Supposing that my method is indeed that of nature itself, and that I
have made no mistakes in applying it, I have now conducted my pupil
through the region of sensations to the boundaries of childish reason.
The first step beyond should be that of a man. But before beginning
this new career, let us for a moment cast our eyes over what we have
just traversed. Every age and station in life has a perfection, a
maturity, all its own. We often hear of a full-grown man; in
contemplating a full-grown child we shall find more novelty, and
perhaps no less pleasure.
The existence of finite beings is so barren and so limited that when we
see only what is, it never stirs us to emotion. Real objects are
adorned by the creations of fancy, and without this charm yield us but
a barren satisfaction, tending no farther than to the organ that
perceives them, and the heart is left cold. The earth, clad in the
glories of autumn, displays a wealth which the wondering eye enjoys,
but which arouses no feeling within us; it springs less from sentiment
than from reflection. In spring the landscape is still almost bare;
the forests yield no shade; the verdure is only beginning to bud; and
yet the heart is deeply moved at the sight. We feel within us a new
life, when we see nature thus revive; delightful images surround us;
the companions of pleasure, gentle tears, ever ready to spring at the
touch of tender feelings, brim our eyes. But upon the panorama of the
vintage season, animated and pleasant though it be, we have no tears to
bestow. Why is there this difference? It is because imagination joins
to the sight of spring-time that of following seasons. To the tender
buds the eye adds the flowers, the fruit, the shade, sometimes also the
mysteries that may lie hid in them. Into a single point of time our
fancy gathers all the year's seasons yet to be, and sees things less as
they really will be than as it would choose to have them. In autumn,
on the contrary, there is nothing but bare reality. If we think of
spring then, the thought of winter checks us, and beneath snow and
hoar-frost the chilled imagination dies.
The charm we feel in looking upon a lovely childhood rather than upon
the perfection of mature age, arises from the same source. If the
sight of a man in his prime gives us like pleasure, it is when the
memory of what he has done leads us to review his past life and bring
up his younger days. If we think of him as he is, or as he will be in
old age, the idea of declining nature destroys all our pleasure. There
can be none in seeing a man rapidly drawing near the grave; the image
of death is a blight upon everything.
But when I imagine a child of ten or twelve, sound, vigorous, well
developed for his age, it gives me pleasure, whether on account of the
present or of the future. I see him impetuous, sprightly, animated,
free from anxiety or corroding care, living wholly in his own present,
and enjoying a life full to overflowing. I foresee what he will be in
later years, using the senses, the intellect, the bodily vigor, every
day unfolding within him. When I think of him as a child, he delights
me; when I think of him as a man, he delights me still more. His
glowing pulses seem to warm my own; I feel his life within myself, and
his sprightliness renews my youth. His form, his bearing, his
countenance, manifest self-confidence and happiness. Health glows in
his face; his firm step is a sign of bodily vigor. His complexion,
still delicate, but not insipid, has in it no effeminate softness, for
air and sun have already given him the honorable stamp of his sex. His
still rounded muscles are beginning to show signs of growing
expressiveness. His eyes, not yet lighted with the fire of feeling,
have all their natural serenity. Years of sorrow have never made them
dim, nor have his cheeks been furrowed by unceasing tears. His quick
but decided movements show the sprightliness of his age, and his sturdy
independence; they bear testimony to the abundant physical exercise he
has enjoyed. His bearing is frank and open, but not insolent or vain.
His face, never glued to his books, is never downcast; you need not
tell him to raise his head, for neither fear nor shame has ever made it
droop.
Make room for him among you, and examine him, gentlemen. Question him
with all confidence, without fear of his troubling you with idle
chatter or impertinent queries. Do not be afraid of his taking up all
your time, or making it impossible for you to get rid of him. You need
not expect brilliant speeches that I have taught him, but only the
frank and simple truth without preparation, ornament, or vanity. When
he tells you what he has been thinking or doing, he will speak of the
evil as freely as of the good, not in the least embarrassed by its
effect upon those who hear him. He will use words in all the
simplicity of their original meaning.
We like to prophesy good of children, and are always sorry when a
stream of nonsense comes to disappoint hopes aroused by some chance
repartee. My pupil seldom awakens such hopes, and will never cause
such regrets: for he never utters an unnecessary word, or wastes breath
in babble to which he knows nobody will listen. If his ideas have a
limited range, they are nevertheless clear. If he knows nothing by
heart, he knows a great deal from experience. If he does not read
ordinary books so well as other children, he reads the book of nature
far better. His mind is in his brain, and not at his tongue's end. He
has less memory than judgment. He can speak only one language, but he
understands what he says: and if he does not say it as well as another,
he can do things far better than they can.
He does not know the meaning of custom or routine. What he did
yesterday does not in any wise affect his actions of to-day. He never
follows a rigid formula, or gives way in the least to authority or to
example. Everything he does and says is after the natural fashion of
his age. Expect of him, therefore, no formal speeches or studied
manners, but always the faithful expression of his own ideas, and a
conduct arising from his own inclinations.
You will find he has a few moral ideas in relation to his own concerns,
but in regard to men in general, none at all. Of what use would these
last be to him, since a child is not yet an active member of society?
Speak to him of liberty, of property, even of things done by common
consent, and he may understand you. He knows why his own things belong
to him and those of another person do not, and beyond this he knows
nothing. Speak to him of duty and obedience, and he will not know what
you mean. Command him to do a thing, and he will not understand you.
But tell him that if he will do you such and such a favor, you will do
the same for him whenever you can, and he will readily oblige you; for
he likes nothing better than to increase his power, and to lay you
under obligations he knows to be inviolable. Perhaps, too, he enjoys
being recognized as somebody and accounted worth something. But if
this last be his motive, he has already left the path of nature, and
you have not effectually closed the approaches to vanity.
If he needs help, he will ask it of the very first person he meets, be
he monarch or man-servant; to him one man is as good as another.
By his manner of asking, you can see that he feels you do not owe him
anything; he knows that what he asks is really a favor to him, which
humanity will induce you to grant. His expressions are simple and
laconic. His voice, his look, his gesture, are those of one equally
accustomed to consent or to refusal. They show neither the cringing
submission of a slave, nor the imperious tone of a master; but modest
confidence in his fellow-creatures, and the noble and touching
gentleness of one who is free, but sensitive and feeble, asking aid of
another, also free, but powerful and kind. If you do what he asks, he
does not thank you, but feels that he has laid himself under
obligation. If you refuse, he will not complain or insist; he knows it
would be of no use. He will not say, "I was refused," but "It was
impossible." And, as has been already said, we do not often rebel
against an acknowledged necessity.
Leave him at liberty and by himself, and without saying a word, watch
what he does, and how he does it. Knowing perfectly well that he is
free, he will do nothing from mere thoughtlessness, or just to show
that he can do it; for is he not aware that he is always his own
master? He is alert, nimble, and active; his movements have all the
agility of his years; but you will not see one that has not some
definite aim. No matter what he may wish to do, he will never
undertake what he cannot do, for he has tested his own strength, and
knows exactly what it is. The means he uses are always adapted to the
end sought, and he rarely does anything without being assured he will
succeed in it. His eye will be attentive and critical, and he will not
ask foolish questions about everything he sees. Before making any
inquiries he will tire himself trying to find a thing out for himself.
If he meets with unexpected difficulties, he will be less disturbed by
them than another child, and less frightened if there is danger. As
nothing has been done to arouse his still dormant imagination, he sees
things only as they are, estimates danger accurately, and is always
self-possessed. He has so often had to give way to necessity that he
no longer rebels against it. Having borne its yoke ever since he was
born, he is accustomed to it, and is ready for whatever may come.
Work and play are alike to him; his plays are his occupations, and he
sees no difference between the two. He throws himself into everything
with charming earnestness and freedom, which shows the bent of his mind
and the range of his knowledge. Who does not enjoy seeing a pretty
child of this age, with his bright expression of serene content, and
laughing, open countenance, playing at the most serious things, or
deeply occupied with the most frivolous amusements? He has reached the
maturity of childhood, has lived a child's life, not gaining perfection
at the cost of his happiness, but developing the one by means of the
other.
While acquiring all the reasoning power possible to his age, he has
been as happy and as free as his nature allowed. If the fatal scythe
is to cut down in him the flower of our hopes, we shall not be obliged
to lament at the same time his life and his death. Our grief will not
be embittered by the recollection of the sorrows we have made him feel.
We shall be able to say, "At least, he enjoyed his childhood; we robbed
him of nothing that nature gave him."
In regard to this early education, the chief difficulty is, that only
far-seeing men can understand it, and that a child so carefully
educated seems to an ordinary observer only a young scapegrace.
A tutor usually considers his own interests rather than those of his
pupil. He devotes himself to proving that he loses no time and earns
his salary. He teaches the child such accomplishments as can be
readily exhibited when required, without regard to their usefulness or
worthlessness, so long as they are showy. Without selecting or
discerning, he charges the child's memory with a vast amount of
rubbish. When the child is to be examined, the tutor makes him display
his wares; and, after thus giving satisfaction, folds up his pack
again, and goes his way.
My pupil is not so rich; he has no pack at all to display; he has
nothing but himself. Now a child, like a man, cannot be seen all at
once. What observer can at the first glance seize upon the child's
peculiar traits? Such observers there are, but they are uncommon; and
among a hundred thousand fathers you will not find one such.
[1] _Puer_, child; _infans_, one who does not speak.
[2] Reading these lines, we are reminded of the admirable works of
Dickens, the celebrated English novelist, who so touchingly depicts the
sufferings of children made unhappy by the inhumanity of teachers, or
neglected as to their need of free air, of liberty, of affection: David
Copperfield, Hard Times, Nicholas Nickleby, Dombey and Son, Oliver
Twist, Little Dorrit, and the like.
[3] Here he means Xerxes, King of Persia, who had built an immense
bridge of boats over the Hellespont to transport his army from Asia
into Europe. A storm having destroyed this bridge, the all-powerful
monarch, furious at the insubordination of the elements, ordered chains
to be cast into the sea, and had the rebellious waves beaten with rods.
[4] The feeling of a republican, of the "citizen of Geneva," justly
shocked by monarchial superstitions. Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had had,
in fact, from the days of their first playthings, the degrading
spectacle of a universal servility prostrated before their cradle. The
sentiment here uttered was still uncommon and almost unknown when
Rousseau wrote it. He did much toward creating it and making it
popular.
[5] Civil bondage, as understood by Rousseau, consists in the laws and
obligations of civilized life itself. He extols the state of nature as
the ideal condition, the condition of perfect freedom, without seeing
that, on the contrary, true liberty cannot exist without the protection
of laws, while the state of nature is only the enslavement of the weak
by the strong--the triumph of brute force.
[6] In this unconditional form the principle is inadmissible. Any one
who has the rearing of children knows this. But the idea underlying
the paradox ought to be recognized, for it is a just one. We ought not
to command merely for the pleasure of commanding, but solely to
interpret to the child the requirements of the case in hand. To
command him for the sake of commanding is an abuse of power: it is a
baseness which will end in disaster. On the other hand, we cannot
leave it to circumstances to forbid what ought not to be done. Only,
the command should be intelligible, reasonable, and unyielding. This
is really what Rousseau means.
[7] This is not strictly true. The child early has the consciousness
of right and wrong; and if it be true that neither chastisement nor
reproof is to be abused, it is no less certain that conscience is early
awake within him, and that it ought not to be neglected in a work so
delicate as that of education: on condition, be it understood, that we
act with simplicity, without pedantry, and that we employ example more
than lectures. Rousseau says this admirably a few pages farther on.
[8] Nothing is more injudicious than such a question, especially when
the child is in fault. In that case, if he thinks you know what he has
done, he will see that you are laying a snare for him, and this opinion
cannot fail to set him against you. If he thinks you do not know he
will say to himself, "Why should I disclose my fault?" And thus the
first temptation to falsehood is the result of your imprudent
question.--[Note by J. J. ROUSSEAU.]
[9] He refers to Cato, surnamed of Utica, from the African city in
which he ended his own life. When a child, he was often invited by his
brother to the house of the all-powerful Sulla. The cruelties of the
tyrant roused the boy to indignation, and it was necessary to watch him
lest he should attempt to kill Sulla. It was in the latter's
antechamber that the scene described by Plutarch occurred.
[10] While writing this I have reflected a hundred times that in an
extended work it is impossible always to use the same words in the same
sense. No language is rich enough to furnish terms and expressions to
keep pace with the possible modifications of our ideas. The method
which defines all the terms, and substitutes the definition for the
term, is fine, but impracticable; for how shall we then avoid
travelling in a circle? If definitions could be given without using
words, they might be useful. Nevertheless, I am convinced that, poor
as our language is, we can make ourselves understood, not by always
attaching the same meaning to the same words, but by so using each word
that its meaning shall be sufficiently determined by the ideas nearly
related to it, and so that each sentence in which a word is used shall
serve to define the word. Sometimes I say that children are incapable
of reasoning, and sometimes I make them reason extremely well; I think
that my ideas do not contradict each other, though I cannot escape the
inconvenient contradictions of my mode of expression.
[11] Another exaggeration: the idea is not to teach children to speak
another language as perfectly as their own. There are three different
objects to be attained in studying languages. First, this study is
meant to render easy by comparison and practice the knowledge and free
use of the mother tongue. Second, it is useful as intellectual
gymnastics, developing attention, reflection, reasoning, and taste.
This result is to be expected particularly from the study of the
ancient languages. Third, it lowers the barriers separating nations,
and furnishes valuable means of intercourse which science, industries,
and commerce cannot afford to do without. The French have not always
shown wisdom in ignoring the language of their neighbors or their
rivals.
[12] From this passage, it is plain that the objections lately raised
by intelligent persons against the abuse of Latin conversations and
verses are not of recent date, after all.
[13] There is indeed a faulty method of teaching history, by giving
children a dry list of facts, names, and dates. On the other hand, to
offer them theories upon the philosophy of history is quite as
unprofitable. Yet it is not an absurd error, but a duty, to teach them
the broad outlines of history, to tell them of deeds of renown, of
mighty works accomplished, of men celebrated for the good or the evil
they have done; to interest them in the past of humanity, be it
melancholy or glorious. By abuse of logic Rousseau, in protesting
against one excess, falls into another.
[14] Rousseau here analyzes several of La Fontaine's fables, to show
the immorality and the danger of their "ethics." He dwells
particularly upon the fable of the Fox and the Crow. In this he is
right; the morality of the greater part of these fables leaves much to
be desired. But there is nothing to prevent the teacher from making
the application. The memory of a child is pliable and vigorous; not to
cultivate it would be doing him great injustice. We need not say that
a true teacher not only chooses, but by his instructions explains and
rectifies everything he requires his pupil to read or to learn by
heart. With this reservation one cannot but admire this aversion of
Rousseau's for parrot-learning, word-worship, and exclusive cultivation
of the memory. In a few pages may here be found a complete philosophy
of teaching, adapted to the regeneration of a people.
[15] Rousseau here alludes to the typographical lottery invented by
Louis Dumas, a French author of the eighteenth century. It was an
imitation of a printing-office, and was intended to teach, in an
agreeable way, not only reading, but even grammar and spelling. There
may be good features in all these systems, but we certainly cannot save
the child all trouble; we ought to let him understand that work must be
in earnest. Besides, as moralists and teachers, we ought not to
neglect giving children some kinds of work demanding application. They
will be in better spirits for recreation hours after study.
[16] It is well to combine the two methods; to keep the child occupied
with what immediately concerns him, and to interest him also in what is
more remote, whether in space or in time. He ought not to become too
positive, nor yet should he be chimerical. The "order of nature"
itself has provided for this, by making the child inquisitive about
things around him, and at the same time about things far away.
[17] This expresses rather too vehemently a true idea. Do not try to
impart a rigid education whose apparent correctness hides grave
defects. Allow free course to the child's instinctive activity and
turbulence; let nature speak; do not crave reserve and fastidiousness
at the expense of frankness and vigor of mind. This is what the writer
really means.
[18] An English philosopher, who died in 1701. He wrote a very
celebrated "Treatise on the Education of Children."
[19] A celebrated professor, Rector of the University of Paris, who
died in 1741. He left a number of works on education.
[20] An abbe of the seventeenth century who wrote a much valued
"History of the Church," and a "Treatise on the Method and Choice of
Studies." He was tutor to Count Vermandois, natural son to Louis XIV.
[21] A professor of mathematics, born at Lausanne, tutor to Prince
Fredrick of Hesse Cassel.
[22] "Passion is not born of familiar things."
[23] Recorded as illustrating Spartan education.
BOOK THIRD.
The third book has to do with the youth as he is between the ages of
twelve and fifteen. At this time his strength is proportionately
greatest, and this is the most important period in his life. It is the
time for labor and study; not indeed for studies of all kinds, but for
those whose necessity the student himself feels. The principle that
ought to guide him now is that of utility. All the master's talent
consists in leading him to discover what is really useful to him.
Language and history offer him little that is interesting. He applies
himself to studying natural phenomena, because they arouse his
curiosity and afford him means of overcoming his difficulties. He
makes his own instruments, and invents what apparatus he needs.
He does not depend upon another to direct him, but follows where his
own good sense points the way. Robinson Crusoe on his island is his
ideal, and this book furnishes the reading best suited to his age. He
should have some manual occupation, as much on account of the uncertain
future as for the sake of satisfying his own constant activity.
Side by side with the body the mind is developed by a taste for
reflection, and is finally prepared for studies of a higher order.
With this period childhood ends and youth begins.
The Age of Study.
Although up to the beginning of youth life is, on the whole, a period
of weakness, there is a time during this earlier age when our strength
increases beyond what our wants require, and the growing animal, still
absolutely weak, becomes relatively strong. His wants being as yet
partly undeveloped, his present strength is more than sufficient to
provide for those of the present. As a man, he would be very weak; as
child, he is very strong.
Whence arises this weakness of ours but from the inequality between our
desires and the strength we have for fulfilling them? Our passions
weaken us, because the gratification of them requires more than our
natural strength.
If we have fewer desires, we are so much the stronger. Whoever can do
more than his wishes demand has strength to spare; he is strong indeed.
Of this, the third stage of childhood, I have now to speak. I still
call it childhood for want of a better term to express the idea; for
this age, not yet that of puberty, approaches youth.
At the age of twelve or thirteen the child's physical strength develops
much faster than his wants. He braves without inconvenience the
inclemency of climate and seasons, scarcely feeling it at all. Natural
heat serves him instead of clothing, appetite instead of sauce. When
he is drowsy, he lies down on the ground and falls asleep. Thus he
finds around him everything he needs; not governed by caprices, his
desires extend no farther than his own arms can reach. Not only is he
sufficient for himself, but, at this one time in all his life, he has
more strength than he really requires.
What then shall he do with this superabundance of mental and physical
strength, which he will hereafter need, but endeavor to employ it in
ways which will at some time be of use to him, and thus throw this
surplus vitality forward into the future? The robust child shall make
provision for his weaker manhood. But he will not garner it in barns,
or lay it up in coffers that can be plundered. To be real owner of
this treasure, he must store it up in his arms, in his brain, in
himself. The present, then, is the time to labor, to receive
instruction, and to study; nature so ordains, not I.