The whole course of man's life up to adolescence is a period of
weakness; yet there comes a time during these early years when the
child's strength overtakes the demands upon it, when the growing
creature, though absolutely weak, is relatively strong. His needs
are not fully developed and his present strength is more than enough
for them. He would be a very feeble man, but he is a strong child.
What is the cause of man's weakness? It is to be found in
the disproportion between his strength and his desires. It is our
passions that make us weak, for our natural strength is not enough
for their satisfaction. To limit our desires comes to the same
thing, therefore, as to increase our strength. When we can do more
than we want, we have strength enough and to spare, we are really
strong. This is the third stage of childhood, the stage with which
I am about to deal. I still speak of childhood for want of a better
word; for our scholar is approaching adolescence, though he has
not yet reached the age of puberty.
About twelve or thirteen the child's strength increases far more
rapidly than his needs. The strongest and fiercest of the passions
is still unknown, his physical development is still imperfect and
seems to await the call of the will. He is scarcely aware of extremes
of heat and cold and braves them with impunity. He needs no coat,
his blood is warm; no spices, hunger is his sauce, no food comes
amiss at this age; if he is sleepy he stretches himself on the
ground and goes to sleep; he finds all he needs within his reach;
he is not tormented by any imaginary wants; he cares nothing what
others think; his desires are not beyond his grasp; not only is
he self-sufficing, but for the first and last time in his life he
has more strength than he needs.
I know beforehand what you will say. You will not assert that the
child has more needs than I attribute to him, but you will deny
his strength. You forget that I am speaking of my own pupil, not
of those puppets who walk with difficulty from one room to another,
who toil indoors and carry bundles of paper. Manly strength, you say,
appears only with manhood; the vital spirits, distilled in their
proper vessels and spreading through the whole body, can alone make
the muscles firm, sensitive, tense, and springy, can alone cause
real strength. This is the philosophy of the study; I appeal to
that of experience. In the country districts, I see big lads hoeing,
digging, guiding the plough, filling the wine-cask, driving the
cart, like their fathers; you would take them for grown men if
their voices did not betray them. Even in our towns, iron-workers',
tool makers', and blacksmiths' lads are almost as strong as their
masters and would be scarcely less skilful had their training
begun earlier. If there is a difference, and I do not deny that
there is, it is, I repeat, much less than the difference between
the stormy passions of the man and the few wants of the child.
Moreover, it is not merely a question of bodily strength, but more
especially of strength of mind, which reinforces and directs the
bodily strength.
This interval in which the strength of the individual is in excess
of his wants is, as I have said, relatively though not absolutely
the time of greatest strength. It is the most precious time in his
life; it comes but once; it is very short, all too short, as you
will see when you consider the importance of using it aright.
He has, therefore, a surplus of strength and capacity which he will
never have again. What use shall he make of it? He will strive to
use it in tasks which will help at need. He will, so to speak, cast
his present surplus into the storehouse of the future; the vigorous
child will make provision for the feeble man; but he will not store
his goods where thieves may break in, nor in barns which are not
his own. To store them aright, they must be in the hands and the
head, they must be stored within himself. This is the time for
work, instruction, and inquiry. And note that this is no arbitrary
choice of mine, it is the way of nature herself.
Human intelligence is finite, and not only can no man know everything,
he cannot even acquire all the scanty knowledge of others. Since the
contrary of every false proposition is a truth, there are as many
truths as falsehoods. We must, therefore, choose what to teach
as well as when to teach it. Some of the information within our
reach is false, some is useless, some merely serves to puff up its
possessor. The small store which really contributes to our welfare
alone deserves the study of a wise man, and therefore of a child
whom one would have wise. He must know not merely what is, but what
is useful.
From this small stock we must also deduct those truths which require
a full grown mind for their understanding, those which suppose a
knowledge of man's relations to his fellow-men--a knowledge which
no child can acquire; these things, although in themselves true, lead
an inexperienced mind into mistakes with regard to other matters.
We are now confined to a circle, small indeed compared with the
whole of human thought, but this circle is still a vast sphere when
measured by the child's mind. Dark places of the human understanding,
what rash hand shall dare to raise your veil? What pitfalls does
our so-called science prepare for the miserable child. Would you
guide him along this dangerous path and draw the veil from the
face of nature? Stay your hand. First make sure that neither he
nor you will become dizzy. Beware of the specious charms of error
and the intoxicating fumes of pride. Keep this truth ever before
you--Ignorance never did any one any harm, error alone is fatal,
and we do not lose our way through ignorance but through self-confidence.
His progress in geometry may serve as a test and a true measure of
the growth of his intelligence, but as soon as he can distinguish
between what is useful and what is useless, much skill and discretion
are required to lead him towards theoretical studies. For example,
would you have him find a mean proportional between two lines,
contrive that he should require to find a square equal to a given
rectangle; if two mean proportionals are required, you must first
contrive to interest him in the doubling of the cube. See how we
are gradually approaching the moral ideas which distinguish between
good and evil. Hitherto we have known no law but necessity, now
we are considering what is useful; we shall soon come to what is
fitting and right.
Man's diverse powers are stirred by the same instinct. The bodily
activity, which seeks an outlet for its energies, is succeeded by
the mental activity which seeks for knowledge. Children are first
restless, then curious; and this curiosity, rightly directed, is
the means of development for the age with which we are dealing.
Always distinguish between natural and acquired tendencies. There
is a zeal for learning which has no other foundation than a wish
to appear learned, and there is another which springs from man's
natural curiosity about all things far or near which may affect
himself. The innate desire for comfort and the impossibility
of its complete satisfaction impel him to the endless search for
fresh means of contributing to its satisfaction. This is the first
principle of curiosity; a principle natural to the human heart,
though its growth is proportional to the development of our feeling
and knowledge. If a man of science were left on a desert island
with his books and instruments and knowing that he must spend the
rest of his life there, he would scarcely trouble himself about the
solar system, the laws of attraction, or the differential calculus.
He might never even open a book again; but he would never rest till
he had explored the furthest corner of his island, however large
it might be. Let us therefore omit from our early studies such
knowledge as has no natural attraction for us, and confine ourselves
to such things as instinct impels us to study.
Our island is this earth; and the most striking object we behold
is the sun. As soon as we pass beyond our immediate surroundings,
one or both of these must meet our eye. Thus the philosophy of
most savage races is mainly directed to imaginary divisions of the
earth or to the divinity of the sun.
What a sudden change you will say. Just now we were concerned with
what touches ourselves, with our immediate environment, and all
at once we are exploring the round world and leaping to the bounds
of the universe. This change is the result of our growing strength
and of the natural bent of the mind. While we were weak and feeble,
self-preservation concentrated our attention on ourselves; now that
we are strong and powerful, the desire for a wider sphere carries
us beyond ourselves as far as our eyes can reach. But as the
intellectual world is still unknown to us, our thoughts are bounded
by the visible horizon, and our understanding only develops within
the limits of our vision.
Let us transform our sensations into ideas, but do not let us jump
all at once from the objects of sense to objects of thought. The
latter are attained by means of the former. Let the senses be the
only guide for the first workings of reason. No book but the world,
no teaching but that of fact. The child who reads ceases to think,
he only reads. He is acquiring words not knowledge.
Teach your scholar to observe the phenomena of nature; you will
soon rouse his curiosity, but if you would have it grow, do not be
in too great a hurry to satisfy this curiosity. Put the problems
before him and let him solve them himself. Let him know nothing
because you have told him, but because he has learnt it for himself.
Let him not be taught science, let him discover it. If ever you
substitute authority for reason he will cease to reason; he will
be a mere plaything of other people's thoughts.
You wish to teach this child geography and you provide him with
globes, spheres, and maps. What elaborate preparations! What is
the use of all these symbols; why not begin by showing him the real
thing so that he may at least know what you are talking about?
One fine evening we are walking in a suitable place where the wide
horizon gives us a full view of the setting sun, and we note the
objects which mark the place where it sets. Next morning we return
to the same place for a breath of fresh air before sun-rise. We
see the rays of light which announce the sun's approach; the glow
increases, the east seems afire, and long before the sun appears
the light leads us to expect its return. Every moment you expect to
see it. There it is at last! A shining point appears like a flash
of lightning and soon fills the whole space; the veil of darkness
rolls away, man perceives his dwelling place in fresh beauty.
During the night the grass has assumed a fresher green; in the
light of early dawn, and gilded by the first rays of the sun, it
seems covered with a shining network of dew reflecting the light
and colour. The birds raise their chorus of praise to greet the
Father of life, not one of them is mute; their gentle warbling is
softer than by day, it expresses the langour of a peaceful waking.
All these produce an impression of freshness which seems to reach
the very soul. It is a brief hour of enchantment which no man can
resist; a sight so grand, so fair, so delicious, that none can
behold it unmoved.
Fired with this enthusiasm, the master wishes to impart it to the
child. He expects to rouse his emotion by drawing attention to his
own. Mere folly! The splendour of nature lives in man's heart; to
be seen, it must be felt. The child sees the objects themselves, but
does not perceive their relations, and cannot hear their harmony.
It needs knowledge he has not yet acquired, feelings he has not yet
experienced, to receive the complex impression which results from
all these separate sensations. If he has not wandered over arid
plains, if his feet have not been scorched by the burning sands
of the desert, if he has not breathed the hot and oppressive air
reflected from the glowing rocks, how shall he delight in the fresh
air of a fine morning. The scent of flowers, the beauty of foliage,
the moistness of the dew, the soft turf beneath his feet, how shall
all these delight his senses. How shall the song of the birds arouse
voluptuous emotion if love and pleasure are still unknown to him?
How shall he behold with rapture the birth of this fair day, if
his imagination cannot paint the joys it may bring in its track?
How can he feel the beauty of nature, while the hand that formed
it is unknown?
Never tell the child what he cannot understand: no descriptions, no
eloquence, no figures of speech, no poetry. The time has not come
for feeling or taste. Continue to be clear and cold; the time will
come only too soon when you must adopt another tone.
Brought up in the spirit of our maxims, accustomed to make his own
tools and not to appeal to others until he has tried and failed, he
will examine everything he sees carefully and in silence. He thinks
rather than questions. Be content, therefore, to show him things at
a fit season; then, when you see that his curiosity is thoroughly
aroused, put some brief question which will set him trying to
discover the answer.
On the present occasion when you and he have carefully observed
the rising sun, when you have called his attention to the mountains
and other objects visible from the same spot, after he has chattered
freely about them, keep quiet for a few minutes as if lost in
thought and then say, "I think the sun set over there last night;
it rose here this morning. How can that be?" Say no more; if he
asks questions, do not answer them; talk of something else. Let
him alone, and be sure he will think about it.
To train a child to be really attentive so that he may be really
impressed by any truth of experience, he must spend anxious days
before he discovers that truth. If he does not learn enough in this
way, there is another way of drawing his attention to the matter.
Turn the question about. If he does not know how the sun gets from
the place where it sets to where it rises, he knows at least how
it travels from sunrise to sunset, his eyes teach him that. Use the
second question to throw light on the first; either your pupil is
a regular dunce or the analogy is too clear to be missed. This is
his first lesson in cosmography.
As we always advance slowly from one sensible idea to another, and
as we give time enough to each for him to become really familiar
with it before we go on to another, and lastly as we never force
our scholar's attention, we are still a long way from a knowledge
of the course of the sun or the shape of the earth; but as all
the apparent movements of the celestial bodies depend on the same
principle, and the first observation leads on to all the rest, less
effort is needed, though more time, to proceed from the diurnal
revolution to the calculation of eclipses, than to get a thorough
understanding of day and night.
Since the sun revolves round the earth it describes a circle, and
every circle must have a centre; that we know already. This centre
is invisible, it is in the middle of the earth, but we can mark
out two opposite points on the earth's surface which correspond to
it. A skewer passed through the three points and prolonged to the
sky at either end would represent the earth's axis and the sun's
daily course. A round teetotum revolving on its point represents
the sky turning on its axis, the two points of the teetotum are the
two poles; the child will be delighted to find one of them, and I
show him the tail of the Little bear. Here is a another game for
the dark. Little by little we get to know the stars, and from this
comes a wish to know the planets and observe the constellations.
We saw the sun rise at midsummer, we shall see it rise at Christmas
or some other fine winter's day; for you know we are no lie-a-beds
and we enjoy the cold. I take care to make this second observation
in the same place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, one
or other will certainly exclaim, "What a funny thing! The sun is
not rising in the same place; here are our landmarks, but it is
rising over there. So there is the summer east and the winter east,
etc." Young teacher, you are on the right track. These examples
should show you how to teach the sphere without any difficulty,
taking the earth for the earth and the sun for the sun.
As a general rule--never substitute the symbol for the thing
signified, unless it is impossible to show the thing itself; for
the child's attention is so taken up with the symbol that he will
forget what it signifies.
I consider the armillary sphere a clumsy disproportioned bit of
apparatus. The confused circles and the strange figures described
on it suggest witchcraft and frighten the child. The earth is too
small, the circles too large and too numerous, some of them, the
colures, for instance, are quite useless, and the thickness of the
pasteboard gives them an appearance of solidity so that they are
taken for circular masses having a real existence, and when you
tell the child that these are imaginary circles, he does not know
what he is looking at and is none the wiser.
We are unable to put ourselves in the child's place, we fail to enter
into his thoughts, we invest him with our own ideas, and while we
are following our own chain of reasoning, we merely fill his head
with errors and absurdities.
Should the method of studying science be analytic or synthetic?
People dispute over this question, but it is not always necessary
to choose between them. Sometimes the same experiments allow one
to use both analysis and synthesis, and thus to guide the child
by the method of instruction when he fancies he is only analysing.
Then, by using both at once, each method confirms the results of the
other. Starting from opposite ends, without thinking of following
the same road, he will unexpectedly reach their meeting place and
this will be a delightful surprise. For example, I would begin
geography at both ends and add to the study of the earth's revolution
the measurement of its divisions, beginning at home. While the
child is studying the sphere and is thus transported to the heavens,
bring him back to the divisions of the globe and show him his own
home.
His geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father's
country house, then the places between them, the rivers near them,
and then the sun's aspect and how to find one's way by its aid.
This is the meeting place. Let him make his own map, a very simple
map, at first containing only two places; others may be added from
time to time, as he is able to estimate their distance and position.
You see at once what a good start we have given him by making his
eye his compass.
No doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but very
little, and that little without his knowing it. If he goes wrong
let him alone, do not correct his mistakes; hold your tongue till
he finds them out for himself and corrects them, or at most arrange
something, as opportunity offers, which may show him his mistakes.
If he never makes mistakes he will never learn anything thoroughly.
Moreover, what he needs is not an exact knowledge of local
topography, but how to find out for himself. No matter whether he
carries maps in his head provided he understands what they mean, and
has a clear idea of the art of making them. See what a difference
there is already between the knowledge of your scholars and the
ignorance of mine. They learn maps, he makes them. Here are fresh
ornaments for his room.
Remember that this is the essential point in my method--Do not
teach the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate or
confused ideas. I care not if he knows nothing provided he is not
mistaken, and I only acquaint him with truths to guard him against
the errors he might put in their place. Reason and judgment come
slowly, prejudices flock to us in crowds, and from these he must be
protected. But if you make science itself your object, you embark
on an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean strewn with reefs
from which you will never return. When I see a man in love with
knowledge, yielding to its charms and flitting from one branch
to another unable to stay his steps, he seems to me like a child
gathering shells on the sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwing
them aside for others which he sees beyond them, then taking them
again, till overwhelmed by their number and unable to choose between
them, he flings them all away and returns empty handed.
Time was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass our
time for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have not
time enough for all that would be of use. The passions, remember,
are drawing near, and when they knock at the door your scholar will
have no ear for anything else. The peaceful age of intelligence is
so short, it flies so swiftly, there is so much to be done, that
it is madness to try to make your child learned. It is not your
business to teach him the various sciences, but to give him a taste
for them and methods of learning them when this taste is more mature.
That is assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education.
This is also the time to train him gradually to prolonged attention
to a given object; but this attention should never be the result
of constraint, but of interest or desire; you must be very careful
that it is not too much for his strength, and that it is not carried
to the point of tedium. Watch him, therefore, and whatever happens,
stop before he is tired, for it matters little what he learns; it
does matter that he should do nothing against his will.
If he asks questions let your answers be enough to whet his curiosity
but not enough to satisfy it; above all, when you find him talking
at random and overwhelming you with silly questions instead of
asking for information, at once refuse to answer; for it is clear
that he no longer cares about the matter in hand, but wants to make
you a slave to his questions. Consider his motives rather than his
words. This warning, which was scarcely needed before, becomes of
supreme importance when the child begins to reason.
There is a series of abstract truths by means of which all the
sciences are related to common principles and are developed each
in its turn. This relationship is the method of the philosophers.
We are not concerned with it at present. There is quite another
method by which every concrete example suggests another and always
points to the next in the series. This succession, which stimulates
the curiosity and so arouses the attention required by every object
in turn, is the order followed by most men, and it is the right
order for all children. To take our bearings so as to make our
maps we must find meridians. Two points of intersection between
the equal shadows morning and evening supply an excellent meridian
for a thirteen-year-old astronomer. But these meridians disappear,
it takes time to trace them, and you are obliged to work in one
place. So much trouble and attention will at last become irksome.
We foresaw this and are ready for it.
Again I must enter into minute and detailed explanations. I hear
my readers murmur, but I am prepared to meet their disapproval;
I will not sacrifice the most important part of this book to your
impatience. You may think me as long-winded as you please; I have
my own opinion as to your complaints.
Long ago my pupil and I remarked that some substances such as amber,
glass, and wax, when well rubbed, attracted straws, while others
did not. We accidentally discover a substance which has a more
unusual property, that of attracting filings or other small particles
of iron from a distance and without rubbing. How much time do we
devote to this game to the exclusion of everything else! At last
we discover that this property is communicated to the iron itself,
which is, so to speak, endowed with life. We go to the fair one
day [Footnote: I could not help laughing when I read an elaborate
criticism of this little tale by M. de Formy. "This conjuror,"
says he, "who is afraid of a child's competition and preaches to
his tutor is the sort of person we meet with in the world in which
Emile and such as he are living." This witty M. de Formy could
not guess that this little scene was arranged beforehand, and that
the juggler was taught his part in it; indeed I did not state this
fact. But I have said again and again that I was not writing for
people who expected to be told everything.] and a conjuror has
a wax duck floating in a basin of water, and he makes it follow a
bit of bread. We are greatly surprised, but we do not call him a
wizard, never having heard of such persons. As we are continually
observing effects whose causes are unknown to us, we are in no hurry
to make up our minds, and we remain in ignorance till we find an
opportunity of learning.
When we get home we discuss the duck till we try to imitate it.
We take a needle thoroughly magnetised, we imbed it in white wax,
shaped as far as possible like a duck, with the needle running
through the body, so that its eye forms the beak. We put the duck
in water and put the end of a key near its beak, and you will
readily understand our delight when we find that our duck follows
the key just as the duck at the fair followed the bit of bread.
Another time we may note the direction assumed by the duck when
left in the basin; for the present we are wholly occupied with our
work and we want nothing more.
The same evening we return to the fair with some bread specially
prepared in our pockets, and as soon as the conjuror has performed
his trick, my little doctor, who can scarcely sit still, exclaims,
"The trick is quite easy; I can do it myself." "Do it then." He
at once takes the bread with a bit of iron hidden in it from his
pocket; his heart throbs as he approaches the table and holds out
the bread, his hand trembles with excitement. The duck approaches
and follows his hand. The child cries out and jumps for joy. The
applause, the shouts of the crowd, are too much for him, he is
beside himself. The conjuror, though disappointed, embraces him,
congratulates him, begs the honour of his company on the following
day, and promises to collect a still greater crowd to applaud his
skill. My young scientist is very proud of himself and is beginning
to chatter, but I check him at once and take him home overwhelmed
with praise.
The child counts the minutes till to-morrow with absurd anxiety.
He invites every one he meets, he wants all mankind to behold his
glory; he can scarcely wait till the appointed hour. He hurries to
the place; the hall is full already; as he enters his young heart
swells with pride. Other tricks are to come first. The conjuror
surpasses himself and does the most surprising things. The child
sees none of these; he wriggles, perspires, and hardly breathes;
the time is spent in fingering with a trembling hand the bit of
bread in his pocket. His turn comes at last; the master announces
it to the audience with all ceremony; he goes up looking somewhat
shamefaced and takes out his bit of bread. Oh fleeting joys of human
life! the duck, so tame yesterday, is quite wild to-day; instead
of offering its beak it turns tail and swims away; it avoids the
bread and the hand that holds it as carefully as it followed them
yesterday. After many vain attempts accompanied by derisive shouts
from the audience the child complains that he is being cheated,
that is not the same duck, and he defies the conjuror to attract
it.
The conjuror, without further words, takes a bit of bread and
offers it to the duck, which at once follows it and comes to the
hand which holds it. The child takes the same bit of bread with
no better success; the duck mocks his efforts and swims round the
basin. Overwhelmed with confusion he abandons the attempt, ashamed
to face the crowd any longer. Then the conjuror takes the bit of
bread the child brought with him and uses it as successfully as
his own. He takes out the bit of iron before the audience--another
laugh at our expense--then with this same bread he attracts the
duck as before. He repeats the experiment with a piece of bread
cut by a third person in full view of the audience. He does it with
his glove, with his finger-tip. Finally he goes into the middle of
the room and in the emphatic tones used by such persons he declares
that his duck will obey his voice as readily as his hand; he speaks
and the duck obeys; he bids him go to the right and he goes, to come
back again and he comes. The movement is as ready as the command.
The growing applause completes our discomfiture. We slip away
unnoticed and shut ourselves up in our room, without relating our
successes to everybody as we had expected.
Next day there is a knock at the door. When I open it there is the
conjuror, who makes a modest complaint with regard to our conduct.
What had he done that we should try to discredit his tricks and deprive
him of his livelihood? What is there so wonderful in attracting a
duck that we should purchase this honour at the price of an honest
man's living? "My word, gentlemen! had I any other trade by which
I could earn a living I would not pride myself on this. You may
well believe that a man who has spent his life at this miserable
trade knows more about it than you who only give your spare time to
it. If I did not show you my best tricks at first, it was because
one must not be so foolish as to display all one knows at once. I
always take care to keep my best tricks for emergencies; and I have
plenty more to prevent young folks from meddling. However, I have
come, gentlemen, in all kindness, to show you the trick that gave
you so much trouble; I only beg you not to use it to my hurt, and
to be more discreet in future." He then shows us his apparatus,
and to our great surprise we find it is merely a strong magnet in
the hand of a boy concealed under the table. The man puts up his
things, and after we have offered our thanks and apologies, we try
to give him something. He refuses it. "No, gentlemen," says he, "I
owe you no gratitude and I will not accept your gift. I leave you
in my debt in spite of all, and that is my only revenge. Generosity
may be found among all sorts of people, and I earn my pay by doing
my tricks not by teaching them."
As he is going he blames me out-right. "I can make excuses for the
child," he says, "he sinned in ignorance. But you, sir, should know
better. Why did you let him do it? As you are living together and
you are older than he, you should look after him and give him good
advice. Your experience should be his guide. When he is grown up
he will reproach, not only himself, but you, for the faults of his
youth."
When he is gone we are greatly downcast. I blame myself for my
easy-going ways. I promise the child that another time I will put
his interests first and warn him against faults before he falls into
them, for the time is coming when our relations will be changed,
when the severity of the master must give way to the friendliness
of the comrade; this change must come gradually, you must look
ahead, and very far ahead.
We go to the fair again the next day to see the trick whose secret
we know. We approach our Socrates, the conjuror, with profound
respect, we scarcely dare to look him in the face. He overwhelms
us with politeness, gives us the best places, and heaps coals of
fire on our heads. He goes through his performance as usual, but
he lingers affectionately over the duck, and often glances proudly
in our direction. We are in the secret, but we do not tell. If my
pupil did but open his mouth he would be worthy of death.
There is more meaning than you suspect in this detailed illustration.
How many lessons in one! How mortifying are the results of a first
impulse towards vanity! Young tutor, watch this first impulse
carefully. If you can use it to bring about shame and disgrace,
you may be sure it will not recur for many a day. What a fuss you
will say. Just so; and all to provide a compass which will enable
us to dispense with a meridian!
Having learnt that a magnet acts through other bodies, our next
business is to construct a bit of apparatus similar to that shown
us. A bare table, a shallow bowl placed on it and filled with water,
a duck rather better finished than the first, and so on. We often
watch the thing and at last we notice that the duck, when at rest,
always turns the same way. We follow up this observation; we examine
the direction, we find that it is from south to north. Enough! we
have found our compass or its equivalent; the study of physics is
begun.
There are various regions of the earth, and these regions differ
in temperature. The variation is more evident as we approach the
poles; all bodies expand with heat and contract with cold; this
is best measured in liquids and best of all in spirits; hence the
thermometer. The wind strikes the face, then the air is a body,
a fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. I invert a glass in
water; the water will not fill it unless you leave a passage for
the escape of the air; so air is capable of resistance. Plunge the
glass further in the water; the water will encroach on the air-space
without filling it entirely; so air yields somewhat to pressure.
A ball filled with compressed air bounces better than one filled
with anything else; so air is elastic. Raise your arm horizontally
from the water when you are lying in your bath; you will feel a
terrible weight on it; so air is a heavy body. By establishing an
equilibrium between air and other fluids its weight can be measured,
hence the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump. All
the laws of statics and hydrostatics are discovered by such rough
experiments. For none of these would I take the child into a physical
cabinet; I dislike that array of instruments and apparatus. The
scientific atmosphere destroys science. Either the child is
frightened by these instruments or his attention, which should be
fixed on their effects, is distracted by their appearance.
We shall make all our apparatus ourselves, and I would not make it
beforehand, but having caught a glimpse of the experiment by chance
we mean to invent step by step an instrument for its verification.
I would rather our apparatus was somewhat clumsy and imperfect,
but our ideas clear as to what the apparatus ought to be, and the
results to be obtained by means of it. For my first lesson in statics,
instead of fetching a balance, I lay a stick across the back of a
chair, I measure the two parts when it is balanced; add equal or
unequal weights to either end; by pulling or pushing it as required,
I find at last that equilibrium is the result of a reciprocal
proportion between the amount of the weights and the length of
the levers. Thus my little physicist is ready to rectify a balance
before ever he sees one.
Undoubtedly the notions of things thus acquired for oneself
are clearer and much more convincing than those acquired from the
teaching of others; and not only is our reason not accustomed to a
slavish submission to authority, but we develop greater ingenuity
in discovering relations, connecting ideas and inventing apparatus,
than when we merely accept what is given us and allow our minds to
be enfeebled by indifference, like the body of a man whose servants
always wait on him, dress him and put on his shoes, whose horse
carries him, till he loses the use of his limbs. Boileau used to
boast that he had taught Racine the art of rhyming with difficulty.
Among the many short cuts to science, we badly need some one to
teach us the art of learning with difficulty.
The most obvious advantage of these slow and laborious inquiries
is this: the scholar, while engaged in speculative studies, is
actively using his body, gaining suppleness of limb, and training
his hands to labour so that he will be able to make them useful
when he is a man. Too much apparatus, designed to guide us in our
experiments and to supplement the exactness of our senses, makes
us neglect to use those senses. The theodolite makes it unnecessary
to estimate the size of angles; the eye which used to judge distances
with much precision, trusts to the chain for its measurements; the
steel yard dispenses with the need of judging weight by the hand
as I used to do. The more ingenious our apparatus, the coarser and
more unskilful are our senses. We surround ourselves with tools
and fail to use those with which nature has provided every one of
us.
But when we devote to the making of these instruments the skill
which did instead of them, when for their construction we use the
intelligence which enabled us to dispense with them, this is gain
not loss, we add art to nature, we gain ingenuity without loss of
skill. If instead of making a child stick to his books I employ
him in a workshop, his hands work for the development of his mind.
While he fancies himself a workman he is becoming a philosopher.
Moreover, this exercise has other advantages of which I shall speak
later; and you will see how, through philosophy in sport, one may
rise to the real duties of man.
I have said already that purely theoretical science is hardly
suitable for children, even for children approaching adolescence;
but without going far into theoretical physics, take care that all
their experiments are connected together by some chain of reasoning,
so that they may follow an orderly sequence in the mind, and may
be recalled at need; for it is very difficult to remember isolated
facts or arguments, when there is no cue for their recall.
In your inquiry into the laws of nature always begin with the
commonest and most conspicuous phenomena, and train your scholar
not to accept these phenomena as causes but as facts. I take a
stone and pretend to place it in the air; I open my hand, the stone
falls. I see Emile watching my action and I say, "Why does this
stone fall?"
What child will hesitate over this question? None, not even Emile,
unless I have taken great pains to teach him not to answer. Every
one will say, "The stone falls because it is heavy." "And what do
you mean by heavy?" "That which falls." "So the stone falls because
it falls?" Here is a poser for my little philosopher. This is his
first lesson in systematic physics, and whether he learns physics
or no it is a good lesson in common-sense.
As the child develops in intelligence other important considerations
require us to be still more careful in our choice of his occupations.
As soon as he has sufficient self-knowledge to understand what
constitutes his well-being, as soon as he can grasp such far-reaching
relations as to judge what is good for him and what is not, then
he is able to discern the difference between work and play, and
to consider the latter merely as relaxation. The objects of real
utility may be introduced into his studies and may lead him to more
prolonged attention than he gave to his games. The ever-recurring
law of necessity soon teaches a man to do what he does not like,
so as to avert evils which he would dislike still more. Such is
the use of foresight, and this foresight, well or ill used, is the
source of all the wisdom or the wretchedness of mankind.
Every one desires happiness, but to secure it he must know what
happiness is. For the natural man happiness is as simple as his
life; it consists in the absence of pain; health, freedom, the
necessaries of life are its elements. The happiness of the moral man
is another matter, but it does not concern us at present. I cannot
repeat too often that it is only objects which can be perceived
by the senses which can have any interest for children, especially
children whose vanity has not been stimulated nor their minds
corrupted by social conventions.
As soon as they foresee their needs before they feel them, their
intelligence has made a great step forward, they are beginning to
know the value of time. They must then be trained to devote this
time to useful purposes, but this usefulness should be such as
they can readily perceive and should be within the reach of their
age and experience. What concerns the moral order and the customs
of society should not yet be given them, for they are not in a
condition to understand it. It is folly to expect them to attend
to things vaguely described as good for them, when they do not know
what this good is, things which they are assured will be to their
advantage when they are grown up, though for the present they take
no interest in this so-called advantage, which they are unable to
understand.
Let the child do nothing because he is told; nothing is good for
him but what he recognises as good. When you are always urging him
beyond his present understanding, you think you are exercising a
foresight which you really lack. To provide him with useless tools
which he may never require, you deprive him of man's most useful
tool--common-sense. You would have him docile as a child; he will
be a credulous dupe when he grows up. You are always saying, "What
I ask is for your good, though you cannot understand it. What does
it matter to me whether you do it or not; my efforts are entirely
on your account." All these fine speeches with which you hope to
make him good, are preparing the way, so that the visionary, the
tempter, the charlatan, the rascal, and every kind of fool may
catch him in his snare or draw him into his folly.
A man must know many things which seem useless to a child, but
need the child learn, or can he indeed learn, all that the man must
know? Try to teach the child what is of use to a child and you
will find that it takes all his time. Why urge him to the studies
of an age he may never reach, to the neglect of those studies which
meet his present needs? "But," you ask, "will it not be too late
to learn what he ought to know when the time comes to use it?"
I cannot tell; but this I do know, it is impossible to teach it
sooner, for our real teachers are experience and emotion, and man
will never learn what befits a man except under its own conditions.
A child knows he must become a man; all the ideas he may have as
to man's estate are so many opportunities for his instruction, but
he should remain in complete ignorance of those ideas which are
beyond his grasp. My whole book is one continued argument in support
of this fundamental principle of education.
As soon as we have contrived to give our pupil an idea of the
word "Useful," we have got an additional means of controlling him,
for this word makes a great impression on him, provided that its
meaning for him is a meaning relative to his own age, and provided
he clearly sees its relation to his own well-being. This word makes
no impression on your scholars because you have taken no pains to
give it a meaning they can understand, and because other people
always undertake to supply their needs so that they never require
to think for themselves, and do not know what utility is.
"What is the use of that?" In future this is the sacred formula,
the formula by which he and I test every action of our lives. This
is the question with which I invariably answer all his questions;
it serves to check the stream of foolish and tiresome questions with
which children weary those about them. These incessant questions
produce no result, and their object is rather to get a hold over
you than to gain any real advantage. A pupil, who has been really
taught only to want to know what is useful, questions like Socrates;
he never asks a question without a reason for it, for he knows he
will be required to give his reason before he gets an answer.
See what a powerful instrument I have put into your hands for use
with your pupil. As he does not know the reason for anything you
can reduce him to silence almost at will; and what advantages do
your knowledge and experience give you to show him the usefulness
of what you suggest. For, make no mistake about it, when you put
this question to him, you are teaching him to put it to you, and
you must expect that whatever you suggest to him in the future he
will follow your own example and ask, "What is the use of this?"
Perhaps this is the greatest of the tutor's difficulties. If you
merely try to put the child off when he asks a question, and if
you give him a single reason he is not able to understand, if he
finds that you reason according to your own ideas, not his, he will
think what you tell him is good for you but not for him; you will
lose his confidence and all your labour is thrown away. But what
master will stop short and confess his faults to his pupil? We
all make it a rule never to own to the faults we really have. Now
I would make it a rule to admit even the faults I have not, if I
could not make my reasons clear to him; as my conduct will always
be intelligible to him, he will never doubt me and I shall gain
more credit by confessing my imaginary faults than those who conceal
their real defects.
In the first place do not forget that it is rarely your business
to suggest what he ought to learn; it is for him to want to learn,
to seek and to find it. You should put it within his reach, you
should skilfully awaken the desire and supply him with means for
its satisfaction. So your questions should be few and well-chosen,
and as he will always have more questions to put to you than you
to him, you will always have the advantage and will be able to ask
all the oftener, "What is the use of that question?" Moreover, as
it matters little what he learns provided he understands it and
knows how to use it, as soon as you cannot give him a suitable
explanation give him none at all. Do not hesitate to say, "I have
no good answer to give you; I was wrong, let us drop the subject."
If your teaching was really ill-chosen there is no harm in dropping
it altogether; if it was not, with a little care you will soon find
an opportunity of making its use apparent to him.
I do not like verbal explanations. Young people pay little heed to
them, nor do they remember them. Things! Things! I cannot repeat it
too often. We lay too much stress upon words; we teachers babble,
and our scholars follow our example.
Suppose we are studying the course of the sun and the way to find
our bearings, when all at once Emile interrupts me with the question,
"What is the use of that?" what a fine lecture I might give, how
many things I might take occasion to teach him in reply to his
question, especially if there is any one there. I might speak of the
advantages of travel, the value of commerce, the special products
of different lands and the peculiar customs of different nations,
the use of the calendar, the way to reckon the seasons for agriculture,
the art of navigation, how to steer our course at sea, how to find
our way without knowing exactly where we are. Politics, natural
history, astronomy, even morals and international law are involved
in my explanation, so as to give my pupil some idea of all these
sciences and a great wish to learn them. When I have finished I
shall have shown myself a regular pedant, I shall have made a great
display of learning, and not one single idea has he understood.
He is longing to ask me again, "What is the use of taking one's
bearings?" but he dare not for fear of vexing me. He finds it pays
best to pretend to listen to what he is forced to hear. This is
the practical result of our fine systems of education.
But Emile is educated in a simpler fashion. We take so much pains
to teach him a difficult idea that he will have heard nothing of
all this. At the first word he does not understand, he will run
away, he will prance about the room, and leave me to speechify by
myself. Let us seek a more commonplace explanation; my scientific
learning is of no use to him.
We were observing the position of the forest to the north of
Montmorency when he interrupted me with the usual question, "What
is the use of that?" "You are right," I said. "Let us take time to
think it over, and if we find it is no use we will drop it, for we
only want useful games." We find something else to do and geography
is put aside for the day.
Next morning I suggest a walk before breakfast; there is nothing
he would like better; children are always ready to run about, and
he is a good walker. We climb up to the forest, we wander through
its clearings and lose ourselves; we have no idea where we are,
and when we want to retrace our steps we cannot find the way. Time
passes, we are hot and hungry; hurrying vainly this way and that we
find nothing but woods, quarries, plains, not a landmark to guide
us. Very hot, very tired, very hungry, we only get further astray.
At last we sit down to rest and to consider our position. I assume
that Emile has been educated like an ordinary child. He does not
think, he begins to cry; he has no idea we are close to Montmorency,
which is hidden from our view by a mere thicket; but this thicket
is a forest to him, a man of his size is buried among bushes. After
a few minutes' silence I begin anxiously----
JEAN JACQUES. My dear Emile, what shall we do get out?
EMILE. I am sure I do not know. I am tired, I am hungry, I am
thirsty. I cannot go any further.
JEAN JACQUES. Do you suppose I am any better off? I would cry too
if I could make my breakfast off tears. Crying is no use, we must
look about us. Let us see your watch; what time is it?
EMILE. It is noon and I am so hungry!
JEAN JACQUES. Just so; it is noon and I am so hungry too.
EMILE. You must be very hungry indeed.
JEAN JACQUES. Unluckily my dinner won't come to find me. It is
twelve o'clock. This time yesterday we were observing the position
of the forest from Montmorency. If only we could see the position
of Montmorency from the forest.
EMILE. But yesterday we could see the forest, and here we cannot
see the town.
JEAN JACQUES. That is just it. If we could only find it without
seeing it.
EMILE. Oh! my dear friend!
JEAN JACQUES. Did not we say the forest was...
EMILE. North of Montmorency.
JEAN JACQUES. Then Montmorency must lie...
EMILE. South of the forest.
JEAN JACQUES. We know how to find the north at midday.
EMILE. Yes, by the direction of the shadows.
JEAN JACQUES. But the south?
EMILE. What shall we do?
JEAN JACQUES. The south is opposite the north.
EMILE. That is true; we need only find the opposite of the shadows.
That is the south! That is the south! Montmorency must be over
there! Let us look for it there!
JEAN JACQUES. Perhaps you are right; let us follow this path through
the wood.
EMILE. (Clapping his hands.) Oh, I can see Montmorency! there it
is, quite plain, just in front of us! Come to luncheon, come to
dinner, make haste! Astronomy is some use after all.
Be sure that he thinks this if he does not say it; no matter which,
provided I do not say it myself. He will certainly never forget
this day's lesson as long as he lives, while if I had only led him
to think of all this at home, my lecture would have been forgotten
the next day. Teach by doing whenever you can, and only fall back
upon words when doing is out of the question.
The reader will not expect me to have such a poor opinion of
him as to supply him with an example of every kind of study; but,
whatever is taught, I cannot too strongly urge the tutor to adapt
his instances to the capacity of his scholar; for once more I repeat
the risk is not in what he does not know, but in what he thinks he
knows.
I remember how I once tried to give a child a taste for chemistry.
After showing him several metallic precipitates, I explained how
ink was made. I told him how its blackness was merely the result of
fine particles of iron separated from the vitriol and precipitated
by an alkaline solution. In the midst of my learned explanation
the little rascal pulled me up short with the question I myself had
taught him. I was greatly puzzled. After a few moments' thought
I decided what to do. I sent for some wine from the cellar of our
landlord, and some very cheap wine from a wine-merchant. I took a
small [Footnote: Before giving any explanation to a child a little
bit of apparatus serves to fix his attention.] flask of an alkaline
solution, and placing two glasses before me filled with the two
sorts of wine, I said.
Food and drink are adulterated to make them seem better than
they really are. These adulterations deceive both the eye and the
palate, but they are unwholesome and make the adulterated article
even worse than before in spite of its fine appearance.
All sorts of drinks are adulterated, and wine more than others;
for the fraud is more difficult to detect, and more profitable to
the fraudulent person.
Sour wine is adulterated with litharge; litharge is a preparation
of lead. Lead in combination with acids forms a sweet salt which
corrects the harsh taste of the sour wine, but it is poisonous. So
before we drink wine of doubtful quality we should be able to tell
if there is lead in it. This is how I should do it.
Wine contains not merely an inflammable spirit as you have seen
from the brandy made from it; it also contains an acid as you know
from the vinegar made from it.
This acid has an affinity for metals, it combines with them and
forms salts, such as iron-rust, which is only iron dissolved by the
acid in air or water, or such as verdegris, which is only copper
dissolved in vinegar.
But this acid has a still greater affinity for alkalis than for
metals, so that when we add alkalis to the above-mentioned salts,
the acid sets free the metal with which it had combined, and combines
with the alkali.
Then the metal, set free by the acid which held it in solution, is
precipitated and the liquid becomes opaque.
If then there is litharge in either of these glasses of wine, the
acid holds the litharge in solution. When I pour into it an alkaline
solution, the acid will be forced to set the lead free in order
to combine with the alkali. The lead, no longer held in solution,
will reappear, the liquor will become thick, and after a time the
lead will be deposited at the bottom of the glass.
If there is no lead [Footnote: The wine sold by retail dealers in
Paris is rarely free from lead, though some of it does not contain
litharge, for the counters are covered with lead and when the wine
is poured into the measures and some of it spilt upon the counter
and the measures left standing on the counter, some of the lead
is always dissolved. It is strange that so obvious and dangerous
an abuse should be tolerated by the police. But indeed well-to-do
people, who rarely drink these wines, are not likely to be poisoned
by them.] nor other metal in the wine the alkali will slowly
[Footnote: The vegetable acid is very gentle in its action. If it
were a mineral acid and less diluted, the combination would not
take place without effervescence.] combine with the acid, all will
remain clear and there will be no precipitate.
Then I poured my alkaline solution first into one glass and then
into the other. The wine from our own house remained clear and
unclouded, the other at once became turbid, and an hour later the
lead might be plainly seen, precipitated at the bottom of the glass.
"This," said I, "is a pure natural wine and fit to drink; the
other is adulterated and poisonous. You wanted to know the use of
knowing how to make ink. If you can make ink you can find out what
wines are adulterated."
I was very well pleased with my illustration, but I found it made
little impression on my pupil. When I had time to think about it I
saw I had been a fool, for not only was it impossible for a child
of twelve to follow my explanations, but the usefulness of the
experiment did not appeal to him; he had tasted both glasses of
wine and found them both good, so he attached no meaning to the word
"adulterated" which I thought I had explained so nicely. Indeed,
the other words, "unwholesome" and "poison," had no meaning whatever
for him; he was in the same condition as the boy who told the story
of Philip and his doctor. It is the condition of all children.
The relation of causes and effects whose connection is unknown
to us, good and ill of which we have no idea, the needs we have
never felt, have no existence for us. It is impossible to interest
ourselves in them sufficiently to make us do anything connected
with them. At fifteen we become aware of the happiness of a good
man, as at thirty we become aware of the glory of Paradise. If
we had no clear idea of either we should make no effort for their
attainment; and even if we had a clear idea of them, we should make
little or no effort unless we desired them and unless we felt we
were made for them. It is easy to convince a child that what you
wish to teach him is useful, but it is useless to convince if you
cannot also persuade. Pure reason may lead us to approve or censure,
but it is feeling which leads to action, and how shall we care
about that which does not concern us?
Never show a child what he cannot see. Since mankind is almost
unknown to him, and since you cannot make a man of him, bring the
man down to the level of the child. While you are thinking what
will be useful to him when he is older, talk to him of what he
knows he can use now. Moreover, as soon as he begins to reason let
there be no comparison with other children, no rivalry, no competition,
not even in running races. I would far rather he did not learn
anything than have him learn it through jealousy or self-conceit.
Year by year I shall just note the progress he had made, I shall
compare the results with those of the following year, I shall say,
"You have grown so much; that is the ditch you jumped, the weight
you carried, the distance you flung a pebble, the race you ran
without stopping to take breath, etc.; let us see what you can do
now."
In this way he is stimulated to further effort without jealousy.
He wants to excel himself as he ought to do; I see no reason why
he should not emulate his own performances.
I hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we know
nothing about. Hermes, they say, engraved the elements of science
on pillars lest a deluge should destroy them. Had he imprinted
them on men's hearts they would have been preserved by tradition.
Well-trained minds are the pillars on which human knowledge is most
deeply engraved.
Is there no way of correlating so many lessons scattered through
so many books, no way of focussing them on some common object, easy
to see, interesting to follow, and stimulating even to a child?
Could we but discover a state in which all man's needs appear in
such a way as to appeal to the child's mind, a state in which the
ways of providing for these needs are as easily developed, the
simple and stirring portrayal of this state should form the earliest
training of the child's imagination.
Eager philosopher, I see your own imagination at work. Spare yourself
the trouble; this state is already known, it is described, with
due respect to you, far better than you could describe it, at least
with greater truth and simplicity. Since we must have books, there
is one book which, to my thinking, supplies the best treatise on
an education according to nature. This is the first book Emile will
read; for a long time it will form his whole library, and it will
always retain an honoured place. It will be the text to which all
our talks about natural science are but the commentary. It will
serve to test our progress towards a right judgment, and it will
always be read with delight, so long as our taste is unspoilt. What
is this wonderful book? Is it Aristotle? Pliny? Buffon? No; it is
Robinson Crusoe.
Robinson Crusoe on his island, deprived of the help of his
fellow-men, without the means of carrying on the various arts, yet
finding food, preserving his life, and procuring a certain amount
of comfort; this is the thing to interest people of all ages, and
it can be made attractive to children in all sorts of ways. We shall
thus make a reality of that desert island which formerly served as
an illustration. The condition, I confess, is not that of a social
being, nor is it in all probability Emile's own condition, but he
should use it as a standard of comparison for all other conditions.
The surest way to raise him above prejudice and to base his judgments
on the true relations of things, is to put him in the place of a
solitary man, and to judge all things as they would be judged by
such a man in relation to their own utility.
This novel, stripped of irrelevant matter, begins with Robinson's
shipwreck on his island, and ends with the coming of the ship which
bears him from it, and it will furnish Emile with material, both
for work and play, during the whole period we are considering.
His head should be full of it, he should always be busy with his
castle, his goats, his plantations. Let him learn in detail, not
from books but from things, all that is necessary in such a case.
Let him think he is Robinson himself; let him see himself clad in
skins, wearing a tall cap, a great cutlass, all the grotesque get-up
of Robinson Crusoe, even to the umbrella which he will scarcely
need. He should anxiously consider what steps to take; will this
or that be wanting. He should examine his hero's conduct; has he
omitted nothing; is there nothing he could have done better? He
should carefully note his mistakes, so as not to fall into them
himself in similar circumstances, for you may be sure he will plan
out just such a settlement for himself. This is the genuine castle
in the air of this happy age, when the child knows no other happiness
but food and freedom.
What a motive will this infatuation supply in the hands of a skilful
teacher who has aroused it for the purpose of using it. The child
who wants to build a storehouse on his desert island will be more
eager to learn than the master to teach. He will want to know all
sorts of useful things and nothing else; you will need the curb as
well as the spur. Make haste, therefore, to establish him on his
island while this is all he needs to make him happy; for the day is
at hand, when, if he must still live on his island, he will not be
content to live alone, when even the companionship of Man Friday,
who is almost disregarded now, will not long suffice.
The exercise of the natural arts, which may be carried on by
one man alone, leads on to the industrial arts which call for the
cooperation of many hands. The former may be carried on by hermits,
by savages, but the others can only arise in a society, and they
make society necessary. So long as only bodily needs are recognised
man is self-sufficing; with superfluity comes the need for division
and distribution of labour, for though one man working alone can
earn a man's living, one hundred men working together can earn the
living of two hundred. As soon as some men are idle, others must
work to make up for their idleness.
Your main object should be to keep out of your scholar's way all
idea of such social relations as he cannot understand, but when
the development of knowledge compels you to show him the mutual
dependence of mankind, instead of showing him its moral side, turn
all his attention at first towards industry and the mechanical arts
which make men useful to one another. While you take him from one
workshop to another, let him try his hand at every trade you show
him, and do not let him leave it till he has thoroughly learnt why
everything is done, or at least everything that has attracted his
attention. With this aim you should take a share in his work and
set him an example. Be yourself the apprentice that he may become
a master; you may expect him to learn more in one hour's work than
he would retain after a whole day's explanation.
The value set by the general public on the various arts is in
inverse ratio to their real utility. They are even valued directly
according to their uselessness. This might be expected. The most useful
arts are the worst paid, for the number of workmen is regulated by
the demand, and the work which everybody requires must necessarily be
paid at a rate which puts it within the reach of the poor. On the
other hand, those great people who are called artists, not artisans,
who labour only for the rich and idle, put a fancy price on their
trifles; and as the real value of this vain labour is purely
imaginary, the price itself adds to their market value, and they
are valued according to their costliness. The rich think so much
of these things, not because they are useful, but because they are
beyond the reach of the poor. Nolo habere bona, nisi quibus populus
inviderit.