I would have plenty of games in the dark! This suggestion is more

valuable than it seems at first sight. Men are naturally afraid

of the dark; so are some animals. [Footnote: This terror is very

noticeable during great eclipses of the sun.] Only a few men are

freed from this burden by knowledge, determination, and courage.

I have seen thinkers, unbelievers, philosophers, exceedingly brave

by daylight, tremble like women at the rustling of a leaf in the

dark. This terror is put down to nurses' tales; this is a mistake;

it has a natural cause. What is this cause? What makes the deaf

suspicious and the lower classes superstitious? Ignorance of the

things about us, and of what is taking place around us. [Footnote:

Another cause has been well explained by a philosopher, often quoted

in this work, a philosopher to whose wide views I am very greatly

indebted.]

When under special conditions we cannot form a fair idea of distance,

when we can only judge things by the size of the angle or rather

of the image formed in our eyes, we cannot avoid being deceived

as to the size of these objects. Every one knows by experience how

when we are travelling at night we take a bush near at hand for a

great tree at a distance, and vice versa. In the same way, if the

objects were of a shape unknown to us, so that we could not tell

their size in that way, we should be equally mistaken with regard

to it. If a fly flew quickly past a few inches from our eyes, we

should think it was a distant bird; a horse standing still at a

distance from us in the midst of open country, in a position somewhat

like that of a sheep, would be taken for a large sheep, so long as

we did not perceive that it was a horse; but as soon as we recognise

what it is, it seems as large as a horse, and we at once correct

our former judgment.

Whenever one finds oneself in unknown places at night where we

cannot judge of distance, and where we cannot recognise objects by

their shape on account of the darkness, we are in constant danger

of forming mistaken judgments as to the objects which present

themselves to our notice. Hence that terror, that kind of inward

fear experienced by most people on dark nights. This is foundation

for the supposed appearances of spectres, or gigantic and terrible

forms which so many people profess to have seen. They are generally

told that they imagined these things, yet they may really have seen

them, and it is quite possible they really saw what they say they

did see; for it will always be the case that when we can only

estimate the size of an object by the angle it forms in the eye,

that object will swell and grow as we approach it; and if the

spectator thought it several feet high when it was thirty or forty

feet away, it will seem very large indeed when it is a few feet

off; this must indeed astonish and alarm the spectator until he

touches it and perceives what it is, for as soon as he perceives

what it is, the object which seemed so gigantic will suddenly

shrink and assume its real size, but if we run away or are afraid

to approach, we shall certainly form no other idea of the thing

than the image formed in the eye, and we shall have really seen a

gigantic figure of alarming size and shape. There is, therefore, a

natural ground for the tendency to see ghosts, and these appearances

are not merely the creation of the imagination, as the men of

science would have us think.--Buffon, Nat. Hist.

In the text I have tried to show that they are always partly the

creation of the imagination, and with regard to the cause explained

in this quotation, it is clear that the habit of walking by night

should teach us to distinguish those appearances which similarity

of form and diversity of distance lend to the objects seen in the

dark. For if the air is light enough for us to see the outlines

there must be more air between us and them when they are further

off, so that we ought to see them less distinctly when further

off, which should be enough, when we are used to it, to prevent the

error described by M. Buffon. [Whichever explanation you prefer,

my mode of procedure is still efficacious, and experience entirely

confirms it.] Accustomed to perceive things from a distance and to

calculate their effects, how can I help supposing, when I cannot

see, that there are hosts of creatures and all sorts of movements

all about me which may do me harm, and against which I cannot

protect myself? In vain do I know I am safe where I am; I am never

so sure of it as when I can actually see it, so that I have always

a cause for fear which did not exist in broad daylight. I know,

indeed, that a foreign body can scarcely act upon me without some

slight sound, and how intently I listen! At the least sound which

I cannot explain, the desire of self-preservation makes me picture

everything that would put me on my guard, and therefore everything

most calculated to alarm me.

I am just as uneasy if I hear no sound, for I might be taken unawares

without a sound. I must picture things as they were before, as they

ought to be; I must see what I do not see. Thus driven to exercise

my imagination, it soon becomes my master, and what I did to reassure

myself only alarms me more. I hear a noise, it is a robber; I hear

nothing, it is a ghost. The watchfulness inspired by the instinct

of self-preservation only makes me more afraid. Everything that

ought to reassure me exists only for my reason, and the voice of

instinct is louder than that of reason. What is the good of thinking

there is nothing to be afraid of, since in that case there is

nothing we can do?

The cause indicates the cure. In everything habit overpowers

imagination; it is only aroused by what is new. It is no longer

imagination, but memory which is concerned with what we see every

day, and that is the reason of the maxim, "Ab assuetis non fit

passio," for it is only at the flame of imagination that the passions

are kindled. Therefore do not argue with any one whom you want to

cure of the fear of darkness; take him often into dark places and

be assured this practice will be of more avail than all the arguments

of philosophy. The tiler on the roof does not know what it is to

be dizzy, and those who are used to the dark will not be afraid.

There is another advantage to be gained from our games in the dark.

But if these games are to be a success I cannot speak too strongly

of the need for gaiety. Nothing is so gloomy as the dark: do not

shut your child up in a dungeon, let him laugh when he goes, into

a dark place, let him laugh when he comes out, so that the thought

of the game he is leaving and the games he will play next may protect

him from the fantastic imagination which might lay hold on him.

There comes a stage in life beyond which we progress backwards. I

feel I have reached this stage. I am, so to speak, returning to a

past career. The approach of age makes us recall the happy days of

our childhood. As I grow old I become a child again, and I recall

more readily what I did at ten than at thirty. Reader, forgive me

if I sometimes draw my examples from my own experience. If this

book is to be well written, I must enjoy writing it.

I was living in the country with a pastor called M. Lambercier.

My companion was a cousin richer than myself, who was regarded as

the heir to some property, while I, far from my father, was but a

poor orphan. My big cousin Bernard was unusually timid, especially

at night. I laughed at his fears, till M. Lambercier was tired of

my boasting, and determined to put my courage to the proof. One

autumn evening, when it was very dark, he gave me the church key,

and told me to go and fetch a Bible he had left in the pulpit. To

put me on my mettle he said something which made it impossible for

me to refuse.

I set out without a light; if I had had one, it would perhaps have

been even worse. I had to pass through the graveyard; I crossed it

bravely, for as long as I was in the open air I was never afraid

of the dark.

As I opened the door I heard a sort of echo in the roof; it sounded

like voices and it began to shake my Roman courage. Having opened

the door I tried to enter, but when I had gone a few steps I stopped.

At the sight of the profound darkness in which the vast building

lay I was seized with terror and my hair stood on end. I turned,

I went out through the door, and took to my heels. In the yard

I found a little dog, called Sultan, whose caresses reassured me.

Ashamed of my fears, I retraced my steps, trying to take Sultan

with me, but he refused to follow. Hurriedly I opened the door and

entered the church. I was hardly inside when terror again got hold

of me and so firmly that I lost my head, and though the pulpit was

on the right, as I very well knew, I sought it on the left, and

entangling myself among the benches I was completely lost. Unable

to find either pulpit or door, I fell into an indescribable state

of mind. At last I found the door and managed to get out of the

church and run away as I had done before, quite determined never

to enter the church again except in broad daylight.

I returned to the house; on the doorstep I heard M. Lambercier

laughing, laughing, as I supposed, at me. Ashamed to face his laughter,

I was hesitating to open the door, when I heard Miss Lambercier,

who was anxious about me, tell the maid to get the lantern, and

M. Lambercier got ready to come and look for me, escorted by my

gallant cousin, who would have got all the credit for the expedition.

All at once my fears departed, and left me merely surprised at

my terror. I ran, I fairly flew, to the church; without losing my

way, without groping about, I reached the pulpit, took the Bible,

and ran down the steps. In three strides I was out of the church,

leaving the door open. Breathless, I entered the room and threw

the Bible on the table, frightened indeed, but throbbing with pride

that I had done it without the proposed assistance.

You will ask if I am giving this anecdote as an example, and as

an illustration, of the mirth which I say should accompany these

games. Not so, but I give it as a proof that there is nothing so

well calculated to reassure any one who is afraid in the dark as to

hear sounds of laughter and talking in an adjoining room. Instead

of playing alone with your pupil in the evening, I would have you

get together a number of merry children; do not send them alone to

begin with, but several together, and do not venture to send any

one quite alone, until you are quite certain beforehand that he

will not be too frightened.

I can picture nothing more amusing and more profitable than such

games, considering how little skill is required to organise them.

In a large room I should arrange a sort of labyrinth of tables,

armchairs, chairs, and screens. In the inextricable windings of

this labyrinth I should place some eight or ten sham boxes, and one

real box almost exactly like them, but well filled with sweets. I

should describe clearly and briefly the place where the right box

would be found. I should give instructions sufficient to enable

people more attentive and less excitable than children to find it.

[Footnote: To practise them in attention, only tell them things

which it is clearly to their present interest that they should

understand thoroughly; above all be brief, never say a word more than

necessary. But neither let your speech be obscure nor of doubtful

meaning.] Then having made the little competitors draw lots, I should

send first one and then another till the right box was found. I

should increase the difficulty of the task in proportion to their

skill.

Picture to yourself a youthful Hercules returning, box in hand, quite

proud of his expedition. The box is placed on the table and opened

with great ceremony. I can hear the bursts of laughter and the

shouts of the merry party when, instead of the looked-for sweets, he

finds, neatly arranged on moss or cotton-wool, a beetle, a snail,

a bit of coal, a few acorns, a turnip, or some such thing. Another

time in a newly whitewashed room, a toy or some small article of

furniture would be hung on the wall and the children would have to

fetch it without touching the wall. When the child who fetches it

comes back, if he has failed ever so little to fulfil the conditions,

a dab of white on the brim of his cap, the tip of his shoe, the

flap of his coat or his sleeve, will betray his lack of skill.

This is enough, or more than enough, to show the spirit of these

games. Do not read my book if you expect me to tell you everything.

What great advantages would be possessed by a man so educated,

when compared with others. His feet are accustomed to tread firmly

in the dark, and his hands to touch lightly; they will guide him

safely in the thickest darkness. His imagination is busy with the

evening games of his childhood, and will find it difficult to turn

towards objects of alarm. If he thinks he hears laughter, it will

be the laughter of his former playfellows, not of frenzied spirits;

if he thinks there is a host of people, it will not be the witches'

sabbath, but the party in his tutor's study. Night only recalls

these cheerful memories, and it will never alarm him; it will

inspire delight rather than fear. He will be ready for a military

expedition at any hour, with or without his troop. He will enter

the camp of Saul, he will find his way, he will reach the king's

tent without waking any one, and he will return unobserved. Are the

steeds of Rhesus to be stolen, you may trust him. You will scarcely

find a Ulysses among men educated in any other fashion.

I have known people who tried to train the children not to fear

the dark by startling them. This is a very bad plan; its effects

are just the opposite of those desired, and it only makes children

more timid. Neither reason nor habit can secure us from the fear

of a present danger whose degree and kind are unknown, nor from

the fear of surprises which we have often experienced. Yet how will

you make sure that you can preserve your pupil from such accidents?

I consider this the best advice to give him beforehand. I should

say to Emile, "This is a matter of self-defence, for the aggressor

does not let you know whether he means to hurt or frighten you,

and as the advantage is on his side you cannot even take refuge

in flight. Therefore seize boldly anything, whether man or beast,

which takes you unawares in the dark. Grasp it, squeeze it with all

your might; if it struggles, strike, and do not spare your blows;

and whatever he may say or do, do not let him go till you know

just who he is. The event will probably prove that you had little

to be afraid of, but this way of treating practical jokers would

naturally prevent their trying it again."

Although touch is the sense oftenest used, its discrimination

remains, as I have already pointed out, coarser and more imperfect

than that of any other sense, because we always use sight along with

it; the eye perceives the thing first, and the mind almost always

judges without the hand. On the other hand, discrimination by touch

is the surest just because of its limitations; for extending only

as far as our hands can reach, it corrects the hasty judgments of

the other senses, which pounce upon objects scarcely perceived,

while what we learn by touch is learnt thoroughly. Moreover, touch,

when required, unites the force of our muscles to the action of

the nerves; we associate by simultaneous sensations our ideas of

temperature, size, and shape, to those of weight and density. Thus

touch is the sense which best teaches us the action of foreign

bodies upon ourselves, the sense which most directly supplies us

with the knowledge required for self-preservation.

As the trained touch takes the place of sight, why should it not,

to some extent, take the place of hearing, since sounds set up, in

sonorous bodies, vibrations perceptible by touch? By placing the

hand on the body of a 'cello one can distinguish without the use

of eye or ear, merely by the way in which the wood vibrates and

trembles, whether the sound given out is sharp or flat, whether

it is drawn from the treble string or the bass. If our touch were

trained to note these differences, no doubt we might in time become

so sensitive as to hear a whole tune by means of our fingers. But

if we admit this, it is clear that one could easily speak to the

deaf by means of music; for tone and measure are no less capable

of regular combination than voice and articulation, so that they

might be used as the elements of speech.

There are exercises by which the sense of touch is blunted and

deadened, and others which sharpen it and make it delicate and

discriminating. The former, which employ much movement and force

for the continued impression of hard bodies, make the skin hard

and thick, and deprive it of its natural sensitiveness. The latter

are those which give variety to this feeling, by slight and repeated

contact, so that the mind is attentive to constantly recurring

impressions, and readily learns to discern their variations. This

difference is clear in the use of musical instruments. The harsh and

painful touch of the 'cello, bass-viol, and even of the violin,

hardens the finger-tips, although it gives flexibility to the

fingers. The soft and smooth touch of the harpsichord makes the

fingers both flexible and sensitive. In this respect the harpsichord

is to be preferred.

The skin protects the rest of the body, so it is very important

to harden it to the effects of the air that it may be able to bear

its changes. With regard to this I may say I would not have the

hand roughened by too servile application to the same kind of work,

nor should the skin of the hand become hardened so as to lose its

delicate sense of touch which keeps the body informed of what is

going on, and by the kind of contact sometimes makes us shudder in

different ways even in the dark.

Why should my pupil be always compelled to wear the skin of an ox

under his foot? What harm would come of it if his own skin could

serve him at need as a sole. It is clear that a delicate skin

could never be of any use in this way, and may often do harm. The

Genevese, aroused at midnight by their enemies in the depth of

winter, seized their guns rather than their shoes. Who can tell

whether the town would have escaped capture if its citizens had

not been able to go barefoot?

Let a man be always fore-armed against the unforeseen. Let Emile

run about barefoot all the year round, upstairs, downstairs, and

in the garden. Far from scolding him, I shall follow his example;

only I shall be careful to remove any broken glass. I shall soon

proceed to speak of work and manual occupations. Meanwhile, let him

learn to perform every exercise which encourages agility of body;

let him learn to hold himself easily and steadily in any position,

let him practise jumping and leaping, climbing trees and walls.

Let him always find his balance, and let his every movement and

gesture be regulated by the laws of weight, long before he learns

to explain them by the science of statics. By the way his foot is

planted on the ground, and his body supported on his leg, he ought

to know if he is holding himself well or ill. An easy carriage is

always graceful, and the steadiest positions are the most elegant.

If I were a dancing master I would refuse to play the monkey

tricks of Marcel, which are only fit for the stage where they are

performed; but instead of keeping my pupil busy with fancy steps,

I would take him to the foot of a cliff. There I would show him

how to hold himself, how to carry his body and head, how to place

first a foot then a hand, to follow lightly the steep, toilsome,

and rugged paths, to leap from point to point, either up or down.

He should emulate the mountain-goat, not the ballet dancer.

As touch confines its operations to the man's immediate surroundings,

so sight extends its range beyond them; it is this which makes it

misleading; man sees half his horizon at a glance. In the midst of

this host of simultaneous impressions and the thoughts excited by

them, how can he fail now and then to make mistakes? Thus sight is

the least reliable of our senses, just because it has the widest

range; it functions long before our other senses, and its work is

too hasty and on too large a scale to be corrected by the rest.

Moreover, the very illusions of perspective are necessary if we are

to arrive at a knowledge of space and compare one part of space with

another. Without false appearances we should never see anything at

a distance; without the gradations of size and tone we could not

judge of distance, or rather distance would have no existence for

us. If two trees, one of which was a hundred paces from us and the

other ten, looked equally large and distinct, we should think they

were side by side. If we perceived the real dimensions of things,

we should know nothing of space; everything would seem close to

our eyes.

The angle formed between any objects and our eye is the only means

by which our sight estimates their size and distance, and as this

angle is the simple effect of complex causes, the judgment we form

does not distinguish between the several causes; we are compelled

to be inaccurate. For how can I tell, by sight alone, whether

the angle at which an object appears to me smaller than another,

indicates that it is really smaller or that it is further off.

Here we must just reverse our former plan. Instead of simplifying

the sensation, always reinforce it and verify it by means of another

sense. Subject the eye to the hand, and, so to speak, restrain the

precipitation of the former sense by the slower and more reasoned

pace of the latter. For want of this sort of practice our sight

measurements are very imperfect. We cannot correctly, and at

a glance, estimate height, length, breadth, and distance; and the

fact that engineers, surveyors, architects, masons, and painters

are generally quicker to see and better able to estimate distances

correctly, proves that the fault is not in our eyes, but in our

use of them. Their occupations give them the training we lack,

and they check the equivocal results of the angle of vision by its

accompanying experiences, which determine the relations of the two

causes of this angle for their eyes.

Children will always do anything that keeps them moving freely.

There are countless ways of rousing their interest in measuring,

perceiving, and estimating distance. There is a very tall cherry

tree; how shall we gather the cherries? Will the ladder in the

barn be big enough? There is a wide stream; how shall we get to the

other side? Would one of the wooden planks in the yard reach from

bank to bank? From our windows we want to fish in the moat; how

many yards of line are required? I want to make a swing between two

trees; will two fathoms of cord be enough? They tell me our room

in the new house will be twenty-five feet square; do you think

it will be big enough for us? Will it be larger than this? We are

very hungry; here are two villages, which can we get to first for

our dinner?

An idle, lazy child was to be taught to run. He had no liking for

this or any other exercise, though he was intended for the army.

Somehow or other he had got it into his head that a man of his rank

need know nothing and do nothing--that his birth would serve as a

substitute for arms and legs, as well as for every kind of virtue.

The skill of Chiron himself would have failed to make a fleet-footed

Achilles of this young gentleman. The difficulty was increased by

my determination to give him no kind of orders. I had renounced all

right to direct him by preaching, promises, threats, emulation, or

the desire to show off. How should I make him want to run without

saying anything? I might run myself, but he might not follow my

example, and this plan had other drawbacks. Moreover, I must find

some means of teaching him through this exercise, so as to train

mind and body to work together. This is how I, or rather how the

teacher who supplied me with this illustration, set about it.

When I took him a walk of an afternoon I sometimes put in my pocket

a couple of cakes, of a kind he was very fond of; we each ate one

while we were out, and we came back well pleased with our outing.

One day he noticed I had three cakes; he could have easily eaten

six, so he ate his cake quickly and asked for the other. "No,"

said I, "I could eat it myself, or we might divide it, but I would

rather see those two little boys run a race for it." I called them

to us, showed them the cake, and suggested that they should race

for it. They were delighted. The cake was placed on a large stone

which was to be the goal; the course was marked out, we sat down,

and at a given signal off flew the children! The victor seized the

cake and ate it without pity in the sight of the spectators and of

his defeated rival.

The sport was better than the cake; but the lesson did not take

effect all at once, and produced no result. I was not discouraged,

nor did I hurry; teaching is a trade at which one must be able to

lose time and save it. Our walks were continued, sometimes we took

three cakes, sometimes four, and from time to time there were one

or two cakes for the racers. If the prize was not great, neither

was the ambition of the competitors. The winner was praised and

petted, and everything was done with much ceremony. To give room

to run and to add interest to the race I marked out a longer course

and admitted several fresh competitors. Scarcely had they entered

the lists than all the passers-by stopped to watch. They were

encouraged by shouting, cheering, and clapping. I sometimes saw my

little man trembling with excitement, jumping up and shouting when

one was about to reach or overtake another--to him these were the

Olympian games.

However, the competitors did not always play fair, they got in

each other's way, or knocked one another down, or put stones on

the track. That led us to separate them and make them start from

different places at equal distances from the goal. You will soon

see the reason for this, for I must describe this important affair

at length.

Tired of seeing his favourite cakes devoured before his eyes, the

young lord began to suspect that there was some use in being a

quick runner, and seeing that he had two legs of his own, he began

to practise running on the quiet. I took care to see nothing, but

I knew my stratagem had taken effect. When he thought he was good

enough (and I thought so too), he pretended to tease me to give

him the other cake. I refused; he persisted, and at last he said

angrily, "Well, put it on the stone and mark out the course, and

we shall see." "Very good," said I, laughing, "You will get a good

appetite, but you will not get the cake." Stung by my mockery, he

took heart, won the prize, all the more easily because I had marked

out a very short course and taken care that the best runner was out

of the way. It will be evident that, after the first step, I had

no difficulty in keeping him in training. Soon he took such a fancy

for this form of exercise that without any favour he was almost

certain to beat the little peasant boys at running, however long

the course.

The advantage thus obtained led unexpectedly to another. So long

as he seldom won the prize, he ate it himself like his rivals, but

as he got used to victory he grew generous, and often shared it

with the defeated. That taught me a lesson in morals and I saw what

was the real root of generosity.

While I continued to mark out a different starting place for each

competitor, he did not notice that I had made the distances unequal,

so that one of them, having farther to run to reach the goal, was

clearly at a disadvantage. But though I left the choice to my pupil

he did not know how to take advantage of it. Without thinking of

the distance, he always chose the smoothest path, so that I could

easily predict his choice, and could almost make him win or lose

the cake at my pleasure. I had more than one end in view in this

stratagem; but as my plan was to get him to notice the difference

himself, I tried to make him aware of it. Though he was generally

lazy and easy going, he was so eager in his sports and trusted me

so completely that I had great difficulty in making him see that

I was cheating him. When at last I managed to make him see it in

spite of his excitement, he was angry with me. "What have you to

complain of?" said I. "In a gift which I propose to give of my own

free will am not I master of the conditions? Who makes you run?

Did I promise to make the courses equal? Is not the choice yours?

Do not you see that I am favouring you, and that the inequality you

complain of is all to your advantage, if you knew how to use it?"

That was plain to him; and to choose he must observe more carefully.

At first he wanted to count the paces, but a child measures paces

slowly and inaccurately; moreover, I decided to have several races

on one day; and the game having become a sort of passion with

the child, he was sorry to waste in measuring the portion of time

intended for running. Such delays are not in accordance with a

child's impatience; he tried therefore to see better and to reckon

the distance more accurately at sight. It was now quite easy

to extend and develop this power. At length, after some months'

practice, and the correction of his errors, I so trained his power

of judging at sight that I had only to place an imaginary cake on

any distant object and his glance was nearly as accurate as the

surveyor's chain.

Of all the senses, sight is that which we can least distinguish

from the judgments of the mind; as it takes a long time to learn

to see. It takes a long time to compare sight and touch, and to

train the former sense to give a true report of shape and distance.

Without touch, without progressive motion, the sharpest eyes in

the world could give us no idea of space. To the oyster the whole

world must seem a point, and it would seem nothing more to it even

if it had a human mind. It is only by walking, feeling, counting,

measuring the dimensions of things, that we learn to judge them

rightly; but, on the other hand, if we were always measuring, our

senses would trust to the instrument and would never gain confidence.

Nor must the child pass abruptly from measurement to judgment; he

must continue to compare the parts when he could not compare the

whole; he must substitute his estimated aliquot parts for exact

aliquot parts, and instead of always applying the measure by hand

he must get used to applying it by eye alone. I would, however, have

his first estimates tested by measurement, so that he may correct

his errors, and if there is a false impression left upon the senses

he may correct it by a better judgment. The same natural standards

of measurement are in use almost everywhere, the man's foot, the

extent of his outstretched arms, his height. When the child wants

to measure the height of a room, his tutor may serve as a measuring

rod; if he is estimating the height of a steeple let him measure

it by the house; if he wants to know how many leagues of road there

are, let him count the hours spent in walking along it. Above all,

do not do this for him; let him do it himself.

One cannot learn to estimate the extent and size of bodies without

at the same time learning to know and even to copy their shape; for

at bottom this copying depends entirely on the laws of perspective,

and one cannot estimate distance without some feeling for these

laws. All children in the course of their endless imitation try to

draw; and I would have Emile cultivate this art; not so much for

art's sake, as to give him exactness of eye and flexibility of hand.

Generally speaking, it matters little whether he is acquainted

with this or that occupation, provided he gains clearness of

sense--perception and the good bodily habits which belong to the

exercise in question. So I shall take good care not to provide him

with a drawing master, who would only set him to copy copies and

draw from drawings. Nature should be his only teacher, and things

his only models. He should have the real thing before his eyes, not

its copy on paper. Let him draw a house from a house, a tree from

a tree, a man from a man; so that he may train himself to observe

objects and their appearance accurately and not to take false and

conventional copies for truth. I would even train him to draw only

from objects actually before him and not from memory, so that,

by repeated observation, their exact form may be impressed on his

imagination, for fear lest he should substitute absurd and fantastic

forms for the real truth of things, and lose his sense of proportion

and his taste for the beauties of nature.

Of course I know that in this way he will make any number of daubs

before he produces anything recognisable, that it will be long

before he attains to the graceful outline and light touch of the

draughtsman; perhaps he will never have an eye for picturesque effect

or a good taste in drawing. On the other hand, he will certainly

get a truer eye, a surer hand, a knowledge of the real relations

of form and size between animals, plants, and natural objects,

together with a quicker sense of the effects of perspective. That

is just what I wanted, and my purpose is rather that he should

know things than copy them. I would rather he showed me a plant of

acanthus even if he drew a capital with less accuracy.

Moreover, in this occupation as in others, I do not intend my pupil

to play by himself; I mean to make it pleasanter for him by always

sharing it with him. He shall have no other rival; but mine will be

a continual rivalry, and there will be no risk attaching to it; it

will give interest to his pursuits without awaking jealousy between

us. I shall follow his example and take up a pencil; at first

I shall use it as unskilfully as he. I should be an Apelles if I

did not set myself daubing. To begin with, I shall draw a man such

as lads draw on walls, a line for each arm, another for each leg,

with the fingers longer than the arm. Long after, one or other of

us will notice this lack of proportion; we shall observe that the

leg is thick, that this thickness varies, that the length of the arm

is proportionate to the body. In this improvement I shall either

go side by side with my pupil, or so little in advance that he will

always overtake me easily and sometimes get ahead of me. We shall

get brushes and paints, we shall try to copy the colours of things

and their whole appearance, not merely their shape. We shall colour

prints, we shall paint, we shall daub; but in all our daubing we

shall be searching out the secrets of nature, and whatever we do

shall be done under the eye of that master.

We badly needed ornaments for our room, and now we have them ready

to our hand. I will have our drawings framed and covered with good

glass, so that no one will touch them, and thus seeing them where

we put them, each of us has a motive for taking care of his own.

I arrange them in order round the room, each drawing repeated some

twenty or thirty times, thus showing the author's progress in each

specimen, from the time when the house is merely a rude square,

till its front view, its side view, its proportions, its light and

shade are all exactly portrayed. These graduations will certainly

furnish us with pictures, a source of interest to ourselves and of

curiosity to others, which will spur us on to further emulation.

The first and roughest drawings I put in very smart gilt frames

to show them off; but as the copy becomes more accurate and the

drawing really good, I only give it a very plain dark frame; it

needs no other ornament than itself, and it would be a pity if the

frame distracted the attention which the picture itself deserves.

Thus we each aspire to a plain frame, and when we desire to pour

scorn on each other's drawings, we condemn them to a gilded frame.

Some day perhaps "the gilt frame" will become a proverb among us,

and we shall be surprised to find how many people show what they

are really made of by demanding a gilt frame.

I have said already that geometry is beyond the child's reach; but

that is our own fault. We fail to perceive that their method is not

ours, that what is for us the art of reasoning, should be for them

the art of seeing. Instead of teaching them our way, we should do

better to adopt theirs, for our way of learning geometry is quite

as much a matter of imagination as of reasoning. When a proposition is

enunciated you must imagine the proof; that is, you must discover

on what proposition already learnt it depends, and of all the

possible deductions from that proposition you must choose just the

one required.

In this way the closest reasoner, if he is not inventive, may find

himself at a loss. What is the result? Instead of making us discover

proofs, they are dictated to us; instead of teaching us to reason,

our memory only is employed.

Draw accurate figures, combine them together, put them one upon

another, examine their relations, and you will discover the whole

of elementary geometry in passing from one observation to another,

without a word of definitions, problems, or any other form of

demonstration but super-position. I do not profess to teach Emile

geometry; he will teach me; I shall seek for relations, he will

find them, for I shall seek in such a fashion as to make him find.

For instance, instead of using a pair of compasses to draw a circle,

I shall draw it with a pencil at the end of bit of string attached

to a pivot. After that, when I want to compare the radii one with

another, Emile will laugh at me and show me that the same thread

at full stretch cannot have given distances of unequal length. If

I wish to measure an angle of 60 degrees I describe from the apex

of the angle, not an arc, but a complete circle, for with children

nothing must be taken for granted. I find that the part of the

circle contained between the two lines of the angle is the sixth

part of a circle. Then I describe another and larger circle from

the same centre, and I find the second arc is again the sixth part

of its circle. I describe a third concentric circle with a similar

result, and I continue with more and more circles till Emile,

shocked at my stupidity, shows me that every arc, large or small,

contained by the same angle will always be the sixth part of its

circle. Now we are ready to use the protractor.

To prove that two adjacent angles are equal to two right angles

people describe a circle. On the contrary I would have Emile observe

the fact in a circle, and then I should say, "If we took away the

circle and left the straight lines, would the angles have changed

their size, etc.?"

Exactness in the construction of figures is neglected; it is taken

for granted and stress is laid on the proof. With us, on the other

hand, there will be no question of proof. Our chief business will

be to draw very straight, accurate, and even lines, a perfect

square, a really round circle. To verify the exactness of a figure

we will test it by each of its sensible properties, and that will

give us a chance to discover fresh properties day by day. We will

fold the two semi-circles along the diameter, the two halves of

the square by the diagonal; he will compare our two figures to see

who has got the edges to fit most exactly, i.e., who has done it

best; we should argue whether this equal division would always be

possible in parallelograms, trapezes, etc. We shall sometimes try

to forecast the result of an experiment, to find reasons, etc.

Geometry means to my scholar the successful use of the rule

and compass; he must not confuse it with drawing, in which these

instruments are not used. The rule and compass will be locked up,

so that he will not get into the way of messing about with them,

but we may sometimes take our figures with us when we go for a

walk, and talk over what we have done, or what we mean to do.

I shall never forget seeing a young man at Turin, who had learnt as

a child the relations of contours and surfaces by having to choose

every day isoperimetric cakes among cakes of every geometrical

figure. The greedy little fellow had exhausted the art of Archimedes

to find which were the biggest.

When the child flies a kite he is training eye and hand to accuracy;

when he whips a top, he is increasing his strength by using it, but

without learning anything. I have sometimes asked why children are

not given the same games of skill as men; tennis, mall, billiards,

archery, football, and musical instruments. I was told that some

of these are beyond their strength, that the child's senses are

not sufficiently developed for others. These do not strike me as

valid reasons; a child is not as tall as a man, but he wears the

same sort of coat; I do not want him to play with our cues at a

billiard-table three feet high; I do not want him knocking about

among our games, nor carrying one of our racquets in his little

hand; but let him play in a room whose windows have been protected;

at first let him only use soft balls, let his first racquets be

of wood, then of parchment, and lastly of gut, according to his

progress. You prefer the kite because it is less tiring and there

is no danger. You are doubly wrong. Kite-flying is a sport for

women, but every woman will run away from a swift ball. Their white

skins were not meant to be hardened by blows and their faces were

not made for bruises. But we men are made for strength; do you

think we can attain it without hardship, and what defence shall we

be able to make if we are attacked? People always play carelessly

in games where there is no danger. A falling kite hurts nobody,

but nothing makes the arm so supple as protecting the head, nothing

makes the sight so accurate as having to guard the eye. To dash

from one end of the room to another, to judge the rebound of a

ball before it touches the ground, to return it with strength and

accuracy, such games are not so much sports fit for a man, as sports

fit to make a man of him.

The child's limbs, you say, are too tender. They are not so strong

as those of a man, but they are more supple. His arm is weak, still

it is an arm, and it should be used with due consideration as we

use other tools. Children have no skill in the use of their hands.

That is just why I want them to acquire skill; a man with as little

practice would be just as clumsy. We can only learn the use of our

limbs by using them. It is only by long experience that we learn to

make the best of ourselves, and this experience is the real object

of study to which we cannot apply ourselves too early.

What is done can be done. Now there is nothing commoner than to find

nimble and skilful children whose limbs are as active as those of

a man. They may be seen at any fair, swinging, walking on their

hands, jumping, dancing on the tight rope. For many years past,

troops of children have attracted spectators to the ballets at the

Italian Comedy House. Who is there in Germany and Italy who has

not heard of the famous pantomime company of Nicolini? Has it ever

occurred to any one that the movements of these children were less

finished, their postures less graceful, their ears less true, their

dancing more clumsy than those of grown-up dancers? If at first

the fingers are thick, short, and awkward, the dimpled hands unable

to grasp anything, does this prevent many children from learning

to read and write at an age when others cannot even hold a pen

or pencil? All Paris still recalls the little English girl of ten

who did wonders on the harpsichord. I once saw a little fellow of

eight, the son of a magistrate, who was set like a statuette on

the table among the dishes, to play on a fiddle almost as big as

himself, and even artists were surprised at his execution.

To my mind, these and many more examples prove that the supposed

incapacity of children for our games is imaginary, and that if they

are unsuccessful in some of them, it is for want of practice.

You will tell me that with regard to the body I am falling into

the same mistake of precocious development which I found fault with

for the mind. The cases are very different: in the one, progress is

apparent only; in the other it is real. I have shown that children

have not the mental development they appear to have, while they

really do what they seem to do. Besides, we must never forget that

all this should be play, the easy and voluntary control of the

movements which nature demands of them, the art of varying their

games to make them pleasanter, without the least bit of constraint

to transform them into work; for what games do they play in which

I cannot find material for instruction for them? And even if I

could not do so, so long as they are amusing themselves harmlessly

and passing the time pleasantly, their progress in learning is not

yet of such great importance. But if one must be teaching them this

or that at every opportunity, it cannot be done without constraint,

vexation, or tedium.

What I have said about the use of the two senses whose use is most

constant and most important, may serve as an example of how to

train the rest. Sight and touch are applied to bodies at rest and

bodies in motion, but as hearing is only affected by vibrations

of the air, only a body in motion can make a noise or sound;

if everything were at rest we should never hear. At night, when

we ourselves only move as we choose, we have nothing to fear but

moving bodies; hence we need a quick ear, and power to judge from

the sensations experienced whether the body which causes them is

large or small, far off or near, whether its movements are gentle

or violent. When once the air is set in motion, it is subject to

repercussions which produce echoes, these renew the sensations and

make us hear a loud or penetrating sound in another quarter. If you

put your ear to the ground you may hear the sound of men's voices

or horses' feet in a plain or valley much further off than when

you stand upright.

As we have made a comparison between sight and touch, it will be

as well to do the same for hearing, and to find out which of the

two impressions starting simultaneously from a given body first

reaches the sense-organ. When you see the flash of a cannon, you

have still time to take cover; but when you hear the sound it is

too late, the ball is close to you. One can reckon the distance

of a thunderstorm by the interval between the lightning and the

thunder. Let the child learn all these facts, let him learn those

that are within his reach by experiment, and discover the rest

by induction; but I would far rather he knew nothing at all about

them, than that you should tell him.

In the voice we have an organ answering to hearing; we have no

such organ answering to sight, and we do not repeat colours as we

repeat sounds. This supplies an additional means of cultivating the

ear by practising the active and passive organs one with the other.

Man has three kinds of voice, the speaking or articulate voice, the

singing or melodious voice, and the pathetic or expressive voice,

which serves as the language of the passions, and gives life to

song and speech. The child has these three voices, just as the man

has them, but he does not know how to use them in combination. Like

us, he laughs, cries, laments, shrieks, and groans, but he does

not know how to combine these inflexions with speech or song. These

three voices find their best expression in perfect music. Children

are incapable of such music, and their singing lacks feeling. In

the same way their spoken language lacks expression; they shout,

but they do not speak with emphasis, and there is as little power

in their voice as there is emphasis in their speech. Our pupil's

speech will be plainer and simpler still, for his passions are still

asleep, and will not blend their tones with his. Do not, therefore,

set him to recite tragedy or comedy, nor try to teach declamation

so-called. He will have too much sense to give voice to things he

cannot understand, or expression to feelings he has never known.

Teach him to speak plainly and distinctly, to articulate clearly,

to pronounce correctly and without affectation, to perceive and

imitate the right accent in prose and verse, and always to speak

loud enough to be heard, but without speaking too loud--a common

fault with school-children. Let there be no waste in anything.

The same method applies to singing; make his voice smooth and true,

flexible and full, his ear alive to time and tune, but nothing more.

Descriptive and theatrical music is not suitable at his age----I

would rather he sang no words; if he must have words, I would try

to compose songs on purpose for him, songs interesting to a child,

and as simple as his own thoughts.

You may perhaps suppose that as I am in no hurry to teach Emile to

read and write, I shall not want to teach him to read music. Let

us spare his brain the strain of excessive attention, and let us

be in no hurry to turn his mind towards conventional signs. I grant

you there seems to be a difficulty here, for if at first sight the

knowledge of notes seems no more necessary for singing than the

knowledge of letters for speaking, there is really this difference

between them: When we speak, we are expressing our own thoughts;

when we sing we are expressing the thoughts of others. Now in order

to express them we must read them.

But at first we can listen to them instead of reading them, and a

song is better learnt by ear than by eye. Moreover, to learn music

thoroughly we must make songs as well as sing them, and the two

processes must be studied together, or we shall never have any

real knowledge of music. First give your young musician practice

in very regular, well-cadenced phrases; then let him connect these

phrases with the very simplest modulations; then show him their

relation one to another by correct accent, which can be done by a

fit choice of cadences and rests. On no account give him anything

unusual, or anything that requires pathos or expression. A simple,

tuneful air, always based on the common chords of the key, with its

bass so clearly indicated that it is easily felt and accompanied,

for to train his voice and ear he should always sing with the

harpsichord.

We articulate the notes we sing the better to distinguish them;

hence the custom of sol-faing with certain syllables. To tell the

keys one from another they must have names and fixed intervals; hence

the names of the intervals, and also the letters of the alphabet

attached to the keys of the clavier and the notes of the scale. C

and A indicate fixed sounds, invariable and always rendered by the

same keys; Ut and La are different. Ut is always the dominant of

a major scale, or the leading-note of a minor scale. La is always

the dominant of a minor scale or the sixth of a major scale. Thus

the letters indicate fixed terms in our system of music, and the

syllables indicate terms homologous to the similar relations in

different keys. The letters show the keys on the piano, and the

syllables the degrees in the scale. French musicians have made

a strange muddle of this. They have confused the meaning of the

syllables with that of the letters, and while they have unnecessarily

given us two sets of symbols for the keys of the piano, they have

left none for the chords of the scales; so that Ut and C are always

the same for them; this is not and ought not to be; if so, what

is the use of C? Their method of sol-faing is, therefore, extremely

and needlessly difficult, neither does it give any clear idea

to the mind; since, by this method, Ut and Me, for example, may

mean either a major third, a minor third, an augmented third, or

a diminished third. What a strange thing that the country which

produces the finest books about music should be the very country

where it is hardest to learn music!

Let us adopt a simpler and clearer plan with our pupil; let him have

only two scales whose relations remain unchanged, and indicated by

the same symbols. Whether he sings or plays, let him learn to fix

his scale on one of the twelve tones which may serve as a base, and

whether he modulates in D, C, or G, let the close be always Ut or

La, according to the scale. In this way he will understand what you

mean, and the essential relations for correct singing and playing

will always be present in his mind; his execution will be better

and his progress quicker. There is nothing funnier than what the

French call "natural sol-faing;" it consists in removing the real

meaning of things and putting in their place other meanings which

only distract us. There is nothing more natural than sol-faing by

transposition, when the scale is transposed. But I have said enough,

and more than enough, about music; teach it as you please, so long

as it is nothing but play.

We are now thoroughly acquainted with the condition of foreign

bodies in relation to our own, their weight, form, colour, density,

size, distance, temperature, stability, or motion. We have learnt

which of them to approach or avoid, how to set about overcoming

their resistance or to resist them so as to prevent ourselves from

injury; but this is not enough. Our own body is constantly wasting

and as constantly requires to be renewed. Although we have the

power of changing other substances into our own, our choice is not

a matter of indifference. Everything is not food for man, and what

may be food for him is not all equally suitable; it depends on

his racial constitution, the country he lives in, his individual

temperament, and the way of living which his condition demands.

If we had to wait till experience taught us to know and choose fit

food for ourselves, we should die of hunger or poison; but a kindly

providence which has made pleasure the means of self-preservation

to sentient beings teaches us through our palate what is suitable

for our stomach. In a state of nature there is no better doctor

than a man's own appetite, and no doubt in a state of nature man

could find the most palateable food the most wholesome.

Nor is this all. Our Maker provides, not only for those needs he

has created, but for those we create for ourselves; and it is to

keep the balance between our wants and our needs that he has caused

our tastes to change and vary with our way of living. The further

we are from a state of nature, the more we lose our natural tastes;

or rather, habit becomes a second nature, and so completely replaces

our real nature, that we have lost all knowledge of it.

From this it follows that the most natural tastes should be the

simplest, for those are more easily changed; but when they are

sharpened and stimulated by our fancies they assume a form which

is incapable of modification. The man who so far has not adapted

himself to one country can learn the ways of any country whatsoever;

but the man who has adopted the habits of one particular country

can never shake them off.

This seems to be true of all our senses, especially of taste. Our

first food is milk; we only become accustomed by degrees to strong

flavours; at first we dislike them. Fruit, vegetables, herbs, and

then fried meat without salt or seasoning, formed the feasts of

primitive man. When the savage tastes wine for the first time, he

makes a grimace and spits it out; and even among ourselves a man who

has not tasted fermented liquors before twenty cannot get used to

them; we should all be sober if we did not have wine when we were

children. Indeed, the simpler our tastes are, the more general they

are; made dishes are those most frequently disliked. Did you ever

meet with any one who disliked bread or water? Here is the finger

of nature, this then is our rule. Preserve the child's primitive

tastes as long as possible; let his food be plain and simple, let

strong flavours be unknown to his palate, and do not let his diet

be too uniform.

I am not asking, for the present, whether this way of living is

healthier or no; that is not what I have in view. It is enough for

me to know that my choice is more in accordance with nature, and

that it can be more readily adapted to other conditions. In my

opinion, those who say children should be accustomed to the food

they will have when they are grown up are mistaken. Why should

their food be the same when their way of living is so different?

A man worn out by labour, anxiety, and pain needs tasty foods to

give fresh vigour to his brain; a child fresh from his games, a

child whose body is growing, needs plentiful food which will supply

more chyle. Moreover the grown man has already a settled profession,

occupation, and home, but who can tell what Fate holds in store

for the child? Let us not give him so fixed a bent in any direction

that he cannot change it if required without hardship. Do not bring

him up so that he would die of hunger in a foreign land if he does

not take a French cook about with him; do not let him say at some

future time that France is the only country where the food is fit

to eat. By the way, that is a strange way of praising one's country.

On the other hand, I myself should say that the French are the only

people who do not know what good food is, since they require such

a special art to make their dishes eatable.

Of all our different senses, we are usually most affected by taste.

Thus it concerns us more nearly to judge aright of what will

actually become part of ourselves, than of that which will merely

form part of our environment. Many things are matters of indifference

to touch, hearing, and sight; but taste is affected by almost

everything. Moreover the activity of this sense is wholly physical

and material; of all the senses, it alone makes no appeal to the

imagination, or at least, imagination plays a smaller part in its

sensations; while imitation and imagination often bring morality

into the impressions of the other senses. Thus, speaking generally,

soft and pleasure-loving minds, passionate and truly sensitive

dispositions, which are easily stirred by the other senses, are

usually indifferent to this. From this very fact, which apparently

places taste below our other senses and makes our inclination towards

it the more despicable, I draw just the opposite conclusion--that

the best way to lead children is by the mouth. Greediness is a better

motive than vanity; for the former is a natural appetite directly

dependent on the senses, while the latter is the outcome of

convention, it is the slave of human caprice and liable to every

kind of abuse. Believe me the child will cease to care about his

food only too soon, and when his heart is too busy, his palate will

be idle. When he is grown up greediness will be expelled by a host

of stronger passions, while vanity will only be stimulated by them;

for this latter passion feeds upon the rest till at length they

are all swallowed up in it. I have sometimes studied those men who

pay great attention to good eating, men whose first waking thought

is--What shall we have to eat to-day? men who describe their dinner

with as much detail as Polybius describes a combat. I have found

these so-called men were only children of forty, without strength

or vigour--fruges consumere nati. Gluttony is the vice of feeble

minds. The gourmand has his brains in his palate, he can do nothing

but eat; he is so stupid and incapable that the table is the only

place for him, and dishes are the only things he knows anything

about. Let us leave him to this business without regret; it is

better for him and for us.

It is a small mind that fears lest greediness should take root

in the child who is fit for something better. The child thinks of

nothing but his food, the youth pays no heed to it at all; every

kind of food is good, and we have other things to attend to. Yet

I would not have you use the low motive unwisely. I would not have

you trust to dainties rather than to the honour which is the reward

of a good deed. But childhood is, or ought to be, a time of play

and merry sports, and I do not see why the rewards of purely bodily

exercises should not be material and sensible rewards. If a little

lad in Majorca sees a basket on the tree-top and brings it down

with his sling, is it not fair that he should get something by this,

and a good breakfast should repair the strength spent in getting

it. If a young Spartan, facing the risk of a hundred stripes, slips

skilfully into the kitchen, and steals a live fox cub, carries it

off in his garment, and is scratched, bitten till the blood comes,

and for shame lest he should be caught the child allows his bowels

to be torn out without a movement or a cry, is it not fair that he

should keep his spoils, that he should eat his prey after it has

eaten him? A good meal should never be a reward; but why should it

not be sometimes the result of efforts made to get it. Emile does

not consider the cake I put on the stone as a reward for good running;

he knows that the only way to get the cake is to get there first.

This does not contradict my previous rules about simple food; for

to tempt a child's appetite you need not stimulate it, you need

only satisfy it; and the commonest things will do this if you do

not attempt to refine children's taste. Their perpetual hunger,

the result of their need for growth, will be the best sauce. Fruit,

milk, a piece of cake just a little better than ordinary bread, and

above all the art of dispensing these things prudently, by these

means you may lead a host of children to the world's end, without

on the one hand giving them a taste for strong flavours, nor on

the other hand letting them get tired of their food.

The indifference of children towards meat is one proof that the

taste for meat is unnatural; their preference is for vegetable

foods, such as milk, pastry, fruit, etc. Beware of changing this

natural taste and making children flesh-eaters, if not for their

health's sake, for the sake of their character; for how can one

explain away the fact that great meat-eaters are usually fiercer

and more cruel than other men; this has been recognised at all

times and in all places. The English are noted for their cruelty

[Footnote: I am aware that the English make a boast of their

humanity and of the kindly disposition of their race, which they

call "good-natured people;" but in vain do they proclaim this fact;

no one else says it of them.] while the Gaures are the gentlest

of men. [Footnote: The Banians, who abstain from flesh even more

completely than the Gaures, are almost as gentle as the Gaures

themselves, but as their morality is less pure and their form of

worship less reasonable they are not such good men.] All savages

are cruel, and it is not their customs that tend in this direction;

their cruelty is the result of their food. They go to war as to the

chase, and treat men as they would treat bears. Indeed in England

butchers are not allowed to give evidence in a court of law, no

more can surgeons. [Footnote: One of the English translators of my

book has pointed out my mistake, and both of them have corrected

it. Butchers and surgeons are allowed to give evidence in the law

courts, but butchers may not serve on juries in criminal cases,

though surgeons are allowed to do so.] Great criminals prepare

themselves for murder by drinking blood. Homer makes his flesh-eating

Cyclops a terrible man, while his Lotus-eaters are so delightful

that those who went to trade with them forgot even their own country

to dwell among them.

"You ask me," said Plutarch, "why Pythagoras abstained from eating

the flesh of beasts, but I ask you, what courage must have been

needed by the first man who raised to his lips the flesh of the

slain, who broke with his teeth the bones of a dying beast, who had

dead bodies, corpses, placed before him and swallowed down limbs

which a few moments ago were bleating, bellowing, walking, and seeing?

How could his hand plunge the knife into the heart of a sentient

creature, how could his eyes look on murder, how could he behold

a poor helpless animal bled to death, scorched, and dismembered?

how can he bear the sight of this quivering flesh? does not the

very smell of it turn his stomach? is he not repelled, disgusted,

horror-struck, when he has to handle the blood from these wounds,

and to cleanse his fingers from the dark and viscous bloodstains?

"The scorched skins wriggled upon the ground,

The shrinking flesh bellowed upon the spit.

Man cannot eat them without a shudder;

He seems to hear their cries within his breast.

"Thus must he have felt the first time he did despite to nature and

made this horrible meal; the first time he hungered for the living

creature, and desired to feed upon the beast which was still

grazing; when he bade them slay, dismember, and cut up the sheep

which licked his hands. It is those who began these cruel feasts,

not those who abandon them, who should cause surprise, and there

were excuses for those primitive men, excuses which we have not,

and the absence of such excuses multiplies our barbarity a hundredfold.

"'Mortals, beloved of the gods,' says this primitive man, 'compare

our times with yours; see how happy you are, and how wretched were

we. The earth, newly formed, the air heavy with moisture, were

not yet subjected to the rule of the seasons. Three-fourths of the

surface of the globe was flooded by the ever-shifting channels of

rivers uncertain of their course, and covered with pools, lakes,

and bottomless morasses. The remaining quarter was covered with

woods and barren forests. The earth yielded no good fruit, we had

no instruments of tillage, we did not even know the use of them,

and the time of harvest never came for those who had sown nothing.

Thus hunger was always in our midst. In winter, mosses and the

bark of trees were our common food. A few green roots of dogs-bit

or heather were a feast, and when men found beech-mast, nuts, or

acorns, they danced for joy round the beech or oak, to the sound

of some rude song, while they called the earth their mother and

their nurse. This was their only festival, their only sport; all

the rest of man's life was spent in sorrow, pain, and hunger.

"'At length, when the bare and naked earth no longer offered us any

food, we were compelled in self-defence to outrage nature, and to

feed upon our companions in distress, rather than perish with them.

But you, oh, cruel men! who forces you to shed blood? Behold the

wealth of good things about you, the fruits yielded by the earth,

the wealth of field and vineyard; the animals give their milk for

your drink and their fleece for your clothing. What more do you

ask? What madness compels you to commit such murders, when you

have already more than you can eat or drink? Why do you slander

our mother earth, and accuse her of denying you food? Why do you

sin against Ceres, the inventor of the sacred laws, and against the

gracious Bacchus, the comforter of man, as if their lavish gifts

were not enough to preserve mankind? Have you the heart to mingle

their sweet fruits with the bones upon your table, to eat with the

milk the blood of the beasts which gave it? The lions and panthers,

wild beasts as you call them, are driven to follow their natural

instinct, and they kill other beasts that they may live. But,

a hundredfold fiercer than they, you fight against your instincts

without cause, and abandon yourselves to the most cruel pleasures.

The animals you eat are not those who devour others; you do not eat

the carnivorous beasts, you take them as your pattern. You only

hunger for the sweet and gentle creatures which harm no one, which

follow you, serve you, and are devoured by you as the reward of

their service.

"'O unnatural murderer! if you persist in the assertion that nature

has made you to devour your fellow-creatures, beings of flesh and

blood, living and feeling like yourself, stifle if you can that

horror with which nature makes you regard these horrible feasts;

slay the animals yourself, slay them, I say, with your own hands,

without knife or mallet; tear them with your nails like the lion

and the bear, take this ox and rend him in pieces, plunge your

claws into his hide; eat this lamb while it is yet alive, devour

its warm flesh, drink its soul with its blood. You shudder! you dare

not feel the living throbbing flesh between your teeth? Ruthless

man; you begin by slaying the animal and then you devour it, as

if to slay it twice. It is not enough. You turn against the dead

flesh, it revolts you, it must be transformed by fire, boiled and

roasted, seasoned and disguised with drugs; you must have butchers,

cooks, turnspits, men who will rid the murder of its horrors, who

will dress the dead bodies so that the taste deceived by these

disguises will not reject what is strange to it, and will feast on

corpses, the very sight of which would sicken you.'"

Although this quotation is irrelevant, I cannot resist the temptation

to transcribe it, and I think few of my readers will resent it.

In conclusion, whatever food you give your children, provided you

accustom them to nothing but plain and simple dishes, let them eat

and run and play as much as they want; you may be sure they will

never eat too much and will never have indigestion; but if you keep

them hungry half their time, when they do contrive to evade your

vigilance, they will take advantage of it as far as they can; they

will eat till they are sick, they will gorge themselves till they

can eat no more. Our appetite is only excessive because we try to

impose on it rules other than those of nature, opposing, controlling,

prescribing, adding, or substracting; the scales are always in our

hands, but the scales are the measure of our caprices not of our

stomachs. I return to my usual illustration; among peasants the

cupboard and the apple-loft are always left open, and indigestion

is unknown alike to children and grown-up people.

If, however, it happened that a child were too great an eater,

though, under my system, I think it is impossible, he is so easily

distracted by his favourite games that one might easily starve him

without his knowing it. How is it that teachers have failed to use

such a safe and easy weapon. Herodotus records that the Lydians,

[Footnote: The ancient historians are full of opinions which may be

useful, even if the facts which they present are false. But we do

not know how to make any real use of history. Criticism and erudition

are our only care; as if it mattered more that a statement were

true or false than that we should be able to get a useful lesson

from it. A wise man should consider history a tissue of fables whose

morals are well adapted to the human heart.] under the pressure of

great scarcity, decided to invent sports and other amusements with

which to cheat their hunger, and they passed whole days without

thought of food. Your learned teachers may have read this passage

time after time without seeing how it might be applied to children.

One of these teachers will probably tell me that a child does not

like to leave his dinner for his lessons. You are right, sir--I

was not thinking of that sort of sport.

The sense of smell is to taste what sight is to touch; it goes

before it and gives it warning that it will be affected by this or

that substance; and it inclines it to seek or shun this experience

according to the impressions received beforehand. I have been told

that savages receive impressions quite different from ours, and

that they have quite different ideas with regard to pleasant or

unpleasant odours. I can well believe it. Odours alone are slight

sensations; they affect the imagination rather than the senses,

and they work mainly through the anticipations they arouse. This

being so, and the tastes of savages being so unlike the taste of

civilised men, they should lead them to form very different ideas

with regard to flavours and therefore with regard to the odours

which announce them. A Tartar must enjoy the smell of a haunch of

putrid horseflesh, much as a sportsman enjoys a very high partridge.

Our idle sensations, such as the scents wafted from the flower

beds, must pass unnoticed among men who walk too much to care for

strolling in a garden, and do not work enough to find pleasure in

repose. Hungry men would find little pleasure in scents which did

not proclaim the approach of food.

Smell is the sense of the imagination; as it gives tone to the nerves

it must have a great effect on the brain; that is why it revives

us for the time, but eventually causes exhaustion. Its effects

on love are pretty generally recognised. The sweet perfumes of a

dressing-room are not so slight a snare as you may fancy them, and

I hardly know whether to congratulate or condole with that wise

and somewhat insensible person whose senses are never stirred by

the scent of the flowers his mistress wears in her bosom.

Hence the sense of smell should not be over-active in early

childhood; the imagination, as yet unstirred by changing passions,

is scarcely susceptible of emotion, and we have not enough experience

to discern beforehand from one sense the promise of another. This

view is confirmed by observation, and it is certain that the sense

of smell is dull and almost blunted in most children. Not that their

sensations are less acute than those of grown-up people, but that

there is no idea associated with them; they do not easily experience

pleasure or pain, and are not flattered or hurt as we are. Without

going beyond my system, and without recourse to comparative

anatomy, I think we can easily see why women are generally fonder

of perfumes than men.

It is said that from early childhood the Redskins of Canada, train

their sense of smell to such a degree of subtlety that, although

they have dogs, they do not condescend to use them in hunting--they

are their own dogs. Indeed I believe that if children were trained

to scent their dinner as a dog scents game, their sense of smell

might be nearly as perfect; but I see no very real advantage to be

derived from this sense, except by teaching the child to observe

the relation between smell and taste. Nature has taken care to

compel us to learn these relations. She has made the exercise of

the latter sense practically inseparable from that of the former,

by placing their organs close together, and by providing, in the

mouth, a direct pathway between them, so that we taste nothing

without smelling it too. Only I would not have these natural

relations disturbed in order to deceive the child, e.g.; to conceal

the taste of medicine with an aromatic odour, for the discord

between the senses is too great for deception, the more active

sense overpowers the other, the medicine is just as distasteful,

and this disagreeable association extends to every sensation experienced

at the time; so the slightest of these sensations recalls the rest

to his imagination and a very pleasant perfume is for him only a

nasty smell; thus our foolish precautions increase the sum total

of his unpleasant sensations at the cost of his pleasant sensations.

In the following books I have still to speak of the training of a

sort of sixth sense, called common-sense, not so much because it is

common to all men, but because it results from the well-regulated

use of the other five, and teaches the nature of things by the

sum-total of their external aspects. So this sixth sense has no

special organ, it has its seat in the brain, and its sensations

which are purely internal are called percepts or ideas. The number

of these ideas is the measure of our knowledge; exactness of thought

depends on their clearness and precision; the art of comparing

them one with another is called human reason. Thus what I call the

reasoning of the senses, or the reasoning of the child, consists

in the formation of simple ideas through the associated experience

of several sensations; what I call the reasoning of the intellect,

consists in the formation, of complex ideas through the association

of several simple ideas.

If my method is indeed that of nature, and if I am not mistaken in

the application of that method, we have led our pupil through the

region of sensation to the bounds of the child's reasoning; the

first step we take beyond these bounds must be the step of a man.

But before we make this fresh advance, let us glance back for

a moment at the path we have hitherto followed. Every age, every

station in life, has a perfection, a ripeness, of its own. We have

often heard the phrase "a grown man;" but we will consider "a grown

child." This will be a new experience and none the less pleasing.

The life of finite creatures is so poor and narrow that the

mere sight of what is arouses no emotion. It is fancy which decks

reality, and if imagination does not lend its charm to that which

touches our senses, our barren pleasure is confined to the senses

alone, while the heart remains cold. The earth adorned with

the treasures of autumn displays a wealth of colour which the eye

admires; but this admiration fails to move us, it springs rather

from thought than from feeling. In spring the country is almost

bare and leafless, the trees give no shade, the grass has hardly

begun to grow, yet the heart is touched by the sight. In this new

birth of nature, we feel the revival of our own life; the memories

of past pleasures surround us; tears of delight, those companions

of pleasure ever ready to accompany a pleasing sentiment, tremble

on our eyelids. Animated, lively, and delightful though the vintage

may be, we behold it without a tear.

And why is this? Because imagination adds to the sight of spring

the image of the seasons which are yet to come; the eye sees the

tender shoot, the mind's eye beholds its flowers, fruit, and foliage,

and even the mysteries they may conceal. It blends successive stages

into one moment's experience; we see things, not so much as they

will be, but as we would have them be, for imagination has only to

take her choice. In autumn, on the other hand, we only behold the

present; if we wish to look forward to spring, winter bars the way,

and our shivering imagination dies away among its frost and snow.

This is the source of the charm we find in beholding the beauties

of childhood, rather than the perfection of manhood. When do we

really delight in beholding a man? When the memory of his deeds

leads us to look back over his life and his youth is renewed in

our eyes. If we are reduced to viewing him as he is, or to picturing

him as he will be in old age, the thought of declining years destroys

all our pleasure. There is no pleasure in seeing a man hastening

to his grave; the image of death makes all hideous.

But when I think of a child of ten or twelve, strong, healthy,

well-grown for his age, only pleasant thoughts are called up, whether

of the present or the future. I see him keen, eager, and full of

life, free from gnawing cares and painful forebodings, absorbed

in this present state, and delighting in a fullness of life which

seems to extend beyond himself. I look forward to a time when he

will use his daily increasing sense, intelligence and vigour, those

growing powers of which he continually gives fresh proof. I watch

the child with delight, I picture to myself the man with even

greater pleasure. His eager life seems to stir my own pulses, I

seem to live his life and in his vigour I renew my own.

The hour strikes, the scene is changed. All of a sudden his eye

grows dim, his mirth has fled. Farewell mirth, farewell untrammelled

sports in which he delighted. A stern, angry man takes him by the

hand, saying gravely, "Come with me, sir," and he is led away. As

they are entering the room, I catch a glimpse of books. Books, what

dull food for a child of his age! The poor child allows himself to

be dragged away; he casts a sorrowful look on all about him, and

departs in silence, his eyes swollen with the tears he dare not

shed, and his heart bursting with the sighs he dare not utter.

You who have no such cause for fear, you for whom no period of life

is a time of weariness and tedium, you who welcome days without

care and nights without impatience, you who only reckon time by

your pleasures, come, my happy kindly pupil, and console us for

the departure of that miserable creature. Come! Here he is and at

his approach I feel a thrill of delight which I see he shares. It

is his friend, his comrade, who meets him; when he sees me he knows

very well that he will not be long without amusement; we are never

dependent on each other, but we are always on good terms, and we

are never so happy as when together.

His face, his bearing, his expression, speak of confidence and

contentment; health shines in his countenance, his firm step speaks

of strength; his colour, delicate but not sickly, has nothing of

softness or effeminacy. Sun and wind have already set the honourable

stamp of manhood on his countenance; his rounded muscles already

begin to show some signs of growing individuality; his eyes, as yet

unlighted by the flame of feeling, have at least all their native

calm; They have not been darkened by prolonged sorrow, nor are his

cheeks furrowed by ceaseless tears. Behold in his quick and certain

movements the natural vigour of his age and the confidence of

independence. His manner is free and open, but without a trace of

insolence or vanity; his head which has not been bent over books

does not fall upon his breast; there is no need to say, "Hold your

head up," he will neither hang his head for shame or fear.

Make room for him, gentlemen, in your midst; question him boldly;

have no fear of importunity, chatter, or impertinent questions. You

need not be afraid that he will take possession of you and expect

you to devote yourself entirely to him, so that you cannot get rid

of him.

Neither need you look for compliments from him; nor will he tell

you what I have taught him to say; expect nothing from him but

the plain, simple truth, without addition or ornament and without

vanity. He will tell you the wrong things he has done and thought

as readily as the right, without troubling himself in the least as

to the effect of his words upon you; he will use speech with all

the simplicity of its first beginnings.

We love to augur well of our children, and we are continually

regretting the flood of folly which overwhelms the hopes we would

fain have rested on some chance phrase. If my scholar rarely gives

me cause for such prophecies, neither will he give me cause for

such regrets, for he never says a useless word, and does not exhaust

himself by chattering when he knows there is no one to listen to

him. His ideas are few but precise, he knows nothing by rote but

much by experience. If he reads our books worse than other children,

he reads far better in the book of nature; his thoughts are not in

his tongue but in his brain; he has less memory and more judgment;

he can only speak one language, but he understands what he is

saying, and if his speech is not so good as that of other children

his deeds are better.

He does not know the meaning of habit, routine, and custom; what

he did yesterday has no control over what he is doing to-day; he

follows no rule, submits to no authority, copies no pattern, and

only acts or speaks as he pleases. So do not expect set speeches

or studied manners from him, but just the faithful expression of

his thoughts and the conduct that springs from his inclinations.

[Footnote: Habit owes its charm to man's natural idleness, and

this idleness grows upon us if indulged; it is easier to do what we

have already done, there is a beaten path which is easily followed.

Thus we may observe that habit is very strong in the aged and in

the indolent, and very weak in the young and active. The rule of

habit is only good for feeble hearts, and it makes them more and

more feeble day by day. The only useful habit for children is to

be accustomed to submit without difficulty to necessity, and the

only useful habit for man is to submit without difficulty to the

rule of reason. Every other habit is a vice.]

You will find he has a few moral ideas concerning his present state

and none concerning manhood; what use could he make of them, for

the child is not, as yet, an active member of society. Speak to

him of freedom, of property, or even of what is usually done; he

may understand you so far; he knows why his things are his own,

and why other things are not his, and nothing more. Speak to him

of duty or obedience; he will not know what you are talking about;

bid him do something and he will pay no attention; but say to him,

"If you will give me this pleasure, I will repay it when required,"

and he will hasten to give you satisfaction, for he asks nothing

better than to extend his domain, to acquire rights over you,

which will, he knows, be respected. Maybe he is not sorry to have

a place of his own, to be reckoned of some account; but if he has

formed this latter idea, he has already left the realms of nature,

and you have failed to bar the gates of vanity.

For his own part, should he need help, he will ask it readily of

the first person he meets. He will ask it of a king as readily as

of his servant; all men are equals in his eyes. From his way of

asking you will see he knows you owe him nothing, that he is asking

a favour. He knows too that humanity moves you to grant this favour;

his words are few and simple. His voice, his look, his gesture are

those of a being equally familiar with compliance and refusal. It

is neither the crawling, servile submission of the slave, nor the

imperious tone of the master, it is a modest confidence in mankind;

it is the noble and touching gentleness of a creature, free, yet

sensitive and feeble, who asks aid of a being, free, but strong

and kindly. If you grant his request he will not thank you, but

he will feel he has incurred a debt. If you refuse he will neither

complain nor insist; he knows it is useless; he will not say,

"They refused to help me," but "It was impossible," and as I have

already said, we do not rebel against necessity when once we have

perceived it.

Leave him to himself and watch his actions without speaking, consider

what he is doing and how he sets about it. He does not require to

convince himself that he is free, so he never acts thoughtlessly

and merely to show that he can do what he likes; does he not know

that he is always his own master? He is quick, alert, and ready;

his movements are eager as befits his age, but you will not find

one which has no end in view. Whatever he wants, he will never

attempt what is beyond his powers, for he has learnt by experience

what those powers are; his means will always be adapted to the end

in view, and he will rarely attempt anything without the certainty

of success; his eye is keen and true; he will not be so stupid as

to go and ask other people about what he sees; he will examine it

on his own account, and before he asks he will try every means at

his disposal to discover what he wants to know for himself. If he

lights upon some unexpected difficulty, he will be less upset than

others; if there is danger he will be less afraid. His imagination

is still asleep and nothing has been done to arouse it; he only

sees what is really there, and rates the danger at its true worth;

so he never loses his head. He does not rebel against necessity,

her hand is too heavy upon him; he has borne her yoke all his life

long, he is well used to it; he is always ready for anything.

Work or play are all one to him, his games are his work; he knows

no difference. He brings to everything the cheerfulness of interest,

the charm of freedom, and he shows the bent of his own mind and

the extent of his knowledge. Is there anything better worth seeing,

anything more touching or more delightful, than a pretty child,

with merry, cheerful glance, easy contented manner, open smiling

countenance, playing at the most important things, or working at

the lightest amusements?

Would you now judge him by comparison? Set him among other children

and leave him to himself. You will soon see which has made most

progress, which comes nearer to the perfection of childhood. Among

all the children in the town there is none more skilful and none

so strong. Among young peasants he is their equal in strength and

their superior in skill. In everything within a child's grasp he

judges, reasons, and shows a forethought beyond the rest. Is it

a matter of action, running, jumping, or shifting things, raising

weights or estimating distance, inventing games, carrying off

prizes; you might say, "Nature obeys his word," so easily does he

bend all things to his will. He is made to lead, to rule his fellows;

talent and experience take the place of right and authority. In any

garb, under any name, he will still be first; everywhere he will

rule the rest, they will always feel his superiority, he will be

master without knowing it, and they will serve him unawares.

He has reached the perfection of childhood; he has lived the life

of a child; his progress has not been bought at the price of his

happiness, he has gained both. While he has acquired all the wisdom

of a child, he has been as free and happy as his health permits.

If the Reaper Death should cut him off and rob us of our hopes,

we need not bewail alike his life and death, we shall not have the

added grief of knowing that we caused him pain; we will say, "His

childhood, at least, was happy; we have robbed him of nothing that

nature gave him."

The chief drawback to this early education is that it is only

appreciated by the wise; to vulgar eyes the child so carefully

educated is nothing but a rough little boy. A tutor thinks rather

of the advantage to himself than to his pupil; he makes a point of

showing that there has been no time wasted; he provides his pupil

with goods which can be readily displayed in the shop window,

accomplishments which can be shown off at will; no matter whether

they are useful, provided they are easily seen. Without choice or

discrimination he loads his memory with a pack of rubbish. If the

child is to be examined he is set to display his wares; he spreads

them out, satisfies those who behold them, packs up his bundle and

goes his way. My pupil is poorer, he has no bundle to display, he

has only himself to show. Now neither child nor man can be read

at a glance. Where are the observers who can at once discern the

characteristics of this child? There are such people, but they are

few and far between; among a thousand fathers you will scarcely

find one.

Too many questions are tedious and revolting to most of us and

especially to children. After a few minutes their attention flags,

they cease to listen to your everlasting questions and reply at

random. This way of testing them is pedantic and useless; a chance

word will often show their sense and intelligence better than much

talking, but take care that the answer is neither a matter of chance

nor yet learnt by heart. A man must needs have a good judgment if

he is to estimate the judgment of a child.

I heard the late Lord Hyde tell the following story about one of his

friends. He had returned from Italy after a three years' absence,

and was anxious to test the progress of his son, a child of nine

or ten. One evening he took a walk with the child and his tutor

across a level space where the schoolboys were flying their kites.

As they went, the father said to his son, "Where is the kite that

casts this shadow?" Without hesitating and without glancing upwards

the child replied, "Over the high road." "And indeed," said Lord

Hyde, "the high road was between us and the sun." At these words,

the father kissed his child, and having finished his examination

he departed. The next day he sent the tutor the papers settling

an annuity on him in addition to his salary.

What a father! and what a promising child! The question is exactly

adapted to the child's age, the answer is perfectly simple; but

see what precision it implies in the child's judgment. Thus did

the pupil of Aristotle master the famous steed which no squire had

ever been able to tame.