sound, he thinks he can reach some object, because he does not properly
estimate its distance; he is mistaken. But if, while stretching out
his hand, he complains and cries, he is no longer deceived as to the
distance. He is commanding the object to come to him, or is directing
you to bring it to him. In the first case, carry him to the object
slowly, and with short steps; in the second case, do not even appear to
understand him. It is worth while to habituate him early not to
command people, for he is not their master; nor things, for they cannot
understand him. So, when a child wants something he sees, and we mean
to give it to him, it is better to carry him to the object than to
fetch the object to him. From this practice of ours he will learn a
lesson suited to his age, and there is no better way of suggesting this
lesson to him.
Maxims to Keep us True to Nature.
Reason alone teaches us to know good and evil. Conscience, which makes
us love the one and hate the other, is independent of reason, but
cannot grow strong without its aid. Before reaching years of reason,
we do good and evil unconsciously. There is no moral character in our
actions, although there sometimes is in our feeling toward those
actions of others which relate to us. A child likes to disturb
everything he sees; he breaks, he shatters everything within his reach;
he lays hold of a bird just as he would lay hold of a stone, and
strangles it without knowing what he is doing.
Why is this? At first view, philosophy would account for it on the
ground of vices natural to us--pride, the spirit of domination,
self-love, the wickedness of mankind. It would perhaps add, that the
sense of his own weakness makes the child eager to do things requiring
strength, and so prove to himself his own power. But see that old man,
infirm and broken down, whom the cycle of human life brings back to the
weakness of childhood. Not only does he remain immovable and quiet,
but he wishes everything about him to be in the same condition. The
slightest change disturbs and disquiets him; he would like to see
stillness reigning everywhere. How could the same powerlessness,
joined to the same passions, produce such different effects in the two
ages, if the primary cause were not changed? And where can we seek for
this difference of cause, unless it be in the physical condition of the
two individuals? The active principle common to the two is developing
in the one, and dying out in the other; the one is growing, and the
other is wearing itself out; the one is tending toward life, and the
other toward death. Failing activity concentrates itself in the heart
of the old man; in the child it is superabounding, and reaches outward;
he seems to feel within him life enough to animate all that surrounds
him. Whether he makes or unmakes matters little to him. It is enough
that he changes the condition of things, and that every change is an
action. If he seems more inclined to destroy things, it is not out of
perverseness, but because the action which creates is always slow; and
that which destroys, being more rapid, better suits his natural
sprightliness.
While the Author of nature gives children this active principle, he
takes care that it shall do little harm; for he leaves them little
power to indulge it. But no sooner do they look upon those about them
as instruments which it is their business to set in motion, than they
make use of them in following their own inclinations and in making up
for their own want of strength. In this way they become disagreeable,
tyrannical, imperious, perverse, unruly; a development not arising from
a natural spirit of domination, but creating such a spirit. For no
very long experience is requisite in teaching how pleasant it is to act
through others, and to need only move one's tongue to set the world in
motion.
As we grow up, we gain strength, we become less uneasy and restless, we
shut ourselves more within ourselves. The soul and the body put
themselves in equilibrium, as it were, and nature requires no more
motion than is necessary for out preservation.
But the wish to command outlives the necessity from which, it sprang;
power to control others awakens and gratifies self-love, and habit
makes it strong. Thus need gives place to whim; thus do prejudices and
opinions first root themselves within us.
The principle once understood, we see clearly the point at which we
leave the path of nature. Let us discover what we ought to do, to keep
within it.
Far from having too much strength, children have not even enough for
all that nature demands of them. We ought, then, to leave them the
free use of all natural strength which they cannot misuse. First maxim.
We must aid them, supplying whatever they lack in intelligence, in
strength, in all that belongs to physical necessity. Second maxim.
In helping them, we must confine ourselves to what is really of use to
them, yielding nothing to their whims or unreasonable wishes. For
their own caprice will not trouble them unless we ourselves create it;
it is not a natural thing. Third maxim.
We must study carefully their language and their signs, so that, at an
age when they cannot dissemble, we may judge which of their desires
spring from nature itself, and which of them from opinion. Fourth
maxim.
The meaning of these rules is, to allow children more personal freedom
and less authority; to let them do more for themselves, and exact less
from others. Thus accustomed betimes to desire only what they can
obtain or do for themselves, they will feel less keenly the want of
whatever is not within their own power.
Here there is another and very important reason for leaving children
absolutely free as to body and limbs, with the sole precaution of
keeping them from the danger of falling, and of putting out of their
reach everything that can injure them.
Doubtless a child whose body and arms are free will cry less than one
bound fast in swaddling clothes. He who feels only physical wants
cries only when he suffers, and this is a great advantage. For then we
know exactly when he requires help, and we ought not to delay one
moment in giving him help, if possible.
But if you cannot relieve him, keep quiet; do not try to soothe him by
petting him. Your caresses will not cure his colic; but he will
remember what he has to do in order to be petted. And if he once
discovers that he can, at will, busy you about him, he will have become
your master; the mischief is done.
If children were not so much thwarted in their movements, they would
not cry so much; if we were less annoyed by their crying, we would take
less pains to hush them; if they were not so often threatened or
caressed, they would be less timid or less stubborn, and more truly
themselves as nature made them. It is not so often by letting children
cry, as by hastening to quiet them, that we make them rupture
themselves. The proof of this is that the children most neglected are
less subject than others to this infirmity. I am far from wishing them
to be neglected, however. On the contrary, we ought to anticipate
their wants, and not wait to be notified of these by the children's
crying. Yet I would not have them misunderstand the cares we bestow on
them. Why should they consider crying a fault, when they find that it
avails so much? Knowing the value of their silence, they will be
careful not to be lavish of it. They will, at last, make it so costly
that we can no longer pay for it; and then it is that by crying without
success they strain, weaken, and kill themselves.
The long crying fits of a child who is not compressed or ill, or
allowed to want for anything, are from habit and obstinacy. They are
by no means the work of nature, but of the nurse, who, because she
cannot endure the annoyance, multiplies it, without reflecting that by
stilling the child to-day, he is induced to cry the more to-morrow.
The only way to cure or prevent this habit is to pay no attention to
it. No one, not even a child, likes to take unnecessary trouble.
They are stubborn in their attempts; but if you have more firmness than
they have obstinacy, they are discouraged, and do not repeat the
attempt. Thus we spare them some tears, and accustom them to cry only
when pain forces them to it.
Nevertheless when they do cry from caprice or stubbornness, a sure way
to prevent their continuing is, to turn their attention to some
agreeable and striking object, and so make them forget their desire to
cry. In this art most nurses excel, and when skilfully employed, it is
very effective. But it is highly important that the child should not
know of our intention to divert him, and that he should amuse himself
without at all thinking we have him in mind. In this all nurses are
unskilful.
All children are weaned too early. The proper time is indicated by
their teething. This process is usually painful and distressing. By a
mechanical instinct the child, at that time, carries to his mouth and
chews everything he holds. We think we make the operation easier by
giving him for a plaything some hard substance, such as ivory or coral.
I think we are mistaken. Far from softening the gums, these hard
bodies, when applied, render them hard and callous, and prepare the way
for a more painful and distressing laceration. Let us always take
instinct for guide. We never see puppies try their growing teeth upon
flints, or iron, or bones, but upon wood, or leather, or rags,--upon
soft materials, which give way, and on which the tooth impresses itself.
We no longer aim at simplicity, even where children are concerned.
Golden and silver bells, corals, crystals, toys of every price, of
every sort. What useless and mischievous affectations they are! Let
there be none of them,--no bells, no toys.
A little twig covered with its own leaves and fruit,--a poppy-head, in
which the seeds can be heard rattling,--a stick of liquorice he can
suck and chew, these will amuse a child quite as well as the splendid
baubles, and will not disadvantage him by accustoming him to luxury
from his very birth.
Language.
From the time they are born, children hear people speak. They are
spoken to not only before they understand what is said to them, but
before they can repeat the sounds they hear. Their organs, still
benumbed, adapt themselves only by degrees to imitating the sounds
dictated to them, and it is not even certain that these sounds are
borne to their ears at first as distinctly as to ours.
I do not disapprove of a nurse's amusing the child with songs, and with
blithe and varied tones. But I do disapprove of her perpetually
deafening him with a multitude of useless words, of which he
understands only the tone she gives them.
I would like the first articulate sounds he must hear to be few in
number, easy, distinct, often repeated. The words they form should
represent only material objects which can be shown him. Our
unfortunate readiness to content ourselves with words that have no
meaning to us whatever, begins earlier than we suppose. Even as in his
swaddling-clothes the child hears his nurse's babble, he hears in class
the verbiage of his teacher. It strikes me that if he were to be so
brought up that he could not understand it at all, he would be very
well instructed.[6]
Reflections crowd upon us when we set about discussing the formation of
children's language, and their baby talk itself. In spite of us, they
always learn to speak by the same process, and all our philosophical
speculations about it are entirely useless.
They seem, at first, to have a grammar adapted to their own age,
although its rules of syntax are more general than ours. And if we
were to pay close attention to them, we should be astonished at the
exactness with which they follow certain analogies, very faulty if you
will, but very regular, that are displeasing only because harsh, or
because usage does not recognize them.
It is unbearable pedantry, and a most useless labor, to attempt
correcting in children every little fault against usage; they never
fail themselves to correct these faults in time. Always speak
correctly in their presence; order it so that they are never so happy
with any one as with you; and rest assured their language will
insensibly be purified by your own, without your having ever reproved
them.
But another error, which has an entirely different bearing on the
matter, and is no less easy to prevent, is our being over-anxious to
make them speak, as if we feared they might not of their own accord
learn to do so. Our injudicious haste has an effect exactly contrary
to what we wish. On account of it they learn more slowly and speak
more indistinctly. The marked attention paid to everything they utter
makes it unnecessary for them to articulate distinctly. As they hardly
condescend to open their lips, many retain throughout life an imperfect
pronunciation and a confused manner of speaking, which makes them
nearly unintelligible.
Children who are too much urged to speak have not time sufficient for
learning either to pronounce carefully or to understand thoroughly what
they are made to say. If, instead, they are left to themselves, they
at first practise using the syllables they can most readily utter; and
gradually attaching to these some meaning that can be gathered from
their gestures, they give you their own words before acquiring yours.
Thus they receive yours only after they understand them. Not being
urged to use them, they notice carefully what meaning you give them;
and, when they are sure of this, they adopt it as their own.
The greatest evil arising from our haste to make children speak before
they are old enough is not that our first talks with them, and the
first words they use, have no meaning to them, but that they have a
meaning different from ours, without our being able to perceive it.
Thus, while they seem to be answering us very correctly, they are
really addressing us without understanding us, and without our
understanding them. To such ambiguous discourse is due the surprise we
sometimes feel at their sayings, to which we attach ideas the children
themselves have not dreamed of. This inattention of ours to the true
meaning words have for children seems to me the cause of their first
mistakes, and these errors, even after children are cured of them,
influence their turn of mind for the remainder of their life.
The first developments of childhood occur almost all at once. The
child learns to speak, to eat, to walk, nearly at the same time. This
is, properly, the first epoch of his life. Before then he is nothing
more than he was before he was born; he has not a sentiment, not an
idea; he scarcely has sensations; he does not feel even his own
existence.
[1] It is useless to enlarge upon the absurdity of this theory, and
upon the flagrant contradiction into which Rousseau allows himself to
fall. If he is right, man ought to be left without education, and the
earth without cultivation. This would not be even the savage state.
But want of space forbids us to pause at each like statement of our
author, who at once busies himself in nullifying it.
[2] The voice of Rousseau was heard. The nursing of children by their
own mothers, which had gone into disuse as vulgar and troublesome,
became a fashion. Great ladies prided themselves upon returning to the
usage of nature, and infants were brought in with the dessert to give
an exhibition of maternal tenderness. This affectation died out, but
in most families the good and wholesome custom of motherhood was
retained. This page of Rousseau's contributed its share to the happy
result.
[3] This remark is not a just one. How often have we seen unhappy
creatures disgusted with life because of some dreadful and incurable
malady? It is true that suicide, being an act of madness, is more
frequently caused by those troubles which imagination delights itself
in magnifying up to the point of insanity.
[4] This is an allusion to one of the most unfortunate episodes in the
life of Rousseau,--his abandoning of the children whom Therese
Levasseur bore him, and whom he sent to a foundling hospital because he
felt within him neither courage to labor for their support, nor
capacity to educate them. Sad practical defect in this teacher of
theories of education!
[5] For the particular example of education which he supposes, Rousseau
creates a tutor whom he consecrates absolutely, exclusively, to the
work. He desires one so perfect that he calls him a prodigy. Let us
not blame him for this. The ideal of those who assume the noble and
difficult office of a teacher of childhood cannot be placed too high.
As to the pupil, Rousseau imagines a child of average ability, in easy
circumstances, and of robust health. He makes him an only son and an
orphan, so that no family vicissitudes may disturb the logic of his
plan.
All this may be summed up by saying that he considers the child in
himself with regard to his individual development, and without regard
to his relations to ordinary life. This at the same time renders his
task easy, and deprives him of an important element of education.
[6] No doubt this sarcasm is applicable to those teachers who talk so
as to say nothing. A teacher ought, on the contrary, to speak only so
as to be understood by the child. He ought to adapt himself to the
child's capacity; to employ no useless or conventional expressions; his
language ought to arouse curiosity and to impart light.
BOOK SECOND.
The second book takes the child at about the fifth year, and conducts
him to about the twelfth year. He is no longer the little child; he is
the young boy. His education becomes more important. It consists not
in studies, in reading or writing, or in duties, but in well-chosen
plays, in ingenious recreations, in well-directed experiments.
There should be no exaggerated precautions, and, on the other hand, no
harshness, no punishments. We must love the child, and encourage his
playing. To make him realize his weakness and the narrow limits within
which it can work, to keep the child dependent only on circumstances,
will suffice, without ever making him feel the yoke of the master.
The best education is accomplished in the country. Teaching by means
of things. Criticism of the ordinary method. Education of the senses
by continually exercising them.
Avoid taking too many Precautions.
This is the second period of life, and the one at which, properly
speaking, infancy ends; for the words _infans_ and _puer_ are not
synonymous.[1] The first is included in the second, and means _one who
cannot speak_: thus in Valerius Maximus we find the expression _puerum
infantem_. But I shall continue to employ the word according to the
usage of the French language, until I am describing the age for which
there are other names.
When children begin to speak, they cry less often. This step in
advance is natural; one language is substituted for another. As soon
as they can utter their complaints in words, why should they cry,
unless the suffering is too keen to be expressed by words? If they
then continue to cry, it is the fault of those around them. After
Emile has once said, "It hurts me," only acute suffering can force him
to cry.
If the child is physically so delicate and sensitive that he naturally
cries about nothing, I will soon exhaust the fountain of his tears, by
making them ineffectual. So long as he cries, I will not go to him; as
soon as he stops, I will run to him. Very soon his method of calling
me will be to keep quiet, or at the utmost, to utter a single cry.
Children judge of the meaning of signs by their palpable effect; they
have no other rule. Whatever harm a child may do himself, he very
rarely cries when alone, unless with the hope of being heard.
If he fall, if he bruise his head, if his nose bleed, if he cut his
finger, I should, instead of bustling about him with a look of alarm,
remain quiet, at least for a little while. The mischief is done; he
must endure it; all my anxiety will only serve to frighten him more,
and to increase his sensitiveness. After all, when we hurt ourselves,
it is less the shock which pains us than the fright. I will spare him
at least this last pang; for he will certainly estimate his hurt as he
sees me estimate it. If he sees me run anxiously to comfort and to
pity him, he will think himself seriously hurt; but if he sees me keep
my presence of mind, he will soon recover his own, and will think the
pain cured when he no longer feels it. At his age we learn our first
lessons in courage; and by fearlessly enduring lighter sufferings, we
gradually learn to bear the heavier ones.
Far from taking care that Emile does not hurt himself, I shall be
dissatisfied if he never does, and so grows up unacquainted with pain.
To suffer is the first and most necessary thing for him to learn.
Children are little and weak, apparently that they may learn these
important lessons. If a child fall his whole length, he will not break
his leg; if he strike himself with a stick, he will not break his arm;
if he lay hold of an edged tool, he does not grasp it tightly, and will
not cut himself very badly.
Our pedantic mania for instructing constantly leads us to teach
children what they can learn far better for themselves, and to lose
sight of what we alone can teach them. Is there anything more absurd
than the pains we take in teaching them to walk? As if we had ever
seen one, who, through his nurse's negligence, did not know how to walk
when grown! On the contrary, how many people do we see moving
awkwardly all their lives because they have been badly taught how to
walk!
Emile shall have no head-protectors, nor carriages, nor go-carts, nor
leading-strings. Or at least from the time when he begins to be able
to put one foot before the other, he shall not be supported, except
over paved places; and he shall be hurried over these. Instead of
letting him suffocate in the exhausted air indoors, let him be taken
every day, far out into the fields. There let him run about, play,
fall down a hundred times a day; the oftener the better, as he will the
sooner learn to get up again by himself. The boon of freedom is worth
many scars. My pupil will have many bruises, but to make amends for
that, he will be always light-hearted. Though your pupils are less
often hurt, they are continually thwarted, fettered; they are always
unhappy. I doubt whether the advantage be on their side.
The development of their physical strength makes complaint less
necessary to children. When able to help themselves, they have less
need of the help of others. Knowledge to direct their strength grows
with that strength. At this second stage the life of the individual
properly begins; he now becomes conscious of his own being. Memory
extends this feeling of personal identity to every moment of his
existence; he becomes really one, the same one, and consequently
capable of happiness or of misery. We must therefore, from this
moment, begin to regard him as a moral being.
Childhood is to be Loved.
Although the longest term of human life, and the probability, at any
given age, of reaching this term, have been computed, nothing is more
uncertain than the continuance of each individual life: very few attain
the maximum. The greatest risks in life are at its beginning; the less
one has lived, the less prospect he has of living.