Duclos.]\n\nIt seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce the\nsort of politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage, it is\nthe education I have already described.\n\nYet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be just\nlike everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a fate! But\nwhere he is unlike other people, he will neither cause annoyance\nnor will he be absurd; the difference will be perceptible but not\nunpleasant. Emile will be, if you like, an agreeable foreigner. At\nfirst his peculiarities will be excused with the phrase, \"He will\nlearn.\" After a time people will get used to his ways, and seeing\nthat he does not change they will still make excuses for him and\nsay, \"He is made that way.\"\n\nHe will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like him\nwithout knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but every\none will be ready to make him the judge between men of intellect;\nhis own intelligence will be clear and limited, his mind will be\naccurate, and his judgment sane. As he never runs after new ideas,\nhe cannot pride himself on his wit. I have convinced him that all\nwholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to mankind, were\namong the earliest known, that in all times they have formed the\ntrue bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for ambitious\nminds but to seek distinction for themselves by means of ideas which\nare injurious and fatal to mankind. This way of winning admiration\nscarcely appeals to him; he knows how he ought to seek his\nown happiness in life, and how he can contribute to the happiness\nof others. The sphere of his knowledge is restricted to what is\nprofitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined; as he has no\ntemptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd; he will neither\ndistinguish himself nor will he lose his way. Emile is a man\nof common sense and he has no desire to be anything more; you may\ntry in vain to insult him by applying this phrase to him; he will\nalways consider it a title of honour.\n\nAlthough from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferent\nto the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far as\nhe himself is directly concerned, without troubling himself about\narbitrary values, which are subject to no law but that of fashion\nor conventionality. He will have pride enough to wish to do well\nin everything that he undertakes, and even to wish to do it better\nthan others; he will want to be the swiftest runner, the strongest\nwrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in games of skill;\nbut he will not seek advantages which are not in themselves clear\ngain, but need to be supported by the opinion of others, such as\nto be thought wittier than another, a better speaker, more learned,\netc.; still less will he trouble himself with those which have\nnothing to do with the man himself, such as higher birth, a greater\nreputation for wealth, credit, or public estimation, or the impression\ncreated by a showy exterior.\n\nAs he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he will\nprefer him who is most like himself, because he will feel that he\nis good; and as he will judge of this resemblance by similarity of\ntaste in morals, in all that belongs to a good character, he will\nbe delighted to win approval. He will not say to himself in so\nmany words, \"I am delighted to gain approval,\" but \"I am delighted\nbecause they say I have done right; I am delighted because the men\nwho honour me are worthy of honour; while they judge so wisely, it\nis a fine thing to win their respect.\"\n\nAs he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerly\nstudied them through their passions in history, he will often have\noccasion to consider what it is that pleases or offends the human\nheart. He is now busy with the philosophy of the principles of\ntaste, and this is the most suitable subject for his present study.\n\nThe further we seek our definitions of taste, the further we\ngo astray; taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasing\nor displeasing to most people. Go beyond this, and you cannot say\nwhat taste is. It does not follow that the men of taste are in the\nmajority; for though the majority judges wisely with regard to each\nindividual thing, there are few men who follow the judgment of the\nmajority in everything; and though the most general agreement in\ntaste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste just\nas there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists in the\nsum of the most usual features.\n\nIt must be observed that we are not here concerned with what we\nlike because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful to us.\nTaste deals only with things that are indifferent to us, or which\naffect at most our amusements, not those which relate to our needs;\ntaste is not required to judge of these, appetite only is sufficient.\nIt is this which makes mere decisions of taste so difficult and as\nit seems so arbitrary; for beyond the instinct they follow there\nappears to be no reason whatever for them. We must also make a\ndistinction between the laws of good taste in morals and its laws\nin physical matters. In the latter the laws of taste appear to\nbe absolutely inexplicable. But it must be observed that there is\na moral element in everything which involves imitation.[Footnote:\nThis is demonstrated in an \"Essay on the Origin of Languages\"\nwhich will be found in my collected works.] This is the explanation\nof beauties which seem to be physical, but are not so in reality.\nI may add that taste has local rules which make it dependent in\nmany respects on the country we are in, its manners, government,\ninstitutions; it has other rules which depend upon age, sex, and\ncharacter, and it is in this sense that we must not dispute over\nmatters of taste.\n\nTaste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the same\ndegree, it is not developed to the same extent in every one; and\nin every one it is liable to be modified by a variety of causes.\nSuch taste as we may possess depends on our native sensibility;\nits cultivation and its form depend upon the society in which we\nhave lived. In the first place we must live in societies of many\ndifferent kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place, there\nmust be societies for amusement and idleness, for in business\nrelations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there must\nbe societies in which people are fairly equal, where the tyranny of\npublic opinion may be moderate, where pleasure rather than vanity\nis queen; where this is not so, fashion stifles taste, and we seek\nwhat gives distinction rather than delight.\n\nIn the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the taste\nof the majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different.\nThen the crowd has no longer any opinion of its own, it only follows\nthe judgment of those who are supposed to know more about it; its\napproval is bestowed not on what is good, but on what they have\nalready approved. At any time let every man have his own opinion,\nand what is most pleasing in itself will always secure most votes.\n\nEvery beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated.\nAll the true models of taste are to be found in nature. The further\nwe get from the master, the worse are our pictures. Then it is\nthat we find our models in what we ourselves like, and the beauty\nof fancy, subject to caprice and to authority, is nothing but what\nis pleasing to our leaders.\n\nThose leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, and\nthey themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Some\nto display their wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerly\nfor new ways of spending it. This is how luxury acquires its power\nand makes us love what is rare and costly; this so-called beauty\nconsists, not in following nature, but in disobeying her. Hence\nluxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste is lavish, it\nis bad.\n\nTaste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercourse\nbetween the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessary\nconsequence of this form of society. But when enjoyment is easily\nobtained, and the desire to please becomes lukewarm, taste must\ndegenerate; and this is, in my opinion, one of the best reasons\nwhy good taste implies good morals.\n\nConsult the women's opinions in bodily matters, in all that concerns\nthe senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all that\nconcerns the understanding. When women are what they ought to be,\nthey will keep to what they can understand, and their judgment\nwill be right; but since they have set themselves up as judges of\nliterature, since they have begun to criticise books and to make them\nwith might and main, they are altogether astray. Authors who take\nthe advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-advised; gallants who\nconsult them about their clothes will always be absurdly dressed.\nI shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of the real\ntalents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these talents,\nand the matters in regard to which their decisions should receive\nattention.\n\nThese are the elementary considerations which I shall lay down\nas principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is by\nno means indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whom\nshould it be a matter of indifference? To know what people may\nfind pleasant or unpleasant is not only necessary to any one who\nrequires their help, it is still more necessary to any one who would\nhelp them; you must please them if you would do them service; and\nthe art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is used to make men\nhear the truth.\n\nIf in order to cultivate my pupil's taste, I were compelled to choose\nbetween a country where this form of culture has not yet arisen\nand those in which it has already degenerated, I would progress\nbackwards; I would begin his survey with the latter and end with the\nformer. My reason for this choice is, that taste becomes corrupted\nthrough excessive delicacy, which makes it sensitive to things\nwhich most men do not perceive; this delicacy leads to a spirit\nof discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination of things\nthe more things there are for us. This subtlety increases the\ndelicacy and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there are as\nmany tastes as there are people. In disputes as to our preferences,\nphilosophy and knowledge are enlarged, and thus we learn to think.\nIt is only men accustomed to plenty of society who are capable of\nvery delicate observations, for these observations do not occur to\nus till the last, and people who are unused to all sorts of society\nexhaust their attention in the consideration of the more conspicuous\nfeatures. There is perhaps no civilised place upon earth where the\ncommon taste is so bad as in Paris. Yet it is in this capital that\ngood taste is cultivated, and it seems that few books make any\nimpression in Europe whose authors have not studied in Paris. Those\nwho think it is enough to read our books are mistaken; there is\nmore to be learnt from the conversation of authors than from their\nbooks; and it is not from the authors that we learn most. It is the\nspirit of social life which develops a thinking mind, and carries\nthe eye as far as it can reach. If you have a spark of genius, go\nand spend a year in Paris; you will soon be all that you are capable\nof becoming, or you will never be good for anything at all.\n\nOne may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme;\nbut we must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is very\ndifficult to avoid this if we spend much time among them. We must\nuse their efforts to perfect the machinery of judgment, but we\nmust be careful not to make the same use of it. I shall take care\nnot to polish Emile's judgment so far as to transform it, and when\nhe has acquired discernment enough to feel and compare the varied\ntastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste upon simpler\nmatters.\n\nI will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome.\nIn the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for useful\nconversation with him; and while these conversations are always\nabout things in which he takes a delight, I shall take care to make\nthem as amusing as they are instructive. Now is the time to read\npleasant books; now is the time to teach him to analyse speech and\nto appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and diction. It is a\nsmall matter to learn languages, they are less useful than people\nthink; but the study of languages leads us on to that of grammar in\ngeneral. We must learn Latin if we would have a thorough knowledge\nof French; these two languages must be studied and compared if we\nwould understand the rules of the art of speaking.\n\nThere is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straight\nto the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics.  In\noratory, poetry, and every kind of literature, Emile will find the\nclassical authors as he found them in history, full of matter and\nsober in their judgment. The authors of our own time, on the contrary,\nsay little and talk much. To take their judgment as our constant\nlaw is not the way to form our own judgment. These differences of\ntaste make themselves felt in all that is left of classical times\nand even on their tombs. Our monuments are covered with praises,\ntheirs recorded facts.\n\n     \"Sta, viator; heroem calcas.\"\n\nIf I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should at\nonce have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so common\namong us as heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Instead\nof saying a man was a hero, they would have said what he had done\nto gain that name. With the epitaph of this hero compare that of\nthe effeminate Sardanapalus--\n\n     \"Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead.\"\n\nWhich do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is only\nfit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients showed men\nas they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed. Xenophon\ndid honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain by\ntreason during the retreat of the Ten Thousand. \"They died,\" said\nhe, \"without stain in war and in love.\" That is all, but think how\nfull was the heart of the author of this short and simple elegy.\nWoe to him who fails to perceive its charm. The following words\nwere engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae--\n\n\"Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience to her\nlaws.\"\n\nIt is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy of\nInscriptions.\n\nIf I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so small\nvalue upon words, will be directed in the first place to these\ndifferences, and they will affect his choice in his reading. He\nwill be carried away by the manly eloquence of Demosthenes, and\nwill say, \"This is an orator;\" but when he reads Cicero, he will\nsay, \"This is a lawyer.\"\n\nSpeaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of the\nancients than for our own, just because they were the first, and\ntherefore the ancients are nearer to nature and their genius is\nmore distinct. Whatever La Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may say,\nthere is no real advance in human reason, for what we gain in one\ndirection we lose in another; for all minds start from the same\npoint, and as the time spent in learning what others have thought\nis so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves, we have\nmore acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds like our\narms are accustomed to use tools for everything, and to do nothing\nfor themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all these disputes as\nto the ancients and the moderns came to this--Were the trees in\nformer times taller than they are now. If agriculture had changed,\nit would be worth our while to ask this question.\n\nAfter I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I will\nalso show him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers;\njournals, translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance at\nthem all, and then leave them for ever. To amuse him he shall hear\nthe chatter of the academies; I will draw his attention to the fast\nthat every member of them is worth more by himself than he is as\na member of the society; he will then draw his own conclusions as\nto the utility of these fine institutions.\n\nI take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in the\ntheatre above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Lay\naside precepts and morality, I should say; this is not the place\nto study them. The stage is not made for truth; its object is to\nflatter and amuse: there is no place where one can learn so completely\nthe art of pleasing and of interesting the human heart.  The study\nof plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the same end\nin view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for poetry, how\neagerly will he study the languages of the poets, Greek, Latin,\nand Italian! These studies will afford him unlimited amusement and\nwill be none the less valuable; they will be a delight to him at\nan age and in circumstances when the heart finds so great a charm\nin every kind of beauty which affects it. Picture to yourself on\nthe one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal from college,\nreading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus, or the Banquet\nof Plato: what a difference between them! What stirs the heart of\nEmile to its depths, makes not the least impression on the other!\nOh, good youth, stay, make a pause in your reading, you are too\ndeeply moved; I would have you find pleasure in the language of\nlove, but I would not have you carried away by it; be a wise man, but\nbe a good man too. If you are only one of these, you are nothing.\nAfter this let him win fame or not in dead languages, in literature,\nin poetry, I care little. He will be none the worse if he knows\nnothing of them, and his education is not concerned with these mere\nwords.\n\nMy main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of every\nkind is to fix his affections and his taste on these, to prevent\nthe corruption of his natural appetites, lest he should have to\nseek some day in the midst of his wealth for the means of happiness\nwhich should be found close at hand. I have said elsewhere that\ntaste is only the art of being a connoisseur in matters of little\nimportance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of life\ndepends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, such\nefforts are no small thing; through their means we learn how to\nfill our life with the good things within our reach, with as much\ntruth as they may hold for us. I do not refer to the morally good\nwhich depends on a good disposition of the heart, but only to that\nwhich depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the prejudices\nof public opinion.\n\nThe better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile,\nwhose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others,\nand to seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited to\nthe reader and more in accordance with his own manners.\n\nThere are professions which seem to change a man's nature, to\nrecast, either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A coward\nbecomes a brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not only in\nthe army that esprit de corps is acquired, and its effects are not\nalways for good. I have thought again and again with terror that\nif I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I am thinking of in\na certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be a tyrant,\nan extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to my king, and\na professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and every kind of\nvirtue.\n\nIn the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that is\nrequired to gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded,\nsensitive and feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless to\nall besides, a scornful spectator of the sufferings of the lower\nclasses; for that is what I should call the poor, to make people\nforget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should make my fortune\na means to my own pleasures with which I should be wholly occupied;\nand so far I should be just like other people.\n\nBut in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensual\nand voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myself\nup to the luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation.\nI should even be somewhat ashamed to make too great a show of\nmy wealth, and if I overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I should\nalways fancy I heard him saying, \"Here is a rascal who is greatly\nafraid lest we should take him for anything but what he is.\"\n\nIn the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should seek\nwhat I like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself.\n\nTo this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be to\npurchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health, if it\nwere to be purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance,\nand as there is no real pleasure without health, I should be\ntemperate from sensual motives.\n\nI should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify the\nsenses given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the greater\nher share in my pleasures, the more real I shall find them. In\nthe choice of models for imitation I shall always choose nature\nas my pattern; in my appetites I will give her the preference; in\nmy tastes she shall always be consulted; in my food I will always\nchoose what most owes its charm to her, and what has passed through\nthe fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will be on my guard\nagainst fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet pleasure. No cook\nshall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness; he shall not\npoison me with fish which cost its weight in gold, my table shall\nnot be decked with fetid splendour or putrid flesh from far-off\nlands. I will take any amount of trouble to gratify my sensibility,\nsince this trouble has a pleasure of its own, a pleasure more than\nwe expect. If I wished to taste a food from the ends of the earth,\nI would go, like Apicius, in search of it, rather than send for\nit; for the daintiest dishes always lack a charm which cannot be\nbrought along with them, a flavour which no cook can give them--the\nair of the country where they are produced.\n\nFor the same reason I would not follow the example of those who are\nnever well off where they are, but are always setting the seasons\nat nought, and confusing countries and their seasons; those who\nseek winter in summer and summer in winter, and go to Italy to be\ncold and to the north to be warm, do not consider that when they\nthink they are escaping from the severity of the seasons, they\nare going to meet that severity in places where people are not\nprepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or I shall adopt just\nthe opposite course; I should like to get all possible enjoyment\nout of one season to discover what is peculiar to any given country.\nI would have a variety of pleasures, and habits quite unlike one\nanother, but each according to nature; I would spend the summer at\nNaples and the winter in St. Petersburg; sometimes I would breathe\nthe soft zephyr lying in the cool grottoes of Tarentum, and again\nI would enjoy the illuminations of an ice palace, breathless and\nwearied with the pleasures of the dance.\n\nIn the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I would\nimitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons, and\ndraw from each its charm without anticipating its successor. There\nis no taste but only difficulty to be found in thus disturbing the\norder of nature; to snatch from her unwilling gifts, which she\nyields regretfully, with her curse upon them; gifts which have\nneither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the body\nnor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced fruits.\nA wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses, only\nsucceeds in getting all the year round poor fruit and poor vegetables\nfor his table at a very high price. If I had cherries in frost,\nand golden melons in the depths of winter, what pleasure should I\nfind in them when my palate did not need moisture or refreshment.\nWould the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the heat of the\ndog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the stove, rather\nthan the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing fruits which\nthe earth takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece covered in\nJanuary with forced vegetation, with pale and scentless flowers,\nis not winter adorned, but spring robbed of its beauty; we deprive\nourselves of the pleasure of seeking the first violet in the woods,\nof noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a rapture of delight,\n\"Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature is living still.\"\n\nTo be well served I would have few servants; this has been said\nbefore, but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more real\nservice from his one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen round\nabout him. It has often struck me when I am sitting at table with\nmy glass beside me that I can drink whenever I please; whereas, if\nI were dining in state, twenty men would have to call for \"Wine\"\nbefore I could quench my thirst. You may be sure that whatever is\ndone for you by other people is ill done. I would not send to the\nshops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants should\nnot make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get a better\nchoice and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of pleasant\nexercise and to get a glimpse of what was going on out of doors;\nthis is amusing and sometimes instructive; lastly I would go for\nthe sake of the walk; there is always something in that. A sedentary\nlife is the source of tedium; when we walk a good deal we are never\ndull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters, I should never\nwish to have such people between the world and myself, nor would\nI travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if I were afraid people\nwould speak to me. Shanks' mare is always ready; if she is tired\nor ill, her owner is the first to know it; he need not be afraid\nof being kept at home while his coachman is on the spree; on the\nroad he will not have to submit to all sorts of delays, nor will\nhe be consumed with impatience, nor compelled to stay in one place\na moment longer than he chooses. Lastly, since no one serves us so\nwell as we serve ourselves, had we the power of Alexander and the\nwealth of Croesus we should accept no services from others, except\nthose we cannot perform for ourselves.\n\nI would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should only\noccupy one room; every room which is common property belongs to\nnobody, and the rooms of each of my servants would be as strange\nto me as my neighbour's. The Orientals, although very voluptuous,\nare lodged in plain and simply furnished dwellings. They consider\nlife as a journey, and their house as an inn. This reason scarcely\nappeals to us rich people who propose to live for ever; but I should\nfind another reason which would have the same effect. It would seem\nto me that if I settled myself in one place in the midst of such\nsplendour, I should banish myself from every other place, and\nimprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world is a palace\nfair enough for any one; and is not everything at the disposal of\nthe rich man when he seeks enjoyment? \"Ubi bene, ibi patria,\" that\nis his motto; his home is anywhere where money will carry him,\nhis country is anywhere where there is room for his strong-box,\nas Philip considered as his own any place where a mule laden with\nsilver could enter. [Footnote: A stranger, splendidly clad, was asked\nin Athens what country he belonged to. \"I am one of the rich,\" was\nhis answer; and a very good answer in my opinion.] Why then should\nwe shut ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never meant\nto leave them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from one\nplace, I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Why\nshould I build a mansion for myself when the world is already at my\ndisposal? Why should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring from\nafar delights which I can find on the spot? It is impossible to\nmake a pleasant life for oneself when one is always at war with\noneself.  Thus Empedocles reproached the men of Agrigentum with\nheaping up pleasures as if they had but one day to live, and building\nas if they would live for ever.\n\nAnd what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few people\nto live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture would\nbe as simple as my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallery\nnor library, especially if I was fond of reading and knew something\nabout pictures. I should then know that such collections are never\ncomplete, and that the lack of that which is wanting causes more\nannoyance than if one had nothing at all. In this respect abundance\nis the cause of want, as every collector knows to his cost. If you\nare an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to use\nyour cabinets, you will not have any to show.\n\nGambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of those\nwho have nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures that\nI shall have no time to waste. I am poor and lonely and I never\nplay, unless it is a game of chess now and then, and that is more\nthan enough. If I were rich I would play even less, and for very\nlow stakes, so that I should not be disappointed myself, nor see\nthe disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no motive for\nplay, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passion\nfor gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is always\nmore keenly aware of his losses than his gains, and as in games\nwhere the stakes are not high the winnings are generally exhausted\nin the long run, he will usually lose more than he gains, so that\nif we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a great fancy to games\nwhere the odds are against us. He who flatters his vanity so far\nas to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in more\nexciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown when the\nstakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play, the result\nof greed and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts and heads;\nand I think I should have enough feeling and knowledge to dispense\nwith its help.  Thinkers are seldom gamblers; gambling interrupts\nthe habit of thought and turns it towards barren combinations;\nthus one good result, perhaps the only good result of the taste\nfor science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar passion;\npeople will prefer to try to discover the uses of play rather\nthan to devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblers\nagainst gambling, and I should find more delight in scoffing at\ntheir losses than in winning their money.\n\nI should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse.\nI should wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and never\nto make people conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress is\ninconvenient in many ways. To preserve as much freedom as possible\namong other men, I should like to be dressed in such a way that\nI should not seem out of place among all classes, and should not\nattract attention in any; so that without affectation or change I\nmight mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the nobility at the\nPalais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my own master,\nand should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts and conditions\nof men. There are women, so they say, whose doors are closed to\nembroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests who wear lace\nruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though if these women\nwere young and pretty I might sometimes put on lace ruffles to\nspend an evening or so in their company.\n\nMutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character;\nthese are the only bonds between my companions and myself; among\nthem I would be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of their\nsociety should never be embittered by self-seeking. If my wealth\nhad not robbed me of all humanity, I would scatter my benefits and\nmy services broadcast, but I should want companions about me, not\ncourtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my friends to regard\nme as their host, not their patron. Independence and equality would\nleave to my relations with my friends the sincerity of goodwill;\nwhile duty and self-seeking would have no place among us, and we\nshould know no law but that of pleasure and friendship.\n\nNeither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be got\nfor money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not only\nnot for sale; money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were he indeed\nthe most lovable of men, the mere fact of payment would prevent\nany lasting affection. He will soon be paying for some one else,\nor rather some one else will get his money; and in this double\nconnection based on self-seeking and debauchery, without love,\nhonour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping, faithless, and\nunhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives her\nmoney as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she has\nno love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards one\nwe love, if that did not make a bargain of love. I know only one\nway of gratifying this desire with the woman one loves without\nembittering love; it is to bestow our all upon her and to live at\nher expense.  It remains to be seen whether there is any woman with\nregard to whom such conduct would not be unwise.\n\nHe who said, \"Lais is mine, but I am not hers,\" was talking nonsense.\nPossession which is not mutual is nothing at all; at most it is\nthe possession of the sex not of the individual. But where there\nis no morality in love, why make such ado about the rest?  Nothing\nis so easy to find. A muleteer is in this respect as near to\nhappiness as a millionaire.\n\nOh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, how\noften should we find that, when it has attained its object, it\ndiscovers it is not what it seemed! Why is there this cruel haste\nto corrupt innocence, to make, a victim of a young creature whom we\nought to protect, one who is dragged by this first false step into\na gulf of misery from which only death can release her? Brutality,\nvanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure itself is\nunnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at its\nworst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he is the\nbasest of men fears comparison with others, and would be the first\nthat he may be less hateful. See if those who are most greedy in\npursuit of such fancied pleasures are ever attractive young men--men\nworthy of pleasing, men who might have some excuse if they were\nhard to please. Not so; any one with good looks, merit, and feeling\nhas little fear of his mistress' experience; with well-placed\nconfidence he says to her, \"You know what pleasure is, what is that\nto me? my heart assures me that this is not so.\"\n\nBut an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, no\nconsideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred of\nhonour, incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of any\nwoman who knows anything of men deserving of love, expects to make\nup for all this with an innocent girl by trading on her inexperience\nand stirring her emotions for the first time. His last hope is to\nfind favour as a novelty; no doubt this is the secret motive of\nthis desire; but he is mistaken, the horror he excites is just as\nnatural as the desires he wishes to arouse. He is also mistaken\nin his foolish attempt; that very nature takes care to assert her\nrights; every girl who sells herself is no longer a maid; she has\ngiven herself to the man of her choice, and she is making the very\ncomparison he dreads. The pleasure purchased is imaginary, but none\nthe less hateful.\n\nFor my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matter\nin which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue,\nI shall not be wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy;\nand this will prevent me from spending my fortune in the pursuit\nof empty dreams, from wasting my money and my strength in teaching\nchildren to betray me and mock at me. If I were young, I would\nseek the pleasures of youth; and as I would have them at their best\nI would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I were at my\npresent age, it would be another matter; I would wisely confine\nmyself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes which I could\nenjoy, and I would stifle those which could only cause suffering.\nI would not go and offer my grey beard to the scornful jests of\nyoung girls; I could never bear to sicken them with my disgusting\ncaresses, to furnish them at my expense with the most absurd\nstories, to imagine them describing the vile pleasures of the old\nape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had endured. But if\nhabits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs, I would\nperhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes. I would\ndistinguish between passion and necessity, I would find a suitable\nmistress and would keep to her. I would not make a business of my\nweakness, and above all I would only have one person aware of it.\nLife has other pleasures when these fail us; by hastening in vain\nafter those that fly us, we deprive ourselves of those that remain.\nLet our tastes change with our years, let us no more meddle with\nage than with the seasons. We should be ourselves at all times,\ninstead of struggling against nature; such vain attempts exhaust\nour strength and prevent the right use of life.\n\nThe lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity;\nif there is little variety in their amusements they do not recur\nfrequently; many days of labour teach them to enjoy their rare\nholidays. Short intervals of leisure between long periods of labour\ngive a spice to the pleasures of their station. The chief curse of\nthe rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements, among so\nmany men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured and slain\nby dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it and in being\novertaken by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable burden;\nwomen more especially, who do not know how to work or play, are a\nprey to tedium under the name of the vapours; with them it takes\nthe shape of a dreadful disease, which robs them of their reason\nand even of their life. For my own part I know no more terrible\nfate than that of a pretty woman in Paris, unless it is that of\nthe pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who becomes idle\nand effeminate like her, and so deprives himself twice over of his\nmanhood, while he prides himself on his successes and for their\nsake endures the longest and dullest days which human being ever\nput up with.\n\nProprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding,\nconfine the course of life within the limits of the most miserable\nuniformity. The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasure\nlost; we neither enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it.\n[Footnote: Two ladies of fashion, who wished to seem to be enjoying\nthemselves greatly, decided never to go to bed before five o'clock\nin the morning. In the depths of winter their servants spent the\nnight in the street waiting for them, and with great difficulty\nkept themselves from freezing. One night, or rather one morning,\nsome one entered the room where these merry people spent their\nhours without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone;\neach of them was asleep in her arm-chair.] Ridicule, which public\nopinion dreads more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise,\nand punish.  It is only ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we can\nvary our place and our pleasures, to-day's impressions can efface\nthose of yesterday; in the mind of men they are as if they had\nnever been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw ourselves into\nevery hour and everything. My only set rule would be this: wherever\nI was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each day\nas it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow. As\nI should be a man of the people, with the populace, I should be a\ncountryman in the fields; and if I spoke of farming, the peasant\nshould not laugh at my expense. I would not go and build a town\nin the country nor erect the Tuileries at the door of my lodgings.\nOn some pleasant shady hill-side I would have a little cottage,\na white house with green shutters, and though a thatched roof is\nthe best all the year round, I would be grand enough to have, not\nthose gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter and more\ncheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country are always\nroofed with them, and so they would recall to me something of the\nhappy days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a poultry-yard,\nand for my stables a cowshed for the sake of the milk which I love.\nMy garden should be a kitchen-garden, and my park an orchard, like\nthe one described further on. The fruit would be free to those\nwho walked in the orchard, my gardener should neither count it nor\ngather it; I would not, with greedy show, display before your eyes\nsuperb espaliers which one scarcely dare touch. But this small\nextravagance would not be costly, for I would choose my abode in\nsome remote province where silver is scarce and food plentiful,\nwhere plenty and poverty have their seat.\n\nThere I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous,\na band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy it,\nwomen who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves to outdoor\nsports, women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards for the\nfishing line or the bird-trap, the gleaner's rake or grape-gatherer's\nbasket. There all the pretensions of the town will be forgotten,\nand we shall be villagers in a village; we shall find all sorts of\ndifferent sports and we shall hardly know how to choose the morrow's\noccupation. Exercise and an active life will improve our digestion\nand modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast, where plenty will\nbe more pleasing than any delicacies. There are no such cooks in\nthe world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry games; and the finest\nmade dishes are quite ridiculous in the eyes of people who have\nbeen on foot since early dawn. Our meals will be served without\nregard to order or elegance; we shall make our dining-room anywhere,\nin the garden, on a boat, beneath a tree; sometimes at a distance\nfrom the house on the banks of a running stream, on the fresh green\ngrass, among the clumps of willow and hazel; a long procession\nof guests will carry the material for the feast with laughter and\nsinging; the turf will be our chairs and table, the banks of the\nstream our side-board, and our dessert is hanging on the trees;\nthe dishes will be served in any order, appetite needs no ceremony;\neach one of us, openly putting himself first, would gladly see\nevery one else do the same; from this warm-hearted and temperate\nfamiliarity there would arise, without coarseness, pretence,\nor constraint, a laughing conflict a hundredfold more delightful\nthan politeness, and more likely to cement our friendship. No\ntedious flunkeys to listen to our words, to whisper criticisms on\nour behaviour, to count every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amuse\nthemselves by keeping us waiting for our wine, to complain of the\nlength of our dinner. We will be our own servants, in order to be\nour own masters. Time will fly unheeded, our meal will be an interval\nof rest during the heat of the day. If some peasant comes our way,\nreturning from his work with his tools over his shoulder, I will\ncheer his heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of good\nwine, which will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; and\nI too shall have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me,\nand I should say to myself--I too am a man.\n\nIf the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast,\nI and my friends would be there among the first; if there were\nmarriages, more blessed than those of towns, celebrated near my\nhome, every one would know how I love to see people happy, and I\nshould be invited. I would take these good folks some gift as simple\nas themselves, a gift which would be my share of the feast; and in\nexchange I should obtain gifts beyond price, gifts so little known\namong my equals, the gifts of freedom and true pleasure. I should\nsup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join in the\nchorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn more\nmerrily than at a ball in the Opera House.\n\n\"This is all very well so far,\" you will say, \"but what about the\nshooting! One must have some sport in the country.\" Just so; I only\nwanted a farm, but I was wrong. I assume I am rich, I must keep\nmy pleasures to myself, I must be free to kill something; this is\nquite another matter. I must have estates, woods, keepers, rents,\nseignorial rights, particularly incense and holy water.\n\nWell and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who are\njealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of others;\nour keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will quarrel\ntoo; this means altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits at\nthe least; this in itself is not very pleasant. My tenants will not\nenjoy finding my hares at work upon their corn, or my wild boars\namong their beans. As they dare not kill the enemy, every one of\nthem will try to drive him from their fields; when the day has been\nspent in cultivating the ground, they will be compelled to sit up\nat night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs, drums, horns, and\nbells; my sleep will be disturbed by their racket. Do what I will,\nI cannot help thinking of the misery of these poor people, and\nI cannot help blaming myself for it. If I had the honour of being\na prince, this would make little impression on me; but as I am a\nself-made man who has only just come into his property, I am still\nrather vulgar at heart.\n\nThat is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shall\nsoon have poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers,\nguards, and galleys; all this strikes me as cruel. The wives of\nthose miserable creatures will besiege my door and disturb me with\ntheir crying; they must either be driven away or roughly handled.\nThe poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest has been\ndestroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints. Some\npeople will be put to death for killing the game, the rest will\nbe punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils! On every\nside I shall find nothing but misery and hear nothing but groans.\nSo far as I can see this must greatly disturb the pleasure of slaying\nat one's ease heaps of partridges and hares which are tame enough\nto run about one's feet.\n\nIf you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly;\nthe more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your own\nenjoyment. Therefore I should not do what I have just described,\nbut without change of tastes I would follow those which seem likely\nto cause me least pain. I would fix my rustic abode in a district\nwhere game is not preserved, and where I can have my sport without\nhindrance. Game will be less plentiful, but there will be more\nskill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I remember\nthe start of delight with which my father watched the rise of his\nfirst partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare he\nhad sought all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his dog,\ncarrying his own gun, cartridges, and game bag together with his\nhare, he came home at nightfall, worn out with fatigue and torn to\npieces by brambles, but better pleased with his day's sport than\nall your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse, with twenty guns\nready for them, merely take one gun after another, and shoot and\nkill everything that comes their way, without skill, without glory,\nand almost without exercise. The pleasure is none the less, and\nthe difficulties are removed; there is no estate to be preserved,\nno poacher to be punished, and no wretches to be tormented; here are\nsolid grounds for preference. Whatever you do, you cannot torment\nmen for ever without experiencing some amount of discomfort; and\nsooner or later the muttered curses of the people will spoil the\nflavour of your game.\n\nAgain, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those which\nwe share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselves\nalone. If the walls I build round my park transform it into a\ngloomy prison, I have only deprived myself, at great expense, of\nthe pleasure of a walk; I must now seek that pleasure at a distance.\nThe demon of property spoils everything he lays hands upon. A rich\nman wants to be master everywhere, and he is never happy where he is;\nhe is continually driven to flee from himself. I shall therefore\ncontinue to do in my prosperity what I did in my poverty.\nHenceforward, richer in the wealth of others than I ever shall\nbe in my own wealth, I will take possession of everything in my\nneighbourhood that takes my fancy; no conqueror is so determined as\nI; I even usurp the rights of princes; I take possession of every\nopen place that pleases me, I give them names; this is my park,\nchat is my terrace, and I am their owner; henceforward I wander\namong them at will; I often return to maintain my proprietary rights;\nI make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon, and you will\nnever convince me that the nominal owner of the property which I\nhave appropriated gets better value out of the money it yields him\nthan I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted by hedges\nand ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry it elsewhere;\nthere will be space enough for it near at hand, and I may plunder\nmy neighbours long enough before I outstay my welcome.\n\nThis is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the choice\nof pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is the spirit\nof enjoyment; all else is illusion, fancy, and foolish pride. He\nwho disobeys these rules, however rich he may be, will devour his\ngold on a dung-hill, and will never know what it is to live.\n\nYou will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reach\nof all, that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the very\npoint I was coming to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is only\nsocial prejudice which makes everything hard to obtain, and drives\npleasure before us. To be happy is a hundredfold easier than it\nseems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the man of taste has\nno need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to be his own\nmaster. With health and daily bread we are rich enough, if we will\nbut get rid of our prejudices; this is the \"Golden Mean\" of Horace.\nYou folks with your strong-boxes may find some other use for your\nwealth, for it cannot buy you pleasure. Emile knows this as well\nas I, but his heart is purer and more healthy, so he will feel\nit more strongly, and all that he has beheld in society will only\nserve to confirm him in this opinion.\n\nWhile our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out for\nSophy, and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable that\nshe should be found too easily, and I have taken care to look for\nher where I knew we should not find her.\n\nThe time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile should\nmistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his error when\nit is too late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris, with all your\nnoise and smoke and dirt, where the women have ceased to believe in\nhonour and the men in virtue. We are in search of love, happiness,\ninnocence; the further we go from Paris the better.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK V\n\nWe have reached the last act of youth's drama; we are approaching\nits closing scene.\n\nIt is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, and\nwe must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy.\nWhere is her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We must\nknow beforehand what she is, and then we can decide where to look\nfor her. And when she is found, our task is not ended. \"Since our\nyoung gentleman,\" says Locke, \"is about to marry, it is time to leave\nhim with his mistress.\" And with these words he ends his book. As\nI have not the honour of educating \"A young gentleman,\" I shall\ntake care not to follow his example.\n\nSOPHY, OR WOMAN\n\nSophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i.e., she\nmust possess all those characters of her sex which are required to\nenable her to play her part in the physical and moral order. Let\nus inquire to begin with in what respects her sex differs from our\nown.\n\nBut for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, the\nsame needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in its\nconstruction; its parts, its working, and its appearance are similar.\nRegard it as you will the difference is only in degree.\n\nYet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is the\ncomplement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies in\nour inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of sex,\nand what is not. General differences present themselves to the\ncomparative anatomist and even to the superficial observer; they\nseem not to be a matter of sex; yet they are really sex differences,\nthough the connection eludes our observation. How far such differences\nmay extend we cannot tell; all we know for certain is that where man\nand woman are alike we have to do with the characteristics of the\nspecies; where they are unlike, we have to do with the characteristics\nof sex. Considered from these two standpoints, we find so many\ninstances of likeness and unlikeness that it is perhaps one of the\ngreatest of marvels how nature has contrived to make two beings so\nlike and yet so different.\n\nThese resemblances and differences must have an influence on the\nmoral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed by\nexperience; it shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiority\nor the equality of the sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the path\nmarked out for it by nature, were not more perfect in that very\ndivergence than if it more closely resembled the other. A perfect\nman and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind than in\nface, and perfection admits of neither less nor more.\n\nIn the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the common\nend, but in different ways. From this diversity springs the first\ndifference which may be observed between man and woman in their\nmoral relations. The man should be strong and active; the woman\nshould be weak and passive; the one must have both the power and\nthe will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance.\n\nWhen this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is specially\nmade for man's delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasing\nin her eyes, the necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in his\nstrength, he pleases because he is strong. I grant you this is not\nthe law of love, but it is the law of nature, which is older than\nlove itself.\n\nIf woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, she\nought to make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him to\nanger; her strength is in her charms, by their means she should\ncompel him to discover and use his strength. The surest way of\narousing this strength is to make it necessary by resistance. Thus\npride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the other's\nvictory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of the boldness\nof one sex and the timidity of the other, and even of the shame\nand modesty with which nature has armed the weak for the conquest\nof the strong.\n\nWho can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advances\nto the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desire\nshould be the first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment!\nThe consequences of the act being so different for the two sexes,\nis it natural that they should enter upon it with equal boldness?\nHow can any one fail to see that when the share of each is so\nunequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as the other is\ncontrolled by nature, the result would be the destruction of both,\nand the human race would perish through the very means ordained\nfor its continuance?\n\nWomen so easily stir a man's senses and fan the ashes of a dying\npassion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing this\ncustom into any unlucky country, especially if it were a warm\ncountry where more women are born than men, the men, tyrannised\nover by the women, would at last become their victims, and would\nbe dragged to their death without the least chance of escape.\n\nFemale animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that?\nAre their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbed\nby this shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity,\nand when the need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longer\nmake a feint of repulsing the male, they do it in earnest.  Their\nseasons of complaisance are short and soon over. Impulse and\nrestraint are alike the work of nature. But what would take the\nplace of this negative instinct in women if you rob them of their\nmodesty?\n\nThe Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowed\nman with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them, so\nthat man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed by\nthese passions man is endowed with reason by which to control them.\nWoman is also endowed with boundless passions; God has given her\nmodesty to restrain them. Moreover, he has given to both a present\nreward for the right use of their powers, in the delight which\nsprings from that right use of them, i.e., the taste for right\nconduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my mind this\nis far higher than the instinct of the beasts.\n\nWhether the woman shares the man's passion or not, whether she is\nwilling or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him and\ndefends herself, though not always with the same vigour, and therefore\nnot always with the same success. If the siege is to be successful,\nthe besieged must permit or direct the attack. How skilfully can\nshe stimulate the efforts of the aggressor. The freest and most\ndelightful of activities does not permit of any real violence;\nreason and nature are alike against it; nature, in that she has\ngiven the weaker party strength enough to resist if she chooses;\nreason, in that actual violence is not only most brutal in itself,\nbut it defeats its own ends, not only because the man thus declares\nwar against his companion and thus gives her a right to defend her\nperson and her liberty even at the cost of the enemy's life, but\nalso because the woman alone is the judge of her condition, and a\nchild would have no father if any man might usurp a father's rights.\n\nThus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a third\nconclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master, but is as\na matter of fact dependent on the weaker, and that, not by any foolish\ncustom of gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity of the protector,\nbut by an inexorable law of nature. For nature has endowed woman\nwith a power of stimulating man's passions in excess of man's power\nof satisfying those passions, and has thus made him dependent on\nher goodwill, and compelled him in his turn to endeavour to please\nher, so that she may be willing to yield to his superior strength.\nIs it weakness which yields to force, or is it voluntary self-surrender?\nThis uncertainty constitutes the chief charm of the man's victory,\nand the woman is usually cunning enough to leave him in doubt. In\nthis respect the woman's mind exactly resembles her body; far from\nbeing ashamed of her weakness, she is proud of it; her soft muscles\noffer no resistance, she professes that she cannot lift the lightest\nweight; she would be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only to\ngain an appearance of refinement; she is too clever for that; she\nis providing herself beforehand with excuses, with the right to be\nweak if she chooses.\n\nThe experience we have gained through our vices has considerably\nmodified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violence\nfor which there is so little occasion that it would hardly be\ncredited. Yet such stories are common enough among the Jews and\nancient Greeks; for such views belong to the simplicity of nature,\nand have only been uprooted by our profligacy. If fewer deeds\nof violence are quoted in our days, it is not that men are more\ntemperate, but because they are less credulous, and a complaint\nwhich would have been believed among a simple people would only\nexcite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the better\ncourse. There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outraged\nmaiden was punished, along with her assailant, if the crime were\ncommitted in a town; but if in the country or in a lonely place,\nthe latter alone was punished. \"For,\" says the law, \"the maiden\ncried for help, and there was none to hear.\" From this merciful\ninterpretation of the law, girls learnt not to let themselves be\nsurprised in lonely places.\n\nThis change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on our\nmorals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found that\ntheir pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwill\nof the fair sex, and have secured this goodwill by attentions which\nhave had their reward.\n\nSee how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical to\nthe moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexes\nspring the sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will of\nman, but by the decrees of nature herself; she had the power long\nbefore she showed it. That same Hercules who proposed to violate\nall the fifty daughters of Thespis was compelled to spin at the\nfeet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man, was less strong than\nDelilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is hers by right;\nshe would have lost it long ago, were it possible.\n\nThe consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. The\nmale is only a male now and again, the female is always a female,\nor at least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex; the\nperformance of her functions requires a special constitution. She\nneeds care during pregnancy and freedom from work when her child\nis born; she must have a quiet, easy life while she nurses her\nchildren; their education calls for patience and gentleness, for\na zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she forms a bond between\nfather and child, she alone can win the father's love for his\nchildren and convince him that they are indeed his own. What loving\ncare is required to preserve a united family! And there should be\nno question of virtue in all this, it must be a labour of love,\nwithout which the human race would be doomed to extinction.\n\nThe mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equally\nbinding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality of\nman-made laws; this inequality is not of man's making, or at any\nrate it is not the result of mere prejudice, but of reason. She\nto whom nature has entrusted the care of the children must hold\nherself responsible for them to their father. No doubt every breach\nof faith is wrong, and every faithless husband, who robs his wife\nof the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex, is cruel and\nunjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys the family\nand breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her husband children\nwho are not his own, she is false both to him and them, her crime\nis not infidelity but treason. To my mind, it is the source of\ndissension and of crime of every kind. Can any position be more\nwretched than that of the unhappy father who, when he clasps his\nchild to his breast, is haunted by the suspicion that this is the\nchild of another, the badge of his own dishonour, a thief who is\nrobbing his own children of their inheritance. Under such circumstances\nthe family is little more than a group of secret enemies, armed\nagainst each other by a guilty woman, who compels them to pretend\nto love one another.\n\nThus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband,\nalong with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity;\nshe must be modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witness\nnot only of a good conscience, but of a good reputation. In a word,\nif a father must love his children, he must be able to respect their\nmother. For these reasons it is not enough that the woman should\nbe chaste, she must preserve her reputation and her good name. From\nthese principles there arises not only a moral difference between\nthe sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety, which\nprescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attention\nto their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertions\nas to the equality of the sexes and the similarity of their duties\nare only empty words; they are no answer to my argument.\n\nIt is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions against\nlaws so firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearing\nchildren. Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because there\nare a hundred or so of large towns in the world where women live\nlicentiously and have few children, will you maintain that it is\ntheir business to have few children? And what would become of your\ntowns if the remote country districts, with their simpler and purer\nwomen, did not make up for the barrenness of your fine ladies?\nThere are plenty of country places where women with only four or\nfive children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion, although here\nand there a woman may have few children, what difference does it\nmake?  [Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily diminish;\nall things considered, for its preservation each woman ought to have\nabout four children, for about half the children born die before\nthey can become parents, and two must survive to replace the father\nand mother. See whether the towns will supply them?] Is it any the\nless a woman's business to be a mother? And to not the general laws\nof nature and morality make provision for this state of things?\n\nEven if there were these long intervals, which you assume, between\nthe periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way of life\nwithout danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and a soldier\nto-morrow? Will she change her tastes and her feelings as a chameleon\nchanges his colour? Will she pass at once from the privacy of\nhousehold duties and indoor occupations to the buffeting of the\nwinds, the toils, the labours, the perils of war? Will she be now\ntimid, [Footnote: Women's timidity is yet another instinct of nature\nagainst the double risk she runs during pregnancy.] now brave, now\nfragile, now robust? If the young men of Paris find a soldier's\nlife too hard for them, how would a woman put up with it, a woman\nwho has hardly ventured out of doors without a parasol and who has\nscarcely put a foot to the ground? Will she make a good soldier at\nan age when even men are retiring from this arduous business?\n\nThere are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rear\nchildren with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the men\ngo half-naked in all weathers, they strike down the wild beasts,\nthey carry a canoe as easily as a knapsack, they pursue the chase\nfor 700 or 800 leagues, they sleep in the open on the bare ground,\nthey bear incredible fatigues and go many days without food. When\nwomen become strong, men become still stronger; when men become\nsoft, women become softer; change both the terms and the ratio\nremains unaltered.\n\nI am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the same\ngymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there is\nno place for women in his system of government, so he is forced to\nturn them into men. That great genius has worked out his plans in\ndetail and has provided for every contingency; he has even provided\nagainst a difficulty which in all likelihood no one would ever have\nraised; but he has not succeeded in meeting the real difficulty. I\nam not speaking of the alleged community of wives which has often\nbeen laid to his charge; this assertion only shows that his detractors\nhave never read his works. I refer to that political promiscuity\nunder which the same occupations are assigned to both sexes alike,\na scheme which could only lead to intolerable evils; I refer to that\nsubversion of all the tenderest of our natural feelings, which he\nsacrificed to an artificial sentiment which can only exist by their\naid. Will the bonds of convention hold firm without some foundation\nin nature? Can devotion to the state exist apart from the love of\nthose near and dear to us? Can patriotism thrive except in the soil\nof that miniature fatherland, the home? Is it not the good son,\nthe good husband, the good father, who makes the good citizen?\n\nWhen once it is proved that men and women are and ought to be\nunlike in constitution and in temperament, it follows that their\neducation must be different. Nature teaches us that they should work\ntogether, but that each has its own share of the work; the end is\nthe same, but the means are different, as are also the feelings\nwhich direct them. We have attempted to paint a natural man, let\nus try to paint a helpmeet for him.\n\nYou must follow nature's guidance if you would walk aright. The\nnative characters of sex should be respected as nature's handiwork.\nYou are always saying, \"Women have such and such faults, from which\nwe are free.\" You are misled by your vanity; what would be faults\nin you are virtues in them; and things would go worse, if they\nwere without these so-called faults. Take care that they do not\ndegenerate into evil, but beware of destroying them.\n\nOn the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate them\nfor nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused with\ntrifles that we may be their masters; we are responsible, so they\nsay, for the faults we attribute to them. How silly! What have men\nto do with the education of girls? What is there to hinder their\nmothers educating them as they please? There are no colleges for\ngirls; so much the better for them! Would God there were none for\nthe boys, their education would be more sensible and more wholesome.\nWho is it that compels a girl to waste her time on foolish trifles?\nAre they forced, against their will, to spend half their time over\ntheir toilet, following the example set them by you? Who prevents\nyou teaching them, or having them taught, whatever seems good\nin your eyes? Is it our fault that we are charmed by their beauty\nand delighted by their airs and graces, if we are attracted and\nflattered by the arts they learn from you, if we love to see them\nprettily dressed, if we let them display at leisure the weapons\nby which we are subjugated? Well then, educate them like men. The\nmore women are like men, the less influence they will have over\nmen, and then men will be masters indeed.\n\nAll the faculties common to both sexes are not equally shared\nbetween them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Woman\nis worth more as a woman and less as a man; when she makes a good\nuse of her own rights, she has the best of it; when she tries to\nusurp our rights, she is our inferior. It is impossible to controvert\nthis, except by quoting exceptions after the usual fashion of the\npartisans of the fair sex.\n\nTo cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect their\nown is evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sighted\nto be thus deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they do\nnot abandon their own; with this result: they are unable to make use\nof two incompatible things, so they fall below their own level as\nwomen, instead of rising to the level of men. If you are a sensible\nmother you will take my advice. Do not try to make your daughter a\ngood man in defiance of nature. Make her a good woman, and be sure\nit will be better both for her and us.\n\nDoes this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and kept\nto housework only? Is she to be man's handmaid or his help-meet?\nWill he dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To keep\nher a slave will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will he make\nan automaton of her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching of nature,\nwho has given women such a pleasant easy wit. On the contrary,\nnature means them to think, to will, to love, to cultivate their\nminds as well as their persons; she puts these weapons in their\nhands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable them to\ndirect the strength of men. They should learn many things, but only\nsuch things as are suitable.\n\nWhen I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observe\nher inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines to\nindicate the mode of education she requires. Men and women are made\nfor each other, but their mutual dependence differs in degree; man\nis dependent on woman through his desires; woman is dependent on\nman through her desires and also through her needs; he could do\nwithout her better than she can do without him. She cannot fulfil\nher purpose in life without his aid, without his goodwill, without\nhis respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the price we\nput upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms and her\ndeserts.  Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for herself\nand her children, should be at the mercy of man's judgment.\n\nWorth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy; nor\nbeauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected.\nA woman's honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on her\nreputation, and no woman who permits herself to be considered vile\nis really virtuous. A man has no one but himself to consider, and\nso long as he does right he may defy public opinion; but when a\nwoman does right her task is only half finished, and what people\nthink of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence her\neducation must, in this respect, be different from man's education.\n\"What will people think\" is the grave of a man's virtue and the\nthrone of a woman's.\n\nThe children's health depends in the first place on the mother's,\nand the early education of man is also in a woman's hands; his\nmorals, his passions, his tastes, his pleasures, his happiness\nitself, depend on her. A woman's education must therefore be planned\nin relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respect\nand love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, to\ncounsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, these\nare the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should\nbe taught while she is young. The further we depart from this\nprinciple, the further we shall be from our goal, and all our\nprecepts will fail to secure her happiness or our own.\n\nEvery woman desires to be pleasing in men's eyes, and this is right;\nbut there is a great difference between wishing to please a man of\nworth, a really lovable man, and seeking to please those foppish\nmanikins who are a disgrace to their own sex and to the sex which\nthey imitate. Neither nature nor reason can induce a woman to love\nan effeminate person, nor will she win love by imitating such a\nperson.\n\nIf a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, and\nadopts the airs of such foolish creatures, she is not following\nher vocation, she is forsaking it; she is robbing herself of the\nrights to which she lays claim. \"If we were different,\" she says,\n\"the men would not like us.\" She is mistaken. Only a fool likes\nfolly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own foolishness. If\nthere were no frivolous men, women would soon make them, and women\nare more responsible for men's follies than men are for theirs.\nThe woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour in its\nsight will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a coquette by\nprofession, but her coquetry varies with her aims; let these aims\nbe in accordance with those of nature, and a woman will receive a\nfitting education.\n\nEven the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content to\nbe pretty, they must be admired; their little airs and graces show\nthat their heads are full of this idea, and as soon as they can\nunderstand they are controlled by \"What will people think of you?\"\nIf you are foolish enough to try this way with little boys, it\nwill not have the same effect; give them their freedom and their\nsports, and they care very little what people think; it is a work\nof time to bring them under the control of this law.\n\nHowever acquired, this early education of little girls is an\nexcellent thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precede\nthe birth of the mind, so the training of the body must precede\nthe cultivation of the mind. This is true of both sexes; but the\naim of physical training for boys and girls is not the same; in the\none case it is the development of strength, in the other of grace;\nnot that these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but that\ntheir relative values should be different. Women should be strong\nenough to do anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough to\ndo anything easily.\n\nThe exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men.\nWomen should not be strong like men but for them, so that their\nsons may be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their plain\nfood and ample opportunities for amusements, races, and games in\nthe open air and in the garden, are better in this respect than\nthe home, where the little girl is fed on delicacies, continually\nencouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in a stuffy room,\nalways under her mother's eye, afraid to stand or walk or speak\nor breathe, without a moment's freedom to play or jump or run or\nshout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there is either\nharmful indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace of reason.\nIn this fashion heart and body are alike destroyed.\n\nIn Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just like\nthe boys, not that they might go to war, but that they might bear\nsons who could endure hardship. That is not what I desire. To provide\nthe state with soldiers it is not necessary that the mother should\ncarry a musket and master the Prussian drill. Yet, on the whole, I\nthink the Greeks were very wise in this matter of physical training.\nYoung girls frequently appeared in public, not with the boys, but\nin groups apart. There was scarcely a festival, a sacrifice, or a\nprocession without its bands of maidens, the daughters of the chief\ncitizens. Crowned with flowers, chanting hymns, forming the chorus\nof the dance, bearing baskets, vases, offerings, they presented a\ncharming spectacle to the depraved senses of the Greeks, a spectacle\nwell fitted to efface the evil effects of their unseemly gymnastics.\nWhatever this custom may have done for the Greek men, it was well\nfitted to develop in the Greek women a sound constitution by means\nof pleasant, moderate, and healthy exercise; while the desire to\nplease would develop a keen and cultivated taste without risk to\ncharacter.\n\nWhen the Greek women married, they disappeared from public life;\nwithin the four walls of their home they devoted themselves to\nthe care of their household and family. This is the mode of life\nprescribed for women alike by nature and reason. These women gave\nbirth to the healthiest, strongest, and best proportioned men who\never lived, and except in certain islands of ill repute, no women\nin the whole world, not even the Roman matrons, were ever at once\nso wise and so charming, so beautiful and so virtuous, as the women\nof ancient Greece.\n\nIt is admitted that their flowing garments, which did not cramp\nthe figure, preserved in men and women alike the fine proportions\nwhich are seen in their statues. These are still the models of\nart, although nature is so disfigured that they are no longer to\nbe found among us. The Gothic trammels, the innumerable bands which\nconfine our limbs as in a press, were quite unknown. The Greek\nwomen were wholly unacquainted with those frames of whalebone in\nwhich our women distort rather than display their figures. It seems\nto me that this abuse, which is carried to an incredible degree of\nfolly in England, must sooner or later lead to the production of\na degenerate race. Moreover, I maintain that the charm which these\ncorsets are supposed to produce is in the worst possible taste; it\nis not a pleasant thing to see a woman cut in two like a wasp--it\noffends both the eye and the imagination. A slender waist has\nits limits, like everything else, in proportion and suitability,\nand beyond these limits it becomes a defect. This defect would be\na glaring one in the nude; why should it be beautiful under the\ncostume?\n\nI will not venture upon the reasons which induce women to incase\nthemselves in these coats of mail. A clumsy figure, a large waist,\nare no doubt very ugly at twenty, but at thirty they cease to offend\nthe eye, and as we are bound to be what nature has made us at any\ngiven age, and as there is no deceiving the eye of man, such defects\nare less offensive at any age than the foolish affectations of a\nyoung thing of forty.\n\nEverything which cramps and confines nature is in bad taste; this\nis as true of the adornments of the person as of the ornaments of\nthe mind. Life, health, common-sense, and comfort must come first;\nthere is no grace in discomfort, languor is not refinement, there\nis no charm in ill-health; suffering may excite pity, but pleasure\nand delight demand the freshness of health.\n\nBoys and girls have many games in common, and this is as it should\nbe; do they not play together when they are grown up? They have also\nspecial tastes of their own. Boys want movement and noise, drums,\ntops, toy-carts; girls prefer things which appeal to the eye,\nand can be used for dressing-up--mirrors, jewellery, finery, and\nspecially dolls. The doll is the girl's special plaything; this shows\nher instinctive bent towards her life's work. The art of pleasing\nfinds its physical basis in personal adornment, and this physical\nside of the art is the only one which the child can cultivate.\n\nHere is a little girl busy all day with her doll; she is always\nchanging its clothes, dressing and undressing it, trying new\ncombinations of trimmings well or ill matched; her fingers are\nclumsy, her taste is crude, but there is no mistaking her bent; in\nthis endless occupation time flies unheeded, the hours slip away\nunnoticed, even meals are forgotten. She is more eager for adornment\nthan for food. \"But she is dressing her doll, not herself,\" you\nwill say. Just so; she sees her doll, she cannot see herself; she\ncannot do anything for herself, she has neither the training, nor\nthe talent, nor the strength; as yet she herself is nothing, she is\nengrossed in her doll and all her coquetry is devoted to it. This\nwill not always be so; in due time she will be her own doll.\n\nWe have here a very early and clearly-marked bent; you have only to\nfollow it and train it. What the little girl most clearly desires\nis to dress her doll, to make its bows, its tippets, its sashes,\nand its tuckers; she is dependent on other people's kindness in all\nthis, and it would be much pleasanter to be able to do it herself.\nHere is a motive for her earliest lessons, they are not tasks\nprescribed, but favours bestowed. Little girls always dislike learning\nto read and write, but they are always ready to learn to sew. They\nthink they are grown up, and in imagination they are using their\nknowledge for their own adornment.\n\nThe way is open and it is easy to follow it; cutting out, embroidery,\nlace-making follow naturally. Tapestry is not popular; furniture is\ntoo remote from the child's interests, it has nothing to do with\nthe person, it depends on conventional tastes. Tapestry is a woman's\namusement; young girls never care for it.\n\nThis voluntary course is easily extended to include drawing, an\nart which is closely connected with taste in dress; but I would not\nhave them taught landscape and still less figure painting. Leaves,\nfruit, flowers, draperies, anything that will make an elegant\ntrimming for the accessories of the toilet, and enable the girl\nto design her own embroidery if she cannot find a pattern to her\ntaste; that will be quite enough. Speaking generally, if it is\ndesirable to restrict a man's studies to what is useful, this is\neven more necessary for women, whose life, though less laborious,\nshould be even more industrious and more uniformly employed in a\nvariety of duties, so that one talent should not be encouraged at\nthe expense of others.\n\nWhatever may be said by the scornful, good sense belongs to both\nsexes alike. Girls are usually more docile than boys, and they\nshould be subjected to more authority, as I shall show later on,\nbut that is no reason why they should be required to do things\nin which they can see neither rhyme nor reason. The mother's art\nconsists in showing the use of everything they are set to do, and\nthis is all the easier as the girl's intelligence is more precocious\nthan the boy's. This principle banishes, both for boys and girls,\nnot only those pursuits which never lead to any appreciable results,\nnot even increasing the charms of those who have pursued them, but\nalso those studies whose utility is beyond the scholar's present age\nand can only be appreciated in later years. If I object to little\nboys being made to learn to read, still more do I object to it\nfor little girls until they are able to see the use of reading; we\ngenerally think more of our own ideas than theirs in our attempts\nto convince them of the utility of this art. After all, why should\na little girl know how to read and write! Has she a house to manage?\nMost of them make a bad use of this fatal knowledge, and girls are\nso full of curiosity that few of them will fail to learn without\ncompulsion.  Possibly cyphering should come first; there is nothing\nso obviously useful, nothing which needs so much practice or gives\nso much opportunity for error as reckoning. If the little girl\ndoes not get the cherries for her lunch without an arithmetical\nexercise, she will soon learn to count.\n\nI once knew a little girl who learnt to write before she could read,\nand she began to write with her needle. To begin with, she would\nwrite nothing but O's; she was always making O's, large and small,\nof all kinds and one within another, but always drawn backwards.\nUnluckily one day she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass\nwhile she was at this useful work, and thinking that the cramped\nattitude was not pretty, like another Minerva she flung away her\npen and declined to make any more O's. Her brother was no fonder\nof writing, but what he disliked was the constraint, not the look\nof the thing.  She was induced to go on with her writing in this way.\nThe child was fastidious and vain; she could not bear her sisters\nto wear her clothes. Her things had been marked, they declined to\nmark them any more, she must learn to mark them herself; there is\nno need to continue the story.\n\nShow the sense of the tasks you set your little girls, but keep them\nbusy. Idleness and insubordination are two very dangerous faults,\nand very hard to cure when once established. Girls should be\nattentive and industrious, but this is not enough by itself; they\nshould early be accustomed to restraint. This misfortune, if such\nit be, is inherent in their sex, and they will never escape from it,\nunless to endure more cruel sufferings. All their life long, they\nwill have to submit to the strictest and most enduring restraints,\nthose of propriety. They must be trained to bear the yoke from the\nfirst, so that they may not feel it, to master their own caprices\nand to submit themselves to the will of others. If they were always\neager to be at work, they should sometimes be compelled to do\nnothing. Their childish faults, unchecked and unheeded, may easily\nlead to dissipation, frivolity, and inconstancy. To guard against\nthis, teach them above all things self-control. Under our senseless\nconditions, the life of a good woman is a perpetual struggle against\nself; it is only fair that woman should bear her share of the ills\nshe has brought upon man.\n\nBeware lest your girls become weary of their tasks and infatuated\nwith their amusements; this often happens under our ordinary methods\nof education, where, as Fenelon says, all the tedium is on one side\nand all the pleasure on the other. If the rules already laid down\nare followed, the first of these dangers will be avoided, unless the\nchild dislikes those about her. A little girl who is fond of her\nmother or her friend will work by her side all day without getting\ntired; the chatter alone will make up for any loss of liberty. But\nif her companion is distasteful to her, everything done under her\ndirection will be distasteful too. Children who take no delight\nin their mother's company are not likely to turn out well; but to\njudge of their real feelings you must watch them and not trust to\ntheir words alone, for they are flatterers and deceitful and soon\nlearn to conceal their thoughts. Neither should they be told that\nthey ought to love their mother. Affection is not the result of\nduty, and in this respect constraint is out of place. Continual\nintercourse, constant care, habit itself, all these will lead\na child to love her mother, if the mother does nothing to deserve\nthe child's ill-will.  The very control she exercises over the\nchild, if well directed, will increase rather than diminish the\naffection, for women being made for dependence, girls feel themselves\nmade to obey.\n\nJust because they have, or ought to have, little freedom, they are\napt to indulge themselves too fully with regard to such freedom\nas they have; they carry everything to extremes, and they devote\nthemselves to their games with an enthusiasm even greater than that\nof boys. This is the second difficulty to which I referred. This\nenthusiasm must be kept in check, for it is the source of several\nvices commonly found among women, caprice and that extravagant\nadmiration which leads a woman to regard a thing with rapture to-day\nand to be quite indifferent to it to-morrow. This fickleness of\ntaste is as dangerous as exaggeration; and both spring from the same\ncause. Do not deprive them of mirth, laughter, noise, and romping\ngames, but do not let them tire of one game and go off to another;\ndo not leave them for a moment without restraint. Train them to\nbreak off their games and return to their other occupations without\na murmur. Habit is all that is needed, as you have nature on your\nside.\n\nThis habitual restraint produces a docility which woman requires\nall her life long, for she will always be in subjection to a man,\nor to man's judgment, and she will never be free to set her own\nopinion above his. What is most wanted in a woman is gentleness;\nformed to obey a creature so imperfect as man, a creature often\nvicious and always faulty, she should early learn to submit to\ninjustice and to suffer the wrongs inflicted on her by her husband\nwithout complaint; she must be gentle for her own sake, not his.\nBitterness and obstinacy only multiply the sufferings of the wife\nand the misdeeds of the husband; the man feels that these are\nnot the weapons to be used against him. Heaven did not make women\nattractive and persuasive that they might degenerate into bitterness,\nor meek that they should desire the mastery; their soft voice was\nnot meant for hard words, nor their delicate features for the frowns\nof anger.  When they lose their temper they forget themselves; often\nenough they have just cause of complaint; but when they scold they\nalways put themselves in the wrong. We should each adopt the tone\nwhich befits our sex; a soft-hearted husband may make an overbearing\nwife, but a man, unless he is a perfect monster, will sooner or\nlater yield to his wife's gentleness, and the victory will be hers.\n\nDaughters must always be obedient, but mothers need not always be\nharsh. To make a girl docile you need not make her miserable; to\nmake her modest you need not terrify her; on the contrary, I should\nnot be sorry to see her allowed occasionally to exercise a little\ningenuity, not to escape punishment for her disobedience, but\nto evade the necessity for obedience. Her dependence need not be\nmade unpleasant, it is enough that she should realise that she is\ndependent. Cunning is a natural gift of woman, and so convinced\nam I that all our natural inclinations are right, that I would\ncultivate this among others, only guarding against its abuse.\n\nFor the truth of this I appeal to every honest observer. I do not\nask you to question women themselves, our cramping institutions may\ncompel them to sharpen their wits; I would have you examine girls,\nlittle girls, newly-born so to speak; compare them with boys of the\nsame age, and I am greatly mistaken if you do not find the little\nboys heavy, silly, and foolish, in comparison. Let me give one\nillustration in all its childish simplicity.\n\nChildren are commonly forbidden to ask for anything at table, for\npeople think they can do nothing better in the way of education\nthan to burden them with useless precepts; as if a little bit of\nthis or that were not readily given or refused without leaving a\npoor child dying of greediness intensified by hope. Every one knows\nhow cunningly a little boy brought up in this way asked for salt\nwhen he had been overlooked at table. I do not suppose any one will\nblame him for asking directly for salt and indirectly for meat;\nthe neglect was so cruel that I hardly think he would have been\npunished had he broken the rule and said plainly that he was hungry.\nBut this is what I saw done by a little girl of six; the circumstances\nwere much more difficult, for not only was she strictly forbidden\nto ask for anything directly or indirectly, but disobedience would\nhave been unpardonable, for she had eaten of every dish; one only\nhad been overlooked, and on this she had set her heart. This is what\nshe did to repair the omission without laying herself open to the\ncharge of disobedience; she pointed to every dish in turn, saying,\n\"I've had some of this; I've had some of this;\" however she omitted\nthe one dish so markedly that some one noticed it and said, \"Have\nnot you had some of this?\" \"Oh, no,\" replied the greedy little girl\nwith soft voice and downcast eyes. These instances are typical of\nthe cunning of the little boy and girl.\n\nWhat is, is good, and no general law can be bad. This special skill\nwith which the female sex is endowed is a fair equivalent for its\nlack of strength; without it woman would be man's slave, not his\nhelpmeet. By her superiority in this respect she maintains her equality\nwith man, and rules in obedience. She has everything against her,\nour faults and her own weakness and timidity; her beauty and her\nwiles are all that she has. Should she not cultivate both? Yet beauty\nis not universal; it may be destroyed by all sorts of accidents,\nit will disappear with years, and habit will destroy its influence.\nA woman's real resource is her wit; not that foolish wit which is\nso greatly admired in society, a wit which does nothing to make\nlife happier; but that wit which is adapted to her condition, the\nart of taking advantage of our position and controlling us through\nour own strength. Words cannot tell how beneficial this is to\nman, what a charm it gives to the society of men and women, how it\nchecks the petulant child and restrains the brutal husband; without\nit the home would be a scene of strife; with it, it is the abode\nof happiness. I know that this power is abused by the sly and the\nspiteful; but what is there that is not liable to abuse? Do not\ndestroy the means of happiness because the wicked use them to our\nhurt.\n\nThe toilet may attract notice, but it is the person that wins our\nhearts. Our finery is not us; its very artificiality often offends,\nand that which is least noticeable in itself often wins the most\nattention. The education of our girls is, in this respect, absolutely\ntopsy-turvy. Ornaments are promised them as rewards, and they are\ntaught to delight in elaborate finery. \"How lovely she is!\" people\nsay when she is most dressed up. On the contrary, they should be\ntaught that so much finery is only required to hide their defects,\nand that beauty's real triumph is to shine alone. The love of\nfashion is contrary to good taste, for faces do not change with the\nfashion, and while the person remains unchanged, what suits it at\none time will suit it always.\n\nIf I saw a young girl decked out like a little peacock, I should\nshow myself anxious about her figure so disguised, and anxious what\npeople would think of her; I should say, \"She is over-dressed with\nall those ornaments; what a pity! Do you think she could do with\nsomething simpler? Is she pretty enough to do without this or that?\"\nPossibly she herself would be the first to ask that her finery might\nbe taken off and that we should see how she looked without it. In\nthat case her beauty should receive such praise as it deserves. I\nshould never praise her unless simply dressed. If she only regards\nfine clothes as an aid to personal beauty, and as a tacit confession\nthat she needs their aid, she will not be proud of her finery, she\nwill be humbled by it; and if she hears some one say, \"How pretty\nshe is,\" when she is smarter than usual, she will blush for shame.\n\nMoreover, though there are figures that require adornment there\nare none that require expensive clothes. Extravagance in dress is\nthe folly of the class rather than the individual, it is merely\nconventional. Genuine coquetry is sometimes carefully thought out,\nbut never sumptuous, and Juno dressed herself more magnificently\nthan Venus. \"As you cannot make her beautiful you are making her\nfine,\" said Apelles to an unskilful artist who was painting Helen\nloaded with jewellery. I have also noticed that the smartest clothes\nproclaim the plainest women; no folly could be more misguided. If\na young girl has good taste and a contempt for fashion, give her a\nfew yards of ribbon, muslin, and gauze, and a handful of flowers,\nwithout any diamonds, fringes, or lace, and she will make herself\na dress a hundredfold more becoming than all the smart clothes of\nLa Duchapt.\n\nGood is always good, and as you should always look your best, the\nwomen who know what they are about select a good style and keep\nto it, and as they are not always changing their style they think\nless about dress than those who can never settle to any one style.\nA genuine desire to dress becomingly does not require an elaborate\ntoilet. Young girls rarely give much time to dress; needlework and\nlessons are the business of the day; yet, except for the rouge,\nthey are generally as carefully dressed as older women and often\nin better taste. Contrary to the usual opinion, the real cause of\nthe abuse of the toilet is not vanity but lack of occupation. The\nwoman who devotes six hours to her toilet is well aware that she\nis no better dressed than the woman who took half an hour, but she\nhas got rid of so many of the tedious hours and it is better to\namuse oneself with one's clothes than to be sick of everything.\nWithout the toilet how would she spend the time between dinner and\nsupper.  With a crowd of women about her, she can at least cause\nthem annoyance, which is amusement of a kind; better still she avoids\na tete-a-tete with the husband whom she never sees at any other\ntime; then there are the tradespeople, the dealers in bric-a-brac,\nthe fine gentlemen, the minor poets with their songs, their verses,\nand their pamphlets; how could you get them together but for the\ntoilet.  Its only real advantage is the chance of a little more\ndisplay than is permitted by full dress, and perhaps this is less\nthan it seems and a woman gains less than she thinks. Do not be\nafraid to educate your women as women; teach them a woman's business,\nthat they be modest, that they may know how to manage their house\nand look after their family; the grand toilet will soon disappear,\nand they will be more tastefully dressed.\n\nGrowing girls perceive at once that all this outside adornment is\nnot enough unless they have charms of their own. They cannot make\nthemselves beautiful, they are too young for coquetry, but they\nare not too young to acquire graceful gestures, a pleasing voice,\na self-possessed manner, a light step, a graceful bearing, to choose\nwhatever advantages are within their reach. The voice extends its\nrange, it grows stronger and more resonant, the arms become plumper,\nthe bearing more assured, and they perceive that it is easy to\nattract attention however dressed. Needlework and industry suffice\nno longer, fresh gifts are developing and their usefulness is\nalready recognised.\n\nI know that stern teachers would have us refuse to teach little\ngirls to sing or dance, or to acquire any of the pleasing arts.\nThis strikes me as absurd. Who should learn these arts--our boys?\nAre these to be the favourite accomplishments of men or women? Of\nneither, say they; profane songs are simply so many crimes, dancing\nis an invention of the Evil One; her tasks and her prayers we all\nthe amusement a young girl should have. What strange amusements\nfor a child of ten! I fear that these little saints who have been\nforced to spend their childhood in prayers to God will pass their\nyouth in another fashion; when they are married they will try to\nmake up for lost time. I think we must consider age as well as sex;\na young girl should not live like her grandmother; she should be\nlively, merry, and eager; she should sing and dance to her heart's\ncontent, and enjoy all the innocent pleasures of youth; the time\nwill come, all too soon, when she must settle down and adopt a more\nserious tone.\n\nBut is this change in itself really necessary? Is it not merely\nanother result of our own prejudices? By making good women the slaves\nof dismal duties, we have deprived marriage of its charm for men.\nCan we wonder that the gloomy silence they find at home drives them\nelsewhere, or inspires little desire to enter a state which offers\nso few attractions? Christianity, by exaggerating every duty, has\nmade our duties impracticable and useless; by forbidding singing,\ndancing, and amusements of every kind, it renders women sulky,\nfault-finding, and intolerable at home. There is no religion which\nimposes such strict duties upon married life, and none in which\nsuch a sacred engagement is so often profaned. Such pains has been\ntaken to prevent wives being amiable, that their husbands have\nbecome indifferent to them. This should not be, I grant you, but\nit will be, since husbands are but men. I would have an English\nmaiden cultivate the talents which will delight her husband as\nzealously as the Circassian cultivates the accomplishments of an\nEastern harem.  Husbands, you say, care little for such accomplishments.\nSo I should suppose, when they are employed, not for the husband,\nbut to attract the young rakes who dishonour the home. But imagine\na virtuous and charming wife, adorned with such accomplishments\nand devoting them to her husband's amusement; will she not add to\nhis happiness? When he leaves his office worn out with the day's\nwork, will she not prevent him seeking recreation elsewhere? Have\nwe not all beheld happy families gathered together, each contributing\nto the general amusement? Are not the confidence and familiarity\nthus established, the innocence and the charm of the pleasures thus\nenjoyed, more than enough to make up for the more riotous pleasures\nof public entertainments?\n\nPleasant accomplishments have been made too formal an affair of\nrules and precepts, so that young people find them very tedious\ninstead of a mere amusement or a merry game as they ought to be.\nNothing can be more absurd than an elderly singing or dancing\nmaster frowning upon young people, whose one desire is to laugh,\nand adopting a more pedantic and magisterial manner in teaching his\nfrivolous art than if he were teaching the catechism. Take the case\nof singing; does this art depend on reading music; cannot the voice\nbe made true and flexible, can we not learn to sing with taste and\neven to play an accompaniment without knowing a note? Does the same\nkind of singing suit all voices alike? Is the same method adapted\nto every mind? You will never persuade me that the same attitudes,\nthe same steps, the same movements, the same gestures, the same\ndances will suit a lively little brunette and a tall fair maiden\nwith languishing eyes. So when I find a master giving the same\nlessons to all his pupils I say, \"He has his own routine, but he\nknows nothing of his art!\"\n\nShould young girls have masters or mistresses? I cannot say; I wish\nthey could dispense with both; I wish they could learn of their\nown accord what they are already so willing to learn. I wish there\nwere fewer of these dressed-up old ballet masters promenading our\nstreets. I fear our young people will get more harm from intercourse\nwith such people than profit from their instruction, and that their\njargon, their tone, their airs and graces, will instil a precocious\ntaste for the frivolities which the teacher thinks so important,\nand to which the scholars are only too likely to devote themselves.\n\nWhere pleasure is the only end in view, any one may serve as\nteacher--father, mother, brother, sister, friend, governess, the\ngirl's mirror, and above all her own taste. Do not offer to teach,\nlet her ask; do not make a task of what should be a reward, and in\nthese studies above all remember that the wish to succeed is the\nfirst step. If formal instruction is required I leave it to you\nto choose between a master and a mistress. How can I tell whether\na dancing master should take a young pupil by her soft white hand,\nmake her lift her skirt and raise her eyes, open her arms and advance\nher throbbing bosom? but this I know, nothing on earth would induce\nme to be that master.\n\nTaste is formed partly by industry and partly by talent, and by\nits means the mind is unconsciously opened to the idea of beauty\nof every kind, till at length it attains to those moral ideas which\nare so closely related to beauty. Perhaps this is one reason why\nideas of propriety and modesty are acquired earlier by girls than\nby boys, for to suppose that this early feeling is due to the\nteaching of the governesses would show little knowledge of their\nstyle of teaching and of the natural development of the human mind.\nThe art of speaking stands first among the pleasing arts; it alone\ncan add fresh charms to those which have been blunted by habit. It\nis the mind which not only gives life to the body, but renews, so\nto speak, its youth; the flow of feelings and ideas give life and\nvariety to the countenance, and the conversation to which it gives\nrise arouses and sustains attention, and fixes it continuously on\none object. I suppose this is why little girls so soon learn to\nprattle prettily, and why men enjoy listening to them even before\nthe child can understand them; they are watching for the first\ngleam of intelligence and sentiment.\n\nWomen have ready tongues; they talk earlier, more easily, and more\npleasantly than men. They are also said to talk more; this may\nbe true, but I am prepared to reckon it to their credit; eyes and\nmouth are equally busy and for the same cause. A man says what he\nknows, a woman says what will please; the one needs knowledge, the\nother taste; utility should be the man's object; the woman speaks\nto give pleasure. There should be nothing in common but truth.\n\nYou should not check a girl's prattle like a boy's by the harsh\nquestion, \"What is the use of that?\" but by another question at\nleast as difficult to answer, \"What effect will that have?\" At this\nearly age when they know neither good nor evil, and are incapable\nof judging others, they should make this their rule and never say\nanything which is unpleasant to those about them; this rule is all\nthe more difficult to apply because it must always be subordinated\nto our first rule, \"Never tell a lie.\"\n\nI can see many other difficulties, but they belong to a later stage.\nFor the present it is enough for your little girls to speak the\ntruth without grossness, and as they are naturally averse to what\nis gross, education easily teaches them to avoid it. In social\nintercourse I observe that a man's politeness is usually more\nhelpful and a woman's more caressing. This distinction is natural,\nnot artificial. A man seeks to serve, a woman seeks to please. Hence\na woman's politeness is less insincere than ours, whatever we may\nthink of her character; for she is only acting upon a fundamental\ninstinct; but when a man professes to put my interests before his\nown, I detect the falsehood, however disguised. Hence it is easy\nfor women to be polite, and easy to teach little girls politeness.\nThe first lessons come by nature; art only supplements them and\ndetermines the conventional form which politeness shall take. The\ncourtesy of woman to woman is another matter; their manner is so\nconstrained, their attentions so chilly, they find each other so\nwearisome, that they take little pains to conceal the fact, and\nseem sincere even in their falsehood, since they take so little\npains to conceal it. Still young girls do sometimes become sincerely\nattached to one another. At their age good spirits take the place\nof a good disposition, and they are so pleased with themselves that\nthey are pleased with every one else. Moreover, it is certain that\nthey kiss each other more affectionately and caress each other more\ngracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud to be able\nto arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight of\nfavours which they know will arouse that envy.\n\nIf young boys must not be allowed to ask unsuitable questions, much\nmore must they be forbidden to little girls; if their curiosity is\nsatisfied or unskilfully evaded it is a much more serious matter,\nfor they are so keen to guess the mysteries concealed from them and\nso skilful to discover them. But while I would not permit them to\nask questions, I would have them questioned frequently, and pains\nshould be taken to make them talk; let them be teased to make them\nspeak freely, to make them answer readily, to loosen mind and\ntongue while it can be done without danger. Such conversation always\nleading to merriment, yet skilfully controlled and directed, would\nform a delightful amusement at this age and might instil into these\nyouthful hearts the first and perhaps the most helpful lessons in\nmorals which they will ever receive, by teaching them in the guise\nof pleasure and fun what qualities are esteemed by men and what is\nthe true glory and happiness of a good woman.\n\nIf boys are incapable of forming any true idea of religion, much\nmore is it beyond the grasp of girls; and for this reason I would\nspeak of it all the sooner to little girls, for if we wait till\nthey are ready for a serious discussion of these deep subjects we\nshould be in danger of never speaking of religion at all. A woman's\nreason is practical, and therefore she soon arrives at a given\nconclusion, but she fails to discover it for herself. The social\nrelation of the sexes is a wonderful thing. This relation produces\na moral person of which woman is the eye and man the hand, but the\ntwo are so dependent on one another that the man teaches the woman\nwhat to see, while she teaches him what to do. If women could\ndiscover principles and if men had as good heads for detail, they\nwould be mutually independent, they would live in perpetual strife,\nand there would be an end to all society. But in their mutual\nharmony each contributes to a common purpose; each follows the\nother's lead, each commands and each obeys.\n\nAs a woman's conduct is controlled by public opinion, so is her\nreligion ruled by authority. The daughter should follow her mother's\nreligion, the wife her husband's. Were that religion false, the\ndocility which leads mother and daughter to submit to nature's\nlaws would blot out the sin of error in the sight of God. Unable\nto judge for themselves they should accept the judgment of father\nand husband as that of the church.\n\nWhile women unaided cannot deduce the rules of their faith, neither\ncan they assign limits to that faith by the evidence of reason;\nthey allow themselves to be driven hither and thither by all sorts\nof external influences, they are ever above or below the truth. Extreme\nin everything, they are either altogether reckless or altogether\npious; you never find them able to combine virtue and piety. Their\nnatural exaggeration is not wholly to blame; the ill-regulated\ncontrol exercised over them by men is partly responsible. Loose\nmorals bring religion into contempt; the terrors of remorse make\nit a tyrant; this is why women have always too much or too little\nreligion.\n\nAs a woman's religion is controlled by authority it is more\nimportant to show her plainly what to believe than to explain the\nreasons for belief; for faith attached to ideas half-understood\nis the main source of fanaticism, and faith demanded on behalf of\nwhat is absurd leads to madness or unbelief. Whether our catechisms\ntend to produce impiety rather than fanaticism I cannot say, but\nI do know that they lead to one or other.\n\nIn the first place, when you teach religion to little girls never\nmake it gloomy or tiresome, never make it a task or a duty, and\ntherefore never give them anything to learn by heart, not even\ntheir prayers. Be content to say your own prayers regularly in their\npresence, but do not compel them to join you. Let their prayers\nbe short, as Christ himself has taught us. Let them always be said\nwith becoming reverence and respect; remember that if we ask the\nAlmighty to give heed to our words, we should at least give heed\nto what we mean to say.\n\nIt does not much matter that a girl should learn her religion young,\nbut it does matter that she should learn it thoroughly, and still\nmore that she should learn to love it. If you make religion a\nburden to her, if you always speak of God's anger, if in the name\nof religion you impose all sorts of disagreeable duties, duties\nwhich she never sees you perform, what can she suppose but that\nto learn one's catechism and to say one's prayers is only the duty\nof a little girl, and she will long to be grown-up to escape, like\nyou, from these duties. Example! Example! Without it you will never\nsucceed in teaching children anything.\n\nWhen you explain the Articles of Faith let it be by direct teaching,\nnot by question and answer. Children should only answer what they\nthink, not what has been drilled into them. All the answers in the\ncatechism are the wrong way about; it is the scholar who instructs\nthe teacher; in the child's mouth they are a downright lie, since\nthey explain what he does not understand, and affirm what he cannot\nbelieve. Find me, if you can, an intelligent man who could honestly\nsay his catechism. The first question I find in our catechism is as\nfollows: \"Who created you and brought you into the world?\" To which\nthe girl, who thinks it was her mother, replies without hesitation,\n\"It was God.\" All she knows is that she is asked a question which\nshe only half understands and she gives an answer she does not\nunderstand at all.\n\nI wish some one who really understands the development of children's\nminds would write a catechism for them. It might be the most useful\nbook ever written, and, in my opinion, it would do its author no\nlittle honour. This at least is certain--if it were a good book it\nwould be very unlike our catechisms.\n\nSuch a catechism will not be satisfactory unless the child can\nanswer the questions of its own accord without having to learn the\nanswers; indeed the child will often ask the questions itself. An\nexample is required to make my meaning plain and I feel how ill\nequipped I am to furnish such an example. I will try to give some\nsort of outline of my meaning.\n\nTo get to the first question in our catechism I suppose we must\nbegin somewhat after the following fashion.\n\nNURSE: Do you remember when your mother was a little girl?\n\nCHILD: No, nurse.\n\nNURSE: Why not, when you have such a good memory?\n\nCHILD: I was not alive.\n\nNURSE: Then you were not always alive!\n\nCHILD: No.\n\nNURSE: Will you live for ever!\n\nCHILD: Yes.\n\nNURSE: Are you young or old?\n\nCHILD: I am young.\n\nNURSE: Is your grandmamma old or young?\n\nCHILD: She is old.\n\nNURSE: Was she ever young?\n\nCHILD: Yes.\n\nNURSE: Why is she not young now?\n\nCHILD: She has grown old.\n\nNURSE: Will you grow old too?\n\nCHILD: I don't know.\n\nNURSE: Where are your last year's frocks?\n\nCHILD: They have been unpicked.\n\nNURSE: Why!\n\nCHILD: Because they were too small for me.\n\nNURSE: Why were they too small?\n\nCHILD: I have grown bigger.\n\nNURSE: Will you grow any more!\n\nCHILD: Oh, yes.\n\nNURSE: And what becomes of big girls?\n\nCHILD: They grow into women.\n\nNURSE: And what becomes of women!\n\nCHILD: They are mothers.\n\nNURSE: And what becomes of mothers?\n\nCHILD: They grow old.\n\nNURSE: Will you grow old?\n\nCHILD: When I am a mother.\n\nNURSE: And what becomes of old people?\n\nCHILD: I don't know.\n\nNURSE: What became of your grandfather?\n\nCHILD: He died. [Footnote: The child will say this because she has\nheard it said; but you must make sure she knows what death is, for\nthe idea is not so simple and within the child's grasp as people\nthink. In that little poem \"Abel\" you will find an example of the way\nto teach them. This charming work breathes a delightful simplicity\nwith which one should feed one's own mind so as to talk with\nchildren.]\n\nNURSE: Why did he die?\n\nCHILD: Because he was so old.\n\nNURSE: What becomes of old people!\n\nCHILD: They die.\n\nNURSE: And when you are old----?\n\nCHILD: Oh nurse! I don't want to die!\n\nNURSE: My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies.\n\nCHILD: Why, will mamma die too!\n\nNURSE: Yes, like everybody else. Women grow old as well as men,\nand old age ends in death.\n\nCHILD: What must I do to grow old very, very slowly?\n\nNURSE: Be good while you are little.\n\nCHILD: I will always be good, nurse.\n\nNURSE: So much the better. But do you suppose you will live for\never?\n\nCHILD: When I am very, very old----\n\nNURSE: Well?\n\nCHILD: When we are so very old you say we must die?\n\nNURSE: You must die some day.\n\nCHILD: Oh dear! I suppose I must.\n\nNURSE: Who lived before you?\n\nCHILD: My father and mother.\n\nNURSE: And before them?\n\nCHILD: Their father and mother.\n\nNURSE: Who will live after you?\n\nCHILD: My children.\n\nNURSE: Who will live after them?\n\nCHILD: Their children.\n\nIn this way, by concrete examples, you will find a beginning and end\nfor the human race like everything else--that is to say, a father\nand mother who never had a father and mother, and children who will\nnever have children of their own.\n\nIt is only after a long course of similar questions that we are\nready for the first question in the catechism; then alone can we\nput the question and the child may be able to understand it. But\nwhat a gap there is between the first and the second question which\nis concerned with the definitions of the divine nature. When will\nthis chasm be bridged? \"God is a spirit.\" \"And what is a spirit?\"\nShall I start the child upon this difficult question of metaphysics\nwhich grown men find so hard to understand? These are no questions\nfor a little girl to answer; if she asks them, it is as much or more\nthan we can expect. In that case I should tell her quite simply,\n\"You ask me what God is; it is not easy to say; we can neither\nhear nor see nor handle God; we can only know Him by His works. To\nlearn what He is, you must wait till you know what He has done.\"\n\nIf our dogmas are all equally true, they are not equally important.\nIt makes little difference to the glory of God that we should perceive\nit everywhere, but it does make a difference to human society, and\nto every member of that society, that a man should know and do the\nduties which are laid upon him by the law of God, his duty to his\nneighbour and to himself. This is what we should always be teaching\none another, and it is this which fathers and mothers are specially\nbound to teach their little ones. Whether a virgin became the mother\nof her Creator, whether she gave birth to God, or merely to a man\ninto whom God has entered, whether the Father and the Son are of\nthe same substance or of like substance only, whether the Spirit\nproceeded from one or both of these who are but one, or from both\ntogether, however important these questions may seem, I cannot\nsee that it is any more necessary for the human race to come to a\ndecision with regard to them than to know what day to keep Easter,\nor whether we should tell our beads, fast, and refuse to eat meat,\nspeak Latin or French in church, adorn the walls with statues,\nhear or say mass, and have no wife of our own. Let each think as\nhe pleases; I cannot see that it matters to any one but himself;\nfor my own part it is no concern of mine. But what does concern my\nfellow-creatures and myself alike is to know that there is indeed\na judge of human fate, that we are all His children, that He bids\nus all be just, He bids us love one another, He bids us be kindly\nand merciful, He bids us keep our word with all men, even with our\nown enemies and His; we must know that the apparent happiness of\nthis world is naught; that there is another life to come, in which\nthis Supreme Being will be the rewarder of the just and the judge\nof the unjust. Children need to be taught these doctrines and others\nlike them and all citizens require to be persuaded of their truth.\nWhoever sets his face against these doctrines is indeed guilty; he\nis the disturber of the peace, the enemy of society. Whoever goes\nbeyond these doctrines and seeks to make us the slaves of his private\nopinions, reaches the same goal by another way; to establish his\nown kind of order he disturbs the peace; in his rash pride he makes\nhimself the interpreter of the Divine, and in His name demands the\nhomage and the reverence of mankind; so far as may be, he sets himself\nin God's place; he should receive the punishment of sacrilege if\nhe is not punished for his intolerance.\n\nGive no heed, therefore, to all those mysterious doctrines which\nare words without ideas for us, all those strange teachings, the\nstudy of which is too often offered as a substitute for virtue, a\nstudy which more often makes men mad rather than good. Keep your\nchildren ever within the little circle of dogmas which are related\nto morality. Convince them that the only useful learning is that which\nteaches us to act rightly. Do not make your daughters theologians\nand casuists; only teach them such things of heaven as conduce\nto human goodness; train them to feel that they are always in the\npresence of God, who sees their thoughts and deeds, their virtue\nand their pleasures; teach them to do good without ostentation and\nbecause they love it, to suffer evil without a murmur, because God\nwill reward them; in a word to be all their life long what they\nwill be glad to have been when they appear in His presence. This\nis true religion; this alone is incapable of abuse, impiety, or\nfanaticism.  Let those who will, teach a religion more sublime,\nbut this is the only religion I know.\n\nMoreover, it is as well to observe that, until the age when the\nreason becomes enlightened, when growing emotion gives a voice to\nconscience, what is wrong for young people is what those about have\ndecided to be wrong. What they are told to do is good; what they\nare forbidden to do is bad; that is all they ought to know: this\nshows how important it is for girls, even more than for boys,\nthat the right people should be chosen to be with them and to have\nauthority over them. At last there comes a time when they begin to\njudge things for themselves, and that is the time to change your\nmethod of education.\n\nPerhaps I have said too much already. To what shall we reduce the\neducation of our women if we give them no law but that of conventional\nprejudice? Let us not degrade so far the set which rules over us,\nand which does us honour when we have not made it vile. For all\nmankind there is a law anterior to that of public opinion. All other\nlaws should bend before the inflexible control of this law; it is\nthe judge of public opinion, and only in so far as the esteem of\nmen is in accordance with this law has it any claim on our obedience.\n\nThis law is our individual conscience. I will not repeat what has\nbeen said already; it is enough to point out that if these two\nlaws clash, the education of women will always be imperfect. Right\nfeeling without respect for public opinion will not give them that\ndelicacy of soul which lends to right conduct the charm of social\napproval; while respect for public opinion without right feeling\nwill only make false and wicked women who put appearances in the\nplace of virtue.\n\nIt is, therefore, important to cultivate a faculty which serves\nas judge between the two guides, which does not permit conscience\nto go astray and corrects the errors of prejudice. That faculty\nis reason.  But what a crowd of questions arise at this word. Are\nwomen capable of solid reason; should they cultivate it, can they\ncultivate it successfully? Is this culture useful in relation to the\nfunctions laid upon them? Is it compatible with becoming simplicity?\n\nThe different ways of envisaging and answering these questions lead\nto two extremes; some would have us keep women indoors sewing and\nspinning with their maids; thus they make them nothing more than\nthe chief servant of their master. Others, not content to secure\ntheir rights, lead them to usurp ours; for to make woman our superior\nin all the qualities proper to her sex, and to make her our equal\nin all the rest, what is this but to transfer to the woman the\nsuperiority which nature has given to her husband? The reason which\nteaches a man his duties is not very complex; the reason which\nteaches a woman hers is even simpler. The obedience and fidelity\nwhich she owes to her husband, the tenderness and care due to her\nchildren, are such natural and self-evident consequences of her\nposition that she cannot honestly refuse her consent to the inner\nvoice which is her guide, nor fail to discern her duty in her\nnatural inclination.\n\nI would not altogether blame those who would restrict a woman to\nthe labours of her sex and would leave her in profound ignorance\nof everything else; but that would require a standard of morality\nat once very simple and very healthy, or a life withdrawn from the\nworld. In great towns, among immoral men, such a woman would be\ntoo easily led astray; her virtue would too often be at the mercy\nof circumstances; in this age of philosophy, virtue must be able\nto resist temptation; she must know beforehand what she may hear\nand what she should think of it.\n\nMoreover, in submission to man's judgment she should deserve his\nesteem; above all she should obtain the esteem of her husband;\nshe should not only make him love her person, she should make him\napprove her conduct; she should justify his choice before the world,\nand do honour to her husband through the honour given to the wife.\nBut how can she set about this task if she is ignorant of our\ninstitutions, our customs, our notions of propriety, if she knows\nnothing of the source of man's judgment, nor the passions by which\nit is swayed! Since she depends both on her own conscience and\non public opinion, she must learn to know and reconcile these two\nlaws, and to put her own conscience first only when the two are\nopposed to each other. She becomes the judge of her own judges,\nshe decides when she should obey and when she should refuse her\nobedience. She weighs their prejudices before she accepts or rejects\nthem; she learns to trace them to their source, to foresee what\nthey will be, and to turn them in her own favour; she is careful\nnever to give cause for blame if duty allows her to avoid it. This\ncannot be properly done without cultivating her mind and reason.\n\nI always come back to my first principle and it supplies the\nsolution of all my difficulties. I study what is, I seek its cause,\nand I discover in the end that what is, is good. I go to houses\nwhere the master and mistress do the honours together. They are\nequally well educated, equally polite, equally well equipped with\nwit and good taste, both of them are inspired with the same desire\nto give their guests a good reception and to send every one away\nsatisfied. The husband omits no pains to be attentive to every\none; he comes and goes and sees to every one and takes all sorts\nof trouble; he is attention itself. The wife remains in her place;\na little circle gathers round her and apparently conceals the rest\nof the company from her; yet she sees everything that goes on,\nno one goes without a word with her; she has omitted nothing which\nmight interest anybody, she has said nothing unpleasant to any\none, and without any fuss the least is no more overlooked than\nthe greatest.  Dinner is announced, they take their places; the\nman knowing the assembled guests will place them according to his\nknowledge; the wife, without previous acquaintance, never makes\na mistake; their looks and bearing have already shown her what is\nwanted and every one will find himself where he wishes to be. I\ndo not assert that the servants forget no one. The master of the\nhouse may have omitted no one, but the mistress perceives what you\nlike and sees that you get it; while she is talking to her neighbour\nshe has one eye on the other end of the table; she sees who is not\neating because he is not hungry and who is afraid to help himself\nbecause he is clumsy and timid. When the guests leave the table\nevery one thinks she has had no thought but for him, everybody thinks\nshe has had no time to eat anything, but she has really eaten more\nthan anybody.\n\nWhen the guests are gone, husband and wife tails over the events\nof the evening. He relates what was said to him, what was said and\ndone by those with whom he conversed. If the lady is not always\nquite exact in this respect, yet on the other hand she perceived\nwhat was whispered at the other end of the room; she knows what\nso-and-so thought, and what was the meaning of this speech or that\ngesture; there is scarcely a change of expression for which she\nhas not an explanation in readiness, and she is almost always right.\n\nThe same turn of mind which makes a woman of the world such an\nexcellent hostess, enables a flirt to excel in the art of amusing\na number of suitors. Coquetry, cleverly carried out, demands an\neven finer discernment than courtesy; provided a polite lady is\ncivil to everybody, she has done fairly well in any case; but the\nflirt would soon lose her hold by such clumsy uniformity; if she\ntries to be pleasant to all her lovers alike, she will disgust them\nall. In ordinary social intercourse the manners adopted towards\neverybody are good enough for all; no question is asked as to\nprivate likes or dislikes provided all are alike well received. But\nin love, a favour shared with others is an insult. A man of feeling\nwould rather be singled out for ill-treatment than be caressed with\nthe crowd, and the worst that can befall him is to be treated like\nevery one else.  So a woman who wants to keep several lovers at\nher feet must persuade every one of them that she prefers him, and\nshe must contrive to do this in the sight of all the rest, each of\nwhom is equally convinced that he is her favourite.\n\nIf you want to see a man in a quandary, place him between two\nwomen with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see what\na fool he looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances between\ntwo men, and the results will be even more remarkable; you will be\nastonished at the skill with which she cheats them both, and makes\nthem laugh at each other. Now if that woman were to show the same\nconfidence in both, if she were to be equally familiar with both,\nhow could they be deceived for a moment? If she treated them alike,\nwould she not show that they both had the same claims upon her?\nOh, she is far too clever for that; so far from treating them just\nalike, she makes a marked difference between them, and she does\nit so skilfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection,\nand the man she ill uses think it is spite. So that each of them\nbelieves she is thinking of him, when she is thinking of no one\nbut herself.\n\nA general desire to please suggests similar measures; people would\nbe disgusted with a woman's whims if they were not skilfully managed,\nand when they are artistically distributed her servants are more\nthan ever enslaved.\n\n     \"Usa ogn'arte la donna, onde sia colto\n     Nella sua rete alcun novello amante;\n     Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto\n     Serba; ma cangia a tempo atto e sembiante.\"\n          Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv., v. 87.\n\nWhat is the secret of this art? Is it not the result of a delicate\nand continuous observation which shows her what is taking place in\na man's heart, so that she is able to encourage or to check every\nhidden impulse? Can this art be acquired? No; it is born with women;\nit is common to them all, and men never show it to the same degree.\nIt is one of the distinctive characters of the sex. Self-possession,\npenetration, delicate observation, this is a woman's science; the\nskill to make use of it is her chief accomplishment.\n\nThis is what is, and we have seen why it is so. It is said that\nwomen are false. They become false. They are really endowed with\nskill not duplicity; in the genuine inclinations of their sex they\nare not false even when they tell a lie. Why do you consult their\nwords when it is not their mouths that speak? Consult their eyes,\ntheir colour, their breathing, their timid manner, their slight\nresistance, that is the language nature gave them for your answer.\nThe lips always say \"No,\" and rightly so; but the tone is not\nalways the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needs\nas a man, but without the same right to make them known? Her fate\nwould be too cruel if she had no language in which to express her\nlegitimate desires except the words which she dare not utter. Must\nher modesty condemn her to misery? Does she not require a means\nof indicating her inclinations without open expression? What skill\nis needed to hide from her lover what she would fain reveal! Is it\nnot of vital importance that she should learn to touch his heart\nwithout showing that she cares for him? It is a pretty story that\ntale of Galatea with her apple and her clumsy flight. What more\nis needed?  Will she tell the shepherd who pursues her among the\nwillows that she only flees that he may follow? If she did, it would\nbe a lie; for she would no longer attract him. The more modest\na woman is, the more art she needs, even with her husband. Yes,\nI maintain that coquetry, kept within bounds, becomes modest and\ntrue, and out of it springs a law of right conduct.\n\nOne of my opponents has very truly asserted that virtue is one;\nyou cannot disintegrate it and choose this and reject the other.\nIf you love virtue, you love it in its entirety, and you close your\nheart when you can, and you always close your lips to the feelings\nwhich you ought not to allow. Moral truth is not only what is,\nbut what is good; what is bad ought not to be, and ought not to be\nconfessed, especially when that confession produces results which\nmight have been avoided. If I were tempted to steal, and in confessing\nit I tempted another to become my accomplice, the very confession\nof my temptation would amount to a yielding to that temptation. Why\ndo you say that modesty makes women false? Are those who lose their\nmodesty more sincere than the rest? Not so, they are a thousandfold\nmore deceitful. This degree of depravity is due to many vices, none\nof which is rejected, vices which owe their power to intrigue and\nfalsehood. [Footnote: I know that women who have openly decided on\na certain course of conduct profess that their lack of concealment\nis a virtue in itself, and swear that, with one exception, they are\npossessed of all the virtues; but I am sure they never persuaded\nany but fools to believe them. When the natural curb is removed\nfrom their sex, what is there left to restrain them? What honour\nwill they prize when they have rejected the honour of their sex?\nHaving once given the rein to passion they have no longer any reason\nfor self-control. \"Nec femina, amissa pudicitia, alia abnuerit.\"\nNo author ever understood more thoroughly the heart of both sexes\nthan Tacitus when he wrote those words.]\n\nOn the other hand, those who are not utterly shameless, who take no\npride in their faults, who are able to conceal their desires even\nfrom those who inspire them, those who confess their passion most\nreluctantly, these are the truest and most sincere, these are they\non whose fidelity you may generally rely.\n\nThe only example I know which might be quoted as a recognised exception\nto these remarks is Mlle. de L'Enclos; and she was considered a\nprodigy. In her scorn for the virtues of women, she practised, so\nthey say, the virtues of a man. She is praised for her frankness\nand uprightness; she was a trustworthy acquaintance and a faithful\nfriend. To complete the picture of her glory it is said that she\nbecame a man. That may be, but in spite of her high reputation I\nshould no more desire that man as my friend than as my mistress.\n\nThis is not so irrelevant as it seems. I am aware of the tendencies\nof our modern philosophy which make a jest of female modesty and\nits so-called insincerity; I also perceive that the most certain\nresult of this philosophy will be to deprive the women of this\ncentury of such shreds of honour as they still possess.\n\nOn these grounds I think we may decide in general terms what sort\nof education is suited to the female mind, and the objects to which\nwe should turn its attention in early youth.\n\nAs I have already said, the duties of their sex are more easily\nrecognised than performed. They must learn in the first place\nto love those duties by considering the advantages to be derived\nfrom them--that is the only way to make duty easy. Every age and\ncondition has its own duties. We are quick to see our duty if we\nlove it. Honour your position as a woman, and in whatever station\nof life to which it shall please heaven to call you, you will be\nwell off. The essential thing is to be what nature has made you;\nwomen are only too ready to be what men would have them.\n\nThe search for abstract and speculative truths, for principles and\naxioms in science, for all that tends to wide generalisation, is\nbeyond a woman's grasp; their studies should be thoroughly practical.\nIt is their business to apply the principles discovered by men, it\nis their place to make the observations which lead men to discover\nthose principles. A woman's thoughts, beyond the range of her immediate\nduties, should be directed to the study of men, or the acquirement\nof that agreeable learning whose sole end is the formation of taste;\nfor the works of genius are beyond her reach, and she has neither\nthe accuracy nor the attention for success in the exact sciences; as\nfor the physical sciences, to decide the relations between living\ncreatures and the laws of nature is the task of that sex which\nis more active and enterprising, which sees more things, that sex\nwhich is possessed of greater strength and is more accustomed to\nthe exercise of that strength. Woman, weak as she is and limited\nin her range of observation, perceives and judges the forces at\nher disposal to supplement her weakness, and those forces are the\npassions of man. Her own mechanism is more powerful than ours; she\nhas many levers which may set the human heart in motion.  She must\nfind a way to make us desire what she cannot achieve unaided and\nwhat she considers necessary or pleasing; therefore she must have\na thorough knowledge of man's mind; not an abstract knowledge of\nthe mind of man in general, but the mind of those men who are about\nher, the mind of those men who have authority over her, either by\nlaw or custom. She must learn to divine their feelings from speech\nand action, look and gesture. By her own speech and action, look\nand gesture, she must be able to inspire them with the feelings she\ndesires, without seeming to have any such purpose.  The men will\nhave a better philosophy of the human heart, but she will read\nmore accurately in the heart of men. Woman should discover, so to\nspeak, an experimental morality, man should reduce it to a system.\nWoman has more wit, man more genius; woman observes, man reasons;\ntogether they provide the clearest light and the profoundest\nknowledge which is possible to the unaided human mind; in a word,\nthe surest knowledge of self and of others of which the human race\nis capable. In this way art may constantly tend to the perfection\nof the instrument which nature has given us.\n\nThe world is woman's book; if she reads it ill, it is either her\nown fault or she is blinded by passion. Yet the genuine mother of\na family is no woman of the world, she is almost as much of a recluse\nas the nun in her convent. Those who have marriageable daughters\nshould do what is or ought to be done for those who are entering\nthe cloisters: they should show them the pleasures they forsake\nbefore they are allowed to renounce them, lest the deceitful picture\nof unknown pleasures should creep in to disturb the happiness of\ntheir retreat. In France it is the girls who live in convents and\nthe wives who flaunt in society. Among the ancients it was quite\notherwise; girls enjoyed, as I have said already, many games and\npublic festivals; the married women lived in retirement. This was\na more reasonable custom and more conducive to morality. A girl\nmay be allowed a certain amount of coquetry, and she may be mainly\noccupied at amusement. A wife has other responsibilities at home,\nand she is no longer on the look-out for a husband; but women\nwould not appreciate the change, and unluckily it is they who set\nthe fashion.  Mothers, let your daughters be your companions. Give\nthem good sense and an honest heart, and then conceal from them\nnothing that a pure eye may behold. Balls, assemblies, sports, the\ntheatre itself; everything which viewed amiss delights imprudent\nyouth may be safely displayed to a healthy mind. The more they\nknow of these noisy pleasures, the sooner they will cease to desire\nthem.\n\nI can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girl\nwill resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the first\nglimpse of the world; not one of them is ready to give it up. That\nmay be; but before you showed them this deceitful prospect, did\nyou prepare them to behold it without emotion? Did you tell them\nplainly what it was they would see? Did you show it in its true\nlight? Did you arm them against the illusions of vanity? Did you\ninspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasures\nwhich are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, what\nsteps, did you take to preserve them from the false taste which\nleads them astray? Not only have you done nothing to preserve\ntheir minds from the tyranny of prejudice, you have fostered that\nprejudice; you have taught them to desire every foolish amusement\nthey can get. Your own example is their teacher. Young people on\ntheir entrance into society have no guide but their mother, who\nis often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable to\nshow them things except as she sees them herself. Her example is\nstronger than reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and the\nmother's authority is an unanswerable excuse for the daughter. If\nI ask a mother to bring her daughter into society, I assume that\nshe will show it in its true light.\n\nThe evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schools\nof coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, but\na coquetry the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry which\nturns out girls who are the most ridiculous little madams. When\nthey leave the convent to take their place in smart society, young\nwomen find themselves quite at home. They have been educated for\nsuch a life; is it strange that they like it? I am afraid what I\nam going to say may be based on prejudice rather than observation,\nbut so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more good\nwives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries;\nif that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference is\npartly due to the convent schools.\n\nThe charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed;\ntheir delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in our\nfather's home that we learn to love our own, and a woman whose\nmother did not educate her herself will not be willing to educate\nher own children. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as home\neducation in our large towns. Society is so general and so mixed there\nis no place left for retirement, and even in the home we live in\npublic. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcely\nknow our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicity\nof home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity which\nwas its charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother's milk a\ntaste for the pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it is\ncontrolled.\n\nGirls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men may\nbe deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch these\nyoung people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barely\nconceal the passion which devours them, and already you may read\nin their eager eyes their desire to imitate their mothers. It is\nnot a husband they want, but the licence of a married woman. What\nneed of a husband when there are so many other resources; but\na husband there must be to act as a screen. [Footnote: The way of\na man in his youth was one of the four things that the sage could\nnot understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress.\n\"Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum.\"\nProv. xxx. 20.] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in the\nheart; this sham modesty is one of its outward signs; they affect\nit that they may be rid of it once for all. Women of Paris and\nLondon, forgive me! There may be miracles everywhere, but I am not\naware of them; and if there is even one among you who is really\npure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions.\n\nAll these different methods of education lead alike to a taste for\nthe pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which this\ntaste so soon kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth;\nin the smaller towns it begins with reason. Young women brought up\nin the country are soon taught to despise the happy simplicity of\ntheir lives, and hasten to Paris to share the corruption of ours.\nVices, cloaked under the fair name of accomplishments, are the sole\nobject of their journey; ashamed to find themselves so much behind\nthe noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they hasten to become\nworthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for the\nevil--the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?\n\nI would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to show\nher these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if she\ndid so, either the girl has been badly brought up, or such sights\nhave little danger for her. With good taste, good sense, and a love\nof what is right, these things are less attractive than to those\nwho abandon themselves to their charm. In Paris you may see giddy\nyoung things hastening to adopt the tone and fashions of the town\nfor some six months, so that they may spend the rest of their life\nin disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted with\nthe rout, return to their distant home and are contented with their\nlot when they have compared it with that which others desire. How\nmany young wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have taken\nthem to Paris where they might live if they pleased; but they have\nshrunk from it and returned home more willingly than they went,\nsaying tenderly, \"Ah, let us go back to our cottage, life is happier\nthere than in these palaces.\" We do not know how many there are who\nhave not bowed the knee to Baal, who scorn his senseless worship.\nFools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed.\n\nIf so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against temptation,\nin spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education of\ngirls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthened\nby suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching,\nfor to preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business?\nYou can do this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters,\nwithout crediting them with your harsh morality.  The only effect\nof such teaching is to inspire a dislike for the teacher and the\nlessons. In talking to a young girl you need not make her afraid\nof her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid upon her by\nnature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and pleasantly;\ndo not let her suppose that the performance of these duties is\na dismal thing--away with every affectation of disgust or pride.\nEvery thought which we desire to arouse should find its expression\nin our pupils, their catechism of conduct should be as brief and\nplain as their catechism of religion, but it need not be so serious.\nShow them that these same duties are the source of their pleasures\nand the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win love by love,\nhappiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and honour\nby self-respect? How fair are these woman's rights, how worthy of\nreverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able to\nshow their worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman's\nempire begins with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud,\nyet she reigns already by the gentleness of her character and\nthe dignity of her modesty. Is there any man so hard-hearted and\nuncivilised that he does not abate his pride and take heed to his\nmanners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who listens but\nsays little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, her\nbeauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her very\ntimidity arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respect\nwhich she shows to others?\n\nThese external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not rest\nentirely upon the charms of sense; they arise from that conviction\nthat we all feel that women are the natural judges of a man's\nworth.  Who would be scorned by women? not even he who has ceased\nto desire their love. And do you suppose that I, who tell them such\nharsh truths, am indifferent to their verdict? Reader, I care more\nfor their approval than for yours; you are often more effeminate\nthan they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their justice;\nI care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem.\n\nWhat great things might be accomplished by their influence if only\nwe could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose their\nascendancy, and fail to make men respect their judgment! This\nis the last stage of degradation. Every virtuous nation has shown\nrespect to women. Consider Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome the\nthrone of glory and virtue, if ever they were enthroned on earth.\nThe Roman women awarded honour to the deeds of great generals, they\nmourned in public for the fathers of the country, their awards and\ntheir tears were alike held sacred as the most solemn utterance of\nthe Republic.  Every great revolution began with the women. Through\na woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the plebeians\nwon the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirs\nwas overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged by\nCoriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession,\nyou Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would you\nnot have followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see things\nwith such different eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Such\na procession formed of the fairest beauties of France would be an\nindecent spectacle; but let it consist of Roman ladies, you will\nall gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with the heart of\nCoriolanus.\n\nI will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourable\nto love than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as much\nto the power of the beloved as to that of the wife or mother. There\nis no real love without enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without an\nobject of perfection real or supposed, but always present in the\nimagination.  What is there to kindle the hearts of lovers for\nwhom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved one is merely\nthe means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart kindled,\nnot thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports which\nform the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is an\nillusion, I grant you, but its reality consists in the feelings it\nawakes, in the love of true beauty which it inspires. That beauty\nis not to be found in the object of our affections, it is the\ncreation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still sacrifice\nall those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feed\nour hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we still\nwithdraw ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover is\nthere who would not give his life for his mistress? What gross and\nsensual passion is there in a man who is willing to die? We scoff\nat the knights of old; they knew the meaning of love; we know\nnothing but debauchery. When the teachings of romance began to seem\nridiculous, it was not so much the work of reason as of immorality.\n\nNatural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, their\ngood or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading as\nreason, can but change their outward seeming; self-mastery, even\nat the behest of fantastic opinions, will not cease to be great\nand good. And the true motives of honour will not fail to appeal to\nthe heart of every woman who is able to seek happiness in life in\nher woman's duties. To a high-souled woman chastity above all must\nbe a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of the world before\nher and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits enthroned in\nher own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing struggles\nare crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or it\nmay be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexes\nand the universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gain\nis permanent. What a joy for a noble heart--the pride of virtue\ncombined with beauty. Let her be a heroine of romance; she will\ntaste delights more exquisite than those of Lais and Cleopatra; and\nwhen her beauty is fled, her glory and her joys remain; she alone\ncan enjoy the past.\n\nThe harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearer\nmust be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort of\npious talk about the most serious subjects which is dinned in vain\ninto the ears of young people. This talk, quite unsuited to their\nideas and the small importance they attach to it in secret, inclines\nthem to yield readily to their inclinations, for lack of any\nreasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No doubt\na girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons against\ntemptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merely\nfilled with the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to the\nfirst skilful seducer who attacks her. A young and beautiful girl\nwill never despise her body, she will never really deplore sins which\nher beauty leads men to commit, she will never lament earnestly in\nthe sight of God that she is an object of desire, she will never\nbe convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the Evil\nOne. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake,\nfor these will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as is\noften done, ideas which contradict each other, and after having\nhumbled and degraded her person and her charms as the stain of sin,\nto bid her reverence that same vile body as the temple of Jesus\nChrist. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally ineffective\nand they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and sex\nis what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unless\nthey are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty.\n\n     \"Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit.\"\n          OVID, Amor. I. iii. eleg. iv.\n\nOne would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment.\n\nIf you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoid\nsaying, \"Be good;\" make it their interest to be good; make them\nfeel the value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enough\nto show this effect in the distant future, show it now, in the\nrelations of the present, in the character of their lovers. Describe\na good man, a man of worth, teach them to recognise him when they\nsee him, to love him for their own sake; convince them that such\na man alone can make them happy as friend, wife, or mistress. Let\nreason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the empire of\ntheir sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not merely\non the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that of\nmen; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and that\nthe lover is incapable of serving his mistress unless he can do\nhomage to virtue. You may then be sure that when you describe the\nmanners of our age you will inspire them with a genuine disgust;\nwhen you show them men of fashion they will despise them; you\nwill give them a distaste for their maxims, an aversion to their\nsentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will arouse a\nnobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambition\nof the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguing\nwoman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retain\nthem by her favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; in\nweighty and important matters she has no influence over them. But\nthe woman who is both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, in\na word, combines love and esteem, can send them at her bidding to\nthe end of the world, to war, to glory, and to death at her behest.\nThis is a fine kingdom and worth the winning.\n\nThis is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has been\ntrained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has been\nfollowed rather than thwarted. Let us say just a word about her\nperson, according to the description I have given to Emile and the\npicture he himself has formed of the wife in whom he hopes to find\nhappiness.\n\nI cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies.\nEmile is no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is a\nwoman; this is all they have to boast of. In the present confusion\nbetween the sexes it is almost a miracle to belong to one's own\nsex.  Sophy is well born and she has a good disposition; she is\nvery warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart sometimes makes her\nimagination run away with her. Her mind is keen rather than accurate,\nher temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing though\nnothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and it\nspeaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will not\nleave her without emotion. Others possess good qualities which\nshe lacks; others possess her good qualities in a higher degree,\nbut in no one are these qualities better blended to form a happy\ndisposition. She knows how to make the best of her very faults,\nand if she were more perfect she would be less pleasing.\n\nSophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairer\nwomen, and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At first\nsight she is hardly pretty; but the more we see her the prettier\nshe is; she wins where so many lose, and what she wins she keeps.\nHer eyes might be finer, her mouth more beautiful, her stature more\nimposing; but no one could have a more graceful figure, a finer\ncomplexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look, and\na more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arouses\ninterest; she delights us, we know not why.\n\nSophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother has\nno other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but she\nhates rich clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She does\nnot like showy but becoming things. She does not know what colours\nare fashionable, but she makes no mistake about those that suit\nher.  No girl seems more simply dressed, but no one could take\nmore pains over her toilet; no article is selected at random, and\nyet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very modest\nin appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not display\nher charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhance\nthem. When you see her you say, \"That is a good modest girl,\" but\nwhile you are with her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughts\noff her and one might say that this very simple adornment is only\nput on to be removed bit by bit by the imagination.\n\nSophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have not\nbeen neglected; but never having had a chance of much training she\nis content to use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly;\nher little feet step lightly, easily, and gracefully, she can always\nmake an easy graceful courtesy. She has had no singing master but\nher father, no dancing mistress but her mother; a neighbouring\norganist has given her a few lessons in playing accompaniments\non the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At first\nshe only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then she\ndiscovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voice\nsound sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms of\nharmony; as she grew older she at last began to enjoy the charms\nof expression, to love music for its own sake. But she has taste\nrather than talent; she cannot read a simple air from notes.\n\nNeedlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts have\nbeen taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect,\nsuch as cutting out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannot\ndo with her needle, and nothing that she does not take a delight in\ndoing; but lace-making is her favourite occupation, because there\nis nothing which requires such a pleasing attitude, nothing which\ncalls for such grace and dexterity of finger. She has also studied\nall the details of housekeeping; she understands cooking and\ncleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose it;\nshe can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother's housekeeper.\nSome day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father's\nhouse she is preparing to manage her own; she can take the place\nof any of the servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannot\ngive orders unless you can do the work yourself; that is why her\nmother sets her to do it. Sophy does not think of that; her first\nduty is to be a good daughter, and that is all she thinks about for\nthe present. Her one idea is to help her mother and relieve her of\nsome of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all equally\nwell. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not like\ncooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are never\nclean enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respect\nand carries her sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the whole\ndinner boil over into the fire rather than soil her cuffs. She has\nalways disliked inspecting the kitchen-garden for the same reason.\nThe soil is dirty, and as soon as she sees the manure heap she\nfancies there is a disagreeable smell.\n\nThis defect is the result of her mother's teaching. According to\nher, cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman's duties,\na special duty, of the highest importance and a duty imposed by\nnature. Nothing could be more revolting than a dirty woman, and a\nhusband who tires of her is not to blame. She insisted so strongly\non this duty when Sophy was little, she required such absolute\ncleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and toilet, that\nuse has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time and\ncontrols the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thing\nthan of how to do it without getting dirty.\n\nYet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness;\nthere is none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but clean\nwater enters her room; she knows no perfumes but the scent of\nflowers, and her husband will never find anything sweeter than her\nbreath. In conclusion, the attention she pays to the outside does\nnot blind her to the fact that time and strength are meant for greater\ntasks; either she does not know or she despises that exaggerated\ncleanliness of body which degrades the soul. Sophy is more than\nclean, she is pure.\n\nI said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; but\nshe became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue.\nLittle girls are not to be controlled, as little boys are, to\nsome extent, through their greediness. This tendency may have ill\neffects on women and it is too dangerous to be left unchecked.\nWhen Sophy was little, she did not always return empty handed if\nshe was sent to her mother's cupboard, and she was not quite to be\ntrusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught her, took\nthem from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner.\nAt last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for the\nteeth, and that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcame\nher faults; and when she grew older other tastes distracted her from\nthis low kind of self-indulgence. With awakening feeling greediness\nceases to be the ruling passion, both with men and women. Sophy\nhas preserved her feminine tastes; she likes milk and sweets; she\nlikes pastry and made-dishes, but not much meat. She has never\ntasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats sparingly; women, who do\nnot work so hard as men, have less waste to repair. In all things\nshe likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it; but she\ncan also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it.\n\nSophy's mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but not\ndeep; it is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as she\nnever seems cleverer or stupider than oneself. When people talk to\nher they always find what she says attractive, though it may not be\nhighly ornamental according to modern ideas of an educated woman;\nher mind has been formed not only by reading, but by conversation\nwith her father and mother, by her own reflections, and by her\nown observations in the little world in which she has lived. Sophy\nis naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her mother\ncured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden a\nchange should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest and\nretiring while still a child, and now that she is a child no longer,\nshe finds it easier to continue this conduct than it would have\nbeen to acquire it without knowing why. It is amusing to see her\noccasionally return to her old ways and indulge in childish mirth\nand then suddenly check herself, with silent lips, downcast eyes,\nand rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well partake of\nboth.\n\nSophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentle\nto let this be really disagreeable to other people; it is only\nherself who suffers. If you say anything that hurts her she does\nnot sulk, but her heart swells; she tries to run away and cry. In\nthe midst of her tears, at a word from her father or mother she\nreturns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes and\ntrying to stifle her sobs.\n\nYet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulged\nit degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. But\ngive her time to come round and her way of making you forget her\nwrong-doing is almost a virtue. If you punish her she is gentle\nand submissive, and you see that she is more ashamed of the fault\nthan the punishment. If you say nothing, she never fails to make\namends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that you cannot\nbe angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest servant\nand would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven,\nyou can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is taken\noff her heart. In a word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing of\nothers, and she is eager to atone for her own. This amiability is\nnatural to her sex when unspoiled. Woman is made to submit to man\nand to endure even injustice at his hands. You will never bring\nyoung lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against injustice;\nnature has not fitted them to put up with it.\n\n     \"Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii.\"\n          HORACE, lib. i. ode vi.\n\nSophy's religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines and\nfewer observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct but\nthe right her whole life is devoted to the service of God and to\ndoing good. In all her parents' teaching of religion she has been\ntrained to a reverent submission; they have often said, \"My little\ngirl, this is too hard for you; your husband will teach you when\nyou are grown up.\" Instead of long sermons about piety, they have\nbeen content to preach by their example, and this example is engraved\non her heart.\n\nSophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion;\nshe loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, she\nloves it because it is a woman's glory and because a virtuous woman\nis little lower than the angels; she loves virtue as the only road\nto real happiness, because she sees nothing but poverty, neglect,\nunhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of a bad woman; she\nloves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to her\ntender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in their\nown virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happiness\nin the hope of making them happy. All these feelings inspire an\nenthusiasm which stirs her heart and keeps all its budding passions\nin subjection to this noble enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste and\ngood till her dying day; she has vowed it in her secret heart, and\nnot before she knew how hard it would be to keep her vow; she made\nthis vow at a time when she would have revoked it had she been the\nslave of her senses.\n\nSophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman,\ncold-hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention than\ngive pleasure, who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers\nfrom a consuming desire for love; it even disturbs and troubles\nher heart in the midst of festivities; she has lost her former\nliveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from being afraid of\nthe tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to him\nwho will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious,\nshe wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give\npleasure to one good man than be a general favourite, or win that\napplause of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned\nto scorn.\n\nA woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on the\ndefensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure so\nhard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophy\nis precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment is\nmore formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothing\nstrange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age.\n\nSophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and\nof ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knows\ntheir corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them\nby heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but\nshe would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth; she\nknows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy of him,\nthat she can make him as happy as he will make her; she is sure\nshe will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is to find him.\n\nWomen are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;\nthis right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by men\nand women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but with\nthe modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her position;\nshe confines her judgment to what she knows, and she only forms an\nopinion when it may help to illustrate some useful precept. She\nis extremely careful what she says about those who are absent,\nparticularly if they are women. She thinks that talking about each\nother makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only talk\nabout men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to women\nshe never says anything at all about them, except to tell the good\nshe knows; she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if she\nknows no good of any woman, she says nothing, and that is enough.\n\nSophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and\nobliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition\ndoes more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of her\nown, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change with\nits changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises from a\nfeminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the language\nof empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate compliments\nof her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged, that you\ndo her too much honour, that you should not take so much trouble,\netc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She responds\nto an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy or\na mere \"Thank you;\" but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough.\nIf you do her a real service, she lets her heart speak, and its\nwords are no empty compliment. She has never allowed French manners\nto make her a slave to appearances; when she goes from one room\nto another she does not take the arm of an old gentleman, whom she\nwould much rather help. When a scented fop offers her this empty\nattention, she leaves him on the staircase and rushes into the\nroom saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never wear high\nheels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispense\nwith them.\n\nNot only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards\nwomen, but also towards married men, or those who are much older\nthan herself; she will never take her place above them, unless\ncompelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place as\nsoon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take precedence\nof those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth, and wisdom\nshould be held in the greatest honour.\n\nWith young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires a\ndifferent manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adopt\nit without dropping the modest ways which become her. If they\nthemselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendly\nfamiliarity of youth; their innocent conversation will be merry but\nsuitable; if they become serious they must say something useful;\nif they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for she has an\nutter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she considers an\ninsult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she seeks does not\nspeak that jargon, and she will never permit in another what would\nbe displeasing to her in him whose character is engraved on her\nheart.  Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in the\npurity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis of\nher self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speeches\nintended for her amusement. She does not receive them with open\nanger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness.\nIf a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of his wit in\nthe praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at the risk of\noffending him she is quite capable of saying politely, \"Sir, I am\nafraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing more interesting\nto talk about, I think we may put an end to this conversation.\" To\nsay this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a considerable\ndistance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is\neasy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear.\n\nIt is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere,\nand if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that you\nappreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her proud\nspirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem,\nbut empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant to\npractise the small arts of the dancing-girl.\n\nWith a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of\ntwenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by her\nparents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthful\ndisquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, their\nconversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tender\nconversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If her\ndisposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak to her\nsomewhat after this fashion?\n\n\"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. We\nwant you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for our\nhappiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness\nin the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;\nwe must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars our\nwhole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it.\n\n\"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless it\nis a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you will\nbe the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining years;\nbut however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon earth.\nThere is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage with\nyou; there are many who would do you even greater honour than\nthemselves.  Among these we must try to find one who suits you, we\nmust get to know him and introduce you to him.\n\n\"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so many\npoints of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all.\nWe must first consider the more important matters; if others are\nto be found along with them, so much the better; if not we must do\nwithout them. Perfect happiness is not to be found in this world,\nbut we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness, that\nfor which ourselves are to blame.\n\n\"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of established\nusage, and a suitability which is merely conventional.  Parents\nshould decide as to the two latters, and the children themselves\nshould decide as to the former. Marriages arranged by parents only\ndepend on a suitability of custom and convention; it is not two\npeople who are united, but two positions and two properties; but\nthese things may change, the people remain, they are always there;\nand in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes a\nhappy or an unhappy marriage.\n\n\"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parents\nconsidered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she lost\nher position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her to\nbe a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of our\nhearts has outweighed them all; the similarity of our tastes led\nus to choose this retreat; we live happily in our poverty, we are\nall in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we hold in common,\nand we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure and deprived\nus of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been led\nby Providence; the conventional motives which brought about our\nmarriage no longer exist, our happiness consists in that natural\nsuitability which was held of no account.\n\n\"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking should\nbe the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance of\ntheir own eyes and hearts; when they are married their first duty\nwill be to love one another, and as love and hatred do not depend\non ourselves, this duty brings another with it, and they must begin\nto love each other before marriage. That is the law of nature, and\nno power can abrogate it; those who have fettered it by so many\nlegal restrictions have given heed rather to the outward show of\norder than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of the citizen.\nYou see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It tends\nto make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice of\nyour husband to yourself.\n\n\"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, it\nis only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of that\nliberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, you\nhave the accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogether\nwithout charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthy\nof esteem, but not those which are most esteemed. Do not seek what\nis beyond your reach, and let your ambition be controlled, not by\nyour ideas or ours, but by the opinion of others. If it were merely\na question of equal merits, I know not what limits to impose on\nyour hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun your fortune, and\nremember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you would not\nconsider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would not\ndo; Sophy must follow her mother's example and only enter a family\nwhich counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth,\nyou were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you\nshare it without hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those\ngood things we indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; we\ndid not know what happiness was till we lost our money.\n\n\"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are not\ngo poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it may\nbe by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves in\ntheir true colours, you would rate them at their real value; all\ntheir outward show would not long deceive you; but though your\njudgment is good and you know what merit is when you see it, you\nare inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal their\nreal selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in order to\nseduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does not\npossess.  You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you were\ndoing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause to\nlament it.  The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reason\ncannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortune\nto fall into its toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies and\nillusions; your eyes will be fascinated, your judgment troubled,\nyour will corrupted, your very error will be dear to you, and even\nif you were able to perceive it you would not be willing to escape\nfrom it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's own reason; I do not\ntrust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself so\nlong as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourself\nto your mother's care.\n\n\"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, and\nrestores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husband\nfor their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form;\nthat is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you will choose,\nand we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy, use it freely\nand wisely. The husband suitable for you should be chosen by you\nnot us.  But it is for us to judge whether he is really suitable,\nor whether, without knowing it, you are only following your own\nwishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will count\nfor nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and character\nsuit you; whatever he may be in other respects, we will accept\nhim as our son-in-law.  He will be rich enough if he has bodily\nstrength, a good character, and family affection. His position will\nbe good enough if it is ennobled by virtue. If everybody blames\nus, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation of men, but your\nhappiness.\"\n\nI cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon\ngirls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have no\nwords to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to express\nherself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engraved\nupon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolution\nmay be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve her\nparent's esteem.\n\nAt worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition\nwhich will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that her\njudgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all,\nthe sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood, will\noutweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer a\nprolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether. She would\nrather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents by marrying\na worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness of an\nill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental as an\nEnglishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the pride of\na Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily discover\none worthy of her.\n\nNot every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love of\nwhat is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuine\nlove of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is a\nfigment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded reason\nwill never recognise the power over human passions which is wielded\nby the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such men by\nexamples; if they persist in denying their existence, so much the\nworse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary person,\nthat her name alone is my invention, that her education, her conduct,\nher character, her very features, really existed, and that her loss\nis still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt,\nrefuse to believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relate\nword for word the story of a girl so like Sophy that this story\nmight be hers without surprising any one. Believe it or no, it is\nall the same to me; call my history fiction if you will; in any\ncase I have explained my method and furthered my purpose.\n\nThis young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to\nSophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of the\nname, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversation\nrelated above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbands\nwould not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where they\nlived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town,\nunder the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with the\nobject of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble pride\nat the thought of her self-control; and however much she might\nwant to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought\nherself to go in search of a husband.\n\nIn response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to her\nfriends, took her into company, both private and public, showed\nher society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little\nheed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from\nyoung men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.\nHer very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like\ncoquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them.\nShe soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men's\nhomage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness.\nAlways watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doing\nher the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined\nnot to accept any one of them.\n\nNever did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the\nempty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who\nthink that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find what\nshe sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tired\nof the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up for\ntheir absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went home\nlong before the time fixed for the end of her visit.\n\nScarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that\nher temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was\nforgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At first\nthey thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke\nto her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested she had seen no\none who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth.\n\nYet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give\nway. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the\nreason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winning\nspeech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ,\nshe said, \"My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear\never in my affection, confide your secret to your mother's bosom.\nWhat secrets are these which a mother may not know? Who pities\nyour sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them,\nif not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would you have me die\nof grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?\"\n\nFar from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked\nnothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she\ncould not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe\na condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her\nsenses in spite of all her efforts. At length her very shame gave\nher mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her the\nhumiliating confession. Far from distressing her with reproaches\nor unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; she\nwas too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made so\ncruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessity\nto do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate?  Why did\nshe not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not take\na husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know that\nshe was perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever her\nchoice, it would be approved, for it was sure to be good? They had\nsent her to town, but she would not stay; many suitors had offered\nthemselves, but she would have none of them.  What did she expect?\nWhat did she want? What an inexplicable contradiction?\n\nThe reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner of\nher youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life is\nnot so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, people\nmust often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find the man\nwith whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's case; she\nwanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband; and to discover\na heart such as she required, a lover and husband were equally\ndifficult to find. All these dashing young men were only her equals\nin age, in everything else they were found lacking; their empty\nwit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulated\nconduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She sought\na man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was none\nto be found.\n\n\"How unhappy I am!\" said she to her mother; \"I am compelled to love\nand yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects every\none who appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passions\nand all alike revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannot\nlast. That is not the sort of man for your Sophy; the delightful\nimage of her ideal is too deeply graven in her heart. She can love\nno other; she can make no one happy but him, and she cannot be\nhappy without him. She would rather consume herself in ceaseless\nconflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than driven\ndesperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man she\nwould make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than live\nto suffer.\"\n\nAmazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar\nthat she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither\naffected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist in\none who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to adapt\nherself to those with whom she must live, and to make a virtue\nof necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which she was\nso enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation, made her\nmother suspect that there was some foundation for her caprices\nwhich was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told her\nall. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was only\ntoo eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak;\nshe hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room without a word,\nshe presently returned with a book in her hand. \"Have pity on your\nunhappy daughter, there is no remedy for her grief, her tears cannot\nbe dried. You would know the cause: well, here it is,\" said she,\nflinging the book on the table. Her mother took the book and opened\nit; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she could make\nnothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies, she\ndiscovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rival\nof Eucharis.\n\nSophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion\nwhich nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware\nof her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by\nreasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogether\non their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it.\nMany a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their own\narguments against them, by showing them that it was all their own\nfault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;\nthat she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinking\nor he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossible\nby the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just\nwhat she wanted. \"Give me,\" said she, \"a man who holds the same\nopinions as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me,\nand I will marry him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me;\nI am miserable, but not mad. Is the heart controlled by the will?\nDid my father not ask that very question? Is it my fault if I love\nwhat has no existence? I am no visionary; I desire no prince, I\nseek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary person; I seek\nsome one like him. And why should there be no such person, since\nthere is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his?\nNo, let us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think that\nan amiable and virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. He\nexists, he lives, perhaps he is seeking me; he is seeking a soul\nwhich is capable of love for him. But who is he, where is he? I\nknow not; he is not among those I have seen; and no doubt I shall\nnever see him. Oh!  mother, why did you make virtue too attractive?\nIf I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I.\"\n\nMust I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the\nlong struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother\nexchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry\nfather forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuous\nof daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, more\nthan ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecution\nbrought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by step\nto her death, and descending into the grave when they were about\nto force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomy\nscenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I consider\na sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices\narising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good\nand the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and that\nthere is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be obtained\nfrom them as well as from us.\n\nYou stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches us\nto take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply,\nbut neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate desires.\nNow, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature, as I have\nproved again and again.\n\nLet us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to life\nand provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate.\nI desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with a\ngreat soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let us\nretrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and an ordinary\nheart; her education is responsible for everything in which she\nexcels other women.\n\nIn this book I intended to describe all that might be done and to\nleave every one free to choose what he could out of all the good\nthings I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from the\nvery first, and to educate them for each other and with each other.\nBut on consideration I thought all these premature arrangements\nundesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage of two children\nbefore I could tell whether this union was in accordance with\nnature and whether they were really suited to each other. We must\nnot confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what is\nsuitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit any\nman, for both are still in their primitive and undifferentiated\ncondition; in the latter, all their characteristics have been\ndeveloped by social institutions, and each mind, having taken its\nown settled form, not from education alone, but by the co-operation,\nmore or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and education,\nwe can only make a match by introducing them to each other to see\nif they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let them\nmake that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability.\n\nThe difficulty is this: while social life develops character\nit differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not\ncorrespond, so that the greater the social distinctions, the greater\nthe difficulty of finding the corresponding character. Hence we\nhave ill-assorted marriages and all their accompanying evils; and\nwe find that it follows logically that the further we get from\nequality, the greater the change in our natural feelings; the wider\nthe distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;\nthe deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands and\nfathers. Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to\na class.\n\nIf you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,\nyou must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and\nconsult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike in\none given condition, those who will not suit one another if that\ncondition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another in\nevery situation, in every country, and in every rank in which they\nmay be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations are\nof no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence of\nnatural relations is so much more important, that our fate in life\nis decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement of\ntaste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wise\nfather, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment's\nhesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she born in a bad\nhome, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain indeed that\nevery possible misfortune may overtake husband and wife if they are\nthus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness while they\nmingle their tears, than if they possessed all the riches of the\nworld, poisoned by divided hearts.\n\nInstead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited\ntill I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but\nfor nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. My\nbusiness, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted his\nson to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his rights;\nit is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have made a man\nof him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not free to\nmarry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing but\nthe pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for the\ncost of making him capable of happiness.\n\nDo not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for\nEmile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretext\nfor acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive the value\nof a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may even\nhave seen her already, but he will not recognise her till the time\nis come.\n\nAlthough equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this\nequality along with other kinds of suitability increases their\nvalue; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, other\nthings being equal, it turns the scale.\n\nA man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every\nclass; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them in\nothers; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet she\nwould be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restrict\nhis inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish to\nmarry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not within\nhis power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for what\ndifference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?\nYet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils which\nhe will feel all his life long. I even say that he should not try\nto adjust the balance between different gifts, such as rank and\nmoney; for each of these adds less to the value of the other than\nthe amount deducted from its own value in the process of adjustment;\nmoreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator; and\nfinally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings,\npaves the way for discord between the two families and often to\ndifficulties between husband and wife.\n\nIt makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of\na marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former\ncase is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity\nwith reason. As the family is only connected with society through\nits head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of the\nfamily as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man does\nnot lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand, he\nmarries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raise\nhimself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil,\nin the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of nature\nbids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class,\nnatural and civil law are in accordance and all goes well. When he\nmarries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite case; the\nman must choose between diminished rights or imperfect gratitude;\nhe must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying claim to\nauthority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and the\nmaster, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserable\nof creatures.  Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereigns\nof Asia honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us that\nif they desire to sleep with their wife they must enter by the foot\nof the bed.\n\nI expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women\nhave a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting\nmyself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between\nclaiming the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman's\nreign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commands\nare caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign in the home\nas a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to be ordered to\ndo what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that the best managed\nhomes are those where the wife has most power. But when she despises\nthe voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his rights and\ntake the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper order\nof things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour.\n\nThere remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; and\nI think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard to\nthe latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of society\na woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that the lower\nclasses are more vicious than the higher, but because they have so\nlittle idea of what is good and beautiful, and because the injustice\nof other classes makes its very vices seem right in the eyes of\nthis class.\n\nBy nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires\nthe other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes\nalike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those who\nthink and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirely\none of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with a\nwoman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of social\nlife if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People who\nspend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas beyond\ntheir work and their own interests, and their mind seems to reside\nin their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable either\nto their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we often\ncontent ourselves with thinking about our duties, and in the end\nwe substitute words for things. Conscience is the most enlightened\nphilosopher; to be an honest man we need not read Cicero's De\nOfficiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world is probably she\nwho knows least about virtue. But it is none the less true that\na cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is a\nsad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, to\nbe forced to shut himself up in himself and to be unable to make\nhimself understood.\n\nMoreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she\nbring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? How\ncan she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to merit\nof which she has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten,\nshe can only make them insolent or timid; she will make them\nperforming monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will never make\nthem intelligent or pleasing children.\n\nTherefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose\na wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot be\nexpected to have any education. But I would a thousand times rather\nhave a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady and a\nwit who would make a literary circle of my house and install herself\nas its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband, her\nchildren, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the lofty\nheight of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and she is\nalways trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of Mlle.\nde L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculous\nand she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are when\nwe try to escape from our own position into one for which we are\nunfitted. These highly talented women only get a hold over fools.\nWe can always tell what artist or friend holds the pen or pencil\nwhen they are at work; we know what discreet man of letters dictates\ntheir oracles in private. This trickery is unworthy of a decent\nwoman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness would degrade\nthem. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect of\nher husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to my\nreaders to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman's room\nwhat makes you think more highly of her, what makes you address\nher with more respect--to see her busy with feminine occupations,\nwith her household duties, with her children's clothes about her,\nor to find her writing verses at her toilet table surrounded with\npamphlets of every kind and with notes on tinted paper? If there\nwere none but wise men upon earth such a woman would die an old\nmaid.\n\n     \"Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es.\"\n          Martial xi. 20.\n\nLooks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes\nus and they ought to be the last, still they should not count for\nnothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned than\nsought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciation\nof beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but its\ndangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful woman\nis an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even if\nshe were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowd\nand she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsive\nI should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long the\nhusband would cease to notice either, but beauty would still have\nits disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But ugliness which\nis actually repulsive is the worst misfortune; repulsion increases\nrather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred. Such a union is a\nhell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.\n\nDesire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive\ncountenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, is\nwhat we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages\nare common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable than\nbeauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself, and\nafter thirty years of married life, the charms of a good woman\ndelight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day.\n\nSuch are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy.\nBrought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him than\nany other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in birth and\ncharacter, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great impression\nat first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms. Her chief\ninfluence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered in\nfriendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than any\none. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has taste\nwithout deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning.\nHer mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilled\nsoil ready for the sower. She has read no book but Bareme and\nTelemachus which happened to fall into her hands; but no girl who\ncan feel so passionately towards Telemachus can have a heart without\nfeeling or a mind without discernment. What charming ignorance!\nHappy is he who is destined to be her tutor. She will not be her\nhusband's teacher but his scholar; far from seeking to control his\ntastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better than\na blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching her\neverything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plan\na meeting.\n\nWhen we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This\nBabel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the\ngreat city, saying angrily, \"What a time we have wasted; the bride\nof my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but you think\nnothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings.\" With\nsteady look and firm voice I reply, \"Emile, do you mean what you\nsay?\" At once he flings his arms round my neck and clasps me to\nhis breast without speaking. That is his answer when he knows he\nis in the wrong.\n\nAnd now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;\nyet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escaping\nfrom them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country like\nknights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste for it\nhas become established; and I do not suppose any of my readers are\nsuch slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise with\nclosed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing,\nmaking the time between our start and our arrival a mere blank,\nand losing in the speed of our journey, the time we meant to save.\n\nMen say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten\nit. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament the\nswiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes only\ntoo slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit, they behold\nunwillingly the space between them and it; one desires to-morrow,\nanother looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond that.  No\none wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with the present\nhour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they complain that\ntime flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to hasten\nit; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their whole\nlife; and there is probably not a single one who would not have\nreduced his life to a few hours if he had been free to get rid of\nthose hours he found tedious, and those which separated him from\nthe desired moment. A man spends his whole life rushing from Paris\nto Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from town to country, from\ncountry to town, from one district of the town to another; but he\nwould not know what to do with his time if he had not discovered\nthis way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to find\nsomething to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving the\ntime he spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he\nrushes for the sake of rushing, and travels post in order to return\nin the same fashion. When will mankind cease to slander nature? Why\ndo you complain that life is short when it is never short enough\nfor you? If there were but one of you, able to moderate his desires,\nso that he did not desire the flight of time, he would never find\nlife too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one and\nthe same; should he die young, he would still die full of days.\n\nIf this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would\nbe enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait,\nbut to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, their\nardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will not\nonly enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approaching\nthe object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraint\nthat he lives to a great extent in the present.\n\nSo we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not\nmerely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between.\nThe journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally\nimprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel\nwith the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselves\nof the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor the\nopportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will never\nenter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry.\nBut what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. Shall\nI add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that is\nitself one of the joys of life.\n\nI can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling\non horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your own\ntime, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little as you\nchoose. You see the country, you turn off to the right or left;\nyou examine anything which interests you, you stop to admire every\nview.  Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a leafy wood, I\nseek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study its geology.\nIf I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I go\non. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stick\nto regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man can\ngo; I see all that a man can see; and as I am quite independent of\neverybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can enjoy. If I am stopped\nby bad weather and I find myself getting bored, then I take horses.\nIf I am tired--but Emile is hardly ever tired; he is strong; why\nshould he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops, why should he\nbe bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a trade; he\nuses his arms to rest his feet.\n\nTo travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato,\nand Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher can\nbring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear himself\nfrom the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes and beneath\nhis feet.  Is there any one with an interest in agriculture, who\ndoes not want to know the special products of the district through\nwhich he is passing, and their method of cultivation? Is there\nany one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece of\nground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a piece\nof it, hills without looking for plants, and stones without seeking\nfor fossils?\n\nYour town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they\nhave small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their\nnature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is the\nwhole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist who\nis its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest order;\nDauberton could do no better.\n\nWhat varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling,\nnot to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice\nthat those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrapped\nin thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those who go on\nfoot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted with everything.\nHow cheerful we are when we get near our lodging for the night!\nHow savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at table enjoying\nour rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If you only want to\nget to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to travel\nyou must go on foot.\n\nIf Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in the\nway I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; for\nwith an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to be\nsupposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. It\nis knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough to\nwant to know more.\n\nOne thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If I\nchose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is not\ndifficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris we must\nseek a wife at a distance.\n\nA few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills and\nvalleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely.\nNo matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey's\nend, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we\ncame across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his\npoor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry and\ntired we were he said, \"If the Lord had led you to the other side\nof the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would have\nfound a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They could\nnot wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer, though\nfolks say they used to be much better off. Still they are not\nreduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better for\nwhat they have.\"\n\nWhen Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. \"My\nfriend,\" said he, looking at me, \"let us visit this house, whose\nowners are a blessing to the district; I shall be very glad to\nsee them; perhaps they will be pleased to see us too; I am sure we\nshall be welcome; we shall just suit each other.\"\n\nOur host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off,\nbut lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm,\nwhich delayed us further. At last we found the right path and in\nthe evening we reached the house, which had been described to us.\nIt was the only house among the cottages of the little hamlet, and\nthough plain it had an air of dignity. We went up to the door and\nasked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner of the house, who\nquestioned us courteously; without telling him the object of our\njourney, we told him why we had left our path. His former wealth\nenabled him to judge a man's position by his manners; those who\nhave lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport we\nwere admitted.\n\nThe room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;\na fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything\nwe needed. \"Why,\" said Emile, in astonishment, \"one would think\nthey were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind and\nattentive, how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think I\nam living in the times of Homer.\" \"I am glad you feel this,\" said\nI, \"but you need not be surprised; where strangers are scarce, they\nare welcome; nothing makes people more hospitable than the fact\nthat calls upon their hospitality are rare; when guests are frequent\nthere is an end to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarely\ntravelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we\nare the only people who have passed this way this year.\" \"Never\nmind,\" said he, \"to know how to do without guests and yet to give\nthem a kind welcome, is its own praise.\"\n\nHaving dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the\nmaster of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received\nus not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested\non Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young man\ninto her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least.\n\nSupper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the\ndining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and the\nfifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, made\na deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word. Emile\nwas busy with his supper or considering how to reply to what was\nsaid to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and eating.\nThe main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts as he\nbelieved himself to be from the end of his journey. The conversation\nturned upon our losing our way. \"Sir,\" said the master of the house\nto Emile, \"you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved young gentleman,\nand that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet and weary\nlike Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso.\" \"Indeed,\"\nsaid Emile, \"we have found the hospitality of Calypso.\" His Mentor\nadded, \"And the charms of Eucharis.\" But Emile knew the Odyssey and\nhe had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As for\nthe young girl, I saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed her\neyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe. Her mother, noticing\nher confusion, made a sign to her father to turn the conversation.\nWhen he talked of his lonely life, he unconsciously began to relate\nthe circumstances which brought him into it; his misfortunes, his\nwife's fidelity, the consolations they found in their marriage,\ntheir quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this without\na word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story,\nwhich cannot fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic,\nleaves off eating and listens. When finally this best of men\ndiscourses with delight of the affection of the best of women, the\nyoung traveller, carried away by his feelings, stretches one hand\nto the husband, and taking the wife's hand with the other, he kisses\nit rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is charmed\nwith the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, more\ndeeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart,\nis reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She\nlooks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is\nnothing in it to give the lie to her comparison.\n\nHis easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are\nlively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his\nexpression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready\nto mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse for tears,\nshe is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already for\nthe tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong to\nweep for one's family.\n\nHer mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to\nsupper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some\nerrand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that\nher distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently, \"Sophy,\ncontrol yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunes\nof your parents? Why should you, who are their chief comfort, be\nmore sensitive than they are themselves?\"\n\nAt the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His\nattention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once\nand looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you the\nSophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks at\nher; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust. The face\nis not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes it\nmore or less. He studies every feature, he watches every movement,\nevery gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for them\nall; he would give half his life if she would but speak. He looks\nat me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions and\nreproaches. His every glance seems to say, \"Guide me while there\nis yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall\nnever get over it.\"\n\nThere is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than\nEmile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest\ndisturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four\nspectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed\nhim least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness does\nnot escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that she\nis its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; what\nmatter?  He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be\nvery unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.\n\nMothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.\nSophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads the\nhearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come to\nsecure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter\nspeak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid\ntone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound of\nher voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be no\ndoubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to deny\nit.\n\nThe charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through\nhis heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with which\nhe is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; he\nsees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he opens\nhis mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he sees her\nsigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to speak in\nhis. What a change have these few moments wrought in her heart! It\nis no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's. Farewell liberty,\nsimplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he dare not\nlook about him for fear he should see that we are watching him.\nAshamed that we should read his secret, he would fain become\ninvisible to every one, that he might feed in secret on the sight\nof Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains her confidence at the\nsight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph and rejoices in it.\n\n     \"No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida.\"\n          Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.\n\nHer expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look\nand downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it\ntells her that she has found Telemachus.\n\nIf I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections\nyou will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken.  Sufficient\nattention is not given to the effect which the first connection\nbetween man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of\nboth. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that\nof love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces\nlasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on\neducation are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the\nimaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most\nimportant and most difficult part of their education, the crisis\nwhich forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any part\nof this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great\nlength on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected by\nother authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouraged\neither by false delicacy or by the difficulties of expression. The\nstory of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it is\nnot found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind.\nIf my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave\nmankind.\n\nThis is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a\nyouth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and\nall those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;\nwe have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the first\ntime, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion of\nany kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he will\never know, and upon it depends the final formation of his character.\nHis mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined by\na lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will be\nincapable of further change.\n\nYou will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole\nof the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Do\nyou mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected by\na mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world?\nAre they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meets\nhis Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of whom he knows\nso little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a couple of words?\nWait, young man; examine, observe. You do not even know who our\nhosts may be, and to hear you talk one would think the house was\nyour own.\n\nThis is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant\nattention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest\nin Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. The\nunexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far as he\nknows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only serve as\nfuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's excellence,\nthat he feels sure he can make me fond of her.\n\nNext morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart as\nhis old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amused\nto see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. I\nknow his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he is trying to\nestablish a means of intercourse, through the return and exchange\nof the linen; so that he may have a right to return it and so pay\nanother visit to the house.\n\nI expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but I\nwas mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those who\nmerely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicate\nmatter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, if\npossible, more simply than last night, though as usual her frock is\nexquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness.\nShe knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she does\nnot know that a careless toilet is another of its signs; it shows\na desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but for oneself.\nWhat does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinking\nof him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she is\nnot content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; he\nmust not only perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he not\nseen enough to guess the rest?\n\nWe may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking last\nnight, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was made\nand instructions given. The morning's meeting is not unprepared.\nTwelve hours ago our young people had never met; they have never\nsaid a word to each other; but it is clear that there is already\nan understanding between them. Their greeting is formal, confused,\ntimid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to avoid each\nother, but that is in itself a sign that they understand, they\navoid each other with one consent; they already feel the need of\nconcealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart we\nask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person,\nEmile's words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyes\nseek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophy\nsays nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but she\nblushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer than that of her\nparents.\n\nWe receive permission to come again, though we are not invited to\nstay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers,\nbut a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress.\n\nWe have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking of\ntaking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems too\nfar; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. \"You young fool!\" I\nsaid in a tone of pity, \"are you already blinded by passion? Have\nyou no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched youth, you call\nyourself a lover and you would bring disgrace upon her you love!\nWhat would people say of her if they knew that a young man who has\nbeen staying at her house was sleeping close by? You say you love\nher! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the price you offer\nfor her parents' hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on her who\nwill one day make you the happiest of men?\" \"Why should we trouble\nourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of other\npeople?\" said he eagerly. \"Have you not taught me yourself to make\nlight of them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy,\nwhat respect I desire to show her? My attachment will not cause\nher shame, it will be her glory, it shall be worthy of her. If my\nheart and my actions continually give her the homage she deserves,\nwhat harm can I do her?\" \"Dear Emile,\" I said, as I clasped him to\nmy heart, \"you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think for\nher too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the\nother, they rest on different foundations. These foundations are\nequally firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, and\nthat same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself,\nbinds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honour\nis in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglect\nit is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due to\nyourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves.\"\n\nThen while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him\nrealise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can\nsay if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how she\nfeels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may already\nhave formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhaps\nthere are none of those grounds of suitability which make a\nhappy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandal\nwith regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not even\nmarriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What man\nof feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour would\ndesire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortune\nof having found favour in his eyes?\n\nAlways prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences\nwhich I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that\nhe cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps to\nget further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one is\nlistening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand times\nto the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never see her\nagain than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is the first\nresult of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to make\nhim capable of affection.\n\nWe must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far.\nWe look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town\nat least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town,\nrather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might give\nrise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his abode,\nfull of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling. In this\nway, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable and\ngood, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same bent.\n\nMy course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief\ndifficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the\nhardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by\nundue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life, let\nus shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the present\nto the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will never\nbe.  Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our care\nhe should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if there\nis a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence,\nwhen the powers of mind and body have reached their greatest\nstrength, and when man in the midst of his course is furthest from\nthose two extremes which tell him \"Life is short.\" If the imprudence\nof youth deceives itself it is not in its desire for enjoyment, but\nbecause it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be found, and lays\nup misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present.\n\nConsider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well developed\nin mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, full\nof sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals and\ngood taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free from\nthe sway of fierce passions, released from the tyranny of popular\nprejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom, and easily guided\nby the voice of a friend; gifted with so many useful and pleasant\naccomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to earn a living\nwith his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may come. Behold\nhim in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens to\nthe first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a whole\nworld of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whose\ncharacter is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, he\nexpects the reward which he deserves.\n\nTheir first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community\nof honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It\nabandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful\nmadness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbing\nthought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. What\nlacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking,\nthat can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which can\nexist in combination is already present; nothing could be added\nwithout taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man can\nbe. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period?  Shall\nI disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life's\nreward. What could I give that could outweigh what I should take\naway? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should destroy\nits greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold greater in\nanticipation than in possession; its savour is greater while we wait\nfor it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and be loved!\nprolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love and\nin your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you await\nyour heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I will\ndraw out its enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible.\nAlas! it must come to an end and that soon; but it shall at least\nlinger in your memory, and you will never repent of its joys.\n\nEmile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon\nas the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace,\nfor on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heart\nopens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flight\nof time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend his life\nlike this.\n\nUnluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We\nlose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing his\ntemper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention to\ndiscovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he knows\nwhere he is and always with the same self-control. You think nothing\nof that; but I think it a matter of great importance, for I know\nhow eager he is; I see the results of the care I have taken from\nhis infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.\n\nWe are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly\nthan on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances.\nEmile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in our\npresence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk in\nthe garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds,\nthe park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit trees of every\nkind, divided by pretty streams and borders full of flowers. \"What\na lovely place!\" exclaims Emile, still thinking of his Homer,\nand still full of enthusiasm, \"I could fancy myself in the garden\nof Alcinous.\" The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was;\nher mother asks. \"Alcinous,\" I tell them, \"was a king of Coreyra.\nHomer describes his garden and the critics think it too simple and\nunadorned. [Footnote: \"'When you leave the palace you enter a vast\ngarden, four acres in extent, walled in on every side, planted\nwith tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, and\nother goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and green\nolives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;\nsummer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees\nand ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the\nfig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The\ninexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some are\nspread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made into\nwine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginning\nto wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square garden\nfilled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens\nare adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the\ngarden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken to a\nlofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its citizens.'\nSuch is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7th\nbook of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting disgrace\nof that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day, there were\nneither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens.\"] This\nAlcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before her\nfather received a stranger at his board that she would soon have\na husband.\" Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, and\nbit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father, who was\nenjoying her confusion, added that the young princess bent herself\nto wash the linen in the river. \"Do you think,\" said he, \"she would\nhave scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying, that they smelt of\ngrease?\" Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural timidity\nand defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all the\nsmaller things would have had no other laundress if she had been\nallowed to wash them, and she would gladly have done more had she\nbeen set to do it. [Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy's\nmother for not letting her spoil such pretty hands with soap, hands\nwhich Emile will kiss so often.] Meanwhile she watched me secretly\nwith such anxiety that I could not suppress a smile, while I read\nthe terrors of her simple heart which urged her to speak. Her\nfather was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by asking\nher, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she in\ncommon with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed she\ndared hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no time\nfor feigning, you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself.\n\nTo all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily for\nSophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk,\nthe young people at first keeping close beside us; but they find\nit hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently they\nare a little in front of us, they are walking side by side, they\nbegin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead. Sophy\nseems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating\nvigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. When\nwe turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and they\nreturn slowly enough now, and we can see they are making good\nuse of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before they\ncome within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets us with\na frank affectionate expression; his eyes are sparkling with joy;\nyet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how she takes it.\nSophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us she\nseems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete with\na young man, though she has met so many other young men frankly\nenough, and without being found fault with for it. She runs up to\nher mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes some trivial remark,\nas if to pretend she had been with her for some time.\n\nFrom the happy expression of these dear children we see that\nthis conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no\nless reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is less\nembarrassing, it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy's\nmodesty, to the goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few words\nto her, she ventures to reply, but she always looks at her mother\nbefore she dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in her\nattitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watches\nme with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am\nhonoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine.\nI understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might\nsay they have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it\nis not so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile\nwill have more need of my influence with her than of hers with\nme. What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love of\nmy young friend has brought my name so prominently into his first\nconversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all my\ntrouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.\n\nOur visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between the\nyoung people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness\nis within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal\navowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing.\nEmile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;\nhe feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide whom\ntheir daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaiting\nher parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them, and\nshe makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his behalf\nand in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear that Sophy\nis her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her alone.  He\nbegins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident,\nhe takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress as\nhe expected, and then it is that his love appeals to her in the\ntenderest and most moving language.\n\nEmile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no one\ntold him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophy\nis too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others would\ncall advantages. She has not forgotten her parents' teaching. She\nis poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must win her esteem;\nhis deserts must be great indeed to remove this inequality. But\nhow should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile aware that he is\nrich?  Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank heaven, he has\nno need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The good he\ndoes comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretched\nhis time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckons\nup what he has done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent on\nthe poor.\n\nAs he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it is\nhis own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one of\ncaprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed\nlove. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence\nof his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longer\nhopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes he\nloses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guess\nhis angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough to\ndisarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be.\n\nDisturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, he\npours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs of\na heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. \"How\nmysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes an interest\nin me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is pleased to see\nme; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when I go she shows\nregret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services seem to\ngive her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice and even\nher commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. When\nI venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I say\na word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me to\nbe hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you, and she\nwill not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her, make her\nanswer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping stone to all\nyou have done for him; do not let him fall a victim to your care!\nIf you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching will have\nbeen the cause of his misery.\"\n\nI speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide\nher secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is not\nso easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives me\nleave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over his\nsurprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;\nhe cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his character\nor his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people's\nprejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that he\nwants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce his\nmoney, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and to\nreturn worthy to be her husband.\n\n\"Why,\" said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at his\nimpetuosity, \"will this young head never grow any older? Having\ndabbled all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason?\nDo not you see that your wild scheme would only make things worse,\nand Sophy more obstinate? It is a small superiority to be rather\nricher than she, but to give up all for her would be a very\ngreat superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be under the small\nobligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If she\ncannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the fact\nthat he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her for\nhaving brought him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspects\nyou of such a plan! On the contrary, be careful and economical\nfor her sake, lest she should accuse you of trying to gain her by\ncunning, by sacrificing of your own free will what you are really\nwasting through carelessness.\n\n\"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she is\nopposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; there\nare more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion, in the\neffect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that those\nwho are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them first.\nThe rich always put wealth before merit. When services are reckoned\nagainst silver, the latter always outweighs the former, and those\nwho have spent their life in their master's service are considered\nhis debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile,\nto calm her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not done\nin a day. Show her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalance\nthe wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time and constancy will\novercome her resistance; let your great and noble feelings make her\nforget your wealth. Love her, serve her, serve her worthy parents.\nConvince her that these attentions are not the result of a foolish\nfleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon your\nheart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to the\nbuffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with that\nworth which basks in her smiles.\"\n\nThe transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words\nmay easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his good\nheart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he would\nhave done if there had been no such person, or if he had not been\nin love with her. However little his character has been understood,\nanybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances.\n\nHere am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator\nof their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that\nnever in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor felt\nso pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without its\ncharms.  I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business to see\nthat the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of offending\nme, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms me with\na kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only take my\nproper share. This is her way of making up for her severity towards\nEmile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses,\nthough she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowing\nthat I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I should\nget on so well with her. If she refuses his arm when we are out\nwalking, he consoles himself with the thought that she has taken\nmine. He makes way for me without a murmur, he clasps my hand, and\nvoice and look alike whisper, \"My friend, plead for me!\" and his\neyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our feelings in our\nfaces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he knows\nthat everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank\nand easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheard\nby Telemachus.  How freely and delightfully you permit him to read\nwhat is passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you are\nto show him how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly\nyou allow him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With what\na pretence of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leads\nhim to interrupt you? With what pretty vexation you reproach his\nindiscretion when he comes and prevents you saying something to\nhis credit, or listening to what I say about him, or finding in my\nwords some new excuse to love him!\n\nHaving got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover,\nEmile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, he\nimplores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference,\nprovided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though\nwith some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed, to\ndecide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to accept\ninstead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of his\nvisits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyond\nsuch an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if it\nwas hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them so\nsternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them to\nher. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question,\nand often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glances\nat me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, \"You see she has taken\npossession of me.\" Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with all her pride,\nis observing him closely, and she is smiling to herself at the\npride of her slave.\n\nOh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their\nbliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures\nof love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back\nbefore the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness of\nheart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these young\nlovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon themselves\nto their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of passion they\nare advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers and\ngarlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them till\ndeath do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures,\nI am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort of order or\nscheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint the charming\npicture for himself and realise the different experiences of father,\nmother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played by each\nand all in the union of the most delightful couple whom love and\nvirtue have ever led to happiness.\n\nNow that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the\nvalue of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of\nsinging, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music.\nShe is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he dances\nwith her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into the\nsteps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest mirth,\nare quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love; a lover\nmay enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be her teacher.\n\nThere is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes\nit; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as a\ncarpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything he\ncan for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he makes\nseveral sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her share, and\nshe hangs them in her father's study. The frames are not gilded,\nnor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing, she draws\ntoo, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all her talents,\nand her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and mother\nrecall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves surrounded\nby the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the whole\nhouse is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them,\nwithout cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gathered\ntogether in former days by dint of toil and money.\n\nAs the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the object\nof his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection in\nhis mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment. She\ndoes not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasure\nof giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her, a fresh\npleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty seems\nto find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty.\nIt is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy\neverything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn\nit or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts of\nthings and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinks\nhe has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward to\narguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he cannot\ndisplay before her is so much useless learning; he is quite ashamed\nof knowing more than she.\n\nSo he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,\nand everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm\nand to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can get\nleave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinks\nthe heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil than\nto teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy to know\nwhere to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow our own, and\nif they meet so much the worse for the lesson.\n\nWomen are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should\nonly skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands\nreadily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moral\nsciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains some\nvague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes in\nthe course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of nature\nbids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts to\nnature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pour\nout their hearts before him.\n\nWhat! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of\nreligion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!\nWhat profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes,\nno doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful land\nof romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love one\nanother, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth having.\nTheir sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to them. Their\nstruggles after self-control draw from them tears purer than the\ndew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no human\nheart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their very\nrenunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increase\ntheir self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls, some day\nthey will know your pleasures, and all their life long they will\nrecall with regret the happy days when they refused the cup of\npleasure.\n\nIn spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels\noccur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hot\ntemper; but these passing showers are soon over and only serve to\nstrengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not to attach too\nmuch importance to them, he always gains more by the reconciliation\nthan he lost by the quarrel. The results of the first difference\nmade him expect a like result from all; he was mistaken, but even\nif he does not make any appreciable step forward, he has always the\nsatisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine concern for his affection\nmore firmly established. \"What advantage is this to him?\" you\nwould ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because it\nwill give me an opportunity to establish clearly a very important\nprinciple, and to combat a very deadly one.\n\nEmile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily\nunderstand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allow\nany kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everything\nelse, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity than for\nindulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid lest her\nlofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit. When most\nalone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must not\neven seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take his\narm when they are out walking, a favour which she will never permit\nhim to claim as a right, it is only occasionally that he dare venture\nwith a sigh to press her hand to his heart. However, after a long\nperiod of self-restraint, he ventured secretly to kiss the hem of\nher dress, and several times he was lucky enough to find her willing\nat least to pretend she was not aware of it. One day he attempts\nto take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes it\ninto her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angry\nand speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this without\nreply; the rest of the day is given over to sulks, and they part\nin a very ill temper.\n\nSophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things,\nhow can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding,\nand the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business.\nShe is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permission\nand her father's commands to make reparation.\n\nThe next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in a\nstate of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room and\nher father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily.\nScarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns round and\nholding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone how he is.\nThat pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed; he takes it but\ndoes not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself, withdraws her\nhand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman's whims,\nand does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forget\nso easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's father, seeing\nher confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poor\ngirl, confused and ashamed, does not know what to do with herself\nand would gladly have a good cry. The more she tries to control\nherself the worse she feels; at last a tear escapes in spite of all\nshe can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear, rushes towards\nher, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it again\nand again with the greatest devotion. \"My word, you are too kind\nto her,\" says her father, laughing; \"if I were you, I should deal\nmore severely with these follies, I should punish the mouth that\nwronged me.\" Emboldened by these words, Emile turns a suppliant\neye towards her mother, and thinking she is not unwilling, he\ntremblingly approaches Sophy's face; she turns away her head, and\nto save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring young\nman is not content with this; there is no great resistance. What\na kiss, if it were not taken under her mother's eyes. Have a care,\nSophy, in your severity; he will be ready enough to try to kiss\nyour dress if only you will sometimes say \"No.\"\n\nAfter this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about his\nbusiness, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out of\nthe room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. \"Sir,\" she says,\n\"I think a young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a man\nof feeling and character, would never reward with dishonour the\nconfidence reposed in him by the friendship of this family. I am\nneither prudish nor over strict; I know how to make excuses for\nyouthful folly, and what I have permitted in my own presence is\nsufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your own duty,\nhe will tell you there is all the difference in the world between\nthe playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother,\nand the same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal of\ntheir confidence, a freedom which makes a snare of the very favours\nwhich in the parents' presence were wholly innocent. He will tell\nyou, sir, that my daughter is only to blame for not having perceived\nfrom the first what she ought never to have permitted; he will tell\nyou that every favour, taken as such, is a favour, and that it is\nunworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a young girl's\ninnocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she may\npermit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us what\nis permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permit\nto himself in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of his\nconduct.\"\n\nAfter this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to\nmy pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare\nprudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss\nher daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he should\nventure to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I consider\nthe folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continually\nsacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomes\nmore refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquette\nis stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.\n\nWhile I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to these\nduties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new idea\noccurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit,\nthough I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-called\npride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a very\nwise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that,\nunfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads the\nleast spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternness\nis due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control over\nEmile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns the one\nagainst the other. If she had more confidence in herself she would\nbe much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere on earth\na gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an affront with\ngreater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying others? Is\nthere any with less pretension, except in the matter of virtue?\nMoreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in order\nto preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of her\nheart without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wise\nmother does not confide all this even to her father; men should\nnot hear everything.\n\nFar from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendly\nand less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one person\nwho has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells with\nthe feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victory\ngained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained,\nher speech more timid, since she has begun to blush at the word\n\"lover\"; but contentment may be seen beneath her outward confusion\nand this very shame is not painful. This change is most noticeable\nin her behaviour towards the young men she meets. Now that she\nhas ceased to be afraid of them, much of her extreme reserve has\ndisappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not hesitate\nto be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; taking\nno more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and she\nalways finds them pleasant enough for people who are of no importance\nto her.\n\nIf true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces\nof it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her\nlover's presence. One would say that not content with the ardent\npassion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she is\nnot sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would say\nthat when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means to\ntorment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow herself\nwith him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise to\nreally torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence and\ncontrol the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassure\nhim just as he needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy she\nnever really gives him pain. The anxiety she causes to her beloved\nmay be forgiven because of her fear that he is not sufficiently\nher own.\n\nBut what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?\nWill he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for such\ndigressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they do not\nlead me far from my main subject.\n\nI have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters\nof convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is\nanother matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that it\nis hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example of the\nvery beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove this\npoint beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught cooks to\ntear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?\n\nNo one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb\nor interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a\ncertain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that which\nministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when this desire\nhas become a passion, when it is transformed into madness, or into\na bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy, that is quite\nanother matter; such a passion may be natural or it may not; we\nmust distinguish between these different cases.\n\nI have already analysed the example of the animal world in my\nDiscourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I may\nrefer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I will\nonly add this further point to those already made in that work, that\nthe jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly on sexual\npower, and that when sexual power is or appears to be boundless, that\njealousy is at its height; for then the male, measuring his rights\nby his needs, can never see another male except as an unwelcome\nrival. In such species the females always submit to the first\ncomer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and they\nare the cause of unending strife.\n\nAmong the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give rise\nto some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female who\nbelongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself\nusually denies herself to all others; and the male, having this\npreference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasy\nat the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them.\nAmong these species the male shares the care of the little ones; and\nby one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the female\nrewards the father for his love for his children.\n\nNow consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it is\neasy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation\nof his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;\nthis is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes, at any\nrate in our part of the world; an equality which does not exist in\nanything like the same degree among those species in which several\nfemales are collected around one male. Though a man does not brood\nlike a pigeon, and though he has no milk to suckle the young, and\nmust in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds, his children\nare feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and children\ncould ill dispense with the father's affection, and the care which\nresults from it.\n\nAll these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury of\nthe males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man;\nand the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy\nis the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is the\nplurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautions\nof the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makes\nthe man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature.\n\nAmong ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded in\nthis respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and even\nmore detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions of\nsociety rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregular\nconnections the hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds his\nlove for his mistress; if he fears a rival in her affections it\nis the effect of that self-love whose origin I have already traced\nout, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection.  Moreover,\nour clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful,\n[Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the opposite\nof that deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature;\nthe latter consists in concealing her real feelings, the former\nin feigning what she does not feel. Every society lady spends her\nlife in boasting of her supposed sensibility, when in reality she\ncares for no one but herself.] and have so over-stimulated their\nappetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly proved\naffection; they can no longer display a preference which secures\nyou against the fear of a rival.\n\nTrue love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already\nreferred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think,\nand that there is a great difference between the gentle habit which\nbinds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the unbridled\npassion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of an object\nwhich he no longer sees in its true light. This passion which is\nfull of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity in\nthis respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so that\nit is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands,\nis in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the more\nexacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion which gave\nrise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious, esteem\nis trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart without\nesteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which he\nhimself holds in honour.\n\nWhen once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence\nthe kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;\nas there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human\nheart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile,\nfull of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious,\nbut delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than vexed;\nhe will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening his\nrival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possible\nfrom his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hates\nhim, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy's\naffection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger of\nlosing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as to\ntake offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that the law\nof preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends upon\nsuccess; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable,\nand he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she has\ngiven alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atone\nfor it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the\nproof are speedily dismissed.\n\nBut whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?\nHow art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned,\nwho braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasks\nand his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice or\npassion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only, unheeding all that\nwas not hers? Living in softness and idleness he now lets himself\nbe ruled by women; their amusements are the business of his life,\ntheir wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter of his\nfate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is the\nplaything of a child.\n\nSo shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives,\nbut the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at\ntwenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon\npleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when will\nhe seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to follow\nher against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end is\nattained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to this\nhuman weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy\nfingers were none the less great men.\n\nIf you would prolong the influence of a good education through\nlife itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried\nforward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought to\nbe you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is the\ncoping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first importance\nthat the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise there is\nlittle doubt they will learn to make love without him. The great\nmistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think that one way\nof living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the child\nis grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he was\nlittle. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood,\nsince the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhood\nitself; if another way of life were necessarily accompanied by\nother ways of thinking?\n\nThe stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and the\nstream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations\nmay change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is\nrendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good\ncolour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that the\ntransitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are spread\nover the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks. So\nshould it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are always\nchanging their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the\nonly constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled\ncharacter always returns to his former habits and preserves to old\nage the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood.\n\nIf you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life\nto another do not despise what has gone before, that when they form\nnew habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always love\nto do what is right, in things new and old; then only are the fruits\nof your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars as long as\nthey live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is that of the age\nover which you are now watching. As men always look back to this\nperiod with regret so the tastes carried forward into it from\nchildhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted they\nare never resumed.\n\nMost of the habits you think you have instilled into children and\nyoung people are not really habits at all; they have only been\nacquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly they\nwill be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you remain\nin prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion is\nincreased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile; as\na child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure,\nand as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will\nonly lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily\nlabour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him that\nhe could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all at\nonce to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chains\nand imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom and\nconstraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper.\nHe can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air,\nmovement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help casting\na glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company.\nYet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;\nhe seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he is\na captive.  \"Yes,\" you will say, \"these are necessities to which\nyou have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon him.\" You\nspeak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of manhood.\n\nEmile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first\nattracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest.\nWhen he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?\nAnd what price did she put upon herself? She required all her\nlover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality,\nsimplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches.\nThese virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is he\nreally changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that is\nthe only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that all\nthe circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance.\nThere were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that his\nchoice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the work\nof chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to each other?\nIs it chance that they cannot live in the same place, that he is\ncompelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it chance that he\ncan see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of seeing her\nat the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate.\nNot so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to stand\nthe fatigue he endures on Sophy's account.\n\nHe lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper\nthe shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or if\nhe could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would love\nat his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved death\nfor the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them? Need I\nsay more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will be able\nto follow out my principles in detail.\n\nThe first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so as\nto get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan until\nour fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a league\nfrom the house we see people on the road. Emile watches them, his\npulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismounts\nquickly; he hastens to join the charming family. Emile is fond of\ngood horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he is free, and gallops\noff across the fields; I follow and with some difficulty I succeed\nin catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily Sophy is afraid\nof horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen what\nhappened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his friend\na great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself,\ntakes the horses, and follows after the party. It is only fair\nthat each should take his turn and he rides on to get rid of our\nmounts. He has to leave Sophy behind him, and he no longer thinks\nriding a convenient mode of travelling. He returns out of breath\nand meets us half-way.\n\nThe next time, Emile will not hear of horses. \"Why,\" say I, \"we need\nonly take a servant to look after them.\" \"Shall we put our worthy\nfriends to such expense?\" he replies. \"You see they would insist\non feeding man and horse.\" \"That is true,\" I reply; \"theirs is the\ngenerous hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardly\npride only welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for their\nfriends' horses.\" \"Let us go on foot,\" says he; \"won't you venture\non the walk, when you are always so ready to share the toilsome\npleasures of your child?\" \"I will gladly go with you,\" I reply at\nonce, \"and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show.\"\n\nAs we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further from\nhome than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emile\nis very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief\nover his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ride\nthere after this.\n\nBut it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.\nMidsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever\nwe say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless\nwe make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon as\nwe get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account,\nand it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper for us to\nstay in the house, beds might be found for us in the village, if\nwe liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his hands at this\nidea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses her mother\nrather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her.\n\nLittle by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity\nof innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompany\nmy young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but\nsometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine\nof confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and what\nhave I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?\nNow and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;\nwhat use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere with\nhis interests. However, whether we go together or separately you\nwill understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are only\ntoo proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. Unluckily\nSophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in bad\nweather.  This is the only occasion on which she rebels against\nthe rules which I laid down for her in private.\n\nOne day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till the\nfollowing day, but he returned the same evening. \"My dear Emile,\"\nsaid I, \"have you come back to your old friend already?\" But instead\nof responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper,\n\"You need not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord;\nshe insisted on it; it is for her sake not yours that I am here.\"\nTouched by his frankness I renewed my caresses, saying, \"Truthful\nheart and faithful friend, do not conceal from me anything I ought\nto know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so for my own;\nyour return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to\npreserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what\nthey will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us better\nthan we are.\"\n\nI take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession\nby assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and by\ntelling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour of\nthis return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed\nto me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he had\nreturned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, I\nshould know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even if\nhe was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.\n\nYou see that the young man is very far from spending his days with\nSophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. One or two visits\na week are all that is permitted, and these visits are often only\nfor the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next day. He spends\nmuch more of his time in longing to see her, or in rejoicing that\nhe has seen her, than he actually spends in her presence. Even when\nhe goes to see her, more time is spent in going and returning than\nby her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure, delicious, but more\nimaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to make him\neffeminate.\n\nOn the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle at\nhome. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours\nthe country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes\nand studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;\nhe compares the methods he sees with those with which he is already\nfamiliar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if he\nthinks other methods better than those of the locality, he introduces\nthem to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better kind of\nplough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a lime\npit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a process\nnew to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised to\nfind him handling all manner of tools more easily than they can\nthemselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs,\nhe is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce are\nmore cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker,\nthey see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal\nand attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful to\neverybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in their\nhomes; inquires into their circumstances, their families, the\nnumber of their children, the extent of their holdings, the nature\nof their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens, their\ndebts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it is\nusually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money,\nand makes it helpful to them without distributing it among them.\nHe supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for work done\nby themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one he has the\nfalling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he clears a piece\nof land which had gone out of cultivation for lack of means; to\nanother he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replace\na loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over,\nand makes them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him cared\nfor, he looks after him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sick\npeasant is not merely to give him a pill, or medicine, or to send\na surgeon to him. That is not what these poor folk require in\nsickness; what they want is more and better food. When you have\nfever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it, give\nthem meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due to\npoverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught,\nyour butchers will be the best apothecary.] another is harassed by\na rich and powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on his\nbehalf; young people are fond of one another, he helps forward their\nmarriage; a good woman has lost her beloved child, he goes to see\nher, he speaks words of comfort and sits a while with her; he does\nnot despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid the unfortunate;\nhe often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping, and he\nwill even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;\nthough he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he is\nnone the less their equal. In conclusion, he always does as much\ngood by his personal efforts as by his money.\n\nSometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;\nhe may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking\nwithout being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything\nhe does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of that\npleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a good\nconscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes near\nenough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophy\nherself. On the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood,\nlooking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling what pains she has\ntaken and what a distance she has walked to please him.\n\nThe day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and\norder a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in that\ndirection without any special object, we shall turn in apparently\nby chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likes\nsweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quite\nready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have my\nshare of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; it\nis a girl's way of returning thanks more easily. Her father and I\nhave cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always\non the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped\nher spoon.\n\nThe cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every\none wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they\nask him if he can run as well as ever. \"Better,\" says he; \"I should\nbe sorry to forget how to run.\" One member of the company is dying\nto see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakes\nto suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young men\nof the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of our\nearlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is ready,\nSophy's father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimble\nEmile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the\nothers have started. He receives his prize at Sophy's hands, and\nno less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.\n\nIn the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor,\nand to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse to\nenter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start,\nwhile she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to show\nEmile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while she\nis seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a word\nto her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes his place\nby his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is off\nlike a bird.\n\nWomen were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.\nRunning is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing\nthey do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed\nbackwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are\nperched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to run\ninstead of to jump.\n\nEmile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does\nnot deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile\nof mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels;\nshe needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs so\nquickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalanta\nwhen he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an eagle dashing\nupon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at last\nquite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her,\nhe lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his\nheart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, and\nthen exclaiming, \"Sophy wins!\" he sinks on one knee before her and\nowns himself beaten.\n\nAlong with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. One\nday a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for\ncountry pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.\nWe do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work in\nearnest like regular workmen. Once when Sophy's father came to see\nus, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder to\nhis wife and daughter. \"Go and see that young man in the workshop,\"\nsaid he, \"and you will soon see if he despises the condition of\nthe poor.\" You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this! They talk\nit over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They question\nme, apparently without any special object, and having made sure of\nthe time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to\ntown on that very day.\n\nOn her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young\nman in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work\nthat he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile,\na chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishing\na mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vice\nin order to polish it. The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing;\nit affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman, honour your\nmaster; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you bread\nto eat; this is he!\n\nWhile they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by\nthe sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them\nwith an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his first\nraptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work.\nBut Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the\nworkshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picks\nup shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, it\nis so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile. With her delicate\nwhite hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slips\nand makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is hovering\nover us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries,\n\"Hercules is avenged.\"\n\nYet Sophy's mother questions the master. \"Sir, how much do you pay\nthese two men a day?\" \"I give them each tenpence a day and their\nfood; but if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, for\nhe is the best workman in the country.\" \"Tenpence a day and their\nfood,\" said she looking at us tenderly. \"That is so, madam,\" replied\nthe master. At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him,\nand clasps him to her breast with tears; unable to say more she\nrepeats again and again, \"My son, my son!\"\n\nWhen they had spent some time chatting with us, but without\ninterrupting our work, \"We must be going now,\" said the mother to\nher daughter, \"it is getting late and we must not keep your father\nwaiting.\" Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on the\ncheek, saying, \"Well, my good workman, won't you come with us?\" He\nreplied sadly, \"I am at work, ask the master.\" The master is asked\nif he can spare us. He replies that he cannot. \"I have work on\nhand,\" said he, \"which is wanted the day after to-morrow, so there\nis not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I refused other\nworkmen who came; if they fail me I don't know how to replace them\nand I shall not be able to send the work home at the time promised.\"\nThe mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile would\nsay. Emile hung his head in silence. \"Sir,\" she said, somewhat\nsurprised at this, \"have you nothing to say to that?\" Emile looked\ntenderly at her daughter and merely said, \"You see I am bound to\nstay.\" Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door,\ngazed after them as long as they were in sight, and returned to\nhis work without a word.\n\nOn the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke\nto her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. \"Why,\"\nsaid she, \"was it so difficult to arrange matters with the master\nwithout being obliged to stay. The young man is generous enough\nand ready to spend money when there is no need for it, could not\nhe spend a little on such a fitting occasion?\" \"Oh, mamma,\" replied\nSophy, \"I trust Emile will never rely so much on money as to use it\nto break an engagement, to fail to keep his own word, and to make\nanother break his! I know he could easily give the master a trifle\nto make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his absence; but\nhis soul would become the slave of riches, he would become accustomed\nto place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty might\nbe neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's way\nof thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do you\nthink it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; it\nwas for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes.\"\n\nIt is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on\nthe contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not\nbe loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noble\npride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting and\nclaiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart that\ndid not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not love\nher for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heart\nwhich did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She did\nnot desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reign\nover a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed into\nswine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom\nshe had no power.\n\nExcept for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous\nof her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them,\nhow zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes,\nhow exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him\nneither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come early\nis to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglect\nher. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice. An unfounded\nsuspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is really\njust and knows how to atone for her faults.\n\nThey were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.\nThey came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?\nWhat accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening\nis spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;\nshe is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night\nthrough. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched to\ninquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messenger\nreturns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes our\nexcuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene is\nchanged; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is for\nanger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that we\nare alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.\n\nWhen we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents\ndesire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at\nonce what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented\nexpression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forward\nto receive us saying, \"You have made your friends very uneasy;\nthere are people here who will not forgive you very readily.\" \"Who\nare they, papa,\" said Sophy with the most gracious smile she could\nassume. \"What business is that of yours,\" said her father, \"if it\nis not you?\" Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her mother\nreceived us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared not\nspeak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to\ntake a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow,\nwho as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite\ndeceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offence\non his own account.\n\nTo undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it to\nmy lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with the\nword, \"Sir,\" uttered in such a strange manner that Emile's eyes\nwere opened at once by this involuntary movement.\n\nSophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised less\ncontrol over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded by\nscornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables\nuttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger\nshould show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror stared\nat her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so that\nhis eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still more\nangry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wish\nfor another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded,\ndared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not\nbeen guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would never\nhave forgiven him.\n\nSeeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for\nexplanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time\nshe did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently,\n\"Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are just and\nreasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to what we have\nto say.\" She said nothing and I proceeded--\n\n\"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be here at\nseven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need,\nso as to rest a little before we get here. We were more than half\nway here when we heard lamentable groans, which came from a little\nvalley in the hillside, some distance off. We hurried towards the\nplace and found an unlucky peasant who had taken rather more wine\nthan was good for him; on his way home he had fallen heavily from\nhis horse and broken his leg. We shouted and called for help; there\nwas no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his horse, but\nwithout success; the least movement caused intense agony. We decided\nto tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made a\nchair of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible,\nfollowing his directions till we got him home. The way was long,\nand we were constantly obliged to stop and rest. At last we got\nthere, but thoroughly exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to find\nthat it was a house we knew already and that the wretched creature\nwe had carried with such difficulty was the very man who received\nus so kindly when first we came. We had all been so upset that\nuntil that moment we had not recognised each other.\n\n\"There were only two little children. His wife was about to present\nhim with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of him\nbrought home in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a few\nhours later gave birth to another little one. What was to be done\nunder such circumstances in a lonely cottage far from any help?\nEmile decided to fetch the horse we had left in the wood, to ride\nas fast as he could into the town and fetch a surgeon. He let the\nsurgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a nurse all\nat once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent a\nmessenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a man\nwith a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as well\nas I could such things in the house as I thought would be needed\nfor the relief of both.\n\n\"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to the\npoint. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment's\nrest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close at\nhand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what had\nhappened to us.\"\n\nThat was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile,\napproaching Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness\nthan I expected, \"Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well\nknow. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make\nme forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in my\neyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you.\"\n\nFor all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed\nhim on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace\nshe said to him, \"Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will,\nyou shall be my husband and my master; I will try to be worthy of\nthat honour.\"\n\nScarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped his\nhands calling, \"Encore, encore,\" and Sophy without further ado,\nkissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had done\nshe took refuge at once in her mother's arms and hid her blushing\nface on the maternal bosom.\n\nI will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us.\nAfter dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the\npoor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When we\ngot there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a second\nbedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile had\nseen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that they\nsuffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition.\nSophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work to\nmake her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for the\nman; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurting\nthem and how to settle them into less painful positions. Her\nvery presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed to\nguess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgusted\nby the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both without\ndisturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modest\nand sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the world\nhave touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sick\nman and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to rest\nin a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of more\nvalue than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and with\nsuch a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing she\nhad touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings upon the\nkindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She was an angel\nfrom heaven come to visit them; she was an angel in face and manner,\nin gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly touched by all this\nand he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy helpmeet. God\ngave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy troubles.\nThis is she!\n\nThe new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,\nand as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom of\ntheir hearts, for the time when they should have a child of their\nown to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thought\nit was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished, but mine\nremained. They had not got so far as they expected; every one must\nhave his turn.\n\nOne morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days,\nI entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and looking\nfixedly at him I said to him, \"What would you do if some one told\nyou Sophy were dead?\" He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck his\nhands together, and without saying a single word, he looked at me\nwith eyes of desperation. \"Answer me,\" I continued with the same\ncalmness. Vexed at my composure, he then approached me with eyes\nblazing with anger; and checking himself in an almost threatening\nattitude, \"What would I do? I know not; but this I do know, I would\nnever set eyes again upon the person who brought me such news.\"\n\"Comfort yourself,\" said I, smiling, \"she lives, she is well, and\nthey are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walk\nand we can talk things over.\"\n\nThe passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote\nhimself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this very\npassion must be called to our aid if his attention is to be given\nto my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible preface;\nI am quite sure he will listen to me now.\n\n\"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling\ncreature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the only\none which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Every\none seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in the search\nand we die before the end is attained. My young friend, when I\ntook you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God himself to\nwitness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote my life to\nthe happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was undertaking?\nNo; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my own\nhappiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I made\nit for us both.\n\n\"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doing\nnothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, and\nnone which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when we\nknow not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and further\nfrom it, we are running as many risks as there are roads to choose\nfrom. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our passion\nfor our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would rather\ndeceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit still and do\nnothing; and when once we have left the place where we might have\nknown happiness, we can never return.\n\n\"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. When\nI took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and to\nprevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, until\nshe should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their paths were\nthe same, and without knowing it this was the path I trod.\n\n\"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to accept\nyour decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to those\nthat were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts which\nnature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were by nature\nsubject, and from which I could shelter you, you have only experienced\nsuch as would harden you to bear others. You have never suffered\nany evil, except to escape a greater. You have known neither hatred\nnor servitude. Free and happy, you have remained just and kindly;\nfor suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man ever became bad\nuntil he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood remain with\nyou to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will ever\nrecall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it.\n\n\"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influence\nof human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from the\nsway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillity\ntill your life's end, my work would have been secure, and you would\nhave been as happy as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain did\nI dip you in the waters of Styx, I could not make you everywhere\ninvulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared, whom you have not yet\nlearnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot save you. That enemy\nis yourself. Nature and fortune had left you free. You could face\npoverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of the heart\nwere unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but your\nposition as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you have\nformed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are now\nthe slave of your desires. Without any change in yourself, without\nany insult, any injury to yourself, what sorrows may attack your\nsoul, what pains may you suffer without sickness, how many deaths\nmay you die and yet live! A lie, an error, a suspicion, may plunge\nyou in despair.\n\n\"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe,\nmaking the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting like\nwomen, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of the\naudience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations,\ncries, and groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds of\nconstancy and heroism. 'Why,' said you, 'are those the patterns we\nare to follow, the models set for our imitation! Are they afraid\nman will not be small enough, unhappy enough, weak enough, if his\nweakness is not enshrined under a false show of virtue.' My young\nfriend, henceforward you must be more merciful to the stage; you\nhave become one of those heroes.\n\n\"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavy\nyoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learnt\nto give a law to the desires of your heart; and the difficulties\nof life arise rather from our affections than from our needs. Our\ndesires are vast, our strength is little better than nothing. In his\nwishes man is dependent on many things; in himself he is dependent\non nothing, not even on his own life; the more his connections are\nmultiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth has\nan end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers,\nand we behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror at\nthe mere suspicion of Sophy's death? Do you suppose she will live\nfor ever? Do not young people of her age die? She must die, my son,\nand perhaps before you. Who knows if she is alive at this moment?\nNature meant you to die but once; you have prepared a second death\nfor yourself.\n\n\"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to be\npitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoy\nwhat is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear of losing\nit; you will never be able to satisfy your passions, because you\ndesired to follow them continually. You will ever be seeking that\nwhich will fly before you; you will be miserable and you will\nbecome wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no care but your\nunbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary privations\nhow will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you sacrifice\ndesire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to your\nreason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring you\nword of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him who\nwould deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tell\nyou, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf between you'? If you\nmust live with her whatever happens, whether Sophy is married or\nsingle, whether you are free or not, whether she loves or hates\nyou, whether she is given or refused to you, no matter, it is your\nwill and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what crime\nwill stop a man who has no law but his heart's desires, who knows\nnot how to resist his own passions.\n\n\"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without\na struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying\nstrength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is\nthe heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; that\nis the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God good\nwe do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort.\nI waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned,\nuntil you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quite\neasy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises\nwith the awakening of the passions; your time has come.\n\n\"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead\nof preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from\nthe vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not\nso much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not so\nmuch to give others their due, as to care little about your own\nrights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly man\nis only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls to\npieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only kind\nto himself.\n\n\"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;\nfor then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty;\nhe is his own master and nothing can turn him from the right way.\nSo far you have had only the semblance of liberty, the precarious\nliberty of the slave who has not received his orders. Now is the\ntime for real freedom; learn to be your own master; control your\nheart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.\n\n\"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship more\ndifficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evils\nshe lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; but\nshe has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed evils;\nshe leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our own\npassions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves on\nthe tears of which we should be ashamed.\n\n\"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthy\nof you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; you\nwill be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing but the\npassion for virtue.\n\n\"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is as\npure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour and\nnursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue do\nbut add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you are\nlooking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of your\naffection.  But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion is\npure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its slave?\nAnd if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangle\nit on the spot?  Now is the time to try your strength; there is no\ntime for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should be\nmade when danger is still afar. We do not practise the use of our\nweapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we do that before\nthe war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared.\n\n\"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful,\nso as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are good\nif we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves to\nthem. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond the limits\nof our strength; reason forbids us to want what we cannot get,\nconscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield to temptation.\nTo feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control, but we can\ncontrol ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is lawful;\nthose which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if he\nloves his neighbour's wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passion\nunder the control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves his\nown wife so greatly as to sacrifice everything to that love.\n\n\"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality,\nI have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be a\nman; restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Study\nand know these limits; however narrow they may be, we are not\nunhappy within them; it is only when we wish to go beyond them that\nwe are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions, we try to attain\nthe impossible; we are unhappy when we forget our manhood to make\nan imaginary world for ourselves, from which we are always slipping\nback into our own. The only good things, whose loss really affects\nus, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is clear that\nwe cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it; wishes\nwithout hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by a\ndesire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinks\nhimself more than man.\n\n\"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; but\nthe contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. He\nkeeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it;\nhe does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep; and\nhis whole strength being devoted to the right employment of what\nhe has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion as\nhe desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change, shall\nI forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where everything\nchanges and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly vanish! Oh,\nEmile! my son!  if I were to lose you, what would be left of myself?\nAnd yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may be\ntaken from me?\n\n\"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on the\nbeauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position,\nlet your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend the law of\nnecessity into the region of morals; learn to lose what may be taken\nfrom you; learn to forsake all things at the command of virtue,\nto set yourself above the chances of life, to detach your heart\nbefore it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that you\nmay never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may never\nbe guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune,\nand good in spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure that\ncannot be destroyed, even in the possession of the most fragile\nthings; you will possess them, they will not possess you, and you\nwill realise that the man who loses everything, only enjoys what\nhe knows how to resign. It is true you will not enjoy the illusions\nof imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the sufferings which\nare their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange, for\nthe sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare and\nempty. Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish\nthe idea that attaches such an excessive value to life. You will\nspend your life in peace, and you will leave it without terror; you\nwill detach yourself from life as from other things. Let others,\nhorror-struck, believe that when this life is ended they cease to\nbe; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think that you\nare but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the\nclose of life; to the just it is its dawn.\"\n\nEmile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such\na startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresaw\nthat when I showed him how necessary it is to practise the strength\nof the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern discipline; he\nwas like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon, and fancies\nhe already feels the painful but healing touch which will cure the\ndeadly wound.\n\nUncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does\nnot answer, he questions me but timidly. \"What must I do?\" says\nhe almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. \"What must you\ndo?\" I reply firmly. \"You must leave Sophy.\" \"What are you saying?\"\nhe exclaimed angrily. \"Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become\na traitor, a villain, a perjurer!\" \"Why!\" I continue, interrupting\nhim; \"does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?\"\n\"No,\" he continued with the same vigour. \"Neither you nor any one\nelse; I am capable of preserving your work; I shall not deserve\nsuch reproaches.\"\n\nI was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. If\nI had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use preaching\nit! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of demanding\nany wrong action from him, and he knows that it would be wrong to\nleave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase. So he waits\nfor an explanation. Then I resume my speech.\n\n\"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier than\nyou have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceive\nyourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbed\nthe depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than you have\nalready experienced. The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariably\ndestroys them. You have tasted greater joys through hope than you\nwill ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which adorns what we\nlong for, deserts its possession. With the exception of the one\nself-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except that which\nis not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would have\nfound perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares his\ndecline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and even\nif the conditions which make us happy could be prolonged for ever,\nhabit would deprive us of all taste for that happiness. If external\ncircumstances remain unchanged, the heart changes; either happiness\nforsakes us, or we forsake her.\n\n\"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over,\nwinter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at such\na time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it or\nno, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot continue.\nI read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb you greatly;\nSophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a simple plan\nfor avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The plan has its\nadvantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will melt\nand the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons.\n\n\"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!\nYou wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you,\nbut because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as to\nfitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with hatred!\nI know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness merely a matter\nof honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it is her disposition.\nDoes a woman show her real character in a day? Do you know how\noften you must have seen her and under what varying conditions to\nreally know her temper? Is four months of liking a sufficient pledge\nfor the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you may have\nforgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface your\nimage in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferent\nas you have hitherto found her affectionate.  Sentiments are not\na matter of principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet cease\nto love you. I am inclined to think she will be faithful and true;\nbut who will answer for her, and who will answer for you if you\nare not put to the proof? Will you postpone this trial till it is\ntoo late, will you wait to know your true selves till parting is\nno longer possible?\n\n\"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is the\nage for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother for\na family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you should\nat least wait till you yourselves are children no longer. Do you\nnot know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution,\ndestroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?\nDo you not know that many children have always been weak and sickly\nbecause their mother was little more than a child herself? When\nmother and child are both growing, the strength required for their\ngrowth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended; are\nnot both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, or\nhe would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, than\nsatisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health.\n\n\"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father;\nhave you seriously considered your duties? When you become the head\nof a family you will become a citizen of your country. And what is\na citizen of the state? What do you know about it? You have studied\nyour duties as a man, but what do you know of the duties of a\ncitizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms as government, laws,\ncountry? Do you know the price you must pay for life, and for what\nyou must be prepared to die? You think you know everything, when\nyou really know nothing at all. Before you take your place in the\ncivil order, learn to perceive and know what is your proper place.\n\n\"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if you\nwere capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not to\nhave married you; you must leave her in order to return worthy of\nher. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already worthy. How\nmuch remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid task; come\nand learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize of fidelity,\nso that when you return you may indeed deserve some honour, and\nmay ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward.\"\n\nUnaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thing\nand to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists,\nhe argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him?\nWould he not despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitated\nto accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he ought to know?\nAnd if it were necessary to leave her why not leave her as his\nwife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be her husband,\nand he is ready to follow me; let them be married and he will leave\nher without fear. \"Marry her in order to leave her, dear Emile! what\na contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows himself\ncapable of great things; a husband should never leave his wife\nunless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delay\nmust be involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophy\nyou leave her against your will. Very well, be content, and since\nyou will not follow the commands of reason, you must submit to\nanother master. You have not forgotten your promise. Emile, you\nmust leave Sophy; I will have it.\"\n\nFor a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful,\nthen looking me full in the face he said, \"When do we start?\" \"In\na week's time,\" I replied; \"Sophy must be prepared for our going.\nWomen are weaker than we are, and we must show consideration for\nthem; and this parting is not a duty for her as it is for you, so\nshe may be allowed to bear it less bravely.\"\n\nThe temptation to continue the daily history of their love up\nto the time of their separation is very great; but I have already\npresumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge\nthe story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situation\nas bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversation\nwith his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in the\nsincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if it\ncost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself to\nblame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play;\nbut the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands for it\nin the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no fear that\nshe will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems to say, \"Oh,\nSophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your lover is not\nwithout virtue.\"\n\nSophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride\nand dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the\nhonours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is less\nequal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and the\nfear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She does\nnot weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her terror;\nshe would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am the\nrecipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who am\nsupposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how to\nconceal their cleverness; the more she frets in private, the more\npains she takes to please me; she feels that her fate is in my\nhands.\n\nI console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover,\nor rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to\nher and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. She\nrespects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her.\nI am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue,\nmy honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassure\nthem. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as if\nthey were never to meet again.\n\nThen it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies\nherself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection\nduring his absence \"Sophy,\" say I one day, \"exchange books with\nEmile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn to be like\nhim, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy reading.\nStudy the duties of good wives in it, and remember that in two years'\ntime you will undertake those duties.\" The exchange gave pleasure\nto both and inspired them with confidence. At last the sad day\narrived and they must part.\n\nSophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,\ntook affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke\nseriously and somewhat emphatically, saying, \"I have done everything\nto please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have only\none word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract of\nmarriage on my daughter's lips.\"\n\nWhat a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile,\nimpetuous, eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud\nand sheds torrents of tears upon the hands of father, mother, and\ndaughter; with sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeats\nthe same thing over and over again in a way that would be ludicrous\nat any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed,\nremains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not even\nEmile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; she\nremains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything\nhe does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already.  A sight\nmore moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of her\nlover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantly\naway; if I left him another minute, he would never go. I am delighted\nthat he should carry this touching picture with him. If he should\never be tempted to forget what is due to Sophy, his heart must\nhave strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it back to her by\nrecalling her as he saw her last.\n\nOF TRAVEL\n\nIs it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked\nand as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Are\nmen the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be less\ndifference of opinion.\n\nThe misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think\nthey know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too much\nreading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never so\nmuch reading in any age as the present, and never was there less\nlearning; in no country of Europe are so many histories and books\nof travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there less knowledge\nof the mind and manners of other nations. So many books lead us to\nneglect the book of the world; if we read it at all, we keep each\nto our own page. If the phrase, \"Can one become a Persian,\" were\nunknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came from\nthe country where national prejudice is most prevalent and from\nthe sex which does most to increase it.\n\nA Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only\nFrenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers\nevery foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in the\nuniverse. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle classes\nof that great city, you must have lived among them, before you can\nbelieve that people could be at once so witty and so stupid. The\nstrangest thing about it is that probably every one of them has\nread a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitants\ninspire him with such wonder.\n\nTo discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the\nauthors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels\nall my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea of\nthe same nation. On comparing my own scanty observations with what\nI have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and I regret\nthe time wasted in trying to learn from their books; for I am\nquite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not reading is\nrequired. That would be true enough if every traveller were honest,\nif he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were not\ntinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be when\nwe have to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?\n\nLet us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content\nto use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set\npeople chattering about things they do not know. They are able to\nset fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, and\nteaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word of\nPaul Lucas or Tavernier.\n\nI maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seen\none nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whom\nhe has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question\nabout travel: \"Is it enough for a well-educated man to know his\nfellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?\" Then\nthere is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly the\nsolution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which it\nis stated.\n\nBut is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Need\nwe go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual\nbefore we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that it\nis not worth while to study them individually. When you have seen\na dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot say\nas much of the English and other nations, it is, however, certain\nthat every nation has its own specific character, which is derived\nby induction from the study, not of one, but many of its members.\nHe who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just he who has\ncompared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.\n\nTo acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through a\ncountry. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing them\ntowards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of people\nwho learn no more from their travels than from their books, because\nthey do not know how to think; because in reading their mind is\nat least under the guidance of the author, and in their travels\nthey do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn nothing,\nbecause they have no desire to learn. Their object is so entirely\ndifferent, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikely\nthat you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. The\nFrench travel more than any other nation, but they are so taken up\nwith their own customs, that everything else is confused together.\nThere are Frenchmen in every corner of the globe. In no country\nof the world do you find more people who have travelled than in\nFrance. And yet of all the nations of Europe, that which has seen\nmost, knows least.  The English are also travellers, but they travel\nin another fashion; these two nations must always be at opposite\nextremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at home;\nthe French people travel, the English stay at home. This difference\ndoes credit, I think, to the English. The French almost always\ntravel for their own ends; the English do not seek their fortune\nin other lands, unless in the way of commerce and with their hands\nfull; when they travel it is to spend their money, not to live by\ntheir wits; they are too proud to cringe before strangers. This\nis why they learn more abroad than the French who have other fish\nto fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but these\nprejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling.\nThe Englishman's prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman's\nare due to vanity.\n\nJust as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so those\ntravel best who travel least; they have made less progress than we\nin our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with the objects\nof our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention to what\nis really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards who travel\nin this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after all the\nartists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy of\nsome antique, while the German is taking his album to every man\nof science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, the\nmanners of the country, its police, and he is the only one of the\nfour who from all that he has seen will carry home any observation\nuseful to his own country.\n\nThe ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;\nyet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed each\nother more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Without\ngoing back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports us\nto the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the glory\nof having painted manners in his history, though he does it rather\nby narrative than by comment; still he does it better than all our\nhistorians whose books are overladen with portraits and characters.\nTacitus has described the Germans of his time better than any\nauthor has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubt\nthat those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know more\nabout the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians than\nany nation of to-day knows about its neighbours.\n\nIt must also be admitted that the original characteristics of\ndifferent nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more\ndifficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, those\nnational differences which formerly struck the observer at first\nsight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remained\nmore or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication were\nfewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflicting\ninterests, less political and civil intercourse between nation and\nnation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy,\nwere less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident\nat foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreign\ntrade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes,\nwho employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had no\ninfluence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together.\nThe relations between Europe and Asia in the present century are\na hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain in\nthe past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world is\nnow.\n\nMoreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves\nas the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there\nso long that all record was lost of the far-off times when their\nancestors settled there; they had been there so long that the\nplace had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europe\nthe invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests,\nhave caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-day\nare no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longer\nbeautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face of\nthe Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians,\noriginally from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness\nthrough the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longer\nGauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians, more\nor less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct.\n\nThis is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil\nand climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation\nin respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than can\nbe distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europe\nleaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests are\ncut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally,\nthough less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences between\ncountry and country can no longer be detected even in purely physical\nfeatures.\n\nIf they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in such\na hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having described\nthe inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiarities\nand with striking differences which we no longer see. To recognise\nsuch types of face we should need to see the men themselves; no\nchange must have passed over them, if they are to remain the same.\nIf we could behold all the people who have ever lived, who can\ndoubt that we should find greater variations between one century\nand another, than are now found between nation and nation.\n\nAt the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it\nis more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for the\nsmall success of our researches into the natural history of the\nhuman race. The information acquired by travel depends upon the\nobject of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy, the\ntraveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest,\nit engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce and\nthe arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time prevent\nthem from studying each other. If they know how to make a profit\nout of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?\n\nIt is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, so\nas to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every\none lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would be\nhow much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need of\nno one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know any other\ncountry but his own. If he requires more land for his subsistence\nhe shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild beasts\nand feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has become\na necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures,\nself-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts\nwhere there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all\nflock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always\ncheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations,\nwhich are just like one another.\n\nThey say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so,\nthey travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers\nlike Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they\nare, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travel\nat the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid,\nthey receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and the\nobject of that journey is certainly not the study of any question\nof morals.  Their whole time is required for the object of their\njourney, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in any\ncountry whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense,\nyou may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It is\nnot knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their travels\nteach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice that\nsends them on their travels.\n\nTo travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two\nvery different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious,\nthe latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel as\na philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observes\nthings till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin by\nstudying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits.\n\nIt is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless\nbecause we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does\nit follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there are\nvery few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good for\nthose who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voice\nof error without being deceived, strong enough to see the example\nof vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the\nprogress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When\na man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will\nbe all his life; there are more who return bad than good, because\nthere are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In the\ncourse of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved,\npick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned,\nand none of the virtues with which those vices are associated; but\nthose who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose good\ndisposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with a real\ndesire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went.\nEmile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelled\nanother young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was the\nadmiration of Europe, one who died for his country in the flower\nof his manhood; he deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by his\nvirtues only, received no honour till a stranger's hand adorned it\nwith flowers.\n\nEverything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,\nundertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules.\nTo travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; to\ntravel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definite\naim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interest\nin learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide the\nnature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation of the\nmethod I have hitherto practised.\n\nNow after he has considered himself in his physical relations\nto other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there\nremains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens.\nTo do this he must first study the nature of government in general,\nthen the different forms of government, and lastly the particular\ngovernment under which he was born, to know if it suits him to live\nunder it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every man,\nwhen he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce the\ncontract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving the\ncountry in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourning\nin that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that\nhe is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his\nancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just as\nhe has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands; yet\nhis place of birth was a gift of nature, and in renouncing it, he\nrenounces what is his own. Strictly speaking, every man remains in\nthe land of his birth at his own risk unless he voluntarily submits\nto its laws in order to acquire a right to their protection.\n\nFor example, I should say to Emile, \"Hitherto you have lived under\nmy guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you are\napproaching the age when the law, giving you the control over your\nproperty, makes you master of your person. You are about to find\nyourself alone in society, dependent on everything, even on your\npatrimony. You mean to marry; that is a praiseworthy intention,\nit is one of the duties of man; but before you marry you must know\nwhat sort of man you want to be, how you wish to spend your life,\nwhat steps you mean to take to secure a living for your family\nand for yourself; for although we should not make this our main\nbusiness, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to be\ndependent on men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish your\nfortune and determine your position by means of civil relations which\nwill make you always dependent on the choice of others, which will\ncompel you, if you would escape from knaves, to become a knave\nyourself?\"\n\nIn the next place I would show him every possible way of using his\nmoney in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall show\nhim that in every one of these there are risks to be taken, every\none of them places him in a precarious and dependent position, and\ncompels him to adapt his morals, his sentiments, his conduct to\nthe example and the prejudices of others.\n\n\"There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you may\njoin the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at very\nhigh wages to go and kill men who never did you any harm. This trade\nis held in great honour among men, and they cannot think too highly\nof those who are fit for nothing better. Moreover, this profession,\nfar from making you independent of other resources, makes them all\nthe more necessary; for it is a point of honour in this profession\nto ruin those who have adopted it. It is true they are not all\nruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in this as in\nother professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it,\nI doubt whether you would desire to follow their example.\n\n\"Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longer\na question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies;\non the contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, the\nmore honour you obtain; if you have decided to take your profession\nseriously, you will be despised, you will be hated, you will very\npossibly be driven out of the service, or at least you will fall a\nvictim to favouritism and be supplanted by your comrades, because\nyou have been doing your duty in the trenches, while they have been\nattending to their toilet.\"\n\nWe can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be much\nto Emile's taste. \"Why,\" he will exclaim, \"have I forgotten the\namusements of my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Is\nmy strength failing me? Do I not know how to work? What do I care\nabout all your fine professions and all the silly prejudices of\nothers? I know no other pride than to be kindly and just; no other\nhappiness than to live in independence with her I love, gaining\nhealth and a good appetite by the day's work. All these difficulties\nyou speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire is\na little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my efforts\nafter wealth to making it pay, and I will live without a care. Give\nme Sophy and my land, and I shall be rich.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife and\nland of his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think.\nThe rarest you have found already; let us discuss the other.\n\n\"A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in what\nremote corner of the earth can you say, 'Here am I master of myself\nand of this estate which belongs to me?' We know where a man may\ngrow rich; who knows where he can do without riches? Who knows\nwhere to live free and independent, without ill-treating others\nand without fear of being ill-treated himself! Do you think it is\nso easy to find a place where you can always live like an honest man?\nIf there is any safe and lawful way of living without intrigues,\nwithout lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I admit,\nto live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our own\nland; but where is the state in which a man can say, 'The earth\nwhich I dig is my own?' Before choosing this happy spot, be sure\nthat you will find the peace you desire; beware lest an unjust\ngovernment, a persecuting religion, and evil habits should disturb\nyou in your home. Secure yourself against the excessive taxes which\ndevour the fruits of your labours, and the endless lawsuits which\nconsume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly without\nhaving to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges,\nto priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind,\nwho are always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all,\nsecure yourself from annoyance on the part of the rich and great;\nremember that their estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth's vineyard.\nIf unluckily for you some great man buys or builds a house near\nyour cottage, make sure that he will not find a way, under some\npretence or other, to encroach on your lands to round off his estate,\nor that you do not find him at once absorbing all your resources\nto make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to ward off\nall these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for it\nwill cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon each\nother, the one can hardly stand without the other.\n\n\"I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearly\nthe difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine scheme\nand honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carry\nit out. I have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two years\nfrom now till the time of your return to choosing a place in\nEurope where you could live happily with your family, secure from\nall the dangers I have just described. If we succeed, you will\nhave discovered that true happiness, so often sought for in vain;\nand you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. If\nwe fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will console\nyourself for an inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law of\nnecessity.\"\n\nI do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggested\ninquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from his\ntravels, begun and continued with this end in view, without a full\nknowledge of questions of government, public morality, and political\nphilosophy of every kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligence\nand I in judgment.\n\nThe science of politics is and probably always will be unknown.\nGrotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child,\nand what is worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praised\nto the skies and Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive how\nlittle sensible men have read or understood these authors. As a\nmatter of fact, their principles are exactly alike, they only differ\nin their mode of expression. Their methods are also different:\nHobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets; they are\nagreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who could\nhave created this vast and useless science was the illustrious\nMontesquieu. But he was not concerned with the principles of\npolitical law; he was content to deal with the positive laws of\nsettled governments; and nothing could be more different than these\ntwo branches of study.\n\nYet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government is\nforced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in order\nto judge what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing light\nupon this important matter is to induce an individual to discuss\nand to answer these two questions. \"How does it concern me; and\nwhat can I do?\" Emile is in a position to answer both.\n\nThe next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, the\nprinciples in which we were brought up; it is due above all to the\npartiality of authors, who are always talking about truth, though\nthey care very little about it; it is only their own interests\nthat they care for, and of these they say nothing. Now the nation\nhas neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of the\nacademies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established by\nmen of that type? The education I have given him has removed this\ndifficulty also from Emile's path. He scarcely knows what is meant\nby government; his business is to find the best; he does not want\nto write books; if ever he did so, it would not be to pay court to\nthose in authority, but to establish the rights of humanity.\n\nThere is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficulty\nwhich I neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I am\nnot afraid of it; sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, great\ntalents are less necessary than a genuine love of justice and a\nsincere reverence for truth. If matters of government can ever be\nfairly discussed, now or never is our chance.\n\nBefore beginning our observations we must lay down rules of procedure;\nwe must find a scale with which to compare our measurements. Our\nprinciples of political law are our scale. Our actual measurements\nare the civil law of each country.\n\nOur elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directly\nfrom the nature of things. They will take the form of problems\ndiscussed between us, and they will not be formulated into principles,\nuntil we have found a satisfactory solution of our problems.\n\nFor example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall see\nwhether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent;\nis their association the result of free will or of force? Can the\nforce which compels them to united action ever form a permanent\nlaw, by which this original force becomes binding, even when another\nhas been imposed upon it, so that since the power of King Nimrod,\nwho is said to have been the first conqueror, every other power\nwhich has overthrown the original power is unjust and usurping,\nso that there are no lawful kings but the descendants of Nimrod or\ntheir representatives; or if this original power has ceased, has\nthe power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroy\nthe binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound to\nobey except under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon as\nwe are capable of resistance? Such a right is not very different\nfrom might; it is little more than a play upon words.\n\nWe shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comes\nfrom God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor.\n\nAgain, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience to\ngive our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him,\nfor the pistol in his hand is also a power.\n\nDoes this word power in this context mean something different from\na power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to which\nit owes its being?\n\nSuppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit the\nright of nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundation\nof society; we shall inquire into the extent of this authority; what\nis its foundation in nature? Has it any other grounds but that of\nits usefulness to the child, his weakness, and the natural love\nwhich his father feels towards him? When the child is no longer\nfeeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in body, does not\nhe become the sole judge of what is necessary for his preservation?\nIs he not therefore his own master, independent of all men, even\nof his father himself? For is it not still more certain that the\nson loves himself, than that the father loves the son?\n\nThe father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother,\nor some other person who has not the natural affection of a father?\nShould there always be, from family to family, one single head to\nwhom all the family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever come\nto be divided, and how is it that there is more than one head to\ngovern the human race throughout the world?\n\nSuppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; we\nshall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjected\nto their brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because they\nwere obliged, but because they choose, we shall inquire whether\nthis kind of society is not a sort of free and voluntary association?\n\nTaking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man can\nmake over to another his right to himself, without restriction,\nwithout reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say,\ncan he renounce his person, his life, his reason, his very self,\ncan he renounce all morality in his actions; in a word, can he\ncease to exist before his death, in spite of nature who places him\ndirectly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason and\nconscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?\n\nIf there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery,\nwe shall discuss whether this deed does not then become a true\ncontract, in which both the contracting powers, having in this respect\nno common master, [Footnote: If they had such a common master, he\nwould be no other than the sovereign, and then the right of slavery\nresting on the right of sovereignty would not be its origin.]\nremain their own judge as to the conditions of the contract, and\ntherefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract as\nsoon as it becomes hurtful.\n\nIf then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master,\nhow can a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slave\nis to judge whether his master is fulfilling his contract, is not\nthe nation to judge whether its head is fulfilling his contract?\n\nThus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we consider\nthe meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether some\ncontract, a tacit contract at the least, is not required to make\na nation, a contract anterior to that which we are assuming.\n\nSince the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made it\na nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contract\nis the foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature of\nthis contract that we must seek the nature of the society formed\nby it.\n\nWe will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not be\nfairly well expressed in this formula? As an individual every one\nof us contributes his goods, his person, his life, to the common\nstock, under the supreme direction of the general will; while as\na body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole.\n\nAssuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shall\nobserve that, instead of the individual person of each contracting\nparty, this deed of association produces a moral and collective body,\nconsisting of as many members as there are votes in the Assembly.\nThis public personality is usually called the body politic, which\nis called by its members the State when it is passive, and the\nSovereign when it is active, and a Power when compared with its\nequals. With regard to the members themselves, collectively they\nare known as the nation, and individually as citizens as members\nof the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects as\nobedient to the same authority.\n\nWe shall note that this contract of association includes a mutual\npledge on the part of the public and the individual; and that each\nindividual, entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself,\nfinds himself in a twofold capacity, i.e., as a member of the\nsovereign with regard to others, as member of the state with regard\nto the sovereign.\n\nWe shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement to\nwhich he was not himself a party, the general deliberation which\nmay be binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign,\nbecause of the two different relations under which each of them is\nenvisaged, cannot be binding on the state with regard to itself.\nHence we see that there is not, and cannot be, any other fundamental\nlaw, properly so called, except the social contract only. This does\nnot mean that the body politic cannot, in certain respects, pledge\nitself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then becomes\na simple creature, an individual.\n\nThus the two contracting parties, i.e., each individual and the\npublic, have no common superior to decide their differences; so we\nwill inquire if each of them remains free to break the contract at\nwill, that is to repudiate it on his side as soon as he considers\nit hurtful.\n\nTo clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according to\nthe social pact, the sovereign power is only able to act through\nthe common, general will; so its decrees can only have a general\nor common aim; hence it follows that a private individual cannot\nbe directly injured by the sovereign, unless all are injured, which\nis impossible, for that would be to want to harm oneself. Thus the\nsocial contract has no need of any warrant but the general power,\nfor it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not therefore\nfreed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it.\n\nTo decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mind\nthat the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar to\nitself, in that the nation only contracts with itself, i.e., the\npeople as a whole as sovereign, with the individuals as subjects;\nthis condition is essential to the construction and working of the\npolitical machine, it alone makes pledges lawful, reasonable, and\nsecure, without which it would be absurd, tyrannical, and liable\nto the grossest abuse.\n\nIndividuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, and\nthe sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see that\nevery man in obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how much\nfreer are we under the social part than in the state of nature.\n\nHaving compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons,\nwe will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership and\nthe rights of sovereignty, the private and the common domain. If\nthe sovereign power rests upon the right of ownership, there is no\nright more worthy of respect; it is inviolable and sacred for the\nsovereign power, so long as it remains a private individual right; as\nsoon as it is viewed as common to all the citizens, it is subject\nto the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus the sovereign\nhas no right to touch the property of one or many; but he may\nlawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done in\nSparta in the time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts by\nSolon was an unlawful deed.\n\nSince nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will,\nlet us inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we may\nrecognise it with certainty, what is a law, and what are the true\ncharacters of the law? This is quite a fresh subject; we have still\nto define the term law.\n\nAs soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, the\nnation is divided. A relation is established between the whole and\nits part which makes of them two separate entities, of which the\npart is one, and the whole, minus that part, is the other. But the\nwhole minus the part is not the whole; as long as this relation\nexists, there is no longer a whole, but two unequal parts.\n\nOn the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the whole\nnation, it is only considering itself; and if a relation is set\nup, it is between the whole community regarded from one point of\nview, and the whole community regarded from another point of view,\nwithout any division of that whole. Then the object of the statute\nis general, and the will which makes that statute is general too.\nLet us see if there is any other kind of decree which may bear the\nname of law.\n\nIf the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law can\nnever have any but a general purpose, concerning all the members\nof the state, it follows that the sovereign never has the power\nto make any law with regard to particular cases; and yet it is\nnecessary for the preservation of the state that particular cases\nshould also be dealt with; let us see how this can be done.\n\nThe decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the general\nwill, that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decrees\nof power or government, for the execution of those laws; and these,\non the other hand, can only have particular aims. Thus the decrees\nby which the sovereign decides that a chief shall be elected is\na law; the decree by which that chief is elected, in pursuance of\nthe law, is only a decree of government.\n\nThis is a third relation in which the assembled people may be\nconsidered, i.e., as magistrates or executors of the law which it\nhas passed in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problems\nand theorems are mostly taken from the Treatise on the Social\nContract, itself a summary of a larger work, undertaken without\ndue consideration of my own powers, and long since abandoned.]\n\nWe will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to deprive\nitself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or more\npersons; for the decree of election not being a law, and the people\nin this decree not being themselves sovereign, we do not see how\nthey can transfer a right which they do not possess.\n\nThe essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it is\nequally hard to see how we can be certain that an individual will\nshall always be in agreement with the general will. We should\nrather assume that it will often be opposed to it; for individual\ninterest always tends to privileges, while the common interest\nalways tends to equality, and if such an agreement were possible,\nno sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were either\nnecessary or indestructible.\n\nWe will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads of\nthe nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be more\nthan the officers of the people, entrusted by them with the duty\nof carrying the law into execution. Are not these chiefs themselves\naccountable for their administration, and are not they themselves\nsubject to the laws which it is their business to see carried out?\n\nIf the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrust\nit to others for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot it\nfind representatives? This is an important question and deserves\ndiscussion.\n\nIf the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives we\nwill inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws;\nmust they be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to be\nits own lawgiver?\n\nWas not the Roman people a great nation?\n\nIs it a good thing that there should be great nations?\n\nIt follows from considerations already established that there is\nan intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign;\nand this intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, is\nentrusted with the public administration, the carrying out of the\nlaws, and the maintenance of civil and political liberty.\n\nThe members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is\nto say, rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation to\nits members, is called the prince, and considered in its actions\nit is called the government.\n\nIf we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that is\nto say, the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereign\nto the state, we can compare this relation to that of the extremes\nin a proportion of which the government is the middle term. The\nmagistrate receives from the sovereign the commands which he gives\nto the nation, and when it is reckoned up his product or his power\nis in the same degree as the product or power of the citizens\nwho are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns on\nthe other. None of the three terms can be varied without at once\ndestroying this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, and\nif the prince wants to make the laws, or if the subject refuses to\nobey them, disorder takes the place of order, and the state falls\nto pieces under despotism or anarchy.\n\nLet us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens.\nThe sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body,\nbut each individual, as a subject, has his private and independent\nexistence. Thus the sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that is\nto say, every member of the state has, as his own share, only one\nten-thousandth part of the sovereign power, although he is subject\nto the whole. Let the nation be composed of one hundred thousand\nmen, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each continues\nto bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to the\none hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in the\nmaking of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereign\nis relatively greater as the number of the citizens is increased.\nHence it follows that the larger the state the less liberty.\n\nNow the greater the disproportion between private wishes and the\ngeneral will, i.e., between manners and laws, the greater must be\nthe power of repression. On the other side, the greatness of the\nstate gives the depositaries of public authority greater temptations\nand additional means of abusing that authority, so that the more\npower is required by the government to control the people, the more\npower should there be in the sovereign to control the government.\n\nFrom this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportion\nbetween the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitrary\nidea, but a consequence of the nature of the state.  Moreover, it\nfollows that one of the extremes, i.e., the nation, being constant,\nevery time the double ratio increases or decreases, the simple\nratio increases or diminishes in its turn; which cannot be unless\nthe middle term is as often changed. From this we may conclude that\nthere is no single absolute form of government, but there must\nbe as many different forms of government as there are states of\ndifferent size.\n\nIf the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio between\nits manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may also\nsay, the more numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government.\n\nTo make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentially\ndifferent wills in the person of each magistrate; first, his\nown will as an individual, which looks to his own advantage only;\nsecondly, the common will of the magistrates, which is concerned\nonly with the advantage of the prince, a will which may be called\ncorporate, and one which is general in relation to the government\nand particular in relation to the state of which the government\nforms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will,\nwhich is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as the\nwhole as in relation to the government viewed as a part of the\nwhole. In a perfect legislature the private individual will should\nbe almost nothing; the corporate will belonging to the government\nshould be quite subordinate, and therefore the general and sovereign\nwill is the master of all the others. On the other hand, in the\nnatural order, these different wills become more and more active in\nproportion as they become centralised; the general will is always\nweak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individual\nwill is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, then\na magistrate, and then a citizen; a series just the opposite of\nthat required by the social order.\n\nHaving laid down this principle, let us assume that the government\nis in the hands of one man. In this case the individual and the\ncorporate will are absolutely one, and therefore this will has\nreached the greatest possible degree of intensity. Now the use of\npower depends on the degree of this intensity, and as the absolute\npower of the government is always that of the people, and therefore\ninvariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the most active\nform of government.\n\nIf, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supreme\npower, and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so many\nmagistrates, then the corporate will is completely lost in the general\nwill, and will have no more activity than the general will, and it\nwill leave the individual will in full vigour. Thus the government,\nthough its absolute force is constant, will have the minimum of\nactivity.\n\nThese rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerations\nonly serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistrates\nas a body far more active than the citizens as a body, so that the\nindividual will always counts for more. For each magistrate usually\nhas charge of some particular duty of government; while each citizen,\nin himself, has no particular duty of sovereignty. Moreover, the\ngreater the state the greater its real power, although its power\ndoes not increase because of the increase in territory; but the\nstate remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain,\nthe government acquires no further real strength, because it is\nthe depositary of that of the state, which I have assumed to be\nconstant. Thus, this plurality of magistrates decreases the activity\nof the government without increasing its power.\n\nHaving found that the power of the government is relaxed in\nproportion as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and that\nthe more numerous the people, the more the controlling power must\nbe increased, we shall infer that the ratio between the magistrates\nand the government should be inverse to that between subjects and\nsovereign, that is to say, that the greater the state, the smaller\nthe government, and that in like manner the number of chiefs should\nbe diminished because of the increased numbers of the people.\n\nIn order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assign\nthem their different names, we shall observe in the first place\nthat the sovereign may entrust the care of the government to the\nwhole nation or to the greater part of the nation, so that there\nare more citizen magistrates than private citizens. This form of\ngovernment is called Democracy.\n\nOr the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lesser\nnumber, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates;\nand this form of government is called Aristocracy.\n\nFinally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in the\nhands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government,\nand is called Monarchy or royal government.\n\nWe shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second at\nleast, may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits.\nFor the democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confined\nto one half of it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink from\nthe half of the nation to the smallest number. Even royalty may be\nshared, either between father and son, between two brothers, or in\nsome other fashion. There were always two kings in Sparta, and in\nthe Roman empire there were as many as eight emperors at once, and\nyet it cannot be said that the empire was divided. There is a point\nwhere each form of government blends with the next; and under the\nthree specific forms there may be really as many forms of government\nas there are citizens in the state.\n\nNor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments is\ncapable of subdivision into different parts, each administered in\none of these three ways. From these forms in combination there may\narise a multitude of mixed forms, since each may be multiplied by\nall the simple forms.\n\nIn all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the best\nform of government, and people have failed to consider that each\nis the best in some cases and the worst in others. For ourselves,\nif the number of magistrates [Footnote: You will remember that\nI mean, in this context, the supreme magistrates or heads of the\nnation, the others being only their deputies in this or that respect.]\nin the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the number of\nthe citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government is\nadapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those of\nmoderate size, and a monarchy to large states.\n\nThese inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discover\nwhat are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they can\nbe separated one from the other; what is our country, in what does\nit really consist, and how can each of us ascertain whether he has\na country or no?\n\nHaving thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, we\nshall compare them, so as to note their relations one with another;\ngreat and small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insulting\none another, destroying one another; and in this perpetual action\nand reaction causing more misery and loss of life than if men had\npreserved their original freedom. We shall inquire whether too much\nor too little has not been accomplished in the matter of social\ninstitutions; whether individuals who are subject to law and to\nmen, while societies preserve the independence of nature, are not\nexposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages of\neither, and whether it would not be better to have no civil society\nin the world rather than to have many such societies. Is it not\nthat mixed condition which partakes of both and secures neither?\n\n    \"Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec\n     tanquam in pace securum.\"--Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I.\n\nIs it not this partial and imperfect association which gives rise\nto tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourges\nof humanity?\n\nFinally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficulties\nby means of leagues and confederations, which leave each state\nits own master in internal affairs, while they arm it against any\nunjust aggression. We will inquire how a good federal association\nmay be established, what can make it lasting, and how far the rights\nof the federation may be stretched without destroying the right of\nsovereignty.\n\nThe Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the states\nof Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is this\nassociation practicable, and supposing that it were established,\nwould it be likely to last? These inquiries lead us straight to all\nthe questions of international law which may clear up the remaining\ndifficulties of political law. Finally we shall lay down the real\nprinciples of the laws of war, and we shall see why Grotius and\nothers have only stated false principles.\n\nI should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man,\nshould interrupt me saying, \"One would think we were building our\nedifice of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactly\nin its place!\" That is true; but remember that the law does not\nbow to the passions of men, and that we have first to establish\nthe true principles of political law. Now that our foundations are\nlaid, come and see what men have built upon them; and you will see\nsome strange sights!\n\nThen I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; we\nare seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wise\nby misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and no\nPhilocles, neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found.\nBut let our readers picture our travels for themselves, or take\nthe same journeys with Telemachus in their hand; and let us not\nsuggest to them painful applications which the author himself avoids\nor makes in spite of himself.\n\nMoreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are not\ndistressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the good\nthey did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place,\nnone have less desire to leave it. We know that the same task\nis allotted to all; that whoever loves what is right with all his\nheart, and does the right so far as it is in his power, has fulfilled\nthat task. We know that Telemachus and Mentor are creatures of the\nimagination. Emile does not travel in idleness and he does more\ngood than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should be no\ngreater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we should\ncause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposed\nwe were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed we\nshould desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would be\nto abdicate our kingship and return to our present position.\n\nI have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes it\nstill more barren for the young is the way in which they are sent\non their travels. Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct,\ntake them from town to town, from palace to palace, where if they\nare men of learning and letters, they make them spend their time\nin libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or rummaging among old\nbuildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every country they\nare busy over some other century, as if they were living in another\ncountry; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at great\nexpense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seen\nnothing to interest them, and having learnt nothing that could be\nof any possible use to them.\n\nAll capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations and\nall ways of living; they are not the place in which to study the\nnations. Paris and London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitants\nhave a few prejudices of their own, but each has as many as the\nother, and all their rules of conduct are the same. We know the\nkind of people who will throng the court. We know the way of living\nwhich the crowds of people and the unequal distribution of wealth\nwill produce. As soon as any one tells me of a town with two hundred\nthousand people, I know its life already. What I do not know about\nit is not worth going there to learn.\n\nTo study the genius and character of a nation you should go to the\nmore remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce,\nwhere strangers seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in one\nplace, where there are fewer changes of wealth and position. Take\na look at the capital on your way, but go and study the country\nfar away from that capital. The French are not in Paris, but in\nTouraine; the English are more English in Mercia than in London,\nand the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid. In these\nremoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and shows\nwhat it really is; there the good or ill effects of the government\nare best perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactly\nat a greater radius.\n\nThe necessary relations between character and government have been\nso clearly pointed out in the book of L'Esprit des Lois, that one\ncannot do better than have recourse to that work for the study of\nthose relations. But speaking generally, there are two plain and\nsimple standards by which to decide whether governments are good or\nbad. One is the population. Every country in which the population\nis decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the countries in which\nthe population increases most rapidly, even were they the poorest\ncountries in the world, are certainly the best governed. [Footnote:\nI only know one exception to this rule--it is China.] But this\npopulation must be the natural result of the government and the\nnational character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any other\ntemporary and accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidence\nof the disease. When Augustus passed laws against celibacy, those\nlaws showed that the Roman empire was already beginning to decline.\nCitizens must be induced to marry by the goodness of the government,\nnot compelled to marry by law; you must not examine the effects\nof force, for the law which strives against the constitution has\nlittle or no effect; you should study what is done by the influence\nof public morals and by the natural inclination of the government,\nfor these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy of\nthe worthy Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedy\nfor every individual ill, instead of tracing them to their common\nsource and seeing if they could not all be cured together. You\ndo not need to treat separately every sore on a rich man's body;\nyou should purify the blood which produces them. They say that in\nEngland there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;\nthat is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there much\nlonger.\n\nThe second sign of the goodness or badness of the government and\nthe laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to be\nfound not in its numbers but in its distribution. Two states equal\nin size and population may be very unequal in strength; and the\nmore powerful is always that in which the people are more evenly\ndistributed over its territory; the country which has fewer large\ntowns, and makes less show on this account, will always defeat the\nother. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are the\ncause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a sham\nwealth, there is much money and few goods. They say the town of\nParis is worth a whole province to the King of France; for my own\npart I believe it costs him more than several provinces. I believe\nthat Paris is fed by the provinces in more senses than one, and\nthat the greater part of their revenues is poured into that town\nand stays there, without ever returning to the people or to the\nking. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators there\nis no one to see that France would be much more powerful if Paris\nwere destroyed.  Not only is this ill-distributed population not\nadvantageous to the state, it is more ruinous than depopulation\nitself, because depopulation only gives as produce nought, and\nthe ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a negative\nresult. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of the\nsize of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris has\nmore inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as to\nwhich nation can claim the honour of being the worst governed.\n\nStudy the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really get\nto know it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government,\noverladen with the machinery of administration and the jargon\nof the administrators, if you have not also studied its nature as\nseen in the effects it has upon the people, and in every degree of\nadministration. The difference of form is really shared by every\ndegree of the administration, and it is only by including every\ndegree that you really know the difference. In one country you\nbegin to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of his\nunderlings; in another you must see the election of members of\nparliament to see if the nation is really free; in each and every\ncountry, he who has only seen the towns cannot possibly know what\nthe government is like, as its spirit is never the same in town\nand country. Now it is the agricultural districts which form the\ncountry, and the country people who make the nation.\n\nThis study of different nations in their remoter provinces, and\nin the simplicity of their native genius, gives a general result\nwhich is very satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling to\nthe human heart; it is this: All the nations, if you observe them\nin this fashion, seem much better worth observing; the nearer they\nare to nature, the more does kindness hold sway in their character;\nit is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is only when they\nare changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that certain\nfaults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged for\npleasant but pernicious vices.\n\nFrom this observation we see another advantage in the mode of\ntravel I suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big towns\nwhich are horribly corrupt, are less likely to catch the infection\nof vice; among simpler people and less numerous company, they will\npreserve a surer judgment, a healthier taste, and better morals.\nBesides this contagion of vice is hardly to be feared for Emile;\nhe has everything to protect him from it. Among all the precautions\nI have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart.\n\nWe do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, because\nwe are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who have\ncontrol over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young man\nmust either love or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceived\nby appearances. You will quote any number of young men who are said\nto live very chastely without love; but show me one grown man, a\nreal man, who can truly say that his youth was thus spent? In all\nour virtues, all our duties, people are content with appearances;\nfor my own part I want the reality, and I am much mistaken if there\nis any other way of securing it beyond the means I have suggested.\n\nThe idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on his\ntravels is not my own. It was suggested to me by the following\nincident.\n\nI was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It was\nwinter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor's letters were\nbrought from the post office. He glanced at them, and then read\nthem aloud to his pupil. They were in English; I understood not a\nword, but while he was reading I saw the young man tear some fine\npoint lace ruffles which he was wearing, and throw them in the fire\none after another, as quietly as he could, so that no one should\nsee it.  Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and thought\nI perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, though\nmuch alike in all men, have national differences which may easily\nlead one astray. Nations have a different language of facial expression\nas well as of speech. I waited till the letters were finished and\nthen showing the tutor the bare wrists of his pupil, which he did\nhis best to hide, I said, \"May I ask the meaning of this?\"\n\nThe tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced his\npupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gave\nme the desired explanation.\n\n\"The ruffles,\" said he, \"which Mr. John has just torn to pieces,\nwere a present from a lady in this town, who made them for him not\nlong ago. Now you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a young\nlady in his own country, with whom he is greatly in love, and she\nwell deserves it. This letter is from the lady's mother, and I will\ntranslate the passage which caused the destruction you beheld.\n\n\"'Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John's ruffles. Yesterday Miss\nBetty Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doing\nsome of her work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morning\nand I wanted to see what she was doing; I found her busy unpicking\nwhat Miss Betty had done. She would not have a single stitch in\nher present done by any hand but her own.'\"\n\nMr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to his\ntutor: \"Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me is\nnot the letter from Miss Lucy's mother a put up job? Is it not an\nexpedient of your designing against the lady of the ruffles?\" \"No,\"\nsaid he, \"it is quite genuine; I am not so artful as that; I have\nmade use of simplicity and zeal, and God has blessed my efforts.\"\n\nThis incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; it\nwas sure to set a dreamer like me thinking.\n\nBut it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy,\nor rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever,\nand a more enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land all\nthe bettor for having made acquaintance with foreign governments\nthrough their vices and foreign nations through their virtues.\nI have even taken care that he should associate himself with some\nman of worth in every nation, by means of a treaty of hospitality\nafter the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry if this\nacquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this be\nuseful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent in\nforeign lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the sway\nof patriotic prejudices, to which we are liable all through our\nlife, and to which sooner or later we are more or less enslaved.\nNothing is better calculated to lessen the hold of such prejudices\nthan a friendly interchange of opinions with sensible people whom\nwe respect; they are free from our prejudices and we find ourselves\nface to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of prejudices\nagainst the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thing\nto have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs.\nIn the former case there is always a certain amount of politeness\nwhich either makes them conceal their real opinions, or makes them\nthink more favourably of our country while they are with us; when\nthey get home again this disappears, and they merely do us justice.\nI should be very glad if the foreigner I consult has seen my country,\nbut I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is at home again.\n\nWhen we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of the\ngreat countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, when\nwe have learnt two or three of the chief languages, when we have\nseen what is really interesting in natural history, government,\narts, or men, Emile, devoured by impatience, reminds me that our\ntime is almost up. Then I say, \"Well, my friend, you remember the\nmain object of our journey; you have seen and observed; what is\nthe final result of your observations? What decision have you come\nto?\" Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat after\nthis fashion--\n\n\"What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you made\nme; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposed\nupon me by nature and the laws. The more I study the works of men\nin their institutions, the more clearly I see that, in their efforts\nafter independence, they become slaves, and that their very freedom\nis wasted in vain attempts to assure its continuance. That they\nmay not be carried away by the flood of things, they form all sorts\nof attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward they are\nsurprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to me\nthat to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continue\nto desire freedom. My master, you have made me free by teaching\nme to yield to necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow her\nwithout compulsion; I lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In our\ntravels I have sought for some corner of the earth where I might\nbe absolutely my own; but where can one dwell among men without\nbeing dependent on their passions? On further consideration I have\ndiscovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I to hold\nto nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I had\nsettled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads were\nattached to their trees. I have discovered that the words liberty\nand empire are incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage by\nceasing to be master of myself.\n\n     \"'Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus.'\n          Horace, lib. ii., sat. vi.\n\n\"I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. You\nargued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and my\nliberty; but when you wished me to be free and at the same time\nwithout needs, you desired two incompatible things, for I could\nonly be independent of men by returning to dependence on nature.\nWhat then shall I do with the fortune bequeathed to me by my\nparents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on it; I will cut\nmyself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is left\nin my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall not\nbe dragged away with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it,\nbut I shall keep steadfastly to my own place. Rich or poor, I shall\nbe free. I shall be free not merely in this country or in that; I\nshall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of prejudice\nare broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds of\nnecessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood,\nand I shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why should\nI not wear those chains as a free man, for I should have to wear\nthem even if I were a slave, together with the additional fetters\nof slavery?\n\n\"What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?\nWherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there\nare none, I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent and\nrich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealth\nmakes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it. I have\nhands to work, and I shall get a living. If my hands fail me, I\nshall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shall\ndie; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not the\npenalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comes\nI defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it\nshall never prevent me having lived.\n\n\"My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should be\nin my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what\nis and I should never fight against fate. At least, there is only\none chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I may\nbe justly proud. Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free.\"\n\n\"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and\nto behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggerated\nunselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you have\nchildren of your own, and then you will be just what a good father\nand a wise man ought to be. I knew what the result would be before\nour travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would be\nfar from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve.\nIn vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws. The laws!\nWhere is there any law? Where is there any respect for law? Under\nthe name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interest\nand human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of order\nexist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they\nare written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;\nlet him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the\nevil-doer, for he always does evil against his will. Liberty is\nnot to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart of\nthe free man, he bears her with him everywhere. The vile man bears\nhis slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, the\nother free in Paris.\n\n\"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps\nask me, 'Which is my country?' And you would think you had put me\nto confusion. Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who\nhas no country has, at least, the land in which he lives. There is\nalways a government and certain so-called laws under which he has\nlived in peace. What matter though the social contract has not been\nobserved, if he has been protected by private interest against the\ngeneral will, if he has been secured by public violence against\nprivate aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to\nlove the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him\nperceive and hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is the\nman who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that\nland may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by\nman, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue. Born in\nthe depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happiness\nand freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a\nstruggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would\nnot have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions.\nThe mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it. The public\ngood, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him.\nHe learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice\nhis own interest to the common weal. It is not true that he gains\nnothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in\nthe midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to\nmake him free; they have taught him to rule himself.\n\n\"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?' It does matter\nthat you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of\nthese duties is to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymen\nprotected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood.\nYou should live among them, or at least you should live where you\ncan serve them to the best of your power, and where they know where\nto find you if ever they are in need of you. There are circumstances\nin which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outside\nhis country than within it. Then he should listen only to his own\nzeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is one\nof his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the\npainful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst\nof your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant\nintercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; your\nexample will do more than all our books, and the good they see you\ndo will touch them more deeply than all our empty words.\n\n\"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one\nof the examples which the good should give to others is that of a\npatriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful,\nthe most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart.\nHappy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peace\nin the wilderness! But where is that country? A man of good will\nfinds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns,\nwhere he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for. The welcome\ngiven by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek their\nfortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country\nought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All the\nmen who withdraw from high society are useful just because of their\nwithdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers. They are\nalso useful when they can bring with them into the desert places\nlife, culture, and the love of their first condition.  I like\nto think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, may\nspread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country,\nhow they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.\n\n\"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under\ncultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers and\nplenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I\nsee the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they\nhave revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of\nthose about them. Men say the golden age is a fable; it always will\nbe for those whose feelings and taste are depraved. People do not\nreally regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it.\nWhat is needed for its restoration? One thing only, and that is an\nimpossibility; we must love the golden age.\n\n\"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together you\nwill only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dear\nEmile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for\nsterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that the\nRomans sometimes left the plough to become consul. If the prince\nor the state calls you to the service of your country, leave all\nto fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assigned\nto you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourable\nmeans of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will\nnot long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear the\ndifficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time,\nthey will not summon you to serve the state.\"\n\nWhy may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of\ntheir love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A love\nfounded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues\nwhich will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of character\nwhich gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age the\ndelights of early love. But all such details would be pleasing but\nnot useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractive\ndetails unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandon\nthis rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen is\nweary.  Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon\nthis if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be left\nimperfect it is time it were finished.\n\nAt last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of\nEmile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to\nappreciate their results. The noble pair are united till death do\npart; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife.\nWhen they return from the church, they follow where they are led;\nthey know not where they are, whither they are going, or what is\nhappening around them. They heed nothing, they answer at random;\ntheir eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture! Oh,\nhuman weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he\nis not strong enough to bear it.\n\nThere are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married\ncouple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation\nof others seem to me equally out of place. I would rather their\nyoung hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to an\nagitation which is not without its charm, rather than that they\nshould be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed by\ncoarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at other\ntimes, are surely out of place on such a day.\n\nI behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving\nno heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy\nall the days of their life, shall I let them lose this precious\nday? No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoy\nthem. I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them in\nsome quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of them\nI wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts,\nand I know that there is only one subject of which they can think\nto-day.\n\n\"My children,\" say I, taking a hand of each, \"it is three years\nsince I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is\nyour happiness to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me\nthat it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline.\"\nMy readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile,\nand the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;\nhow their eyes protest that they will adore each other till their\nlatest breath. I let them have their way; then I continue:\n\n\"I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue\nin marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this has\nnever been. But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite\nworthy to set an example you have not received, an example which\nfew married couples could follow. My children, shall I tell you\nwhat I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?\"\n\nThey look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanks\nme curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a\nbetter, at any rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees with\nhim and seems just as certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I think\nI see a trace of curiosity. I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixed\nupon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; and\nhe pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to smile, and I\nsay to myself, \"I will soon get your attention.\"\n\nThe almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses\nis characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it\nis that men are generally less constant than women, and are sooner\nweary of success in love. A woman foresees man's future inconstancy,\nand is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous. [Footnote:\nIn France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; and\nnecessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiring\nattention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they\ncare very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; it\nis the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so,\nfor women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desires\nand only disgust them. There may be plenty of exceptions to these\ngeneral truths; but I still think they are truths.] When his\npassion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentions\nhe used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her\nturn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affection\nand kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them\nback. I return to my prescription against the cooling of love in\nmarriage.\n\n\"It is plain and simple,\" I continue. \"It consists in remaining\nlovers when you are husband and wife.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Emile, laughing at my secret, \"we shall not find\nthat hard.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me time\nto explain.\n\n\"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happens\nwhen the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. The\nfidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of\nall rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other.\nConstraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not to\nbe had for the asking. Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to run\naway.  God forbid that I should offend your modesty! But your fate\nfor life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a conversation\nbetween your husband and your father which you would not permit\nelsewhere.\n\n\"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and\naffection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than\na wife. How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and\na right of the sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire which\ngives the right, and nature knows no other. The law may restrict\nthis right, it cannot extend it. The pleasure is so sweet in itself!\nShould it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain from\nits own charms? No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound,\nbut the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another fidelity, but\nnot complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another, but\nneither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.\n\n\"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife's\nlover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a\nhappy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from\nduty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace.\nI know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to be\novercome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever be\nmistaken as to the real will? Will not he know when heart and eyes\ngrant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master of their\nperson and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them\nonly at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasure\nis only lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, my\nchildren, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it\nwill make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety. True\nto one another, nature and love will draw you to each other.\"\n\nEmile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.\nSophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.\nPerhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. Yet\nI insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;\nI undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her\nshare of the treaty. I incite her to speak, you may guess she will\nnot dare to say I am mistaken. Emile anxiously consults the eyes of\nhis young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filled\nwith a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangers\nof trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture\nthe hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he\nhas already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her.\n\"My dear wife,\" said he, \"be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are\nalready the arbiter of my life and fate. Should your cruelty cost\nme life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights. I\nwill owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart.\"\n\nDear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you\nfall a victim to your generosity.\n\nIn the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most\nsolemn tone, \"Remember both of you, that you are free, that there\nis no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference.\nEmile will you come home with me? Sophy permits it.\" Emile is ready\nto strike me in his anger. \"And you, Sophy, what do you say? Shall\nI take him away?\" The little liar, blushing, answers, \"Yes.\" A\ntender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!\n\nThe next day. ... Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;\ntheir taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their\nhearts. They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive what\nis truly delightful. You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, see\nonly the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is very\nimperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charms\nof pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young couple,\nhappily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chaste\nyet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have\nenjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightful\ncertainty that they will spend the rest of their life together. The\nheart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the real\npicture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times without\nheeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it. Sophy,\npeaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;\na pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her\nhusband.\n\nThe day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to look\nsomewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender\neagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there\nis much amiss. As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;\nher eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;\nshe is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little and\nvexes him still more.\n\nThese changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;\nI am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that,\nto his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not\npermitted last night to share Sophy's bed. That haughty lady had\nmade haste to assert her right. An explanation takes place. Emile\ncomplains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile is\nreally getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tenderness\nand love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, but\nin a tone that goes to his heart, \"Ungrateful man!\" Emile is too\nstupid to understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away and\nspeak to Sophy privately in her turn.\n\n\"I see,\" said I, \"the reason for this whim. No one could be more\ndelicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, do\nnot be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat\nhim as such. You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not\nsquandered his manhood and it will endure for you. My dear child,\nI must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation of\nthe day before yesterday. Perhaps you only understood it as a way\nof restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance. Oh,\nSophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care. When Emile\nbecame your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; this\nis the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however,\ngood for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature's\nlaws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, as\nhis sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiter\nof his pleasures. It will be hard for you, but you will control him\nif you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows me\nthat this difficult art is not beyond your courage. You will long\nrule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if\nyou know how to use them aright. If you want to have your husband\nalways in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your sternness\nbe the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not\ncapricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt\nyour own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more\nrespected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity,\nwithout having to complain of her coldness.\n\n\"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen\nto your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide\nnothing without you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays,\nand bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself\nlovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf\nof virtue, and love on behalf of reason.\n\n\"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your\npurpose. In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by\npossession, and love above all others. But when love has lasted long\nenough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidence\nsucceeds the raptures of passion. Children form a bond between\ntheir parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimes\nstronger than love itself. When you cease to be Emile's mistress you\nwill be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children.\nThen instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest\nintimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no\nmore caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longer\ndo without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is\nfar from himself. You have made the charms of home life so powerful\nin your father's home, let them prevail in your own. Every man who\nis happy at home loves his wife. Remember that if your husband is\nhappy in his home, you will be a happy wife.\n\n\"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves\nmore consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care\nfor his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own\nhappiness. You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;\nyou must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add to\nthe value of your favours.\"\n\nThen, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, \"One must\nbear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts be\nsuch that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to the\ngraces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable.\"\nPeace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms. The treaty\nis signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, \"Dear Emile,\nall his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor. So far\nI have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is now\nended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I abdicate the\nauthority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian.\"\n\nLittle by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully\nenjoy the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthy\nhusband and wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint their\nfelicity, would require the history of their lives. How often does\nmy heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of my\nlife's work! How often do I take their hands in mine blessing God\nwith all my heart! How often do I kiss their clasped hands! How\noften do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are touched by\nmy joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see their\nown youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live,\nas it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first\ntime, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, which\nprevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they were\nyoung. If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you must\nseek it in our abode.\n\nOne morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces\nme, saying, \"My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to\nhave the honour of being a father. What a responsibility will be\nours, how much we shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should let\nyou educate the son as you educated the father. God forbid that so\nsweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, even\nthough I should make as good a choice for my child as was made for\nme! But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers. Advise\nand control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shall\nneed you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the\nduties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to follow\nyour example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure.\"\n\nTHE END","title":"Emile","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":251977}