There is quite another class of exceptions: those so gifted by nature

that they rise above the level of their age. As there are men who

never get beyond infancy, so there are others who are never, so

to speak, children, they are men almost from birth. The difficulty

is that these cases are very rare, very difficult to distinguish;

while every mother, who knows that a child may be a prodigy,

is convinced that her child is that one. They go further; they

mistake the common signs of growth for marks of exceptional talent.

Liveliness, sharp sayings, romping, amusing simplicity, these

are the characteristic marks of this age, and show that the child

is a child indeed. Is it strange that a child who is encouraged

to chatter and allowed to say anything, who is restrained neither

by consideration nor convention, should chance to say something

clever? Were he never to hit the mark, his case would be stranger

than that of the astrologer who, among a thousand errors, occasionally

predicts the truth. "They lie so often," said Henry IV., "that at

last they say what is true." If you want to say something clever,

you have only to talk long enough. May Providence watch over those

fine folk who have no other claim to social distinction.

The finest thoughts may spring from a child's brain, or rather the

best words may drop from his lips, just as diamonds of great worth

may fall into his hands, while neither the thoughts nor the diamonds

are his own; at that age neither can be really his. The child's

sayings do not mean to him what they mean to us, the ideas he

attaches to them are different. His ideas, if indeed he has any

ideas at all, have neither order nor connection; there is nothing

sure, nothing certain, in his thoughts. Examine your so-called

prodigy. Now and again you will discover in him extreme activity of

mind and extraordinary clearness of thought. More often this same

mind will seem slack and spiritless, as if wrapped in mist. Sometimes

he goes before you, sometimes he will not stir. One moment you

would call him a genius, another a fool. You would be mistaken in

both; he is a child, an eaglet who soars aloft for a moment, only

to drop back into the nest.

Treat him, therefore, according to his age, in spite of appearances,

and beware of exhausting his strength by over-much exercise. If the

young brain grows warm and begins to bubble, let it work freely,

but do not heat it any further, lest it lose its goodness, and when

the first gases have been given off, collect and compress the rest

so that in after years they may turn to life-giving heat and real

energy. If not, your time and your pains will be wasted, you will

destroy your own work, and after foolishly intoxicating yourself

with these heady fumes, you will have nothing left but an insipid

and worthless wine.

Silly children grow into ordinary men. I know no generalisation

more certain than this. It is the most difficult thing in the

world to distinguish between genuine stupidity, and that apparent

and deceitful stupidity which is the sign of a strong character.

At first sight it seems strange that the two extremes should have

the same outward signs; and yet it may well be so, for at an age

when man has as yet no true ideas, the whole difference between

the genius and the rest consists in this: the latter only take in

false ideas, while the former, finding nothing but false ideas,

receives no ideas at all. In this he resembles the fool; the one

is fit for nothing, the other finds nothing fit for him. The only

way of distinguishing between them depends upon chance, which may

offer the genius some idea which he can understand, while the fool

is always the same. As a child, the young Cato was taken for an

idiot by his parents; he was obstinate and silent, and that was all

they perceived in him; it was only in Sulla's ante-chamber that

his uncle discovered what was in him. Had he never found his way

there, he might have passed for a fool till he reached the age

of reason. Had Caesar never lived, perhaps this same Cato, who

discerned his fatal genius, and foretold his great schemes, would

have passed for a dreamer all his days. Those who judge children

hastily are apt to be mistaken; they are often more childish than

the child himself. I knew a middle-aged man, [Footnote: The Abbe de

Condillac] whose friendship I esteemed an honour, who was reckoned

a fool by his family. All at once he made his name as a philosopher,

and I have no doubt posterity will give him a high place among the

greatest thinkers and the profoundest metaphysicians of his day.

Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge

it for good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves,

let their qualities be tested and confirmed, before special methods

are adopted. Give nature time to work before you take over her

business, lest you interfere with her dealings. You assert that

you know the value of time and are afraid to waste it. You fail

to perceive that it is a greater waste of time to use it ill than

to do nothing, and that a child ill taught is further from virtue

than a child who has learnt nothing at all. You are afraid to see

him spending his early years doing nothing. What! is it nothing

to be happy, nothing to run and jump all day? He will never be so

busy again all his life long. Plato, in his Republic, which is

considered so stern, teaches the children only through festivals,

games, songs, and amusements. It seems as if he had accomplished his

purpose when he had taught them to be happy; and Seneca, speaking

of the Roman lads in olden days, says, "They were always on their

feet, they were never taught anything which kept them sitting." Were

they any the worse for it in manhood? Do not be afraid, therefore,

of this so-called idleness. What would you think of a man who

refused to sleep lest he should waste part of his life? You would

say, "He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is robbing himself

of part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his death." Remember

that these two cases are alike, and that childhood is the sleep of

reason.

The apparent ease with which children learn is their ruin. You fail

to see that this very facility proves that they are not learning.

Their shining, polished brain reflects, as in a mirror, the things

you show them, but nothing sinks in. The child remembers the words

and the ideas are reflected back; his hearers understand them, but

to him they are meaningless.

Although memory and reason are wholly different faculties, the

one does not really develop apart from the other. Before the age

of reason the child receives images, not ideas; and there is this

difference between them: images are merely the pictures of external

objects, while ideas are notions about those objects determined by

their relations. An image when it is recalled may exist by itself

in the mind, but every idea implies other ideas. When we image

we merely perceive, when we reason we compare. Our sensations are

merely passive, our notions or ideas spring from an active principle

which judges. The proof of this will be given later.

I maintain, therefore, that as children are incapable of judging,

they have no true memory. They retain sounds, form, sensation, but

rarely ideas, and still more rarely relations. You tell me they

acquire some rudiments of geometry, and you think you prove your

case; not so, it is mine you prove; you show that far from being able

to reason themselves, children are unable to retain the reasoning

of others; for if you follow the method of these little geometricians

you will see they only retain the exact impression of the figure

and the terms of the demonstration. They cannot meet the slightest

new objection; if the figure is reversed they can do nothing. All

their knowledge is on the sensation-level, nothing has penetrated

to their understanding. Their memory is little better than their

other powers, for they always have to learn over again, when they

are grown up, what they learnt as children.

I am far from thinking, however, that children have no sort of reason.

[Footnote: I have noticed again and again that it is impossible

in writing a lengthy work to use the same words always in the

same sense. There is no language rich enough to supply terms and

expressions sufficient for the modifications of our ideas. The method

of defining every term and constantly substituting the definition

for the term defined looks well, but it is impracticable. For how

can we escape from our vicious circle? Definitions would be all

very well if we did not use words in the making of them. In spite

of this I am convinced that even in our poor language we can make

our meaning clear, not by always using words in the same sense,

but by taking care that every time we use a word the sense in which

we use it is sufficiently indicated by the sense of the context,

so that each sentence in which the word occurs acts as a sort of

definition. Sometimes I say children are incapable of reasoning.

Sometimes I say they reason cleverly. I must admit that my words are

often contradictory, but I do not think there is any contradiction

in my ideas.] On the contrary, I think they reason very well with

regard to things that affect their actual and sensible well-being.

But people are mistaken as to the extent of their information, and

they attribute to them knowledge they do not possess, and make them

reason about things they cannot understand. Another mistake is to

try to turn their attention to matters which do not concern them

in the least, such as their future interest, their happiness when

they are grown up, the opinion people will have of them when they

are men--terms which are absolutely meaningless when addressed to

creatures who are entirely without foresight. But all the forced

studies of these poor little wretches are directed towards matters

utterly remote from their minds. You may judge how much attention

they can give to them.

The pedagogues, who make a great display of the teaching they give

their pupils, are paid to say just the opposite; yet their actions

show that they think just as I do. For what do they teach? Words!

words! words! Among the various sciences they boast of teaching

their scholars, they take good care never to choose those which

might be really useful to them, for then they would be compelled to

deal with things and would fail utterly; the sciences they choose

are those we seem to know when we know their technical terms--heraldry,

geography, chronology, languages, etc., studies so remote from man,

and even more remote from the child, that it is a wonder if he can

ever make any use of any part of them.

You will be surprised to find that I reckon the study of languages

among the useless lumber of education; but you must remember that

I am speaking of the studies of the earliest years, and whatever

you may say, I do not believe any child under twelve or fifteen

ever really acquired two languages.

If the study of languages were merely the study of words, that is,

of the symbols by which language expresses itself, then this might

be a suitable study for children; but languages, as they change

the symbols, also modify the ideas which the symbols express. Minds

are formed by language, thoughts take their colour from its ideas.

Reason alone is common to all. Every language has its own form, a

difference which may be partly cause and partly effect of differences

in national character; this conjecture appears to be confirmed

by the fact that in every nation under the sun speech follows the

changes of manners, and is preserved or altered along with them.

By use the child acquires one of these different forms, and it is

the only language he retains till the age of reason. To acquire

two languages he must be able to compare their ideas, and how can

he compare ideas he can barely understand? Everything may have

a thousand meanings to him, but each idea can only have one form,

so he can only learn one language. You assure me he learns several

languages; I deny it. I have seen those little prodigies who are

supposed to speak half a dozen languages. I have heard them speak

first in German, then in Latin, French, or Italian; true, they used

half a dozen different vocabularies, but they always spoke German.

In a word, you may give children as many synonyms as you like; it

is not their language but their words that you change; they will

never have but one language.

To conceal their deficiencies teachers choose the dead languages,

in which we have no longer any judges whose authority is beyond

dispute. The familiar use of these tongues disappeared long ago,

so they are content to imitate what they find in books, and they

call that talking. If the master's Greek and Latin is such poor

stuff, what about the children? They have scarcely learnt their

primer by heart, without understanding a word of it, when they are

set to translate a French speech into Latin words; then when they

are more advanced they piece together a few phrases of Cicero for

prose or a few lines of Vergil for verse. Then they think they can

speak Latin, and who will contradict them?

In any study whatsoever the symbols are of no value without the

idea of the things symbolised. Yet the education of the child in

confined to those symbols, while no one ever succeeds in making

him understand the thing signified. You think you are teaching him

what the world is like; he is only learning the map; he is taught

the names of towns, countries, rivers, which have no existence for

him except on the paper before him. I remember seeing a geography

somewhere which began with: "What is the world?"--"A sphere of

cardboard." That is the child's geography. I maintain that after two

years' work with the globe and cosmography, there is not a single

ten-year-old child who could find his way from Paris to Saint Denis

by the help of the rules he has learnt. I maintain that not one of

these children could find his way by the map about the paths on his

father's estate without getting lost. These are the young doctors

who can tell us the position of Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and every

country in the world.

You tell me the child must be employed on studies which only need

eyes. That may be; but if there are any such studies, they are

unknown to me.

It is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history,

which is considered within their grasp because it is merely

a collection of facts. But what is meant by this word "fact"? Do

you think the relations which determine the facts of history are

so easy to grasp that the corresponding ideas are easily developed

in the child's mind! Do you think that a real knowledge of events

can exist apart from the knowledge of their causes and effects,

and that history has so little relation to words that the one can

be learnt without the other? If you perceive nothing in a man's

actions beyond merely physical and external movements, what do you

learn from history? Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbed

of all that makes it interesting, gives you neither pleasure nor

information. If you want to judge actions by their moral bearings,

try to make these moral bearings intelligible to your scholars.

You will soon find out if they are old enough to learn history.

Remember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholar

nor a philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man who

is pledged to no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little with

other men, and has less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices,

and more time to reflect on the things that strike him in his

intercourse with them. My arguments are based less on theories than

on facts, and I think I can find no better way to bring the facts

home to you than by quoting continually some example from the

observations which suggested my arguments.

I had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy mother

of a family who took great pains with her children and their

education. One morning I was present while the eldest boy had his

lessons. His tutor, who had taken great pains to teach him ancient

history, began upon the story of Alexander and lighted on the

well-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor. There is a picture of

it, and the story is well worth study. The tutor, worthy man, made

several reflections which I did not like with regard to Alexander's

courage, but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in the

eyes of his pupil. At dinner they did not fail to get the little

fellow talking, French fashion. The eager spirit of a child of

his age, and the confident expectation of applause, made him say

a number of silly things, and among them from time to time there

were things to the point, and these made people forget the rest. At

last came the story of Philip the Doctor. He told it very distinctly

and prettily. After the usual meed of praise, demanded by his

mother and expected by the child himself, they discussed what he

had said. Most of them blamed Alexander's rashness, some of them,

following the tutor's example, praised his resolution, which showed

me that none of those present really saw the beauty of the story.

"For my own part," I said, "if there was any courage or any

steadfastness at all in Alexander's conduct I think it was only

a piece of bravado." Then every one agreed that it was a piece of

bravado. I was getting angry, and would have replied, when a lady

sitting beside me, who had not hitherto spoken, bent towards me

and whispered in my ear. "Jean Jacques," said she, "say no more,

they will never understand you." I looked at her, I recognised the

wisdom of her advice, and I held my tongue.

Several things made me suspect that our young professor had not in

the least understood the story he told so prettily. After dinner

I took his hand in mine and we went for a walk in the park. When

I had questioned him quietly, I discovered that he admired the

vaunted courage of Alexander more than any one. But in what do you

suppose he thought this courage consisted? Merely in swallowing

a disagreeable drink at a single draught without hesitation and

without any signs of dislike. Not a fortnight before the poor child

had been made to take some medicine which he could hardly swallow,

and the taste of it was still in his mouth. Death, and death by

poisoning, were for him only disagreeable sensations, and senna was

his only idea of poison. I must admit, however, that Alexander's

resolution had made a great impression on his young mind, and he

was determined that next time he had to take medicine he would be

an Alexander. Without entering upon explanations which were clearly

beyond his grasp, I confirmed him in his praiseworthy intention,

and returned home smiling to myself over the great wisdom of parents

and teachers who expect to teach history to children.

Such words as king, emperor, war, conquest, law, and revolution are

easily put into their mouths; but when it is a question of attaching

clear ideas to these words the explanations are very different from

our talk with Robert the gardener.

I feel sure some readers dissatisfied with that "Say no more, Jean

Jacques," will ask what I really saw to admire in the conduct of

Alexander. Poor things! if you need telling, how can you comprehend

it? Alexander believed in virtue, he staked his head, he staked

his own life on that faith, his great soul was fitted to hold such

a faith. To swallow that draught was to make a noble profession

of the faith that was in him. Never did mortal man recite a finer

creed. If there is an Alexander in our own days, show me such deeds.

If children have no knowledge of words, there is no study that is

suitable for them. If they have no real ideas they have no real

memory, for I do not call that a memory which only recalls sensations.

What is the use of inscribing on their brains a list of symbols

which mean nothing to them? They will learn the symbols when they

learn the things signified; why give them the useless trouble of

learning them twice over? And yet what dangerous prejudices are you

implanting when you teach them to accept as knowledge words which

have no meaning for them. The first meaningless phrase, the first

thing taken for granted on the word of another person without

seeing its use for himself, this is the beginning of the ruin of

the child's judgment. He may dazzle the eyes of fools long enough

before he recovers from such a loss. [Footnote: The learning of

most philosophers is like the learning of children. Vast erudition

results less in the multitude of ideas than in a multitude of

images. Dates, names, places, all objects isolated or unconnected

with ideas are merely retained in the memory for symbols, and we

rarely recall any of these without seeing the right or left page

of the book in which we read it, or the form in which we first saw

it. Most science was of this kind till recently. The science of

our times is another matter; study and observation are things of

the past; we dream and the dreams of a bad night are given to us as

philosophy. You will say I too am a dreamer; I admit it, but I do

what the others fail to do, I give my dreams as dreams, and leave

the reader to discover whether there is anything in them which may

prove useful to those who are awake.]

No, if nature has given the child this plasticity of brain which

fits him to receive every kind of impression, it was not that you

should imprint on it the names and dates of kings, the jargon of

heraldry, the globe and geography, all those words without present

meaning or future use for the child, which flood of words overwhelms

his sad and barren childhood. But by means of this plasticity all

the ideas he can understand and use, all that concern his happiness

and will some day throw light upon his duties, should be traced at

an early age in indelible characters upon his brain, to guide him

to live in such a way as befits his nature and his powers.

Without the study of books, such a memory as the child may possess

is not left idle; everything he sees and hears makes an impression

on him, he keeps a record of men's sayings and doings, and his

whole environment is the book from which he unconsciously enriches

his memory, till his judgment is able to profit by it.

To select these objects, to take care to present him constantly

with those he may know, to conceal from him those he ought not to

know, this is the real way of training his early memory; and in

this way you must try to provide him with a storehouse of knowledge

which will serve for his education in youth and his conduct throughout

life. True, this method does not produce infant prodigies, nor will

it reflect glory upon their tutors and governesses, but it produces

men, strong, right-thinking men, vigorous both in mind and body,

men who do not win admiration as children, but honour as men.

Emile will not learn anything by heart, not even fables, not even

the fables of La Fontaine, simple and delightful as they are,

for the words are no more the fable than the words of history are

history. How can people be so blind as to call fables the child's

system of morals, without considering that the child is not only

amused by the apologue but misled by it? He is attracted by what

is false and he misses the truth, and the means adopted to make the

teaching pleasant prevent him profiting by it. Men may be taught

by fables; children require the naked truth.

All children learn La Fontaine's fables, but not one of them

understands them. It is just as well that they do not understand,

for the morality of the fables is so mixed and so unsuitable for

their age that it would be more likely to incline them to vice

than to virtue. "More paradoxes!" you exclaim. Paradoxes they may

be; but let us see if there is not some truth in them.

I maintain that the child does not understand the fables he is

taught, for however you try to explain them, the teaching you wish

to extract from them demands ideas which he cannot grasp, while the

poetical form which makes it easier to remember makes it harder to

understand, so that clearness is sacrificed to facility. Without

quoting the host of wholly unintelligible and useless fables which

are taught to children because they happen to be in the same book

as the others, let us keep to those which the author seems to have

written specially for children.

In the whole of La Fontaine's works I only know five or six fables

conspicuous for child-like simplicity; I will take the first of

these as an example, for it is one whose moral is most suitable for

all ages, one which children get hold of with the least difficulty,

which they have most pleasure in learning, one which for this very

reason the author has placed at the beginning of his book. If his

object were really to delight and instruct children, this fable is

his masterpiece. Let us go through it and examine it briefly.

THE FOX AND THE CROW

A FABLE

"Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche" (Mr. Crow perched on a

tree).--"Mr.!" what does that word really mean? What does it mean

before a proper noun? What is its meaning here? What is a crow?

What is "un arbre perche"? We do not say "on a tree perched," but

perched on a tree. So we must speak of poetical inversions, we

must distinguish between prose and verse.

"Tenait dans son bec un fromage" (Held a cheese in his beak)--What

sort of a cheese? Swiss, Brie, or Dutch? If the child has never

seen crows, what is the good of talking about them? If he has seen

crows will he believe that they can hold a cheese in their beak?

Your illustrations should always be taken from nature.

"Maitre renard, par l'odeur alleche" (Mr. Fox, attracted by

the smell).--Another Master! But the title suits the fox,--who is

master of all the tricks of his trade. You must explain what a fox

is, and distinguish between the real fox and the conventional fox

of the fables.

"Alleche." The word is obsolete; you will have to explain it. You

will say it is only used in verse. Perhaps the child will ask why

people talk differently in verse. How will you answer that question?

"Alleche, par l'odeur d'un fromage." The cheese was held in his beak

by a crow perched on a tree; it must indeed have smelt strong if

the fox, in his thicket or his earth, could smell it. This is the

way you train your pupil in that spirit of right judgment, which

rejects all but reasonable arguments, and is able to distinguish

between truth and falsehood in other tales.

"Lui tient a peu pres ce langage" (Spoke to him after this fashion).--"Ce

langage." So foxes talk, do they! They talk like crows! Mind what

you are about, oh, wise tutor; weigh your answer before you give

it, it is more important than you suspect.

"Eh! Bonjour, Monsieur le Corbeau!" ("Good-day, Mr. Crow!")--Mr.!

The child sees this title laughed to scorn before he knows it is

a title of honour. Those who say "Monsieur du Corbeau" will find

their work cut out for them to explain that "du."

"Que vous etes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!" ("How handsome you

are, how beautiful in my eyes!")--Mere padding. The child, finding

the same thing repeated twice over in different words, is learning

to speak carelessly. If you say this redundance is a device of the

author, a part of the fox's scheme to make his praise seem all the

greater by his flow of words, that is a valid excuse for me, but

not for my pupil.

"Sans mentir, si votre ramage" ("Without lying, if your song").--"Without

lying." So people do tell lies sometimes. What will the child think

of you if you tell him the fox only says "Sans mentir" because he

is lying?

"Se rapporte a votre plumage" ("Answered to your fine

feathers").--"Answered!" What does that mean? Try to make the

child compare qualities so different as those of song and plumage;

you will see how much he understands.

"Vous seriez le phenix des hotes de ces bois!" ("You would be the

phoenix of all the inhabitants of this wood!")--The phoenix! What

is a phoenix? All of a sudden we are floundering in the lies of

antiquity--we are on the edge of mythology.

"The inhabitants of this wood." What figurative language! The

flatterer adopts the grand style to add dignity to his speech, to

make it more attractive. Will the child understand this cunning?

Does he know, how could he possibly know, what is meant by grand

style and simple style?

"A ces mots le corbeau ne se sent pas de joie" (At these words, the

crow is beside himself with delight).--To realise the full force

of this proverbial expression we must have experienced very strong

feeling.

"Et, pour montrer sa belle voix" (And, to show his fine voice).--Remember

that the child, to understand this line and the whole fable, must

know what is meant by the crow's fine voice.

"Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie" (He opens his wide

beak and drops his prey).--This is a splendid line; its very sound

suggests a picture. I see the great big ugly gaping beak, I hear

the cheese crashing through the branches; but this kind of beauty

is thrown away upon children.

"Le renard s'en saisit, et dit, 'Mon bon monsieur'" (The fox catches

it, and says, "My dear sir").--So kindness is already folly. You

certainly waste no time in teaching your children.

"Apprenez que tout flatteur" ("You must learn that every flatterer").--A

general maxim. The child can make neither head nor tail of it.

"Vit au depens de celui qui l'ecoute" ("Lives at the expense of

the person who listens to his flattery").--No child of ten ever

understood that.

"Ce lecon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute" ("No doubt this lesson

is well worth a cheese").--This is intelligible and its meaning is

very good. Yet there are few children who could compare a cheese and

a lesson, few who would not prefer the cheese. You will therefore

have to make them understand that this is said in mockery. What

subtlety for a child!

"Le corbeau, honteux et confus" (The crow, ashamed and confused).--A

nothing pleonasm, and there is no excuse for it this time.

"Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus" (Swore,

but rather too late, that he would not be caught in that way

again).--"Swore." What master will be such a fool as to try to

explain to a child the meaning of an oath?

What a host of details! but much more would be needed for the

analysis of all the ideas in this fable and their reduction to the

simple and elementary ideas of which each is composed. But who thinks

this analysis necessary to make himself intelligible to children?

Who of us is philosopher enough to be able to put himself in the

child's place? Let us now proceed to the moral.

Should we teach a six-year-old child that there are people who

flatter and lie for the sake of gain? One might perhaps teach them

that there are people who make fools of little boys and laugh at

their foolish vanity behind their backs. But the whole thing is

spoilt by the cheese. You are teaching them how to make another

drop his cheese rather than how to keep their own. This is my second

paradox, and it is not less weighty than the former one.

Watch children learning their fables and you will see that when

they have a chance of applying them they almost always use them

exactly contrary to the author's meaning; instead of being on their

guard against the fault which you would prevent or cure, they are

disposed to like the vice by which one takes advantage of another's

defects. In the above fable children laugh at the crow, but they

all love the fox. In the next fable you expect them to follow

the example of the grasshopper. Not so, they will choose the ant.

They do not care to abase themselves, they will always choose the

principal part--this is the choice of self-love, a very natural

choice. But what a dreadful lesson for children! There could be

no monster more detestable than a harsh and avaricious child, who

realised what he was asked to give and what he refused. The ant

does more; she teaches him not merely to refuse but to revile.

In all the fables where the lion plays a part, usually the chief

part, the child pretends to be the lion, and when he has to preside

over some distribution of good things, he takes care to keep

everything for himself; but when the lion is overthrown by the gnat,

the child is the gnat. He learns how to sting to death those whom

he dare not attack openly.

From the fable of the sleek dog and the starving wolf he learns a

lesson of licence rather than the lesson of moderation which you

profess to teach him. I shall never forget seeing a little girl

weeping bitterly over this tale, which had been told her as a lesson

in obedience. The poor child hated to be chained up; she felt the

chain chafing her neck; she was crying because she was not a wolf.

So from the first of these fables the child learns the basest

flattery; from the second, cruelty; from the third, injustice; from

the fourth, satire; from the fifth, insubordination. The last of

these lessons is no more suitable for your pupils than for mine,

though he has no use for it. What results do you expect to get

from your teaching when it contradicts itself! But perhaps the

same system of morals which furnishes me with objections against

the fables supplies you with as many reasons for keeping to them.

Society requires a rule of morality in our words; it also requires

a rule of morality in our deeds; and these two rules are quite

different. The former is contained in the Catechism and it is left

there; the other is contained in La Fontaine's fables for children

and his tales for mothers. The same author does for both.

Let us make a bargain, M. de la Fontaine. For my own part,

I undertake to make your books my favourite study; I undertake to

love you, and to learn from your fables, for I hope I shall not

mistake their meaning. As to my pupil, permit me to prevent him

studying any one of them till you have convinced me that it is good

for him to learn things three-fourths of which are unintelligible

to him, and until you can convince me that in those fables he can

understand he will never reverse the order and imitate the villain

instead of taking warning from his dupe.

When I thus get rid of children's lessons, I get rid of the chief

cause of their sorrows, namely their books. Reading is the curse

of childhood, yet it is almost the only occupation you can find

for children. Emile, at twelve years old, will hardly know what a

book is. "But," you say, "he must, at least, know how to read."

When reading is of use to him, I admit he must learn to read, but

till then he will only find it a nuisance.

If children are not to be required to do anything as a matter of

obedience, it follows that they will only learn what they perceive

to be of real and present value, either for use or enjoyment; what

other motive could they have for learning? The art of speaking to

our absent friends, of hearing their words; the art of letting them

know at first hand our feelings, our desires, and our longings, is

an art whose usefulness can be made plain at any age. How is it

that this art, so useful and pleasant in itself, has become a terror

to children? Because the child is compelled to acquire it against

his will, and to use it for purposes beyond his comprehension. A

child has no great wish to perfect himself in the use of an instrument

of torture, but make it a means to his pleasure, and soon you will

not be able to keep him from it.

People make a great fuss about discovering the beat way to teach

children to read. They invent "bureaux" [Footnote: Translator's

note.--The "bureau" was a sort of case containing letters to

be put together to form words. It was a favourite device for the

teaching of reading and gave its name to a special method, called

the bureau-method, of learning to read.] and cards, they turn the

nursery into a printer's shop. Locke would have them taught to read

by means of dice. What a fine idea! And the pity of it! There is a

better way than any of those, and one which is generally overlooked--it

consists in the desire to learn. Arouse this desire in your scholar

and have done with your "bureaux" and your dice--any method will

serve.

Present interest, that is the motive power, the only motive power

that takes us far and safely. Sometimes Emile receives notes of

invitation from his father or mother, his relations or friends; he

is invited to a dinner, a walk, a boating expedition, to see some

public entertainment. These notes are short, clear, plain, and well

written. Some one must read them to him, and he cannot always find

anybody when wanted; no more consideration is shown to him than he

himself showed to you yesterday. Time passes, the chance is lost.

The note is read to him at last, but it is too late. Oh! if

only he had known how to read! He receives other notes, so short,

so interesting, he would like to try to read them. Sometimes he

gets help, sometimes none. He does his best, and at last he makes

out half the note; it is something about going to-morrow to drink

cream--Where? With whom? He cannot tell--how hard he tries to make

out the rest! I do not think Emile will need a "bureau." Shall I

proceed to the teaching of writing? No, I am ashamed to toy with

these trifles in a treatise on education.

I will just add a few words which contain a principle of great

importance. It is this--What we are in no hurry to get is usually

obtained with speed and certainty. I am pretty sure Emile will learn

to read and write before he is ten, just because I care very little

whether he can do so before he is fifteen; but I would rather he

never learnt to read at all, than that this art should be acquired

at the price of all that makes reading useful. What is the use of

reading to him if he always hates it? "Id imprimis cavere oportebit,

ne studia, qui amare nondum potest, oderit, et amaritudinem semel

perceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidet."--Quintil.

The more I urge my method of letting well alone, the more objections

I perceive against it. If your pupil learns nothing from you, he

will learn from others. If you do not instil truth he will learn

falsehoods; the prejudices you fear to teach him he will acquire

from those about him, they will find their way through every one

of his senses; they will either corrupt his reason before it is

fully developed or his mind will become torpid through inaction,

and will become engrossed in material things. If we do not form the

habit of thinking as children, we shall lose the power of thinking

for the rest of our life.

I fancy I could easily answer that objection, but why should I answer

every objection? If my method itself answers your objections, it

is good; if not, it is good for nothing. I continue my explanation.

If, in accordance with the plan I have sketched, you follow rules

which are just the opposite of the established practice, if instead

of taking your scholar far afield, instead of wandering with him

in distant places, in far-off lands, in remote centuries, in the

ends of the earth, and in the very heavens themselves, you try to

keep him to himself, to his own concerns, you will then find him

able to perceive, to remember, and even to reason; this is nature's

order. As the sentient being becomes active his discernment develops

along with his strength. Not till his strength is in excess of

what is needed for self-preservation, is the speculative faculty

developed, the faculty adapted for using this superfluous strength

for other purposes. Would you cultivate your pupil's intelligence,

cultivate the strength it is meant to control. Give his body constant

exercise, make it strong and healthy, in order to make him good

and wise; let him work, let him do things, let him run and shout,

let him be always on the go; make a man of him in strength, and he

will soon be a man in reason.

Of course by this method you will make him stupid if you are always

giving him directions, always saying come here, go there, stop,

do this, don't do that. If your head always guides his hands, his

own mind will become useless. But remember the conditions we laid

down; if you are a mere pedant it is not worth your while to read

my book.

It is a lamentable mistake to imagine that bodily activity hinders

the working of the mind, as if these two kinds of activity ought

not to advance hand in hand, and as if the one were not intended

to act as guide to the other.

There are two classes of men who are constantly engaged in bodily

activity, peasants and savages, and certainly neither of these

pays the least attention to the cultivation of the mind. Peasants

are rough, coarse, and clumsy; savages are noted, not only for their

keen senses, but for great subtility of mind. Speaking generally,

there is nothing duller than a peasant or sharper than a savage.

What is the cause of this difference? The peasant has always done

as he was told, what his father did before him, what he himself

has always done; he is the creature of habit, he spends his life

almost like an automaton on the same tasks; habit and obedience

have taken the place of reason.

The case of the savage is very different; he is tied to no one

place, he has no prescribed task, no superior to obey, he knows

no law but his own will; he is therefore forced to reason at every

step he takes. He can neither move nor walk without considering the

consequences. Thus the more his body is exercised, the more alert

is his mind; his strength and his reason increase together, and

each helps to develop the other.

Oh, learned tutor, let us see which of our two scholars is most

like the savage and which is most like the peasant. Your scholar

is subject to a power which is continually giving him instruction;

he acts only at the word of command; he dare not eat when he is

hungry, nor laugh when he is merry, nor weep when he is sad, nor

offer one hand rather than the other, nor stir a foot unless he is

told to do it; before long he will not venture to breathe without

orders. What would you have him think about, when you do all the

thinking for him? He rests securely on your foresight, why should

he think for himself? He knows you have undertaken to take care of

him, to secure his welfare, and he feels himself freed from this

responsibility. His judgment relies on yours; what you have not

forbidden that he does, knowing that he runs no risk. Why should

he learn the signs of rain? He knows you watch the clouds for him.

Why should he time his walk? He knows there is no fear of your

letting him miss his dinner hour. He eats till you tell him to

stop, he stops when you tell him to do so; he does not attend to

the teaching of his own stomach, but yours. In vain do you make his

body soft by inaction; his understanding does not become subtle.

Far from it, you complete your task of discrediting reason in

his eyes, by making him use such reasoning power as he has on the

things which seem of least importance to him. As he never finds

his reason any use to him, he decides at last that it is useless.

If he reasons badly he will be found fault with; nothing worse will

happen to him; and he has been found fault with so often that he

pays no attention to it, such a common danger no longer alarms him.

Yet you will find he has a mind. He is quick enough to chatter

with the women in the way I spoke of further back; but if he is in

danger, if he must come to a decision in difficult circumstances,

you will find him a hundredfold more stupid and silly than the son

of the roughest labourer.

As for my pupil, or rather Nature's pupil, he has been trained from

the outset to be as self-reliant as possible, he has not formed

the habit of constantly seeking help from others, still less of

displaying his stores of learning. On the other hand, he exercises

discrimination and forethought, he reasons about everything that

concerns himself. He does not chatter, he acts. Not a word does

he know of what is going on in the world at large, but he knows

very thoroughly what affects himself. As he is always stirring he

is compelled to notice many things, to recognise many effects; he

soon acquires a good deal of experience. Nature, not man, is his

schoolmaster, and he learns all the quicker because he is not aware

that he has any lesson to learn. So mind and body work together.

He is always carrying out his own ideas, not those of other people,

and thus he unites thought and action; as he grows in health and

strength he grows in wisdom and discernment. This is the way to

attain later on to what is generally considered incompatible, though

most great men have achieved it, strength of body and strength of

mind, the reason of the philosopher and the vigour of the athlete.

Young teacher, I am setting before you a difficult task, the art

of controlling without precepts, and doing everything without doing

anything at all. This art is, I confess, beyond your years, it is

not calculated to display your talents nor to make your value known

to your scholar's parents; but it is the only road to success.

You will never succeed in making wise men if you do not first make

little imps of mischief. This was the education of the Spartans;

they were not taught to stick to their books, they were set to steal

their dinners. Were they any the worse for it in after life? Ever

ready for victory, they crushed their foes in every kind of warfare,

and the prating Athenians were as much afraid of their words as of

their blows.

When education is most carefully attended to, the teacher issues

his orders and thinks himself master, but it is the child who

is really master. He uses the tasks you set him to obtain what he

wants from you, and he can always make you pay for an hour's industry

by a week's complaisance. You must always be making bargains with

him. These bargains, suggested in your fashion, but carried out

in his, always follow the direction of his own fancies, especially

when you are foolish enough to make the condition some advantage

he is almost sure to obtain, whether he fulfils his part of the

bargain or not. The child is usually much quicker to read the

master's thoughts than the master to read the child's feelings.

And that is as it should be, for all the sagacity which the child

would have devoted to self-preservation, had he been left to himself,

is now devoted to the rescue of his native freedom from the chains

of his tyrant; while the latter, who has no such pressing need to

understand the child, sometimes finds that it pays him better to

leave him in idleness or vanity.

Take the opposite course with your pupil; let him always think he

is master while you are really master. There is no subjection so

complete as that which preserves the forms of freedom; it is thus

that the will itself is taken captive. Is not this poor child,

without knowledge, strength, or wisdom, entirely at your mercy? Are

you not master of his whole environment so far as it affects him?

Cannot you make of him what you please? His work and play, his

pleasure and pain, are they not, unknown to him, under your control?

No doubt he ought only to do what he wants, but he ought to want

to do nothing but what you want him to do. He should never take a

step you have not foreseen, nor utter a word you could not foretell.

Then he can devote himself to the bodily exercises adapted to his

age without brutalising his mind; instead of developing his cunning

to evade an unwelcome control, you will then find him entirely

occupied in getting the best he can out of his environment with

a view to his present welfare, and you will be surprised by the

subtlety of the means he devises to get for himself such things as

he can obtain, and to really enjoy things without the aid of other

people's ideas. You leave him master of his own wishes, but you

do not multiply his caprices. When he only does what he wants, he

will soon only do what he ought, and although his body is constantly in

motion, so far as his sensible and present interests are concerned,

you will find him developing all the reason of which he is capable,

far better and in a manner much better fitted for him than in purely

theoretical studies.

Thus when he does not find you continually thwarting him, when he

no longer distrusts you, no longer has anything to conceal from

you, he will neither tell you lies nor deceive you; he will show

himself fearlessly as he really is, and you can study him at your

ease, and surround him with all the lessons you would have him

learn, without awaking his suspicions.

Neither will he keep a curious and jealous eye on your own conduct,

nor take a secret delight in catching you at fault. It is a great

thing to avoid this. One of the child's first objects is, as I have

said, to find the weak spots in its rulers. Though this leads to

spitefulness, it does not arise from it, but from the desire to

evade a disagreeable control. Overburdened by the yoke laid upon

him, he tries to shake it off, and the faults he finds in his master

give him a good opportunity for this. Still the habit of spying out

faults and delighting in them grows upon people. Clearly we have

stopped another of the springs of vice in Emile's heart. Having

nothing to gain from my faults, he will not be on the watch for

them, nor will he be tempted to look out for the faults of others.

All these methods seem difficult because they are new to us, but

they ought not to be really difficult. I have a right to assume that

you have the knowledge required for the business you have chosen;

that you know the usual course of development of the human thought,

that you can study mankind and man, that you know beforehand the

effect on your pupil's will of the various objects suited to his

age which you put before him. You have the tools and the art to

use them; are you not master of your trade?

You speak of childish caprice; you are mistaken. Children's caprices

are never the work of nature, but of bad discipline; they have

either obeyed or given orders, and I have said again and again,

they must do neither. Your pupil will have the caprices you have

taught him; it is fair you should bear the punishment of your own

faults. "But how can I cure them?" do you say? That may still be

done by better conduct on your own part and great patience. I once

undertook the charge of a child for a few weeks; he was accustomed

not only to have his own way, but to make every one else do as he

pleased; he was therefore capricious. The very first day he wanted

to get up at midnight, to try how far he could go with me. When I

was sound asleep he jumped out of bed, got his dressing-gown, and

waked me up. I got up and lighted the candle, which was all he

wanted. After a quarter of an hour he became sleepy and went back

to bed quite satisfied with his experiment. Two days later he

repeated it, with the same success and with no sign of impatience

on my part. When he kissed me as he lay down, I said to him very

quietly, "My little dear, this is all very well, but do not try it

again." His curiosity was aroused by this, and the very next day he

did not fail to get up at the same time and woke me to see whether

I should dare to disobey him. I asked what he wanted, and he told

me he could not sleep. "So much the worse for you," I replied, and

I lay quiet. He seemed perplexed by this way of speaking. He felt

his way to the flint and steel and tried to strike a light. I could

not help laughing when I heard him strike his fingers. Convinced at

last that he could not manage it, he brought the steel to my bed;

I told him I did not want it, and I turned my back to him. Then

he began to rush wildly about the room, shouting, singing, making

a great noise, knocking against chairs and tables, but taking,

however, good care not to hurt himself seriously, but screaming

loudly in the hope of alarming me. All this had no effect, but

I perceived that though he was prepared for scolding or anger, he

was quite unprepared for indifference.

However, he was determined to overcome my patience with his own

obstinacy, and he continued his racket so successfully that at last

I lost my temper. I foresaw that I should spoil the whole business

by an unseemly outburst of passion. I determined on another course.

I got up quietly, went to the tinder box, but could not find it;

I asked him for it, and he gave it me, delighted to have won the

victory over me. I struck a light, lighted the candle, took my

young gentleman by the hand and led him quietly into an adjoining

dressing-room with the shutters firmly fastened, and nothing he

could break.

I left him there without a light; then locking him in I went back

to my bed without a word. What a noise there was! That was what I

expected, and took no notice. At last the noise ceased; I listened,

heard him settling down, and I was quite easy about him. Next morning

I entered the room at daybreak, and my little rebel was lying on

a sofa enjoying a sound and much needed sleep after his exertions.

The matter did not end there. His mother heard that the child had

spent a great part of the night out of bed. That spoilt the whole

thing; her child was as good as dead. Finding a good chance for

revenge, he pretended to be ill, not seeing that he would gain

nothing by it. They sent for the doctor. Unluckily for the mother,

the doctor was a practical joker, and to amuse himself with her

terrors he did his best to increase them. However, he whispered to

me, "Leave it to me, I promise to cure the child of wanting to be

ill for some time to come." As a matter of fact he prescribed bed

and dieting, and the child was handed over to the apothecary. I

sighed to see the mother cheated on every hand except by me, whom

she hated because I did not deceive her.

After pretty severe reproaches, she told me her son was delicate,

that he was the sole heir of the family, his life must be preserved

at all costs, and she would not have him contradicted. In that

I thoroughly agreed with her, but what she meant by contradicting

was not obeying him in everything. I saw I should have to treat

the mother as I had treated the son. "Madam," I said coldly, "I do

not know how to educate the heir to a fortune, and what is more,

I do not mean to study that art. You can take that as settled."

I was wanted for some days longer, and the father smoothed things

over. The mother wrote to the tutor to hasten his return, and the

child, finding he got nothing by disturbing my rest, nor yet by

being ill, decided at last to get better and to go to sleep.

You can form no idea of the number of similar caprices to which the

little tyrant had subjected his unlucky tutor; for his education

was carried on under his mother's eye, and she would not allow her

son and heir to be disobeyed in anything. Whenever he wanted to go

out, you must be ready to take him, or rather to follow him, and

he always took good care to choose the time when he knew his tutor

was very busy. He wished to exercise the same power over me and

to avenge himself by day for having to leave me in peace at night.

I gladly agreed and began by showing plainly how pleased I was to

give him pleasure; after that when it was a matter of curing him

of his fancies I set about it differently.

In the first place, he must be shown that he was in the wrong. This

was not difficult; knowing that children think only of the present,

I took the easy advantage which foresight gives; I took care to

provide him with some indoor amusement of which he was very fond.

Just when he was most occupied with it, I went and suggested a short

walk, and he sent me away. I insisted, but he paid no attention.

I had to give in, and he took note of this sign of submission.

The next day it was my turn. As I expected, he got tired of his

occupation; I, however, pretended to be very busy. That was enough

to decide him. He came to drag me from my work, to take him at

once for a walk. I refused; he persisted. "No," I said, "when I

did what you wanted, you taught me how to get my own way; I shall

not go out." "Very well," he replied eagerly, "I shall go out by

myself." "As you please," and I returned to my work.

He put on his things rather uneasily when he saw I did not follow

his example. When he was ready he came and made his bow; I bowed

too; he tried to frighten me with stories of the expeditions he

was going to make; to hear him talk you would think he was going

to the world's end. Quite unmoved, I wished him a pleasant journey.

He became more and more perplexed. However, he put a good face on

it, and when he was ready to go out he told his foot man to follow

him. The footman, who had his instructions, replied that he had

no time, and that he was busy carrying out my orders, and he must

obey me first. For the moment the child was taken aback. How could

he think they would really let him go out alone, him, who, in his

own eyes, was the most important person in the world, who thought

that everything in heaven and earth was wrapped up in his welfare?

However, he was beginning to feel his weakness, he perceived that

he should find himself alone among people who knew nothing of him.

He saw beforehand the risks he would run; obstinacy alone sustained

him; very slowly and unwillingly he went downstairs. At last he

went out into the street, consoling himself a little for the harm

that might happen to himself, in the hope that I should be held

responsible for it.

This was just what I expected. All was arranged beforehand, and as

it meant some sort of public scene I had got his father's consent.

He had scarcely gone a few steps, when he heard, first on this side

then on that, all sorts of remarks about himself. "What a pretty

little gentleman, neighbour? Where is he going all alone? He will

get lost! I will ask him into our house." "Take care you don't.

Don't you see he is a naughty little boy, who has been turned out

of his own house because he is good for nothing? You must not stop

naughty boys; let him go where he likes." "Well, well; the good God

take care of him. I should be sorry if anything happened to him."

A little further on he met some young urchins of about his own age

who teased him and made fun of him. The further he got the more

difficulties he found. Alone and unprotected he was at the mercy

of everybody, and he found to his great surprise that his shoulder

knot and his gold lace commanded no respect.

However, I had got a friend of mine, who was a stranger to him,

to keep an eye on him. Unnoticed by him, this friend followed him

step by step, and in due time he spoke to him. The role, like that

of Sbrigani in Pourceaugnac, required an intelligent actor, and it

was played to perfection. Without making the child fearful and timid

by inspiring excessive terror, he made him realise so thoroughly

the folly of his exploit that in half an hour's time he brought him

home to me, ashamed and humble, and afraid to look me in the face.

To put the finishing touch to his discomfiture, just as he was

coming in his father came down on his way out and met him on the

stairs. He had to explain where he had been, and why I was not with

him. [Footnote: In a case like this there is no danger in asking a

child to tell the truth, for he knows very well that it cannot be

hid, and that if he ventured to tell a lie he would be found out

at once.] The poor child would gladly have sunk into the earth. His

father did not take the trouble to scold him at length, but said

with more severity than I should have expected, "When you want to

go out by yourself, you can do so, but I will not have a rebel in

my house, so when you go, take good care that you never come back."

As for me, I received him somewhat gravely, but without blame and

without mockery, and for fear he should find out we had been playing

with him, I declined to take him out walking that day. Next day I

was well pleased to find that he passed in triumph with me through

the very same people who had mocked him the previous day, when they

met him out by himself. You may be sure he never threatened to go

out without me again.

By these means and other like them I succeeded during the short

time I was with him in getting him to do everything I wanted without

bidding him or forbidding him to do anything, without preaching

or exhortation, without wearying him with unnecessary lessons. So

he was pleased when I spoke to him, but when I was silent he was

frightened, for he knew there was something amiss, and he always got

his lesson from the thing itself. But let us return to our subject.

The body is strengthened by this constant exercise under the guidance

of nature herself, and far from brutalising the mind, this exercise

develops in it the only kind of reason of which young children are

capable, the kind of reason most necessary at every age. It teaches

us how to use our strength, to perceive the relations between our

own and neighbouring bodies, to use the natural tools, which are

within our reach and adapted to our senses. Is there anything

sillier than a child brought up indoors under his mother's eye,

who, in his ignorance of weight and resistance, tries to uproot a

tall tree or pick up a rock. The first time I found myself outside

Geneva I tried to catch a galloping horse, and I threw stones

at Mont Saleve, two leagues away; I was the laughing stock of the

whole village, and was supposed to be a regular idiot. At eighteen

we are taught in our natural philosophy the use of the lever;

every village boy of twelve knows how to use a lever better than

the cleverest mechanician in the academy. The lessons the scholars

learn from one another in the playground are worth a hundredfold

more than what they learn in the class-room.

Watch a cat when she comes into a room for the first time; she goes

from place to place, she sniffs about and examines everything, she

is never still for a moment; she is suspicious of everything till

she has examined it and found out what it is. It is the same with

the child when he begins to walk, and enters, so to speak, the room

of the world around him. The only difference is that, while both

use sight, the child uses his hands and the cat that subtle sense

of smell which nature has bestowed upon it. It is this instinct,

rightly or wrongly educated, which makes children skilful or clumsy,

quick or slow, wise or foolish.

Man's primary natural goals are, therefore, to measure himself

against his environment, to discover in every object he sees those

sensible qualities which may concern himself, so his first study

is a kind of experimental physics for his own preservation. He is

turned away from this and sent to speculative studies before he

has found his proper place in the world. While his delicate and

flexible limbs can adjust themselves to the bodies upon which they

are intended to act, while his senses are keen and as yet free from

illusions, then is the time to exercise both limbs and senses in

their proper business. It is the time to learn to perceive the

physical relations between ourselves and things. Since everything

that comes into the human mind enters through the gates of sense,

man's first reason is a reason of sense-experience. It is this

that serves as a foundation for the reason of the intelligence;

our first teachers in natural philosophy are our feet, hands, and

eyes. To substitute books for them does not teach us to reason,

it teaches us to use the reason of others rather than our own; it

teaches us to believe much and know little.

Before you can practise an art you must first get your tools; and

if you are to make good use of those tools, they must be fashioned

sufficiently strong to stand use. To learn to think we must therefore

exercise our limbs, our senses, and our bodily organs, which are

the tools of the intellect; and to get the best use out of these

tools, the body which supplies us with them must be strong and

healthy. Not only is it quite a mistake that true reason is developed

apart from the body, but it is a good bodily constitution which

makes the workings of the mind easy and correct.

While I am showing how the child's long period of leisure should be

spent, I am entering into details which may seem absurd. You will

say, "This is a strange sort of education, and it is subject to

your own criticism, for it only teaches what no one needs to learn.

Why spend your time in teaching what will come of itself without

care or trouble? Is there any child of twelve who is ignorant of all

you wish to teach your pupil, while he also knows what his master

has taught him."

Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am teaching my pupil an art, the

acquirement of which demands much time and trouble, an art which

your scholars certainly do not possess; it is the art of being

ignorant; for the knowledge of any one who only thinks he knows, what

he really does know is a very small matter. You teach science; well

and good; I am busy fashioning the necessary tools for its acquisition.

Once upon a time, they say the Venetians were displaying the treasures

of the Cathedral of Saint Mark to the Spanish ambassador; the only

comment he made was, "Qui non c'e la radice." When I see a tutor

showing off his pupil's learning, I am always tempted to say the

same to him.

Every one who has considered the manner of life among the

ancients, attributes the strength of body and mind by which they

are distinguished from the men of our own day to their gymnastic

exercises. The stress laid by Montaigne upon this opinion, shows

that it had made a great impression on him; he returns to it again

and again. Speaking of a child's education he says, "To strengthen

the mind you must harden the muscles; by training the child to labour

you train him to suffering; he must be broken in to the hardships

of gymnastic exercises to prepare him for the hardships of dislocations,

colics, and other bodily ills." The philosopher Locke, the worthy

Rollin, the learned Fleury, the pedant De Crouzas, differing as

they do so widely from one another, are agreed in this one matter

of sufficient bodily exercise for children. This is the wisest of

their precepts, and the one which is certain to be neglected. I

have already dwelt sufficiently on its importance, and as better

reasons and more sensible rules cannot be found than those in Locke's

book, I will content myself with referring to it, after taking the

liberty of adding a few remarks of my own.

The limbs of a growing child should be free to move easily in his

clothing; nothing should cramp their growth or movement; there

should be nothing tight, nothing fitting closely to the body, no

belts of any kind. The French style of dress, uncomfortable and

unhealthy for a man, is especially bad for children. The stagnant

humours, whose circulation is interrupted, putrify in a state of

inaction, and this process proceeds more rapidly in an inactive and

sedentary life; they become corrupt and give rise to scurvy; this

disease, which is continually on the increase among us, was almost

unknown to the ancients, whose way of dressing and living protected

them from it. The hussar's dress, far from correcting this fault,

increases it, and compresses the whole of the child's body, by way

of dispensing with a few bands. The best plan is to keep children

in frocks as long as possible and then to provide them with loose

clothing, without trying to define the shape which is only another

way of deforming it. Their defects of body and mind may all be

traced to the same source, the desire to make men of them before

their time.

There are bright colours and dull; children like the bright colours

best, and they suit them better too. I see no reason why such natural

suitability should not be taken into consideration; but as soon as

they prefer a material because it is rich, their hearts are already

given over to luxury, to every caprice of fashion, and this taste

is certainly not their own. It is impossible to say how much

education is influenced by this choice of clothes, and the motives

for this choice. Not only do short-sighted mothers offer ornaments

as rewards to their children, but there are foolish tutors who

threaten to make their pupils wear the plainest and coarsest clothes

as a punishment. "If you do not do your lessons better, if you do

not take more care of your clothes, you shall be dressed like that

little peasant boy." This is like saying to them, "Understand that

clothes make the man." Is it to be wondered at that our young people

profit by such wise teaching, that they care for nothing but dress,

and that they only judge of merit by its outside.

If I had to bring such a spoilt child to his senses, I would take

care that his smartest clothes were the most uncomfortable, that

he was always cramped, constrained, and embarrassed in every way;

freedom and mirth should flee before his splendour. If he wanted

to take part in the games of children more simply dressed, they

should cease their play and run away. Before long I should make

him so tired and sick of his magnificence, such a slave to his

gold-laced coat, that it would become the plague of his life, and

he would be less afraid to behold the darkest dungeon than to see

the preparations for his adornment. Before the child is enslaved by

our prejudices his first wish is always to be free and comfortable.

The plainest and most comfortable clothes, those which leave him

most liberty, are what he always likes best.

There are habits of body suited for an active life and others for

a sedentary life. The latter leaves the humours an equable and

uniform course, and the body should be protected from changes in

temperature; the former is constantly passing from action to rest,

from heat to cold, and the body should be inured to these changes.

Hence people, engaged in sedentary pursuits indoors, should always

be warmly dressed, to keep their bodies as nearly as possible at

the same temperature at all times and seasons. Those, however, who

come and go in sun, wind, and rain, who take much exercise, and

spend most of their time out of doors, should always be lightly clad,

so as to get used to the changes in the air and to every degree of

temperature without suffering inconvenience. I would advise both

never to change their clothes with the changing seasons, and that

would be the invariable habit of my pupil Emile. By this I do not

mean that he should wear his winter clothes in summer like many

people of sedentary habits, but that he should wear his summer

clothes in winter like hard-working folk. Sir Isaac Newton always

did this, and he lived to be eighty.

Emile should wear little or nothing on his head all the year round.

The ancient Egyptians always went bareheaded; the Persians used to

wear heavy tiaras and still wear large turbans, which according to

Chardin are required by their climate. I have remarked elsewhere

on the difference observed by Herodotus on a battle-field between

the skulls of the Persians and those of the Egyptians. Since it is

desirable that the bones of the skull should grow harder and more

substantial, less fragile and porous, not only to protect the brain

against injuries but against colds, fever, and every influence of

the air, you should therefore accustom your children to go bare-headed

winter and summer, day and night. If you make them wear a night-cap

to keep their hair clean and tidy, let it be thin and transparent

like the nets with which the Basques cover their hair. I am aware

that most mothers will be more impressed by Chardin's observations

than my arguments, and will think that all climates are the climate

of Persia, but I did not choose a European pupil to turn him into

an Asiatic.

Children are generally too much wrapped up, particularly in infancy.

They should be accustomed to cold rather than heat; great cold

never does them any harm, if they are exposed to it soon enough;

but their skin is still too soft and tender and leaves too free

a course for perspiration, so that they are inevitably exhausted

by excessive heat. It has been observed that infant mortality is

greatest in August. Moreover, it seems certain from a comparison

of northern and southern races that we become stronger by bearing

extreme cold rather than excessive heat. But as the child's body

grows bigger and his muscles get stronger, train him gradually to

bear the rays of the sun. Little by little you will harden him till

he can face the burning heat of the tropics without danger.

Locke, in the midst of the manly and sensible advice he gives us,

falls into inconsistencies one would hardly expect in such a careful

thinker. The same man who would have children take an ice-cold bath

summer and winter, will not let them drink cold water when they

are hot, or lie on damp grass. But he would never have their shoes

water-tight; and why should they let in more water when the child

is hot than when he is cold, and may we not draw the same inference

with regard to the feet and body that he draws with regard to the

hands and feet and the body and face? If he would have a man all

face, why blame me if I would have him all feet?

To prevent children drinking when they are hot, he says they should

be trained to eat a piece of bread first. It is a strange thing to

make a child eat because he is thirsty; I would as soon give him a

drink when he is hungry. You will never convince me that our first

instincts are so ill-regulated that we cannot satisfy them without

endangering our lives. Were that so, the man would have perished

over and over again before he had learned how to keep himself alive.

Whenever Emile is thirsty let him have a drink, and let him drink

fresh water just as it is, not even taking the chill off it in the

depths of winter and when he is bathed in perspiration. The only

precaution I advise is to take care what sort of water you give

him. If the water comes from a river, give it him just as it is;

if it is spring-water let it stand a little exposed to the air

before he drinks it. In warm weather rivers are warm; it is not

so with springs, whose water has not been in contact with the air.

You must wait till the temperature of the water is the same as that

of the air. In winter, on the other hand, spring water is safer

than river water. It is, however, unusual and unnatural to perspire

greatly in winter, especially in the open air, for the cold air

constantly strikes the skin and drives the perspiration inwards,

and prevents the pores opening enough to give it passage. Now I do

not intend Emile to take his exercise by the fireside in winter,

but in the open air and among the ice. If he only gets warm with

making and throwing snowballs, let him drink when he is thirsty,

and go on with his game after drinking, and you need not be afraid

of any ill effects. And if any other exercise makes him perspire

let him drink cold water even in winter provided he is thirsty.

Only take care to take him to get the water some little distance

away. In such cold as I am supposing, he would have cooled down

sufficiently when he got there to be able to drink without danger.

Above all, take care to conceal these precautions from him. I

would rather he were ill now and then, than always thinking about

his health.

Since children take such violent exercise they need a great deal

of sleep. The one makes up for the other, and this shows that both

are necessary. Night is the time set apart by nature for rest. It

is an established fact that sleep is quieter and calmer when the

sun is below the horizon, and that our senses are less calm when

the air is warmed by the rays of the sun. So it is certainly the

healthiest plan to rise with the sun and go to bed with the sun.

Hence in our country man and all the other animals with him want

more sleep in winter than in summer. But town life is so complex,

so unnatural, so subject to chances and changes, that it is not

wise to accustom a man to such uniformity that he cannot do without

it. No doubt he must submit to rules; but the chief rule is this--be

able to break the rule if necessary. So do not be so foolish as to

soften your pupil by letting him always sleep his sleep out. Leave

him at first to the law of nature without any hindrance, but never

forget that under our conditions he must rise above this law; he

must be able to go to bed late and rise early, be awakened suddenly,

or sit up all night without ill effects. Begin early and proceed

gently, a step at a time, and the constitution adapts itself to

the very conditions which would destroy it if they were imposed

for the first time on the grown man.

In the next place he must be accustomed to sleep in an uncomfortable

bed, which is the best way to find no bed uncomfortable. Speaking

generally, a hard life, when once we have become used to it,

increases our pleasant experiences; an easy life prepares the way

for innumerable unpleasant experiences. Those who are too tenderly

nurtured can only sleep on down; those who are used to sleep on

bare boards can find them anywhere. There is no such thing as a

hard bed for the man who falls asleep at once.

The body is, so to speak, melted and dissolved in a soft bed where

one sinks into feathers and eider-down. The reins when too warmly

covered become inflamed. Stone and other diseases are often due to

this, and it invariably produces a delicate constitution, which is

the seed-ground of every ailment.

The best bed is that in which we get the best sleep. Emile and

I will prepare such a bed for ourselves during the daytime. We do

not need Persian slaves to make our beds; when we are digging the

soil we are turning our mattresses. I know that a healthy child may

be made to sleep or wake almost at will. When the child is put to

bed and his nurse grows weary of his chatter, she says to him, "Go

to sleep." That is much like saying, "Get well," when he is ill.

The right way is to let him get tired of himself. Talk so much that

he is compelled to hold his tongue, and he will soon be asleep.

Here is at least one use for sermons, and you may as well preach

to him as rock his cradle; but if you use this narcotic at night,

do not use it by day.

I shall sometimes rouse Emile, not so much to prevent his sleeping

too much, as to accustom him to anything--even to waking with a

start. Moreover, I should be unfit for my business if I could not

make him wake himself, and get up, so to speak, at my will, without

being called.

If he wakes too soon, I shall let him look forward to a tedious

morning, so that he will count as gain any time he can give to

sleep. If he sleeps too late I shall show him some favourite toy

when he wakes. If I want him to wake at a given hour I shall say,

"To-morrow at six I am going fishing," or "I shall take a walk to

such and such a place. Would you like to come too?" He assents,

and begs me to wake him. I promise, or do not promise, as the case

requires. If he wakes too late, he finds me gone. There is something

amiss if he does not soon learn to wake himself.

Moreover, should it happen, though it rarely does, that a sluggish

child desires to stagnate in idleness, you must not give way to

this tendency, which might stupefy him entirely, but you must apply

some stimulus to wake him. You must understand that is no question

of applying force, but of arousing some appetite which leads to

action, and such an appetite, carefully selected on the lines laid

down by nature, kills two birds with one stone.

If one has any sort of skill, I can think of nothing for which a

taste, a very passion, cannot be aroused in children, and that without

vanity, emulation, or jealousy. Their keenness, their spirit of

imitation, is enough of itself; above all, there is their natural

liveliness, of which no teacher so far has contrived to take

advantage. In every game, when they are quite sure it is only play,

they endure without complaint, or even with laughter, hardships

which they would not submit to otherwise without floods of tears.

The sports of the young savage involve long fasting, blows, burns,

and fatigue of every kind, a proof that even pain has a charm of

its own, which may remove its bitterness. It is not every master,

however, who knows how to season this dish, nor can every scholar

eat it without making faces. However, I must take care or I shall

be wandering off again after exceptions.

It is not to be endured that man should become the slave of pain,

disease, accident, the perils of life, or even death itself; the

more familiar he becomes with these ideas the sooner he will be

cured of that over-sensitiveness which adds to the pain by impatience

in bearing it; the sooner he becomes used to the sufferings which

may overtake him, the sooner he shall, as Montaigne has put it,

rob those pains of the sting of unfamiliarity, and so make his soul

strong and invulnerable; his body will be the coat of mail which

stops all the darts which might otherwise find a vital part. Even

the approach of death, which is not death itself, will scarcely be

felt as such; he will not die, he will be, so to speak, alive or

dead and nothing more. Montaigne might say of him as he did of a

certain king of Morocco, "No man ever prolonged his life so far into

death." A child serves his apprenticeship in courage and endurance

as well as in other virtues; but you cannot teach children these

virtues by name alone; they must learn them unconsciously through

experience.

But speaking of death, what steps shall I take with regard to my

pupil and the smallpox? Shall he be inoculated in infancy, or shall

I wait till he takes it in the natural course of things? The former

plan is more in accordance with our practice, for it preserves his

life at a time when it is of greater value, at the cost of some

danger when his life is of less worth; if indeed we can use the

word danger with regard to inoculation when properly performed.

But the other plan is more in accordance with our general principles--to

leave nature to take the precautions she delights in, precautions

she abandons whenever man interferes. The natural man is always

ready; let nature inoculate him herself, she will choose the fitting

occasion better than we.

Do not think I am finding fault with inoculation, for my reasons

for exempting my pupil from it do not in the least apply to yours.

Your training does not prepare them to escape catching smallpox

as soon as they are exposed to infection. If you let them take it

anyhow, they will probably die. I perceive that in different lands

the resistance to inoculation is in proportion to the need for

it; and the reason is plain. So I scarcely condescend to discuss

this question with regard to Emile. He will be inoculated or not

according to time, place, and circumstances; it is almost a matter of

indifference, as far as he is concerned. If it gives him smallpox,

there will be the advantage of knowing what to expect, knowing

what the disease is; that is a good thing, but if he catches it

naturally it will have kept him out of the doctor's hands, which

is better.

An exclusive education, which merely tends to keep those who have

received it apart from the mass of mankind, always selects such

teaching as is costly rather than cheap, even when the latter is

of more use. Thus all carefully educated young men learn to ride,

because it is costly, but scarcely any of them learn to swim, as

it costs nothing, and an artisan can swim as well as any one. Yet

without passing through the riding school, the traveller learns

to mount his horse, to stick on it, and to ride well enough for

practical purposes; but in the water if you cannot swim you will

drown, and we cannot swim unless we are taught. Again, you are not

forced to ride on pain of death, while no one is sure of escaping

such a common danger as drowning. Emile shall be as much at home

in the water as on land. Why should he not be able to live in every

element? If he could learn to fly, he should be an eagle; I would

make him a salamander, if he could bear the heat.

People are afraid lest the child should be drowned while he is

learning to swim; if he dies while he is learning, or if he dies

because he has not learnt, it will be your own fault. Foolhardiness

is the result of vanity; we are not rash when no one is looking.

Emile will not be foolhardy, though all the world were watching

him. As the exercise does not depend on its danger, he will learn

to swim the Hellespont by swimming, without any danger, a stream

in his father's park; but he must get used to danger too, so as not

to be flustered by it. This is an essential part of the apprenticeship

I spoke of just now. Moreover, I shall take care to proportion the

danger to his strength, and I shall always share it myself, so that

I need scarcely fear any imprudence if I take as much care for his

life as for my own.

A child is smaller than a man; he has not the man's strength

or reason, but he sees and hears as well or nearly as well; his

sense of taste is very good, though he is less fastidious, and he

distinguishes scents as clearly though less sensuously. The senses

are the first of our faculties to mature; they are those most

frequently overlooked or neglected.

To train the senses it is not enough merely to use them; we must

learn to judge by their means, to learn to feel, so to speak; for

we cannot touch, see, or hear, except as we have been taught.

There is a mere natural and mechanical use of the senses which

strengthens the body without improving the judgment. It is all

very well to swim, run, jump, whip a top, throw stones; but have

we nothing but arms and legs? Have we not eyes and ears as well;

and are not these organs necessary for the use of the rest? Do not

merely exercise the strength, exercise all the senses by which it

is guided; make the best use of every one of them, and check the

results of one by the other. Measure, count, weigh, compare. Do not

use force till you have estimated the resistance; let the estimation

of the effect always precede the application of the means. Get the

child interested in avoiding insufficient or superfluous efforts.

If in this way you train him to calculate the effects of all his

movements, and to correct his mistakes by experience, is it not

clear that the more he does the wiser he will become?

Take the case of moving a heavy mass; if he takes too long a lever,

he will waste his strength; if it is too short, he will not have

strength enough; experience will teach him to use the very stick he

needs. This knowledge is not beyond his years. Take, for example,

a load to be carried; if he wants to carry as much as he can, and

not to take up more than he can carry, must he not calculate the

weight by the appearance? Does he know how to compare masses of like

substance and different size, or to choose between masses of the

same size and different substances? He must set to work to compare

their specific weights. I have seen a young man, very highly

educated, who could not be convinced, till he had tried it, that

a bucket full of blocks of oak weighed less than the same bucket

full of water.

All our senses are not equally under our control. One of them,

touch, is always busy during our waking hours; it is spread over

the whole surface of the body, like a sentinel ever on the watch to

warn us of anything which may do us harm. Whether we will or not,

we learn to use it first of all by experience, by constant practice,

and therefore we have less need for special training for it. Yet we

know that the blind have a surer and more delicate sense of touch

than we, for not being guided by the one sense, they are forced to

get from the touch what we get from sight. Why, then, are not we

trained to walk as they do in the dark, to recognise what we touch,

to distinguish things about us; in a word, to do at night and in

the dark what they do in the daytime without sight? We are better

off than they while the sun shines; in the dark it is their turn

to be our guide. We are blind half our time, with this difference:

the really blind always know what to do, while we are afraid to

stir in the dark. We have lights, you say. What always artificial

aids. Who can insure that they will always be at hand when required.

I had rather Emil's eyes were in his finger tips, than in the

chandler's shop.

If you are shut up in a building at night, clap your hands, you

will know from the sound whether the space is large or small, if

you are in the middle or in one corner. Half a foot from a wall the

air, which is refracted and does not circulate freely, produces a

different effect on your face. Stand still in one place and turn

this way and that; a slight draught will tell you if there is a

door open. If you are on a boat you will perceive from the way the

air strikes your face not merely the direction in which you are

going, but whether the current is bearing you slow or fast. These

observations and many others like them can only be properly made

at night; however much attention we give to them by daylight, we

are always helped or hindered by sight, so that the results escape

us. Yet here we use neither hand nor stick. How much may be learnt

by touch, without ever touching anything!