What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile,

impetuous, eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud

and sheds torrents of tears upon the hands of father, mother, and

daughter; with sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeats

the same thing over and over again in a way that would be ludicrous

at any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed,

remains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not even

Emile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; she

remains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything

he does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sight

more moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of her

lover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantly

away; if I left him another minute, he would never go. I am delighted

that he should carry this touching picture with him. If he should

ever be tempted to forget what is due to Sophy, his heart must

have strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it back to her by

recalling her as he saw her last.

OF TRAVEL

Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked

and as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Are

men the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be less

difference of opinion.

The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think

they know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too much

reading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never so

much reading in any age as the present, and never was there less

learning; in no country of Europe are so many histories and books

of travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there less knowledge

of the mind and manners of other nations. So many books lead us to

neglect the book of the world; if we read it at all, we keep each

to our own page. If the phrase, "Can one become a Persian," were

unknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came from

the country where national prejudice is most prevalent and from

the sex which does most to increase it.

A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only

Frenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers

every foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in the

universe. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle classes

of that great city, you must have lived among them, before you can

believe that people could be at once so witty and so stupid. The

strangest thing about it is that probably every one of them has

read a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitants

inspire him with such wonder.

To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the

authors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels

all my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea of

the same nation. On comparing my own scanty observations with what

I have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and I regret

the time wasted in trying to learn from their books; for I am

quite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not reading is

required. That would be true enough if every traveller were honest,

if he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were not

tinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be when

we have to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?

Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content

to use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set

people chattering about things they do not know. They are able to

set fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, and

teaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word of

Paul Lucas or Tavernier.

I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seen

one nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whom

he has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question

about travel: "Is it enough for a well-educated man to know his

fellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?" Then

there is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly the

solution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which it

is stated.

But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Need

we go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual

before we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that it

is not worth while to study them individually. When you have seen

a dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot say

as much of the English and other nations, it is, however, certain

that every nation has its own specific character, which is derived

by induction from the study, not of one, but many of its members.

He who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just he who has

compared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.

To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through a

country. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing them

towards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of people

who learn no more from their travels than from their books, because

they do not know how to think; because in reading their mind is

at least under the guidance of the author, and in their travels

they do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn nothing,

because they have no desire to learn. Their object is so entirely

different, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikely

that you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. The

French travel more than any other nation, but they are so taken up

with their own customs, that everything else is confused together.

There are Frenchmen in every corner of the globe. In no country

of the world do you find more people who have travelled than in

France. And yet of all the nations of Europe, that which has seen

most, knows least. The English are also travellers, but they travel

in another fashion; these two nations must always be at opposite

extremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at home;

the French people travel, the English stay at home. This difference

does credit, I think, to the English. The French almost always

travel for their own ends; the English do not seek their fortune

in other lands, unless in the way of commerce and with their hands

full; when they travel it is to spend their money, not to live by

their wits; they are too proud to cringe before strangers. This

is why they learn more abroad than the French who have other fish

to fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but these

prejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling.

The Englishman's prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman's

are due to vanity.

Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so those

travel best who travel least; they have made less progress than we

in our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with the objects

of our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention to what

is really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards who travel

in this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after all the

artists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy of

some antique, while the German is taking his album to every man

of science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, the

manners of the country, its police, and he is the only one of the

four who from all that he has seen will carry home any observation

useful to his own country.

The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;

yet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed each

other more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Without

going back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports us

to the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the glory

of having painted manners in his history, though he does it rather

by narrative than by comment; still he does it better than all our

historians whose books are overladen with portraits and characters.

Tacitus has described the Germans of his time better than any

author has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubt

that those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know more

about the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians than

any nation of to-day knows about its neighbours.

It must also be admitted that the original characteristics of

different nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more

difficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, those

national differences which formerly struck the observer at first

sight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remained

more or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication were

fewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflicting

interests, less political and civil intercourse between nation and

nation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy,

were less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident

at foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreign

trade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes,

who employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had no

influence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together.

The relations between Europe and Asia in the present century are

a hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain in

the past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world is

now.

Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves

as the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there

so long that all record was lost of the far-off times when their

ancestors settled there; they had been there so long that the

place had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europe

the invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests,

have caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-day

are no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longer

beautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face of

the Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians,

originally from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness

through the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longer

Gauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians, more

or less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct.

This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil

and climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation

in respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than can

be distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europe

leaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests are

cut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally,

though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences between

country and country can no longer be detected even in purely physical

features.

If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in such

a hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having described

the inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiarities

and with striking differences which we no longer see. To recognise

such types of face we should need to see the men themselves; no

change must have passed over them, if they are to remain the same.

If we could behold all the people who have ever lived, who can

doubt that we should find greater variations between one century

and another, than are now found between nation and nation.

At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it

is more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for the

small success of our researches into the natural history of the

human race. The information acquired by travel depends upon the

object of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy, the

traveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest,

it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce and

the arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time prevent

them from studying each other. If they know how to make a profit

out of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?

It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, so

as to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every

one lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would be

how much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need of

no one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know any other

country but his own. If he requires more land for his subsistence

he shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild beasts

and feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has become

a necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures,

self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts

where there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all

flock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always

cheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations,

which are just like one another.

They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so,

they travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers

like Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they

are, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travel

at the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid,

they receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and the

object of that journey is certainly not the study of any question

of morals. Their whole time is required for the object of their

journey, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in any

country whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense,

you may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It is

not knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their travels

teach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice that

sends them on their travels.

To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two

very different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious,

the latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel as

a philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observes

things till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin by

studying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits.

It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless

because we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does

it follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there are

very few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good for

those who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voice

of error without being deceived, strong enough to see the example

of vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the

progress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When

a man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will

be all his life; there are more who return bad than good, because

there are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In the

course of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved,

pick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned,

and none of the virtues with which those vices are associated; but

those who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose good

disposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with a real

desire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went.

Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelled

another young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was the

admiration of Europe, one who died for his country in the flower

of his manhood; he deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by his

virtues only, received no honour till a stranger's hand adorned it

with flowers.

Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,

undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules.

To travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; to

travel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definite

aim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interest

in learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide the

nature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation of the

method I have hitherto practised.

Now after he has considered himself in his physical relations

to other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there

remains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens.

To do this he must first study the nature of government in general,

then the different forms of government, and lastly the particular

government under which he was born, to know if it suits him to live

under it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every man,

when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce the

contract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving the

country in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourning

in that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that

he is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his

ancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just as

he has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands; yet

his place of birth was a gift of nature, and in renouncing it, he

renounces what is his own. Strictly speaking, every man remains in

the land of his birth at his own risk unless he voluntarily submits

to its laws in order to acquire a right to their protection.

For example, I should say to Emile, "Hitherto you have lived under

my guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you are

approaching the age when the law, giving you the control over your

property, makes you master of your person. You are about to find

yourself alone in society, dependent on everything, even on your

patrimony. You mean to marry; that is a praiseworthy intention,

it is one of the duties of man; but before you marry you must know

what sort of man you want to be, how you wish to spend your life,

what steps you mean to take to secure a living for your family

and for yourself; for although we should not make this our main

business, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to be

dependent on men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish your

fortune and determine your position by means of civil relations which

will make you always dependent on the choice of others, which will

compel you, if you would escape from knaves, to become a knave

yourself?"

In the next place I would show him every possible way of using his

money in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall show

him that in every one of these there are risks to be taken, every

one of them places him in a precarious and dependent position, and

compels him to adapt his morals, his sentiments, his conduct to

the example and the prejudices of others.

"There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you may

join the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at very

high wages to go and kill men who never did you any harm. This trade

is held in great honour among men, and they cannot think too highly

of those who are fit for nothing better. Moreover, this profession,

far from making you independent of other resources, makes them all

the more necessary; for it is a point of honour in this profession

to ruin those who have adopted it. It is true they are not all

ruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in this as in

other professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it,

I doubt whether you would desire to follow their example.

"Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longer

a question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies;

on the contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, the

more honour you obtain; if you have decided to take your profession

seriously, you will be despised, you will be hated, you will very

possibly be driven out of the service, or at least you will fall a

victim to favouritism and be supplanted by your comrades, because

you have been doing your duty in the trenches, while they have been

attending to their toilet."

We can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be much

to Emile's taste. "Why," he will exclaim, "have I forgotten the

amusements of my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Is

my strength failing me? Do I not know how to work? What do I care

about all your fine professions and all the silly prejudices of

others? I know no other pride than to be kindly and just; no other

happiness than to live in independence with her I love, gaining

health and a good appetite by the day's work. All these difficulties

you speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire is

a little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my efforts

after wealth to making it pay, and I will live without a care. Give

me Sophy and my land, and I shall be rich."

"Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife and

land of his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think.

The rarest you have found already; let us discuss the other.

"A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in what

remote corner of the earth can you say, 'Here am I master of myself

and of this estate which belongs to me?' We know where a man may

grow rich; who knows where he can do without riches? Who knows

where to live free and independent, without ill-treating others

and without fear of being ill-treated himself! Do you think it is

so easy to find a place where you can always live like an honest man?

If there is any safe and lawful way of living without intrigues,

without lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I admit,

to live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our own

land; but where is the state in which a man can say, 'The earth

which I dig is my own?' Before choosing this happy spot, be sure

that you will find the peace you desire; beware lest an unjust

government, a persecuting religion, and evil habits should disturb

you in your home. Secure yourself against the excessive taxes which

devour the fruits of your labours, and the endless lawsuits which

consume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly without

having to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges,

to priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind,

who are always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all,

secure yourself from annoyance on the part of the rich and great;

remember that their estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth's vineyard.

If unluckily for you some great man buys or builds a house near

your cottage, make sure that he will not find a way, under some

pretence or other, to encroach on your lands to round off his estate,

or that you do not find him at once absorbing all your resources

to make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to ward off

all these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for it

will cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon each

other, the one can hardly stand without the other.

"I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearly

the difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine scheme

and honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carry

it out. I have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two years

from now till the time of your return to choosing a place in

Europe where you could live happily with your family, secure from

all the dangers I have just described. If we succeed, you will

have discovered that true happiness, so often sought for in vain;

and you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. If

we fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will console

yourself for an inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law of

necessity."

I do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggested

inquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from his

travels, begun and continued with this end in view, without a full

knowledge of questions of government, public morality, and political

philosophy of every kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligence

and I in judgment.

The science of politics is and probably always will be unknown.

Grotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child,

and what is worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praised

to the skies and Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive how

little sensible men have read or understood these authors. As a

matter of fact, their principles are exactly alike, they only differ

in their mode of expression. Their methods are also different:

Hobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets; they are

agreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who could

have created this vast and useless science was the illustrious

Montesquieu. But he was not concerned with the principles of

political law; he was content to deal with the positive laws of

settled governments; and nothing could be more different than these

two branches of study.

Yet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government is

forced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in order

to judge what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing light

upon this important matter is to induce an individual to discuss

and to answer these two questions. "How does it concern me; and

what can I do?" Emile is in a position to answer both.

The next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, the

principles in which we were brought up; it is due above all to the

partiality of authors, who are always talking about truth, though

they care very little about it; it is only their own interests

that they care for, and of these they say nothing. Now the nation

has neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of the

academies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established by

men of that type? The education I have given him has removed this

difficulty also from Emile's path. He scarcely knows what is meant

by government; his business is to find the best; he does not want

to write books; if ever he did so, it would not be to pay court to

those in authority, but to establish the rights of humanity.

There is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficulty

which I neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I am

not afraid of it; sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, great

talents are less necessary than a genuine love of justice and a

sincere reverence for truth. If matters of government can ever be

fairly discussed, now or never is our chance.

Before beginning our observations we must lay down rules of procedure;

we must find a scale with which to compare our measurements. Our

principles of political law are our scale. Our actual measurements

are the civil law of each country.

Our elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directly

from the nature of things. They will take the form of problems

discussed between us, and they will not be formulated into principles,

until we have found a satisfactory solution of our problems.

For example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall see

whether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent;

is their association the result of free will or of force? Can the

force which compels them to united action ever form a permanent

law, by which this original force becomes binding, even when another

has been imposed upon it, so that since the power of King Nimrod,

who is said to have been the first conqueror, every other power

which has overthrown the original power is unjust and usurping,

so that there are no lawful kings but the descendants of Nimrod or

their representatives; or if this original power has ceased, has

the power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroy

the binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound to

obey except under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon as

we are capable of resistance? Such a right is not very different

from might; it is little more than a play upon words.

We shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comes

from God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor.

Again, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience to

give our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him,

for the pistol in his hand is also a power.

Does this word power in this context mean something different from

a power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to which

it owes its being?

Suppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit the

right of nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundation

of society; we shall inquire into the extent of this authority; what

is its foundation in nature? Has it any other grounds but that of

its usefulness to the child, his weakness, and the natural love

which his father feels towards him? When the child is no longer

feeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in body, does not

he become the sole judge of what is necessary for his preservation?

Is he not therefore his own master, independent of all men, even

of his father himself? For is it not still more certain that the

son loves himself, than that the father loves the son?

The father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother,

or some other person who has not the natural affection of a father?

Should there always be, from family to family, one single head to

whom all the family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever come

to be divided, and how is it that there is more than one head to

govern the human race throughout the world?

Suppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; we

shall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjected

to their brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because they

were obliged, but because they choose, we shall inquire whether

this kind of society is not a sort of free and voluntary association?

Taking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man can

make over to another his right to himself, without restriction,

without reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say,

can he renounce his person, his life, his reason, his very self,

can he renounce all morality in his actions; in a word, can he

cease to exist before his death, in spite of nature who places him

directly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason and

conscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?

If there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery,

we shall discuss whether this deed does not then become a true

contract, in which both the contracting powers, having in this respect

no common master, [Footnote: If they had such a common master, he

would be no other than the sovereign, and then the right of slavery

resting on the right of sovereignty would not be its origin.]

remain their own judge as to the conditions of the contract, and

therefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract as

soon as it becomes hurtful.

If then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master,

how can a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slave

is to judge whether his master is fulfilling his contract, is not

the nation to judge whether its head is fulfilling his contract?

Thus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we consider

the meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether some

contract, a tacit contract at the least, is not required to make

a nation, a contract anterior to that which we are assuming.

Since the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made it

a nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contract

is the foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature of

this contract that we must seek the nature of the society formed

by it.

We will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not be

fairly well expressed in this formula? As an individual every one

of us contributes his goods, his person, his life, to the common

stock, under the supreme direction of the general will; while as

a body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole.

Assuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shall

observe that, instead of the individual person of each contracting

party, this deed of association produces a moral and collective body,

consisting of as many members as there are votes in the Assembly.

This public personality is usually called the body politic, which

is called by its members the State when it is passive, and the

Sovereign when it is active, and a Power when compared with its

equals. With regard to the members themselves, collectively they

are known as the nation, and individually as citizens as members

of the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects as

obedient to the same authority.

We shall note that this contract of association includes a mutual

pledge on the part of the public and the individual; and that each

individual, entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself,

finds himself in a twofold capacity, i.e., as a member of the

sovereign with regard to others, as member of the state with regard

to the sovereign.

We shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement to

which he was not himself a party, the general deliberation which

may be binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign,

because of the two different relations under which each of them is

envisaged, cannot be binding on the state with regard to itself.

Hence we see that there is not, and cannot be, any other fundamental

law, properly so called, except the social contract only. This does

not mean that the body politic cannot, in certain respects, pledge

itself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then becomes

a simple creature, an individual.

Thus the two contracting parties, i.e., each individual and the

public, have no common superior to decide their differences; so we

will inquire if each of them remains free to break the contract at

will, that is to repudiate it on his side as soon as he considers

it hurtful.

To clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according to

the social pact, the sovereign power is only able to act through

the common, general will; so its decrees can only have a general

or common aim; hence it follows that a private individual cannot

be directly injured by the sovereign, unless all are injured, which

is impossible, for that would be to want to harm oneself. Thus the

social contract has no need of any warrant but the general power,

for it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not therefore

freed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it.

To decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mind

that the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar to

itself, in that the nation only contracts with itself, i.e., the

people as a whole as sovereign, with the individuals as subjects;

this condition is essential to the construction and working of the

political machine, it alone makes pledges lawful, reasonable, and

secure, without which it would be absurd, tyrannical, and liable

to the grossest abuse.

Individuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, and

the sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see that

every man in obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how much

freer are we under the social part than in the state of nature.

Having compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons,

we will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership and

the rights of sovereignty, the private and the common domain. If

the sovereign power rests upon the right of ownership, there is no

right more worthy of respect; it is inviolable and sacred for the

sovereign power, so long as it remains a private individual right; as

soon as it is viewed as common to all the citizens, it is subject

to the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus the sovereign

has no right to touch the property of one or many; but he may

lawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done in

Sparta in the time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts by

Solon was an unlawful deed.

Since nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will,

let us inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we may

recognise it with certainty, what is a law, and what are the true

characters of the law? This is quite a fresh subject; we have still

to define the term law.

As soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, the

nation is divided. A relation is established between the whole and

its part which makes of them two separate entities, of which the

part is one, and the whole, minus that part, is the other. But the

whole minus the part is not the whole; as long as this relation

exists, there is no longer a whole, but two unequal parts.

On the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the whole

nation, it is only considering itself; and if a relation is set

up, it is between the whole community regarded from one point of

view, and the whole community regarded from another point of view,

without any division of that whole. Then the object of the statute

is general, and the will which makes that statute is general too.

Let us see if there is any other kind of decree which may bear the

name of law.

If the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law can

never have any but a general purpose, concerning all the members

of the state, it follows that the sovereign never has the power

to make any law with regard to particular cases; and yet it is

necessary for the preservation of the state that particular cases

should also be dealt with; let us see how this can be done.

The decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the general

will, that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decrees

of power or government, for the execution of those laws; and these,

on the other hand, can only have particular aims. Thus the decrees

by which the sovereign decides that a chief shall be elected is

a law; the decree by which that chief is elected, in pursuance of

the law, is only a decree of government.

This is a third relation in which the assembled people may be

considered, i.e., as magistrates or executors of the law which it

has passed in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problems

and theorems are mostly taken from the Treatise on the Social

Contract, itself a summary of a larger work, undertaken without

due consideration of my own powers, and long since abandoned.]

We will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to deprive

itself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or more

persons; for the decree of election not being a law, and the people

in this decree not being themselves sovereign, we do not see how

they can transfer a right which they do not possess.

The essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it is

equally hard to see how we can be certain that an individual will

shall always be in agreement with the general will. We should

rather assume that it will often be opposed to it; for individual

interest always tends to privileges, while the common interest

always tends to equality, and if such an agreement were possible,

no sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were either

necessary or indestructible.

We will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads of

the nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be more

than the officers of the people, entrusted by them with the duty

of carrying the law into execution. Are not these chiefs themselves

accountable for their administration, and are not they themselves

subject to the laws which it is their business to see carried out?

If the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrust

it to others for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot it

find representatives? This is an important question and deserves

discussion.

If the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives we

will inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws;

must they be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to be

its own lawgiver?

Was not the Roman people a great nation?

Is it a good thing that there should be great nations?

It follows from considerations already established that there is

an intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign;

and this intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, is

entrusted with the public administration, the carrying out of the

laws, and the maintenance of civil and political liberty.

The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is

to say, rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation to

its members, is called the prince, and considered in its actions

it is called the government.

If we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that is

to say, the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereign

to the state, we can compare this relation to that of the extremes

in a proportion of which the government is the middle term. The

magistrate receives from the sovereign the commands which he gives

to the nation, and when it is reckoned up his product or his power

is in the same degree as the product or power of the citizens

who are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns on

the other. None of the three terms can be varied without at once

destroying this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, and

if the prince wants to make the laws, or if the subject refuses to

obey them, disorder takes the place of order, and the state falls

to pieces under despotism or anarchy.

Let us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens.

The sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body,

but each individual, as a subject, has his private and independent

existence. Thus the sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that is

to say, every member of the state has, as his own share, only one

ten-thousandth part of the sovereign power, although he is subject

to the whole. Let the nation be composed of one hundred thousand

men, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each continues

to bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to the

one hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in the

making of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereign

is relatively greater as the number of the citizens is increased.

Hence it follows that the larger the state the less liberty.

Now the greater the disproportion between private wishes and the

general will, i.e., between manners and laws, the greater must be

the power of repression. On the other side, the greatness of the

state gives the depositaries of public authority greater temptations

and additional means of abusing that authority, so that the more

power is required by the government to control the people, the more

power should there be in the sovereign to control the government.

From this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportion

between the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitrary

idea, but a consequence of the nature of the state. Moreover, it

follows that one of the extremes, i.e., the nation, being constant,

every time the double ratio increases or decreases, the simple

ratio increases or diminishes in its turn; which cannot be unless

the middle term is as often changed. From this we may conclude that

there is no single absolute form of government, but there must

be as many different forms of government as there are states of

different size.

If the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio between

its manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may also

say, the more numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government.

To make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentially

different wills in the person of each magistrate; first, his

own will as an individual, which looks to his own advantage only;

secondly, the common will of the magistrates, which is concerned

only with the advantage of the prince, a will which may be called

corporate, and one which is general in relation to the government

and particular in relation to the state of which the government

forms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will,

which is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as the

whole as in relation to the government viewed as a part of the

whole. In a perfect legislature the private individual will should

be almost nothing; the corporate will belonging to the government

should be quite subordinate, and therefore the general and sovereign

will is the master of all the others. On the other hand, in the

natural order, these different wills become more and more active in

proportion as they become centralised; the general will is always

weak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individual

will is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, then

a magistrate, and then a citizen; a series just the opposite of

that required by the social order.

Having laid down this principle, let us assume that the government

is in the hands of one man. In this case the individual and the

corporate will are absolutely one, and therefore this will has

reached the greatest possible degree of intensity. Now the use of

power depends on the degree of this intensity, and as the absolute

power of the government is always that of the people, and therefore

invariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the most active

form of government.

If, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supreme

power, and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so many

magistrates, then the corporate will is completely lost in the general

will, and will have no more activity than the general will, and it

will leave the individual will in full vigour. Thus the government,

though its absolute force is constant, will have the minimum of

activity.

These rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerations

only serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistrates

as a body far more active than the citizens as a body, so that the

individual will always counts for more. For each magistrate usually

has charge of some particular duty of government; while each citizen,

in himself, has no particular duty of sovereignty. Moreover, the

greater the state the greater its real power, although its power

does not increase because of the increase in territory; but the

state remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain,

the government acquires no further real strength, because it is

the depositary of that of the state, which I have assumed to be

constant. Thus, this plurality of magistrates decreases the activity

of the government without increasing its power.

Having found that the power of the government is relaxed in

proportion as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and that

the more numerous the people, the more the controlling power must

be increased, we shall infer that the ratio between the magistrates

and the government should be inverse to that between subjects and

sovereign, that is to say, that the greater the state, the smaller

the government, and that in like manner the number of chiefs should

be diminished because of the increased numbers of the people.

In order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assign

them their different names, we shall observe in the first place

that the sovereign may entrust the care of the government to the

whole nation or to the greater part of the nation, so that there

are more citizen magistrates than private citizens. This form of

government is called Democracy.

Or the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lesser

number, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates;

and this form of government is called Aristocracy.

Finally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in the

hands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government,

and is called Monarchy or royal government.

We shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second at

least, may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits.

For the democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confined

to one half of it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink from

the half of the nation to the smallest number. Even royalty may be

shared, either between father and son, between two brothers, or in

some other fashion. There were always two kings in Sparta, and in

the Roman empire there were as many as eight emperors at once, and

yet it cannot be said that the empire was divided. There is a point

where each form of government blends with the next; and under the

three specific forms there may be really as many forms of government

as there are citizens in the state.

Nor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments is

capable of subdivision into different parts, each administered in

one of these three ways. From these forms in combination there may

arise a multitude of mixed forms, since each may be multiplied by

all the simple forms.

In all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the best

form of government, and people have failed to consider that each

is the best in some cases and the worst in others. For ourselves,

if the number of magistrates [Footnote: You will remember that

I mean, in this context, the supreme magistrates or heads of the

nation, the others being only their deputies in this or that respect.]

in the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the number of

the citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government is

adapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those of

moderate size, and a monarchy to large states.

These inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discover

what are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they can

be separated one from the other; what is our country, in what does

it really consist, and how can each of us ascertain whether he has

a country or no?

Having thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, we

shall compare them, so as to note their relations one with another;

great and small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insulting

one another, destroying one another; and in this perpetual action

and reaction causing more misery and loss of life than if men had

preserved their original freedom. We shall inquire whether too much

or too little has not been accomplished in the matter of social

institutions; whether individuals who are subject to law and to

men, while societies preserve the independence of nature, are not

exposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages of

either, and whether it would not be better to have no civil society

in the world rather than to have many such societies. Is it not

that mixed condition which partakes of both and secures neither?

"Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec

tanquam in pace securum."--Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I.

Is it not this partial and imperfect association which gives rise

to tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourges

of humanity?

Finally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficulties

by means of leagues and confederations, which leave each state

its own master in internal affairs, while they arm it against any

unjust aggression. We will inquire how a good federal association

may be established, what can make it lasting, and how far the rights

of the federation may be stretched without destroying the right of

sovereignty.

The Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the states

of Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is this

association practicable, and supposing that it were established,

would it be likely to last? These inquiries lead us straight to all

the questions of international law which may clear up the remaining

difficulties of political law. Finally we shall lay down the real

principles of the laws of war, and we shall see why Grotius and

others have only stated false principles.

I should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man,

should interrupt me saying, "One would think we were building our

edifice of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactly

in its place!" That is true; but remember that the law does not

bow to the passions of men, and that we have first to establish

the true principles of political law. Now that our foundations are

laid, come and see what men have built upon them; and you will see

some strange sights!

Then I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; we

are seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wise

by misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and no

Philocles, neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found.

But let our readers picture our travels for themselves, or take

the same journeys with Telemachus in their hand; and let us not

suggest to them painful applications which the author himself avoids

or makes in spite of himself.

Moreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are not

distressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the good

they did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place,

none have less desire to leave it. We know that the same task

is allotted to all; that whoever loves what is right with all his

heart, and does the right so far as it is in his power, has fulfilled

that task. We know that Telemachus and Mentor are creatures of the

imagination. Emile does not travel in idleness and he does more

good than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should be no

greater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we should

cause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposed

we were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed we

should desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would be

to abdicate our kingship and return to our present position.

I have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes it

still more barren for the young is the way in which they are sent

on their travels. Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct,

take them from town to town, from palace to palace, where if they

are men of learning and letters, they make them spend their time

in libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or rummaging among old

buildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every country they

are busy over some other century, as if they were living in another

country; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at great

expense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seen

nothing to interest them, and having learnt nothing that could be

of any possible use to them.

All capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations and

all ways of living; they are not the place in which to study the

nations. Paris and London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitants

have a few prejudices of their own, but each has as many as the

other, and all their rules of conduct are the same. We know the

kind of people who will throng the court. We know the way of living

which the crowds of people and the unequal distribution of wealth

will produce. As soon as any one tells me of a town with two hundred

thousand people, I know its life already. What I do not know about

it is not worth going there to learn.

To study the genius and character of a nation you should go to the

more remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce,

where strangers seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in one

place, where there are fewer changes of wealth and position. Take

a look at the capital on your way, but go and study the country

far away from that capital. The French are not in Paris, but in

Touraine; the English are more English in Mercia than in London,

and the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid. In these

remoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and shows

what it really is; there the good or ill effects of the government

are best perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactly

at a greater radius.

The necessary relations between character and government have been

so clearly pointed out in the book of L'Esprit des Lois, that one

cannot do better than have recourse to that work for the study of

those relations. But speaking generally, there are two plain and

simple standards by which to decide whether governments are good or

bad. One is the population. Every country in which the population

is decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the countries in which

the population increases most rapidly, even were they the poorest

countries in the world, are certainly the best governed. [Footnote:

I only know one exception to this rule--it is China.] But this

population must be the natural result of the government and the

national character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any other

temporary and accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidence

of the disease. When Augustus passed laws against celibacy, those

laws showed that the Roman empire was already beginning to decline.

Citizens must be induced to marry by the goodness of the government,

not compelled to marry by law; you must not examine the effects

of force, for the law which strives against the constitution has

little or no effect; you should study what is done by the influence

of public morals and by the natural inclination of the government,

for these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy of

the worthy Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedy

for every individual ill, instead of tracing them to their common

source and seeing if they could not all be cured together. You

do not need to treat separately every sore on a rich man's body;

you should purify the blood which produces them. They say that in

England there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;

that is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there much

longer.

The second sign of the goodness or badness of the government and

the laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to be

found not in its numbers but in its distribution. Two states equal

in size and population may be very unequal in strength; and the

more powerful is always that in which the people are more evenly

distributed over its territory; the country which has fewer large

towns, and makes less show on this account, will always defeat the

other. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are the

cause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a sham

wealth, there is much money and few goods. They say the town of

Paris is worth a whole province to the King of France; for my own

part I believe it costs him more than several provinces. I believe

that Paris is fed by the provinces in more senses than one, and

that the greater part of their revenues is poured into that town

and stays there, without ever returning to the people or to the

king. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators there

is no one to see that France would be much more powerful if Paris

were destroyed. Not only is this ill-distributed population not

advantageous to the state, it is more ruinous than depopulation

itself, because depopulation only gives as produce nought, and

the ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a negative

result. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of the

size of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris has

more inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as to

which nation can claim the honour of being the worst governed.

Study the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really get

to know it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government,

overladen with the machinery of administration and the jargon

of the administrators, if you have not also studied its nature as

seen in the effects it has upon the people, and in every degree of

administration. The difference of form is really shared by every

degree of the administration, and it is only by including every

degree that you really know the difference. In one country you

begin to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of his

underlings; in another you must see the election of members of

parliament to see if the nation is really free; in each and every

country, he who has only seen the towns cannot possibly know what

the government is like, as its spirit is never the same in town

and country. Now it is the agricultural districts which form the

country, and the country people who make the nation.

This study of different nations in their remoter provinces, and

in the simplicity of their native genius, gives a general result

which is very satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling to

the human heart; it is this: All the nations, if you observe them

in this fashion, seem much better worth observing; the nearer they

are to nature, the more does kindness hold sway in their character;

it is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is only when they

are changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that certain

faults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged for

pleasant but pernicious vices.

From this observation we see another advantage in the mode of

travel I suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big towns

which are horribly corrupt, are less likely to catch the infection

of vice; among simpler people and less numerous company, they will

preserve a surer judgment, a healthier taste, and better morals.

Besides this contagion of vice is hardly to be feared for Emile;

he has everything to protect him from it. Among all the precautions

I have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart.

We do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, because

we are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who have

control over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young man

must either love or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceived

by appearances. You will quote any number of young men who are said

to live very chastely without love; but show me one grown man, a

real man, who can truly say that his youth was thus spent? In all

our virtues, all our duties, people are content with appearances;

for my own part I want the reality, and I am much mistaken if there

is any other way of securing it beyond the means I have suggested.

The idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on his

travels is not my own. It was suggested to me by the following

incident.

I was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It was

winter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor's letters were

brought from the post office. He glanced at them, and then read

them aloud to his pupil. They were in English; I understood not a

word, but while he was reading I saw the young man tear some fine

point lace ruffles which he was wearing, and throw them in the fire

one after another, as quietly as he could, so that no one should

see it. Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and thought

I perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, though

much alike in all men, have national differences which may easily

lead one astray. Nations have a different language of facial expression

as well as of speech. I waited till the letters were finished and

then showing the tutor the bare wrists of his pupil, which he did

his best to hide, I said, "May I ask the meaning of this?"

The tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced his

pupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gave

me the desired explanation.

"The ruffles," said he, "which Mr. John has just torn to pieces,

were a present from a lady in this town, who made them for him not

long ago. Now you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a young

lady in his own country, with whom he is greatly in love, and she

well deserves it. This letter is from the lady's mother, and I will

translate the passage which caused the destruction you beheld.

"'Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John's ruffles. Yesterday Miss

Betty Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doing

some of her work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morning

and I wanted to see what she was doing; I found her busy unpicking

what Miss Betty had done. She would not have a single stitch in

her present done by any hand but her own.'"

Mr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to his

tutor: "Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me is

not the letter from Miss Lucy's mother a put up job? Is it not an

expedient of your designing against the lady of the ruffles?" "No,"

said he, "it is quite genuine; I am not so artful as that; I have

made use of simplicity and zeal, and God has blessed my efforts."

This incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; it

was sure to set a dreamer like me thinking.

But it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy,

or rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever,

and a more enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land all

the bettor for having made acquaintance with foreign governments

through their vices and foreign nations through their virtues.

I have even taken care that he should associate himself with some

man of worth in every nation, by means of a treaty of hospitality

after the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry if this

acquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this be

useful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent in

foreign lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the sway

of patriotic prejudices, to which we are liable all through our

life, and to which sooner or later we are more or less enslaved.

Nothing is better calculated to lessen the hold of such prejudices

than a friendly interchange of opinions with sensible people whom

we respect; they are free from our prejudices and we find ourselves

face to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of prejudices

against the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thing

to have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs.

In the former case there is always a certain amount of politeness

which either makes them conceal their real opinions, or makes them

think more favourably of our country while they are with us; when

they get home again this disappears, and they merely do us justice.

I should be very glad if the foreigner I consult has seen my country,

but I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is at home again.

When we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of the

great countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, when

we have learnt two or three of the chief languages, when we have

seen what is really interesting in natural history, government,

arts, or men, Emile, devoured by impatience, reminds me that our

time is almost up. Then I say, "Well, my friend, you remember the

main object of our journey; you have seen and observed; what is

the final result of your observations? What decision have you come

to?" Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat after

this fashion--

"What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you made

me; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposed

upon me by nature and the laws. The more I study the works of men

in their institutions, the more clearly I see that, in their efforts

after independence, they become slaves, and that their very freedom

is wasted in vain attempts to assure its continuance. That they

may not be carried away by the flood of things, they form all sorts

of attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward they are

surprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to me

that to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continue

to desire freedom. My master, you have made me free by teaching

me to yield to necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow her

without compulsion; I lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In our

travels I have sought for some corner of the earth where I might

be absolutely my own; but where can one dwell among men without

being dependent on their passions? On further consideration I have

discovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I to hold

to nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I had

settled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads were

attached to their trees. I have discovered that the words liberty

and empire are incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage by

ceasing to be master of myself.

"'Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus.'

Horace, lib. ii., sat. vi.

"I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. You

argued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and my

liberty; but when you wished me to be free and at the same time

without needs, you desired two incompatible things, for I could

only be independent of men by returning to dependence on nature.

What then shall I do with the fortune bequeathed to me by my

parents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on it; I will cut

myself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is left

in my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall not

be dragged away with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it,

but I shall keep steadfastly to my own place. Rich or poor, I shall

be free. I shall be free not merely in this country or in that; I

shall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of prejudice

are broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds of

necessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood,

and I shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why should

I not wear those chains as a free man, for I should have to wear

them even if I were a slave, together with the additional fetters

of slavery?

"What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?

Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there

are none, I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent and

rich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealth

makes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it. I have

hands to work, and I shall get a living. If my hands fail me, I

shall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shall

die; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not the

penalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comes

I defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it

shall never prevent me having lived.

"My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should be

in my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what

is and I should never fight against fate. At least, there is only

one chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I may

be justly proud. Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free."

"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and

to behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggerated

unselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you have

children of your own, and then you will be just what a good father

and a wise man ought to be. I knew what the result would be before

our travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would be

far from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve.

In vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws. The laws!

Where is there any law? Where is there any respect for law? Under

the name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interest

and human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of order

exist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they

are written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;

let him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the

evil-doer, for he always does evil against his will. Liberty is

not to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart of

the free man, he bears her with him everywhere. The vile man bears

his slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, the

other free in Paris.

"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps

ask me, 'Which is my country?' And you would think you had put me

to confusion. Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who

has no country has, at least, the land in which he lives. There is

always a government and certain so-called laws under which he has

lived in peace. What matter though the social contract has not been

observed, if he has been protected by private interest against the

general will, if he has been secured by public violence against

private aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to

love the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him

perceive and hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is the

man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever that

land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by

man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue. Born in

the depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happiness

and freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a

struggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would

not have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions.

The mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it. The public

good, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him.

He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice

his own interest to the common weal. It is not true that he gains

nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in

the midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to

make him free; they have taught him to rule himself.

"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?' It does matter

that you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of

these duties is to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymen

protected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood.

You should live among them, or at least you should live where you

can serve them to the best of your power, and where they know where

to find you if ever they are in need of you. There are circumstances

in which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outside

his country than within it. Then he should listen only to his own

zeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is one

of his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the

painful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst

of your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant

intercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; your

example will do more than all our books, and the good they see you

do will touch them more deeply than all our empty words.

"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one

of the examples which the good should give to others is that of a

patriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful,

the most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart.

Happy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peace

in the wilderness! But where is that country? A man of good will

finds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns,

where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for. The welcome

given by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek their

fortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country

ought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All the

men who withdraw from high society are useful just because of their

withdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers. They are

also useful when they can bring with them into the desert places

life, culture, and the love of their first condition. I like

to think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, may

spread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country,

how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.

"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under

cultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers and

plenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I

see the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they

have revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of

those about them. Men say the golden age is a fable; it always will

be for those whose feelings and taste are depraved. People do not

really regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it.

What is needed for its restoration? One thing only, and that is an

impossibility; we must love the golden age.

"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together you

will only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dear

Emile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for

sterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that the

Romans sometimes left the plough to become consul. If the prince

or the state calls you to the service of your country, leave all

to fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assigned

to you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourable

means of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will

not long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear the

difficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time,

they will not summon you to serve the state."

Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of

their love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A love

founded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues

which will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of character

which gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age the

delights of early love. But all such details would be pleasing but

not useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractive

details unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandon

this rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen is

weary. Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon

this if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be left

imperfect it is time it were finished.

At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of

Emile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to

appreciate their results. The noble pair are united till death do

part; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife.

When they return from the church, they follow where they are led;

they know not where they are, whither they are going, or what is

happening around them. They heed nothing, they answer at random;

their eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture! Oh,

human weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he

is not strong enough to bear it.

There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married

couple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation

of others seem to me equally out of place. I would rather their

young hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to an

agitation which is not without its charm, rather than that they

should be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed by

coarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at other

times, are surely out of place on such a day.

I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving

no heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy

all the days of their life, shall I let them lose this precious

day? No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoy

them. I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them in

some quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of them

I wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts,

and I know that there is only one subject of which they can think

to-day.

"My children," say I, taking a hand of each, "it is three years

since I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is

your happiness to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me

that it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline."

My readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile,

and the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;

how their eyes protest that they will adore each other till their

latest breath. I let them have their way; then I continue:

"I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue

in marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this has

never been. But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite

worthy to set an example you have not received, an example which

few married couples could follow. My children, shall I tell you

what I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?"

They look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanks

me curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a

better, at any rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees with

him and seems just as certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I think

I see a trace of curiosity. I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixed

upon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; and

he pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to smile, and I

say to myself, "I will soon get your attention."

The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses

is characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it

is that men are generally less constant than women, and are sooner

weary of success in love. A woman foresees man's future inconstancy,

and is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous. [Footnote:

In France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; and

necessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiring

attention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they

care very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; it

is the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so,

for women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desires

and only disgust them. There may be plenty of exceptions to these

general truths; but I still think they are truths.] When his

passion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentions

he used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her

turn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affection

and kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them

back. I return to my prescription against the cooling of love in

marriage.

"It is plain and simple," I continue. "It consists in remaining

lovers when you are husband and wife."

"Indeed," said Emile, laughing at my secret, "we shall not find

that hard."

"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me time

to explain.

"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happens

when the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. The

fidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of

all rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other.

Constraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not to

be had for the asking. Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to run

away. God forbid that I should offend your modesty! But your fate

for life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a conversation

between your husband and your father which you would not permit

elsewhere.

"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and

affection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than

a wife. How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and

a right of the sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire which

gives the right, and nature knows no other. The law may restrict

this right, it cannot extend it. The pleasure is so sweet in itself!

Should it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain from

its own charms? No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound,

but the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another fidelity, but

not complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another, but

neither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.

"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife's

lover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a

happy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from

duty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace.

I know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to be

overcome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever be

mistaken as to the real will? Will not he know when heart and eyes

grant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master of their

person and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them

only at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasure

is only lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, my

children, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it

will make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety. True

to one another, nature and love will draw you to each other."

Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.

Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.

Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. Yet

I insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;

I undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her

share of the treaty. I incite her to speak, you may guess she will

not dare to say I am mistaken. Emile anxiously consults the eyes of

his young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filled

with a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangers

of trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture

the hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he

has already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her.

"My dear wife," said he, "be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are

already the arbiter of my life and fate. Should your cruelty cost

me life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights. I

will owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart."

Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you

fall a victim to your generosity.

In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most

solemn tone, "Remember both of you, that you are free, that there

is no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference.

Emile will you come home with me? Sophy permits it." Emile is ready

to strike me in his anger. "And you, Sophy, what do you say? Shall

I take him away?" The little liar, blushing, answers, "Yes." A

tender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!

The next day. ... Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;

their taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their

hearts. They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive what

is truly delightful. You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, see

only the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is very

imperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charms

of pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young couple,

happily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chaste

yet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have

enjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightful

certainty that they will spend the rest of their life together. The

heart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the real

picture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times without

heeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it. Sophy,

peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;

a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her

husband.

The day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to look

somewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender

eagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there

is much amiss. As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;

her eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;

she is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little and

vexes him still more.

These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;

I am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that,

to his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not

permitted last night to share Sophy's bed. That haughty lady had

made haste to assert her right. An explanation takes place. Emile

complains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile is

really getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tenderness

and love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, but

in a tone that goes to his heart, "Ungrateful man!" Emile is too

stupid to understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away and

speak to Sophy privately in her turn.

"I see," said I, "the reason for this whim. No one could be more

delicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, do

not be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat

him as such. You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not

squandered his manhood and it will endure for you. My dear child,

I must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation of

the day before yesterday. Perhaps you only understood it as a way

of restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance. Oh,

Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care. When Emile

became your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; this

is the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however,

good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature's

laws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, as

his sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiter

of his pleasures. It will be hard for you, but you will control him

if you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows me

that this difficult art is not beyond your courage. You will long

rule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if

you know how to use them aright. If you want to have your husband

always in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your sternness

be the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not

capricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt

your own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more

respected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity,

without having to complain of her coldness.

"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen

to your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide

nothing without you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays,

and bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself

lovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf

of virtue, and love on behalf of reason.

"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your

purpose. In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by

possession, and love above all others. But when love has lasted long

enough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidence

succeeds the raptures of passion. Children form a bond between

their parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimes

stronger than love itself. When you cease to be Emile's mistress you

will be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children.

Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest

intimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no

more caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longer

do without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is

far from himself. You have made the charms of home life so powerful

in your father's home, let them prevail in your own. Every man who

is happy at home loves his wife. Remember that if your husband is

happy in his home, you will be a happy wife.

"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves

more consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care

for his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own

happiness. You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;

you must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add to

the value of your favours."

Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, "One must

bear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts be

such that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to the

graces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable."

Peace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms. The treaty

is signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, "Dear Emile,

all his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor. So far

I have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is now

ended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I abdicate the

authority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian."

Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully

enjoy the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthy

husband and wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint their

felicity, would require the history of their lives. How often does

my heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of my

life's work! How often do I take their hands in mine blessing God

with all my heart! How often do I kiss their clasped hands! How

often do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are touched by

my joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see their

own youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live,

as it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first

time, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, which

prevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they were

young. If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you must

seek it in our abode.

One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces

me, saying, "My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to

have the honour of being a father. What a responsibility will be

ours, how much we shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should let

you educate the son as you educated the father. God forbid that so

sweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, even

though I should make as good a choice for my child as was made for

me! But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers. Advise

and control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shall

need you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the

duties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to follow

your example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure."

THE END