answer them, and keep up long conversations
with them; and though they use words, these words are quite useless.
It is not the hearing of the word, but its accompanying intonation
that is understood.
To the language of intonation is added the no less forcible language
of gesture. The child uses, not its weak hands, but its face.
The amount of expression in these undeveloped faces is extraordinary;
their features change from one moment to another with incredible
speed. You see smiles, desires, terror, come and go like lightning;
every time the face seems different. The muscles of the face are
undoubtedly more mobile than our own. On the other hand the eyes
are almost expressionless. Such must be the sort of signs they
use at an age when their only needs are those of the body. Grimaces
are the sign of sensation, the glance expresses sentiment.
As man's first state is one of want and weakness, his first sounds
are cries and tears. The child feels his needs and cannot satisfy
them, he begs for help by his cries. Is he hungry or thirsty?
there are tears; is he too cold or too hot? more tears; he needs
movement and is kept quiet, more tears; he wants to sleep and
is disturbed, he weeps. The less comfortable he is, the more he
demands change. He has only one language because he has, so to
say, only one kind of discomfort. In the imperfect state of his
sense organs he does not distinguish their several impressions;
all ills produce one feeling of sorrow.
These tears, which you think so little worthy of your attention,
give rise to the first relation between man and his environment;
here is forged the first link in the long chain of social order.
When the child cries he is uneasy, he feels some need which he
cannot satisfy; you watch him, seek this need, find it, and satisfy
it. If you can neither find it nor satisfy it, the tears continue
and become tiresome. The child is petted to quiet him, he is rocked
or sung to sleep; if he is obstinate, the nurse becomes impatient
and threatens him; cruel nurses sometimes strike him. What strange
lessons for him at his first entrance into life!
I shall never forget seeing one of these troublesome crying children
thus beaten by his nurse. He was silent at once. I thought he
was frightened, and said to myself, "This will be a servile
being from whom nothing can be got but by harshness." I was
wrong, the poor wretch was choking with rage, he could not breathe,
he was black in the face. A moment later there were bitter cries,
every sign of the anger, rage, and despair of this age was in
his tones. I thought he would die. Had I doubted the innate sense
of justice and injustice in man's heart, this one instance would
have convinced me. I am sure that a drop of boiling liquid falling
by chance on that child's hand would have hurt him less than that
blow, slight in itself, but clearly given with the intention of
hurting him.
This tendency to anger, vexation, and rage needs great care. Boerhaave
thinks that most of the diseases of children are of the nature
of convulsions, because the head being larger in proportion and
the nervous system more extensive than in adults, they are more
liable to nervous irritation. Take the greatest care to remove
from them any servants who tease, annoy, or vex them. They are
a hundredfold more dangerous and more fatal than fresh air and
changing seasons. When children only experience resistance in
things and never in the will of man, they do not become rebellious
or passionate, and their health is better. This is one reason
why the children of the poor, who are freer and more independent,
are generally less frail and weakly, more vigorous than those
who are supposed to be better brought up by being constantly thwarted;
but you must always remember that it is one thing to refrain from
thwarting them, but quite another to obey them. The child's first
tears are prayers, beware lest they become commands; he begins
by asking for aid, he ends by demanding service. Thus from his
own weakness, the source of his first consciousness of dependence,
springs the later idea of rule and tyranny; but as this idea is
aroused rather by his needs than by our services, we begin to
see moral results whose causes are not in nature; thus we see
how important it is, even at the earliest age, to discern the
secret meaning of the gesture or cry.
When the child tries to seize something without speaking, he thinks
he can reach the object, for he does not rightly judge its distance;
when he cries and stretches out his hands he no longer misjudges
the distance, he bids the object approach, or orders you to bring
it to him. In the first case bring it to him slowly; in the second
do not even seem to hear his cries. The more he cries the less
you should heed him. He must learn in good time not to give commands
to men, for he is not their master, nor to things, for they cannot
hear him. Thus when the child wants something you mean to give
him, it is better to carry him to it rather than to bring the
thing to him. From this he will draw a conclusion suited to his
age, and there is no other way of suggesting it to him.
The Abbe Saint-Pierre calls men big children; one might also call
children little men. These statements are true, but they require
explanation. But when Hobbes calls the wicked a strong child,
his statement is contradicted by facts. All wickedness comes from
weakness. The child is only naughty because he is weak; make him
strong and he will be good; if we could do everything we should
never do wrong. Of all the attributes of the Almighty, goodness
is that which it would be hardest to dissociate from our conception
of Him. All nations who have acknowledged a good and an evil power,
have always regarded the evil as inferior to the good; otherwise
their opinion would have been absurd. Compare this with the creed
of the Savoyard clergyman later on in this book.
Reason alone teaches us to know good and evil. Therefore conscience,
which makes us love the one and hate the other, though it is independent
of reason, cannot develop without it. Before the age of reason
we do good or ill without knowing it, and there is no morality
in our actions, although there is sometimes in our feeling with
regard to other people's actions in relation to ourselves. A child
wants to overturn everything he sees. He breaks and smashes everything
he can reach; he seizes a bird as he seizes a stone, and strangles
it without knowing what he is about.
Why so? In the first place philosophy will account for this by
inbred sin, man's pride, love of power, selfishness, spite; perhaps
it will say in addition to this that the child's consciousness
of his own weakness makes him eager to use his strength, to convince
himself of it. But watch that broken down old man reduced in the
downward course of life to the weakness of a child; not only is
he quiet and peaceful, he would have all about him quiet and peaceful
too; the least change disturbs and troubles him, he would like
to see universal calm. How is it possible that similar feebleness
and similar passions should produce such different effects in
age and in infancy, if the original cause were not different?
And where can we find this difference in cause except in the bodily
condition of the two. The active principle, common to both, is
growing in one case and declining in the other; it is being formed
in the one and destroyed in the other; one is moving towards life,
the other towards death. The failing activity of the old man is
centred in his heart, the child's overflowing activity spreads
abroad. He feels, if we may say so, strong enough to give life
to all about him. To make or to destroy, it is all one to him;
change is what he seeks, and all change involves action. If he
seems to enjoy destructive activity it is only that it takes time
to make things and very little time to break them, so that the
work of destruction accords better with his eagerness.
While the Author of nature has given children this activity, He
takes care that it shall do little harm by giving them small power
to use it. But as soon as they can think of people as tools to
be used, they use them to carry out their wishes and to supplement
their own weakness. This is how they become tiresome, masterful,
imperious, naughty, and unmanageable; a development which does
not spring from a natural love of power, but one which has been
taught them, for it does not need much experience to realise how
pleasant it is to set others to work and to move the world by
a word.
As the child grows it gains strength and becomes less restless
and unquiet and more independent. Soul and body become better
balanced and nature no longer asks for more movement than is required
for self-preservation. But the love of power does not die with
the need that aroused it; power arouses and flatters self-love,
and habit strengthens it; thus caprice follows upon need, and
the first seeds of prejudice and obstinacy are sown.
FIRST MAXIM.--Far from being too strong, children are not strong
enough for all the claims of nature. Give them full use of such
strength as they have; they will not abuse it.
SECOND MAXIM.--Help them and supply the experience and strength
they lack whenever the need is of the body.
THIRD MAXIM.--In the help you give them confine yourself to what
is really needful, without granting anything to caprice or unreason;
for they will not be tormented by caprice if you do not call it
into existence, seeing it is no part of nature.
FOURTH MAXIM--Study carefully their speech and gestures, so that
at an age when they are incapable of deceit you may discriminate
between those desires which come from nature and those which spring
from perversity.
The spirit of these rules is to give children more real liberty
and less power, to let them do more for themselves and demand
less of others; so that by teaching them from the first to confine
their wishes within the limits of their powers they will scarcely
feel the want of whatever is not in their power.
This is another very important reason for leaving children's limbs
and bodies perfectly free, only taking care that they do not fall,
and keeping anything that might hurt them out of their way.
The child whose body and arms are free will certainly cry much
less than a child tied up in swaddling clothes. He who knows only
bodily needs, only cries when in pain; and this is a great advantage,
for then we know exactly when he needs help, and if possible we
should not delay our help for an instant. But if you cannot relieve
his pain, stay where you are and do not flatter him by way of
soothing him; your caresses will not cure his colic, but he will
remember what he must do to win them; and if he once finds out
how to gain your attention at will, he is your master; the whole
education is spoilt.
Their movements being less constrained, children will cry less;
less wearied with their tears, people will not take so much trouble
to check them. With fewer threats and promises, they will be less
timid and less obstinate, and will remain more nearly in their
natural state. Ruptures are produced less by letting children
cry than by the means taken to stop them, and my evidence for
this is the fact that the most neglected children are less liable
to them than others. I am very far from wishing that they should
be neglected; on the contrary, it is of the utmost importance
that their wants should be anticipated, so that they need not
proclaim their wants by crying. But neither would I have unwise
care bestowed on them. Why should they think it wrong to cry when
they find they can get so much by it? When they have learned the
value of their silence they take good care not to waste it. In
the end they will so exaggerate its importance that no one will
be able to pay its price; then worn out with crying they become
exhausted, and are at length silent.
Prolonged crying on the part of a child neither swaddled nor out
of health, a child who lacks nothing, is merely the result of
habit or obstinacy. Such tears are no longer the work of nature,
but the work of the child's nurse, who could not resist its importunity
and so has increased it, without considering that while she quiets
the child to-day she is teaching him to cry louder to-morrow.
Moreover, when caprice or obstinacy is the cause of their tears,
there is a sure way of stopping them by distracting their attention
by some pleasant or conspicuous object which makes them forget
that they want to cry. Most nurses excel in this art, and rightly
used it is very useful; but it is of the utmost importance that
the child should not perceive that you mean to distract his attention,
and that he should be amused without suspecting you are thinking
about him; now this is what most nurses cannot do.
Most children are weaned too soon. The time to wean them is when
they cut their teeth. This generally causes pain and suffering.
At this time the child instinctively carries everything he gets
hold of to his mouth to chew it. To help forward this process
he is given as a plaything some hard object such as ivory or a
wolf's tooth. I think this is a mistake. Hard bodies applied to
the gums do not soften them; far from it, they make the process
of cutting the teeth more difficult and painful. Let us always
take instinct as our guide; we never see puppies practising their
budding teeth on pebbles, iron, or bones, but on wood, leather,
rags, soft materials which yield to their jaws, and on which the
tooth leaves its mark.
We can do nothing simply, not even for our children. Toys of silver,
gold, coral, cut crystal, rattles of every price and kind; what
vain and useless appliances. Away with them all! Let us have no
corals or rattles; a small branch of a tree with its leaves and
fruit, a stick of liquorice which he may suck and chew, will amuse
him as well as these splendid trifles, and they will have this
advantage at least, he will not be brought up to luxury from his
birth.
It is admitted that pap is not a very wholesome food. Boiled milk
and uncooked flour cause gravel and do not suit the stomach. In
pap the flour is less thoroughly cooked than in bread and it has
not fermented. I think bread and milk or rice-cream are better.
If you will have pap, the flour should be lightly cooked beforehand.
In my own country they make a very pleasant and wholesome soup
from flour thus heated. Meat-broth or soup is not a very suitable
food and should be used as little as possible. The child must
first get used to chewing his food; this is the right way to bring
the teeth through, and when the child begins to swallow, the saliva
mixed with the food helps digestion.
I would have them first chew dried fruit or crusts. I should give
them as playthings little bits of dry bread or biscuits, like
the Piedmont bread, known in the country as "grisses."
By dint of softening this bread in the mouth some of it is eventually
swallowed the teeth come through of themselves, and the child
is weaned almost imperceptibly. Peasants have usually very good
digestions, and they are weaned with no more ado.
From the very first children hear spoken language; we speak to
them before they can understand or even imitate spoken sounds.
The vocal organs are still stiff, and only gradually lend themselves
to the reproduction of the sounds heard; it is even doubtful whether
these sounds are heard distinctly as we hear them. The nurse may
amuse the child with songs and with very merry and varied intonation,
but I object to her bewildering the child with a multitude of
vain words of which it understands nothing but her tone of voice.
I would have the first words he hears few in number, distinctly
and often repeated, while the words themselves should be related
to things which can first be shown to the child. That fatal facility
in the use of words we do not understand begins earlier than we
think. In the schoolroom the scholar listens to the verbiage of
his master as he listened in the cradle to the babble of his nurse.
I think it would be a very useful education to leave him in ignorance
of both.
All sorts of ideas crowd in upon us when we try to consider the
development of speech and the child's first words. Whatever we
do they all learn to talk in the same way, and all philosophical
speculations are utterly useless.
To begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whose
rules and syntax are more general than our own; if you attend
carefully you will be surprised to find how exactly they follow
certain analogies, very much mistaken if you like, but very regular;
these forms are only objectionable because of their harshness
or because they are not recognised by custom. I have just heard
a child severely scolded by his father for saying, "Mon pere,
irai-je-t-y?" Now we see that this child was following the
analogy more closely than our grammarians, for as they say to
him, "Vas-y," why should he not say, "Irai-je-t-y?"
Notice too the skilful way in which he avoids the hiatus in irai-je-y
or y-irai-je? Is it the poor child's fault that we have so unskilfully
deprived the phrase of this determinative adverb "y,"
because we did not know what to do with it? It is an intolerable
piece of pedantry and most superfluous attention to detail to
make a point of correcting all children's little sins against
the customary expression, for they always cure themselves with
time. Always speak correctly before them, let them never be so
happy with any one as with you, and be sure that their speech
will be imperceptibly modelled upon yours without any correction
on your part.
But a much greater evil, and one far less easy to guard against,
is that they are urged to speak too much, as if people were afraid
they would not learn to talk of themselves. This indiscreet zeal
produces an effect directly opposite to what is meant. They speak
later and more confusedly; the extreme attention paid to everything
they say makes it unnecessary for them to speak distinctly, and
as they will scarcely open their mouths, many of them contract
a vicious pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all
their life and make them almost unintelligible.
I have lived much among peasants, and I never knew one of them
lisp, man or woman, boy or girl. Why is this? Are their speech
organs differently made from our own? No, but they are differently
used. There is a hillock facing my window on which the children
of the place assemble for their games. Although they are far enough
away, I can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get
good notes for this book. Every day my ear deceives me as to their
age. I hear the voices of children of ten; I look and see the
height and features of children of three or four. This experience
is not confined to me; the townspeople who come to see me, and
whom I consult on this point, all fall into the same mistake.
This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in
town, brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess,
do not need to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard.
As soon as their lips move people take pains to make out what
they mean; they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately,
and by paying great attention to them the people who are always
with them rather guess what they meant to say than what they said.
It is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman
is not always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very
clearly and loudly what he wants, if he is to make himself understood.
Children scattered about the fields at a distance from their fathers,
mothers and other children, gain practice in making themselves
heard at a distance, and in adapting the loudness of the voice
to the distance which separates them from those to whom they want
to speak. This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not by
stammering out a few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess.
So when you question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer,
but what he says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve
as interpreter for the town child; without her one can understand
nothing of what he is muttering between his teeth. [Footnote:
There are exceptions to this; and often those children who at
first are most difficult to hear, become the noisiest when they
begin to raise their voices. But if I were to enter into all these
details I should never make an end; every sensible reader ought
to see that defect and excess, caused by the same abuse, are both
corrected by my method. I regard the two maxims as inseparable--always
enough--never too much. When the first ii well established, the
latter necessarily follows on it.]
As they grow older, the boys are supposed to be cured of this
fault at college, the girls in the convent schools; and indeed
both usually speak more clearly than children brought up entirely
at home. But they are prevented from acquiring as clear a pronunciation
as the peasants in this way--they are required to learn all sorts
of things by heart, and to repeat aloud what they have learnt;
for when they are studying they get into the way of gabbling and
pronouncing carelessly and ill; it is still worse when they repeat
their lessons; they cannot find the right words, they drag out
their syllables. This is only possible when the memory hesitates,
the tongue does not stammer of itself. Thus they acquire or continue
habits of bad pronunciation. Later on you will see that Emile
does not acquire such habits or at least not from this cause.
I grant you uneducated people and villagers often fall into the
opposite extreme. They almost always speak too loud; their pronunciation
is too exact, and leads to rough and coarse articulation; their
accent is too pronounced, they choose their expressions badly,
etc.
But, to begin with, this extreme strikes me as much less dangerous
than the other, for the first law of speech is to make oneself
understood, and the chief fault is to fail to be understood. To
pride ourselves on having no accent is to pride ourselves on ridding
our phrases of strength and elegance. Emphasis is the soul of
speech, it gives it its feeling and truth. Emphasis deceives less
than words; perhaps that is why well-educated people are so afraid
of it. From the custom of saying everything in the same tone has
arisen that of poking fun at people without their knowing it.
When emphasis is proscribed, its place is taken by all sorts of
ridiculous, affected, and ephemeral pronunciations, such as one
observes especially among the young people about court. It is
this affectation of speech and manner which makes Frenchmen disagreeable
and repulsive to other nations on first acquaintance. Emphasis
is found, not in their speech, but in their bearing. That is not
the way to make themselves attractive.
All these little faults of speech, which you are so afraid the
children will acquire, are mere trifles; they may be prevented
or corrected with the greatest ease, but the faults which are
taught them when you make them speak in a low, indistinct, and
timid voice, when you are always criticising their tone and finding
fault with their words, are never cured. A man who has only learnt
to speak in society of fine ladies could not make himself heard
at the head of his troops, and would make little impression on
the rabble in a riot. First teach the child to speak to men; he
will be able to speak to the women when required.
Brought up in all the rustic simplicity of the country, your children
will gain a more sonorous voice; they will not acquire the hesitating
stammer of town children, neither will they acquire the expressions
nor the tone of the villagers, or if they do they will easily
lose them; their master being with them from their earliest years,
and more and more in their society the older they grow, will be
able to prevent or efface by speaking correctly himself the impression
of the peasants' talk. Emile will speak the purest French I know,
but he will speak it more distinctly and with a better articulation
than myself.
The child who is trying to speak should hear nothing but words
he can understand, nor should he say words he cannot articulate;
his efforts lead him to repeat the same syllable as if he were
practising its clear pronunciation. When he begins to stammer,
do not try to understand him. To expect to be always listened
to is a form of tyranny which is not good for the child. See carefully
to his real needs, and let him try to make you understand the
rest. Still less should you hurry him into speech; he will learn
to talk when he feels the want of it.
It has indeed been remarked that those who begin to speak very
late never speak so distinctly as others; but it is not because
they talked late that they are hesitating; on the contrary, they
began to talk late because they hesitate; if not, why did they
begin to talk so late? Have they less need of speech, have they
been less urged to it? On the contrary, the anxiety aroused with
the first suspicion of this backwardness leads people to tease
them much more to begin to talk than those who articulated earlier;
and this mistaken zeal may do much to make their speech confused,
when with less haste they might have had time to bring it to greater
perfection.
Children who are forced to speak too soon have no time to learn
either to pronounce correctly or to understand what they are made
to say; while left to themselves they first practise the easiest
syllables, and then, adding to them little by little some meaning
which their gestures explain, they teach you their own words before
they learn yours. By this means they do not acquire your words
till they have understood them. Being in no hurry to use them,
they begin by carefully observing the sense in which you use them,
and when they are sure of them they adopt them.
The worst evil resulting from the precocious use of speech by
young children is that we not only fail to understand the first
words they use, we misunderstand them without knowing it; so that
while they seem to answer us correctly, they fail to understand
us and we them. This is the most frequent cause of our surprise
at children's sayings; we attribute to them ideas which they did
not attach to their words. This lack of attention on our part
to the real meaning which words have for children seems to me
the cause of their earliest misconceptions; and these misconceptions,
even when corrected, colour their whole course of thought for
the rest of their life. I shall have several opportunities of
illustrating these by examples later on.
Let the child's vocabulary, therefore, be limited; it is very
undesirable that he should have more words than ideas, that he
should be able to say more than he thinks. One of the reasons
why peasants are generally shrewder than townsfolk is, I think,
that their vocabulary is smaller. They have few ideas, but those
few are thoroughly grasped.
The infant is progressing in several ways at once; he is learning
to talk, eat, and walk about the same time. This is really the
first phase of his life. Up till now, he was little more than
he was before birth; he had neither feeling nor thought, he was
barely capable of sensation; he was unconscious of his own existence.
"Vivit, et est vitae nescius ipse suae."--Ovid.
BOOK II
We have now reached the second phase of life; infancy, strictly
so-called, is over; for the words infans and puer are not synonymous.
The latter includes the former, which means literally "one
who cannot speak;" thus Valerius speaks of puerum infantem.
But I shall continue to use the word child (French enfant) according
to the custom of our language till an age for which there is another
term.
When children begin to talk they cry less. This progress is quite
natural; one language supplants another. As soon as they can say
"It hurts me," why should they cry, unless the pain
is too sharp for words? If they still cry, those about them are
to blame. When once Emile has said, "It hurts me," it
will take a very sharp pain to make him cry.
If the child is delicate and sensitive, if by nature he begins
to cry for nothing, I let him cry in vain and soon check his tears
at their source. So long as he cries I will not go near him; I
come at once when he leaves off crying. He will soon be quiet
when he wants to call me, or rather he will utter a single cry.
Children learn the meaning of signs by their effects; they have
no other meaning for them. However much a child hurts himself
when he is alone, he rarely cries, unless he expects to be heard.
Should he fall or bump his head, or make his nose bleed, or cut
his fingers, I shall show no alarm, nor shall I make any fuss
over him; I shall take no notice, at any rate at first. The harm
is done; he must bear it; all my zeal could only frighten him
more and make him more nervous. Indeed it is not the blow but
the fear of it which distresses us when we are hurt. I shall spare
him this suffering at least, for he will certainly regard the
injury as he sees me regard it; if he finds that I hasten anxiously
to him, if I pity him or comfort him, he will think he is badly
hurt. If he finds I take no notice, he will soon recover himself,
and will think the wound is healed when it ceases to hurt. This
is the time for his first lesson in courage, and by bearing slight
ills without fear we gradually learn to bear greater.
I shall not take pains to prevent Emile hurting himself; far from
it, I should be vexed if he never hurt himself, if he grew up
unacquainted with pain. To bear pain is his first and most useful
lesson. It seems as if children were small and weak on purpose
to teach them these valuable lessons without danger. The child
has such a little way to fall he will not break his leg; if he
knocks himself with a stick he will not break his arm; if he seizes
a sharp knife he will not grasp it tight enough to make a deep
wound. So far as I know, no child, left to himself, has ever been
known to kill or maim itself, or even to do itself any serious
harm, unless it has been foolishly left on a high place, or alone
near the fire, or within reach of dangerous weapons. What is there
to be said for all the paraphernalia with which the child is surrounded
to shield him on every side so that he grows up at the mercy of
pain, with neither courage nor experience, so that he thinks he
is killed by a pin-prick and faints at the sight of blood?
With our foolish and pedantic methods we are always preventing
children from learning what they could learn much better by themselves,
while we neglect what we alone can teach them. Can anything be
sillier than the pains taken to teach them to walk, as if there
were any one who was unable to walk when he grows up through his
nurse's neglect? How many we see walking badly all their life
because they were ill taught?
Emile shall have no head-pads, no go-carts, no leading-strings;
or at least as soon as he can put one foot before another he shall
only be supported along pavements, and he shall be taken quickly
across them. [Footnote: There is nothing so absurd and hesitating
as the gait of those who have been kept too long in leading-strings
when they were little. This is one of the observations which are
considered trivial because they are true.] Instead of keeping
him mewed up in a stuffy room, take him out into a meadow every
day; let him run about, let him struggle and fall again and again,
the oftener the better; he will learn all the sooner to pick himself
up. The delights of liberty will make up for many bruises. My
pupil will hurt himself oftener than yours, but he will always
be merry; your pupils may receive fewer injuries, but they are
always thwarted, constrained, and sad. I doubt whether they are
any better off.
As their strength increases, children have also less need for
tears. They can do more for themselves, they need the help of
others less frequently. With strength comes the sense to use it.
It is with this second phase that the real personal life has its
beginning; it is then that the child becomes conscious of himself.
During every moment of his life memory calls up the feeling of
self; he becomes really one person, always the same, and therefore
capable of joy or sorrow. Hence we must begin to consider him
as a moral being.
Although we know approximately the limits of human life and our
chances of attaining those limits, nothing is more uncertain than
the length of the life of any one of us. Very few reach old age.
The chief risks occur at the beginning of life; the shorter our
past life, the less we must hope to live. Of all the children
who are born scarcely one half reach adolescence, and it is very
likely your pupil will not live to be a man.
What is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education which
sacrifices the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a
child with all sorts of restrictions and begins by making him
miserable, in order to prepare him for some far-off happiness
which he may never enjoy? Even if I considered that education
wise in its aims, how could I view without indignation those poor
wretches subjected to an intolerable slavery and condemned like
galley-slaves to endless toil, with no certainty that they will
gain anything by it? The age of harmless mirth is spent in tears,
punishments, threats, and slavery. You torment the poor thing
for his good; you fail to see that you are calling Death to snatch
him from these gloomy surroundings. Who can say how many children
fall victims to the excessive care of their fathers and mothers?
They are happy to escape from this cruelty; this is all that they
gain from the ills they are forced to endure: they die without
regretting, having known nothing of life but its sorrows.
Men, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind
to every age and station, kind to all that is not foreign to humanity.
What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness? Love childhood,
indulge its sports, its pleasures, its delightful instincts. Who
has not sometimes regretted that age when laughter was ever on
the lips, and when the heart was ever at peace? Why rob these
innocents of the joys which pass so quickly, of that precious
gift which they cannot abuse? Why fill with bitterness the fleeting
days of early childhood, days which will no more return for them
than for you? Fathers, can you tell when death will call your
children to him? Do not lay up sorrow for yourselves by robbing
them of the short span which nature has allotted to them. As soon
as they are aware of the joy of life, let them rejoice in it,
go that whenever God calls them they may not die without having
tasted the joy of life.
How people will cry out against me! I hear from afar the shouts
of that false wisdom which is ever dragging us onwards, counting
the present as nothing, and pursuing without a pause a future
which flies as we pursue, that false wisdom which removes us from
our place and never brings us to any other.
Now is the time, you say, to correct his evil tendencies; we must
increase suffering in childhood, when it is less keenly felt,
to lessen it in manhood. But how do you know that you can carry
out all these fine schemes; how do you know that all this fine
teaching with which you overwhelm the feeble mind of the child
will not do him more harm than good in the future? How do you
know that you can spare him anything by the vexations you heap
upon him now? Why inflict on him more ills than befit his present
condition unless you are quite sure that these present ills will
save him future ill? And what proof can you give me that those
evil tendencies you profess to cure are not the result of your
foolish precautions rather than of nature? What a poor sort of
foresight, to make a child wretched in the present with the more
or less doubtful hope of making him happy at some future day.
If such blundering thinkers fail to distinguish between liberty
and licence, between a merry child and a spoilt darling, let them
learn to discriminate.
Let us not forget what befits our present state in the pursuit
of vain fancies. Mankind has its place in the sequence of things;
childhood has its place in the sequence of human life; the man
must be treated as a man and the child as a child. Give each his
place, and keep him there. Control human passions according to
man's nature; that is all we can do for his welfare. The rest
depends on external forces, which are beyond our control.
Absolute good and evil are unknown to us. In this life they are
blended together; we never enjoy any perfectly pure feeling, nor
do we remain for more than a moment in the same state. The feelings
of our minds, like the changes in our bodies, are in a continual
flux. Good and ill are common to all, but in varying proportions.
The happiest is he who suffers least; the most miserable is he
who enjoys least. Ever more sorrow than joy--this is the lot of
all of us. Man's happiness in this world is but a negative state;
it must be reckoned by the fewness of his ills.
Every feeling of hardship is inseparable from the desire to escape
from it; every idea of pleasure from the desire to enjoy it. All
desire implies a want, and all wants are painful; hence our wretchedness
consists in the disproportion between our desires and our powers.
A conscious being whose powers were equal to his desires would
be perfectly happy.
What then is human wisdom? Where is the path of true happiness?
The mere limitation of our desires is not enough, for if they
were less than our powers, part of our faculties would be idle,
and we should not enjoy our whole being; neither is the mere extension
of our powers enough, for if our desires were also increased we
should only be the more miserable. True happiness consists in
decreasing the difference between our desires and our powers,
in establishing a perfect equilibrium between the power and the
will. Then only, when all its forces are employed, will the soul
be at rest and man will find himself in his true position.
In this condition, nature, who does everything for the best, has
placed him from the first. To begin with, she gives him only such
desires as are necessary for self-preservation and such powers
as are sufficient for their satisfaction. All the rest she has
stored in his mind as a sort of reserve, to be drawn upon at need.
It is only in this primitive condition that we find the equilibrium
between desire and power, and then alone man is not unhappy. As
soon as his potential powers of mind begin to function, imagination,
more powerful than all the rest, awakes, and precedes all the
rest. It is imagination which enlarges the bounds of possibility
for us, whether for good or ill, and therefore stimulates and
feeds desires by the hope of satisfying them. But the object which
seemed within our grasp flies quicker than we can follow; when
we think we have grasped it, it transforms itself and is again
far ahead of us. We no longer perceive the country we have traversed,
and we think nothing of it; that which lies before us becomes
vaster and stretches still before us. Thus we exhaust our strength,
yet never reach our goal, and the nearer we are to pleasure, the
further we are from happiness.
On the other hand, the more nearly a man's condition approximates
to this state of nature the less difference is there between his
desires and his powers, and happiness is therefore less remote.
Lacking everything, he is never less miserable; for misery consists,
not in the lack of things, but in the needs which they inspire.
The world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination
is boundless; as we cannot enlarge the one, let us restrict the
other; for all the sufferings which really make us miserable arise
from the difference between the real and the imaginary. Health,
strength, and a good conscience excepted, all the good things
of life are a matter of opinion; except bodily suffering and remorse,
all our woes are imaginary. You will tell me this is a commonplace;
I admit it, but its practical application is no commonplace, and
it is with practice only that we are now concerned.
What do you mean when you say, "Man is weak"? The term
weak implies a relation, a relation of the creature to whom it
is applied. An insect or a worm whose strength exceeds its needs
is strong; an elephant, a lion, a conqueror, a hero, a god himself,
whose needs exceed his strength is weak. The rebellious angel
who fought against his own nature was weaker than the happy mortal
who is living at peace according to nature. When man is content
to be himself he is strong indeed; when he strives to be more
than man he is weak indeed. But do not imagine that you can increase
your strength by increasing your powers. Not so; if your pride
increases more rapidly your strength is diminished. Let us measure
the extent of our sphere and remain in its centre like the spider
in its web; we shall have strength sufficient for our needs, we
shall have no cause to lament our weakness, for we shall never
be aware of it.
The other animals possess only such powers as are required for
self-preservation; man alone has more. Is it not very strange
that this superfluity should make him miserable? In every land
a man's labour yields more than a bare living. If he were wise
enough to disregard this surplus he would always have enough,
for he would never have too much. "Great needs," said
Favorin, "spring from great wealth; and often the best way
of getting what we want is to get rid of what we have." By
striving to increase our happiness we change it into wretchedness.
If a man were content to live, he would live happy; and he would
therefore be good, for what would he have to gain by vice?
If we were immortal we should all be miserable; no doubt it is
hard to die, but it is sweet to think that we shall not live for
ever, and that a better life will put an end to the sorrows of
this world. If we had the offer of immortality here below, who
would accept the sorrowful gift? [Footnote: You understand I am
speaking of those who think, and not of the crowd.] What resources,
what hopes, what consolation would be left against the cruelties
of fate and man's injustice? The ignorant man never looks before;
he knows little of the value of life and does not fear to lose
it; the wise man sees things of greater worth and prefers them
to it. Half knowledge and sham wisdom set us thinking about death
and what lies beyond it; and they thus create the worst of our
ills. The wise man bears life's ills all the better because he
knows he must die. Life would be too dearly bought did we not
know that sooner or later death will end it.
Our moral ills are the result of prejudice, crime alone excepted,
and that depends on ourselves; our bodily ills either put an end
to themselves or to us. Time or death will cure them, but the
less we know how to bear it, the greater is our pain, and we suffer
more in our efforts to cure our diseases than if we endured them.
Live according to nature; be patient, get rid of the doctors;
you will not escape death, but you will only die once, while the
doctors make you die daily through your diseased imagination;
their lying art, instead of prolonging your days, robs you of
all delight in them. I am always asking what real good this art
has done to mankind. True, the doctors cure some who would have
died, but they kill millions who would have lived. If you are
wise you will decline to take part in this lottery when the odds
are so great against you. Suffer, die, or get better; but whatever
you do, live while you are alive.
Human institutions are one mass of folly and contradiction. As
our life loses its value we set a higher price upon it. The old
regret life more than the young; they do not want to lose all
they have spent in preparing for its enjoyment. At sixty it is
cruel to die when one has not begun to live. Man is credited with
a strong desire for self-preservation, and this desire exists;
but we fail to perceive that this desire, as felt by us, is largely
the work of man. In a natural state man is only eager to preserve
his life while he has the means for its preservation; when self-preservation
is no longer possible, he resigns himself to his fate and dies
without vain torments. Nature teaches us the first law of resignation.
Savages, like wild beasts, make very little struggle against death,
and meet it almost without a murmur. When this natural law is
overthrown reason establishes another, but few discern it, and
man's resignation is never so complete as nature's.
Prudence! Prudence which is ever bidding us look forward into
the future, a future which in many cases we shall never reach;
here is the real source of all our troubles! How mad it is for
so short-lived a creature as man to look forward into a future
to which he rarely attains, while he neglects the present which
is his? This madness is all the more fatal since it increases
with years, and the old, always timid, prudent, and miserly, prefer
to do without necessaries to-day that they may have luxuries at
a hundred. Thus we grasp everything, we cling to everything; we
are anxious about time, place, people, things, all that is and
will be; we ourselves are but the least part of ourselves. We
spread ourselves, so to speak, over the whole world, and all this
vast expanse becomes sensitive. No wonder our woes increase when
we may be wounded on every side. How many princes make themselves
miserable for the loss of lands they never saw, and how many merchants
lament in Paris over some misfortune in the Indies!
Is it nature that carries men so far from their real selves? Is
it her will that each should learn his fate from others and even
be the last to learn it; so that a man dies happy or miserable
before he knows what he is about. There is a healthy, cheerful,
strong, and vigorous man; it does me good to see him; his eyes
tell of content and well-being; he is the picture of happiness.
A letter comes by post; the happy man glances at it, it is addressed
to him, he opens it and reads it. In a moment he is changed, he
turns pale and falls into a swoon. When he comes to himself he
weeps, laments, and groans, he tears his hair, and his shrieks
re-echo through the air. You would say he was in convulsions.
Fool, what harm has this bit of paper done you? What limb has
it torn away? What crime has it made you commit? What change has
it wrought in you to reduce you to this state of misery?
Had the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into
the fire, it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once
happy and unhappy, would have offered us a strange problem. His
misfortunes, you say, were real enough. Granted; but he did not
feel them. What of that? His happiness was imaginary. I admit
it; health, wealth, a contented spirit, are mere dreams. We no
longer live in our own place, we live outside it. What does it
profit us to live in such fear of death, when all that makes life
worth living is our own?
Oh, man! live your own life and you will no longer be wretched.
Keep to your appointed place in the order of nature and nothing
can tear you from it. Do not kick against the stern law of necessity,
nor waste in vain resistance the strength bestowed on you by heaven,
not to prolong or extend your existence, but to preserve it so
far and so long as heaven pleases. Your freedom and your power
extend as far and no further than your natural strength; anything
more is but slavery, deceit, and trickery. Power itself is servile
when it depends upon public opinion; for you are dependent on
the prejudices of others when you rule them by means of those
prejudices. To lead them as you will, they must be led as they
will. They have only to change their way of thinking and you are
forced to change your course of action. Those who approach you
need only contrive to sway the opinions of those you rule, or
of the favourite by whom you are ruled, or those of your own family
or theirs. Had you the genius of Themistocles, [Footnote: "You
see that little boy," said Themistocles to his friends, "the
fate of Greece is in his hands, for he rules his mother and his
mother rules me, I rule the Athenians and the Athenians rule the
Greeks." What petty creatures we should often find controlling
great empires if we traced the course of power from the prince
to those who secretly put that power in motion.] viziers, courtiers,
priests, soldiers, servants, babblers, the very children themselves,
would lead you like a child in the midst of your legions. Whatever
you do, your actual authority can never extend beyond your own
powers. As soon as you are obliged to see with another's eyes
you must will what he wills. You say with pride, "My people
are my subjects." Granted, but what are you? The subject
of your ministers. And your ministers, what are they? The subjects
of their clerks, their mistresses, the servants of their servants.
Grasp all, usurp all, and then pour out your silver with both
hands; set up your batteries, raise the gallows and the wheel;
make laws, issue proclamations, multiply your spies, your soldiers,
your hangmen, your prisons, and your chains. Poor little men,
what good does it do you? You will be no better served, you will
be none the less robbed and deceived, you will be no nearer absolute
power. You will say continually, "It is our will," and
you will continually do the will of others.
There is only one man who gets his own way--he who can get it
single-handed; therefore freedom, not power, is the greatest good.
That man is truly free who desires what he is able to perform,
and does what he desires. This is my fundamental maxim. Apply
it to childhood, and all the rules of education spring from it.
Society has enfeebled man, not merely by robbing him of the right
to his own strength, but still more by making his strength insufficient
for his needs. This is why his desires increase in proportion
to his weakness; and this is why the child is weaker than the
man. If a man is strong and a child is weak it is not because
the strength of the one is absolutely greater than the strength
of the other, but because the one can naturally provide for himself
and the other cannot. Thus the man will have more desires and
the child more caprices, a word which means, I take it, desires
which are not true needs, desires which can only be satisfied
with the help of others.
I have already given the reason for this state of weakness. Parental
affection is nature's provision against it; but parental affection
may be carried to excess, it may be wanting, or it may be ill
applied. Parents who live under our ordinary social conditions
bring their child into these conditions too soon. By increasing
his needs they do not relieve his weakness; they rather increase
it. They further increase it by demanding of him what nature does
not demand, by subjecting to their will what little strength he
has to further his own wishes, by making slaves of themselves
or of him instead of recognising that mutual dependence which
should result from his weakness or their affection.
The wise man can keep his own place; but the child who does not
know what his place is, is unable to keep it. There are a thousand
ways out of it, and it is the business of those who have charge
of the child to keep him in his place, and this is no easy task.
He should be neither beast nor man, but a child. He must feel
his weakness, but not suffer through it; he must be dependent,
but he must not obey; he must ask, not command. He is only subject
to others because of his needs, and because they see better than
he what he really needs, what may help or hinder his existence.
No one, not even his father, has the right to bid the child do
what is of no use to him.
When our natural tendencies have not been interfered with by human
prejudice and human institutions, the happiness alike of children
and of men consists in the enjoyment of their liberty. But the
child's liberty is restricted by his lack of strength. He who
does as he likes is happy provided he is self-sufficing; it is
so with the man who is living in a state of nature. He who does
what he likes is not happy if his desires exceed his strength;
it is so with a child in like conditions. Even in a state of nature
children only enjoy an imperfect liberty, like that enjoyed by
men in social life. Each of us, unable to dispense with the help
of others, becomes so far weak and wretched. We were meant to
be men, laws and customs thrust us back into infancy. The rich
and great, the very kings themselves are but children; they see
that we are ready to relieve their misery; this makes them childishly
vain, and they are quite proud of the care bestowed on them, a
care which they would never get if they were grown men.
These are weighty considerations, and they provide a solution
for all the conflicting problems of our social system. There are
two kinds of dependence: dependence on things, which is the work
of nature; and dependence on men, which is the work of society.
Dependence on things, being non-moral, does no injury to liberty
and begets no vices; dependence on men, being out of order, [Footnote:
In my PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL LAW it is proved that no private
will can be ordered in the social system.] gives rise to every
kind of vice, and through this master and slave become mutually
depraved. If there is any cure for this social evil, it is to
be found in the substitution of law for the individual; in arming
the general will with a real strength beyond the power of any
individual will. If the laws of nations, like the laws of nature,
could never be broken by any human power, dependence on men would
become dependence on things; all the advantages of a state of
nature would be combined with all the advantages of social life
in the commonwealth. The liberty which preserves a man from vice
would be united with the morality which raises him to virtue.
Keep the child dependent on things only. By this course of education
you will have followed the order of nature. Let his unreasonable
wishes meet with physical obstacles only, or the punishment which
results from his own actions, lessons which will be recalled when
the same circumstances occur again. It is enough to prevent him
from wrong doing without forbidding him to do wrong. Experience
or lack of power should take the place of law. Give him, not what
he wants, but what he needs. Let there be no question of obedience
for him or tyranny for you. Supply the strength he lacks just
so far as is required for freedom, not for power, so that he may
receive your services with a sort of shame, and look forward to
the time when he may dispense with them and may achieve the honour
of self-help.
Nature provides for the child's growth in her own fashion, and
this should never be thwarted. Do not make him sit still when
he wants to run about, nor run when he wants to be quiet. If we
did not spoil our children's wills by our blunders their desires
would be free from caprice. Let them run, jump, and shout to their
heart's content. All their own activities are instincts of the
body for its growth in strength; but you should regard with suspicion
those wishes which they cannot carry out for themselves, those
which others must carry out for them. Then you must distinguish
carefully between natural and artificial needs, between the needs
of budding caprice and the needs which spring from the overflowing
life just described.
I have already told you what you ought to do when a child cries
for this thing or that. I will only add that as soon as he has
words to ask for what he wants and accompanies his demands with
tears, either to get his own way quicker or to over-ride a refusal,
he should never have his way. If his words were prompted by a
real need you should recognise it and satisfy it at once; but
to yield to his tears is to encourage him to cry, to teach him
to doubt your kindness, and to think that you are influenced more
by his importunity than your own good-will. If he does not think
you kind he will soon think you unkind; if he thinks you weak
he will soon become obstinate; what you mean to give must be given
at once. Be chary of refusing, but, having refused, do not change
your mind.
Above all, beware of teaching the child empty phrases of politeness,
which serve as spells to subdue those around him to his will,
and to get him what he wants at once. The artificial education
of the rich never fails to make them politely imperious, by teaching
them the words to use so that no one will dare to resist them.
Their children have neither the tone nor the manner of suppliants;
they are as haughty or even more haughty in their entreaties than
in their commands, as though they were more certain to be obeyed.
You see at once that "If you please" means "It
pleases me," and "I beg" means "I command."
What a fine sort of politeness which only succeeds in changing
the meaning of words so that every word is a command! For my own
part, I would rather Emile were rude than haughty, that he should
say "Do this" as a request, rather than "Please"
as a command. What concerns me is his meaning, not his words.
There is such a thing as excessive severity as well as excessive
indulgence, and both alike should be avoided. If you let children
suffer you risk their health and life; you make them miserable
now; if you take too much pains to spare them every kind of uneasiness
you are laying up much misery for them in the future; you are
making them delicate and over-sensitive; you are taking them out
of their place among men, a place to which they must sooner or
later return, in spite of all your pains. You will say I am falling
into the same mistake as those bad fathers whom I blamed for sacrificing
the present happiness of their children to a future which may
never be theirs.
Not so; for the liberty I give my pupil makes up for the slight
hardships to which he is exposed. I see little fellows playing
in the snow, stiff and blue with cold, scarcely able to stir a
finger. They could go and warm themselves if they chose, but they
do not choose; if you forced them to come in they would feel the
harshness of constraint a hundredfold more than the sharpness
of the cold. Then what becomes of your grievance? Shall I make
your child miserable by exposing him to hardships which he is
perfectly ready to endure? I secure his present good by leaving
him his freedom, and his future good by arming him against the
evils he will have to bear. If he had his choice, would he hesitate
for a moment between you and me?
Do you think any man can find true happiness elsewhere than in
his natural state; and when you try to spare him all suffering,
are you not taking him out of his natural state? Indeed I maintain
that to enjoy great happiness he must experience slight ills;
such is his nature. Too much bodily prosperity corrupts the morals.
A man who knew nothing of suffering would be incapable of tenderness
towards his fellow-creatures and ignorant of the joys of pity;
he would be hard-hearted, unsocial, a very monster among men.
Do you know the surest way to make your child miserable? Let him
have everything he wants; for as his wants increase in proportion
to the ease with which they are satisfied, you will be compelled,
sooner or later, to refuse his demands, and this unlooked-for
refusal will hurt him more than the lack of what he wants. He
will want your stick first, then your watch, the bird that flies,
or the star that shines above him. He will want all he sets eyes
on, and unless you were God himself, how could you satisfy him?
Man naturally considers all that he can get as his own. In this
sense Hobbes' theory is true to a certain extent: Multiply both
our wishes and the means of satisfying them, and each will be
master of all. Thus the child, who has only to ask and have, thinks
himself the master of the universe; he considers all men as his
slaves; and when you are at last compelled to refuse, he takes
your refusal as an act of rebellion, for he thinks he has only
to command. All the reasons you give him, while he is still too
young to reason, are so many pretences in his eyes; they seem
to him only unkindness; the sense of injustice embitters his disposition;
he hates every one. Though he has never felt grateful for kindness,
he resents all opposition.
How should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He is
the slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He
is a tyrant, at once the basest of slaves and the most wretched
of creatures. I have known children brought up like this who expected
you to knock the house down, to give them the weather-cock on
the steeple, to stop a regiment on the march so that they might
listen to the band; when they could not get their way they screamed
and cried and would pay no attention to any one. In vain everybody
strove to please them; as their desires were stimulated by the
ease with which they got their own way, they set their hearts
on impossibilities, and found themselves face to face with opposition
and difficulty, pain and grief. Scolding, sulking, or in a rage,
they wept and cried all day. Were they really so greatly favoured?
Weakness, combined with love of power, produces nothing but folly
and suffering. One spoilt child beats the table; another whips
the sea. They may beat and whip long enough before they find contentment.
If their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power
and tyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with
their fellow-men begin to grow and multiply? They are used to
find everything give way to them; what a painful surprise to enter
society and meet with opposition on every side, to be crushed
beneath the weight of a universe which they expected to move at
will. Their insolent manners, their childish vanity, only draw
down upon them mortification, scorn, and mockery; they swallow
insults like water; sharp experience soon teaches them that they
have realised neither their position nor their strength. As they
cannot do everything, they think they can do nothing. They are
daunted by unexpected obstacles, degraded by the scorn of men;
they become base, cowardly, and deceitful, and fall as far below
their true level as they formerly soared above it.
Let us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made children
helpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyed
and feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye,
a loud and threatening voice with which to make themselves feared?
I understand how the roaring of the lion strikes terror into the
other beasts, so that they tremble when they behold his terrible
mane, but of all unseemly, hateful, and ridiculous sights, was
there ever anything like a body of statesmen in their robes of
office with their chief at their head bowing down before a swaddled
babe, addressing him in pompous phrases, while he cries and slavers
in reply?
If we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak and
wretched as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those
about it, so dependent on their pity, their care, and their affection?
Does it not seem as if his gentle face and touching appearance
were intended to interest every one on behalf of his weakness
and to make them eager to help him? And what is there more offensive,
more unsuitable, than the sight of a sulky or imperious child,
who commands those about him, and impudently assumes the tones
of a master towards those without whom he would perish?
On the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by
the weakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increase
this servitude by obedience to our caprices, by depriving them
of such liberty as they have? a liberty which they can scarcely
abuse, a liberty the loss of which will do so little good to them
or us. If there is nothing more ridiculous than a haughty child,
there is nothing that claims our pity like a timid child. With
the age of reason the child becomes the slave of the community;
then why forestall this by slavery in the home? Let this brief
hour of life be free from a yoke which nature has not laid upon
it; leave the child the use of his natural liberty, which, for
a time at least, secures him from the vices of the slave. Bring
me those harsh masters, and those fathers who are the slaves of
their children, bring them both with their frivolous objections,
and before they boast of their own methods let them for once learn
the method of nature.
I return to practical matters. I have already said your child
must not get what he asks, but what he needs; [Footnote: We must
recognise that pain is often necessary, pleasure is sometimes
needed. So there is only one of the child's desires which should
never be complied with, the desire for power. Hence, whenever
they ask for anything we must pay special attention to their motive
in asking. As far as possible give them everything they ask for,
provided it can really give them pleasure; refuse everything they
demand from mere caprice or love of power.] he must never act
from obedience, but from necessity.
The very words OBEY and COMMAND will be excluded from his vocabulary,
still more those of DUTY and OBLIGATION; but the words strength,
necessity, weakness, and constraint must have a large place in
it. Before the age of reason it is impossible to form any idea
of moral beings or social relations; so avoid, as far as may be,
the use of words which express these ideas, lest the child at
an early age should attach wrong ideas to them, ideas which you
cannot or will not destroy when he is older. The first mistaken
idea he gets into his head is the germ of error and vice; it is
the first step that needs watching. Act in such a way that while
he only notices external objects his ideas are confined to sensations;
let him only see the physical world around him. If not, you may
be sure that either he will pay no heed to you at all, or he will
form fantastic ideas of the moral world of which you prate, ideas
which you will never efface as long as he lives.
"Reason with children" was Locke's chief maxim; it is
in the height of fashion at present, and I hardly think it is
justified by its results; those children who have been constantly
reasoned with strike me as exceedingly silly. Of all man's faculties,
reason, which is, so to speak, compounded of all the rest, is
the last and choicest growth, and it is this you would use for
the child's early training. To make a man reasonable is the coping
stone of a good education, and yet you profess to train a child
through his reason! You begin at the wrong end, you make the end
the means. If children understood reason they would not need education,
but by talking to them from their earliest age in a language they
do not understand you accustom them to be satisfied with words,
to question all that is said to them, to think themselves as wise
as their teachers; you train them to be argumentative and rebellious;
and whatever you think you gain from motives of reason, you really
gain from greediness, fear, or vanity with which you are obliged
to reinforce your reasoning.
Most of the moral lessons which are and can be given to children
may be reduced to this formula; Master. You must not do that.
Child. Why not?
Master. Because it is wrong.
Child. Wrong! What is wrong?
Master. What is forbidden you.
Child. Why is it wrong to do what is forbidden?
Master. You will be punished for disobedience.
Child. I will do it when no one is looking.
Master. We shall watch you.
Child. I will hide.
Master. We shall ask you what you were doing.
Child. I shall tell a lie.
Master. You must not tell lies.
Child. Why must not I tell lies?
Master. Because it is wrong, etc.
That is the inevitable circle. Go beyond it, and the child will
not understand you. What sort of use is there in such teaching?
I should greatly like to know what you would substitute for this
dialogue. It would have puzzled Locke himself. It is no part of
a child's business to know right and wrong, to perceive the reason
for a man's duties.
Nature would have them children before they are men. If we try
to invert this order we shall produce a forced fruit immature
and flavourless, fruit which will be rotten before it is ripe;
we shall have young doctors and old children. Childhood has its
own ways of seeing, thinking, and feeling; nothing is more foolish
than to try and substitute our ways; and I should no more expect
judgment in a ten-year-old child than I should expect him to be
five feet high. Indeed, what use would reason be to him at that
age? It is the curb of strength, and the child does not need the
curb.
When you try to persuade your scholars of the duty of obedience,
you add to this so-called persuasion compulsion and threats, or
still worse, flattery and bribes. Attracted by selfishness or
constrained by force, they pretend to be convinced by reason.
They see as soon as you do that obedience is to their advantage
and disobedience to their disadvantage. But as you only demand
disagreeable things of them, and as it is always disagreeable
to do another's will, they hide themselves so that they may do
as they please, persuaded that they are doing no wrong so long
as they are not found out, but ready, if found out, to own themselves
in the wrong for fear of worse evils. The reason for duty is beyond
their age, and there is not a man in the world who could make
them really aware of it; but the fear of punishment, the hope
of forgiveness, importunity, the difficulty of answering, wrings
from them as many confessions as you want; and you think you have
convinced them when you have only wearied or frightened them.
What does it all come to? In the first place, by imposing on them
a duty which they fail to recognise, you make them disinclined
to submit to your tyranny, and you turn away their love; you teach
them deceit, falsehood, and lying as a way to gain rewards or
escape punishment; then by accustoming them to conceal a secret
motive under the cloak of an apparent one, you yourself put into
their hands the means of deceiving you, of depriving you of a
knowledge of their real character, of answering you and others
with empty words whenever they have the chance. Laws, you say,
though binding on conscience, exercise the same constraint over
grown-up men. That is so, but what are these men but children
spoilt by education? This is just what you should avoid. Use force
with children and reasoning with men; this is the natural order;
the wise man needs no laws.
Treat your scholar according to his age. Put him in his place
from the first, and keep him in it, so that he no longer tries
to leave it. Then before he knows what goodness is, he will be
practising its chief lesson. Give him no orders at all, absolutely
none. Do not even let him think that you claim any authority over
him. Let him only know that he is weak and you are strong, that
his condition and yours puts him at your mercy; let this be perceived,
learned, and felt. Let him early find upon his proud neck, the
heavy yoke which nature has imposed upon us, the heavy yoke of
necessity, under which every finite being must bow. Let him find
this necessity in things, not in the caprices [Footnote: You may
be sure the child will regard as caprice any will which opposes
his own or any will which he does not understand. Now the child
does not understand anything which interferes with his own fancies.]
of man; let the curb be force, not authority. If there is something
he should not do, do not forbid him, but prevent him without explanation
or reasoning; what you give him, give it at his first word without
prayers or entreaties, above all without conditions. Give willingly,
refuse unwillingly, but let your refusal be irrevocable; let no
entreaties move you; let your "No," once uttered, be
a wall of brass, against which the child may exhaust his strength
some five or six times, but in the end he will try no more to
overthrow it.
Thus you will make him patient, equable, calm, and resigned, even
when he does not get all he wants; for it is in man's nature to
bear patiently with the nature of things, but not with the ill-will
of another. A child never rebels against, "There is none
left," unless he thinks the reply is false. Moreover, there
is no middle course; you must either make no demands on him at
all, or else you must fashion him to perfect obedience. The worst
education of all is to leave him hesitating between his own will
and yours, constantly disputing whether you or he is master; I
would rather a hundred times that he were master.
It is very strange that ever since people began to think about
education they should have hit upon no other way of guiding children
than emulation, jealousy, envy, vanity, greediness, base cowardice,
all the most dangerous passions, passions ever ready to ferment,
ever prepared to corrupt the soul even before the body is full-grown.
With every piece of precocious instruction which you try to force
into their minds you plant a vice in the depths of their hearts;
foolish teachers think they are doing wonders when they are making
their scholars wicked in order to teach them what goodness is,
and then they tell us seriously, "Such is man." Yes,
such is man, as you have made him. Every means has been tried
except one, the very one which might succeed--well-regulated liberty.
Do not undertake to bring up a child if you cannot guide him merely
by the laws of what can or cannot be. The limits of the possible
and the impossible are alike unknown to him, so they can be extended
or contracted around him at your will. Without a murmur he is
restrained, urged on, held back, by the hands of necessity alone;
he is made adaptable and teachable by the mere force of things,
without any chance for vice to spring up in him; for passions
do not arise so long as they have accomplished nothing.
Give your scholar no verbal lessons; he should be taught by experience
alone; never punish him, for he does not know what it is to do
wrong; never make him say, "Forgive me," for he does
not know how to do you wrong. Wholly unmoral in his actions, he
can do nothing morally wrong, and he deserves neither punishment
nor reproof.
Already I see the frightened reader comparing this child with
those of our time; he is mistaken. The perpetual restraint imposed
upon your scholars stimulates their activity; the more subdued
they are in your presence, the more boisterous they are as soon
as they are out of your sight. They must make amends to themselves
in some way or other for the harsh constraint to which you subject
them. Two schoolboys from the town will do more damage in the
country than all the children of the village. Shut up a young
gentleman and a young peasant in a room; the former will have
upset and smashed everything before the latter has stirred from
his place. Why is that, unless that the one hastens to misuse
a moment's licence, while the other, always sure of freedom, does
not use it rashly. And yet the village children, often flattered
or constrained, are still very far from the state in which I would
have them kept.
Let us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the first
impulses of nature are always right; there is no original sin
in the human heart, the how and why of the entrance of every vice
can be traced. The only natural passion is self-love or selfishness
taken in a wider sense. This selfishness is good in itself and
in relation to ourselves; and as the child has no necessary relations
to other people he is naturally indifferent to them; his self-love
only becomes good or bad by the use made of it and the relations
established by its means. Until the time is ripe for the appearance
of reason, that guide of selfishness, the main thing is that the
child shall do nothing because you are watching him or listening
to him; in a word, nothing because of other people, but only what
nature asks of him; then he will never do wrong.
I do not mean to say that he will never do any mischief, never
hurt himself, never break a costly ornament if you leave it within
his reach. He might do much damage without doing wrong, since
wrong-doing depends on the harmful intention which will never
be his. If once he meant to do harm, his whole education would
be ruined; he would be almost hopelessly bad.
Greed considers some things wrong which are not wrong in the eyes
of reason. When you leave free scope to a child's heedlessness,
you must put anything he could spoil out of his way, and leave
nothing fragile or costly within his reach. Let the room be furnished
with plain and solid furniture; no mirrors, china, or useless
ornaments. My pupil Emile, who is brought up in the country, shall
have a room just like a peasant's. Why take such pains to adorn
it when he will be so little in it? I am mistaken, however; he
will ornament it for himself, and we shall soon see how.
But if, in spite of your precautions, the child contrives to do
some damage, if he breaks some useful article, do not punish him
for your carelessness, do not even scold him; let him hear no
word of reproval, do not even let him see that he has vexed you;
behave just as if the thing had come to pieces of itself; you
may consider you have done great things if you have managed to
hold your tongue.
May I venture at this point to state the greatest, the most important,
the most useful rule of education? It is: Do not save time, but
lose it. I hope that every-day readers will excuse my paradoxes;
you cannot avoid paradox if you think for yourself, and whatever
you may say I would rather fall into paradox than into prejudice.
The most dangerous period in human life lies between birth and
the age of twelve. It is the time when errors and vices spring
up, while as yet there is no means to destroy them; when the means
of destruction are ready, the roots have gone too deep to be pulled
up. If the infant sprang at one bound from its mother's breast
to the age of reason, the present type of education would be quite
suitable, but its natural growth calls for quite a different training.
The mind should be left undisturbed till its faculties have developed;
for while it is blind it cannot see the torch you offer it, nor
can it follow through the vast expanse of ideas a path so faintly
traced by reason that the best eyes can scarcely follow it.
Therefore the education of the earliest years should be merely
negative. It consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but in
preserving the heart from vice and from the spirit of error. If
only you could let well alone, and get others to follow your example;
if you could bring your scholar to the age of twelve strong and
healthy, but unable to tell his right hand from his left, the
eyes of his understanding would be open to reason as soon as you
began to teach him. Free from prejudices and free from habits,
there would be nothing in him to counteract the effects of your
labours. In your hands he would soon become the wisest of men;
by doing nothing to begin with, you would end with a prodigy of
education.
Reverse the usual practice and you will almost always do right.
Fathers and teachers who want to make the child, not a child but
a man of learning, think it never too soon to scold, correct,
reprove, threaten, bribe, teach, and reason. Do better than they;
be reasonable, and do not reason with your pupil, more especially
do not try to make him approve what he dislikes; for if reason
is always connected with disagreeable matters, you make it distasteful
to him, you discredit it at an early age in a mind not yet ready
to understand it. Exercise his body, his limbs, his senses, his
strength, but keep his mind idle as long as you can. Distrust
all opinions which appear before the judgment to discriminate
between them. Restrain and ward off strange impressions; and to
prevent the birth of evil do not hasten to do well, for goodness
is only possible when enlightened by reason. Regard all delays
as so much time gained; you have achieved much, you approach the
boundary without loss. Leave childhood to ripen in your children.
In a word, beware of giving anything they need to-day if it can
be deferred without danger to to-morrow.
There is another point to be considered which confirms the suitability
of this method: it is the child's individual bent, which must
be thoroughly known before we can choose the fittest moral training.
Every mind has its own form, in accordance with which it must
be controlled; and the success of the pains taken depends largely
on the fact that he is controlled in this way and no other. Oh,
wise man, take time to observe nature; watch your scholar well
before you say a word to him; first leave the germ of his character
free to show itself, do not constrain him in anything, the better
to see him as he really is. Do you think this time of liberty
is wasted? On the contrary, your scholar will be the better employed,
for this is the way you yourself will learn not to lose a single
moment when time is of more value. If, however, you begin to act
before you know what to do, you act at random; you may make mistakes,
and must retrace your steps; your haste to reach your goal will
only take you further from it. Do not imitate the miser who loses
much lest he should lose a little. Sacrifice a little time in
early childhood, and it will be repaid you with usury when your
scholar is older. The wise physician does not hastily give prescriptions
at first sight, but he studies the constitution of the sick man
before he prescribes anything; the treatment is begun later, but
the patient is cured, while the hasty doctor kills him.
But where shall we find a place for our child so as to bring him
up as a senseless being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in the
moon, or on a desert island? Shall we remove him from human society?
Will he not always have around him the sight and the pattern of
the passions of other people? Will he never see children of his
own age? Will he not see his parents, his neighbours, his nurse,
his governess, his man-servant, his tutor himself, who after all
will not be an angel? Here we have a real and serious objection.
But did I tell you that an education according to nature would
be an easy task? Oh, men! is it my fault that you have made all
good things difficult? I admit that I am aware of these difficulties;
perhaps they are insuperable; but nevertheless it is certain that
we do to some extent avoid them by trying to do so. I am showing
what we should try to attain, I do not say we can attain it, but
I do say that whoever comes nearest to it is nearest to success.
Remember you must be a man yourself before you try to train a
man; you yourself must set the pattern he shall copy. While the
child is still unconscious there is time to prepare his surroundings,
so that nothing shall strike his eye but what is fit for his sight.
Gain the respect of every one, begin to win their hearts, so that
they may try to please you. You will not be master of the child
if you cannot control every one about him; and this authority
will never suffice unless it rests upon respect for your goodness.
There is no question of squandering one's means and giving money
right and left; I never knew money win love. You must neither
be harsh nor niggardly, nor must you merely pity misery when you
can relieve it; but in vain will you open your purse if you do
not open your heart along with it, the hearts of others will always
be closed to you. You must give your own time, attention, affection,
your very self; for whatever you do, people always perceive that
your money is not you. There are proofs of kindly interest which
produce more results and are really more useful than any gift;
how many of the sick and wretched have more need of comfort than
of charity; how many of the oppressed need protection rather than
money? Reconcile those who are at strife, prevent lawsuits; incline
children to duty, fathers to kindness; promote happy marriages;
prevent annoyances; freely use the credit of your pupil's parents
on behalf of the weak who cannot obtain justice, the weak who
are oppressed by the strong. Be just, human, kindly. Do not give
alms alone, give charity; works of mercy do more than money for
the relief of suffering; love others and they will love you; serve
them and they will serve you; be their brother and they will be
your children.
This is one reason why I want to bring up Emile in the country,
far from those miserable lacqueys, the most degraded of men except
their masters; far from the vile morals of the town, whose gilded
surface makes them seductive and contagious to children; while
the vices of peasants, unadorned and in their naked grossness,
are more fitted to repel than to seduce, when there is no motive
for imitating them.
In the village a tutor will have much more control over the things
he wishes to show the child; his reputation, his words, his example,
will have a weight they would never have in the town; he is of
use to every one, so every one is eager to oblige him, to win
his esteem, to appeal before the disciple what the master would
have him be; if vice is not corrected, public scandal is at least
avoided, which is all that our present purpose requires.
Cease to blame others for your own faults; children are corrupted
less by what they see than by your own teaching. With your endless
preaching, moralising, and pedantry, for one idea you give your
scholars, believing it to be good, you give them twenty more which
are good for nothing; you are full of what is going on in your
own minds, and you fail to see the effect you produce on theirs.
In the continual flow of words with which you overwhelm them,
do you think there is none which they get hold of in a wrong sense?
Do you suppose they do not make their own comments on your long-winded
explanations, that they do not find material for the construction
of a system they can understand--one which they will use against
you when they get the chance?
Listen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction;
let him chatter freely, ask questions, and talk at his ease, and
you will be surprised to find the strange forms your arguments
have assumed in his mind; he confuses everything, and turns everything
topsy-turvy; you are vexed and grieved by his unforeseen objections;
he reduces you to be silent yourself or to silence him: and what
can he think of silence in one who is so fond of talking? If ever
he gains this advantage and is aware of it, farewell education;
from that moment all is lost; he is no longer trying to learn,
he is trying to refute you.
Zealous teachers, be simple, sensible, and reticent; be in no
hurry to act unless to prevent the actions of others. Again and
again I say, reject, if it may be, a good lesson for fear of giving
a bad one. Beware of playing the tempter in this world, which
nature intended as an earthly paradise for men, and do not attempt
to give the innocent child the knowledge of good and evil; since
you cannot prevent the child learning by what he sees outside
himself, restrict your own efforts to impressing those examples
on his mind in the form best suited for him.
The explosive passions produce a great effect upon the child when
he sees them; their outward expression is very marked; he is struck
by this and his attention is arrested. Anger especially is so
noisy in its rage that it is impossible not to perceive it if
you are within reach. You need not ask yourself whether this is
an opportunity for a pedagogue to frame a fine disquisition. What!
no fine disquisition, nothing, not a word! Let the child come
to you; impressed by what he has seen, he will not fail to ask
you questions. The answer is easy; it is drawn from the very things
which have appealed to his senses. He sees a flushed face, flashing
eyes, a threatening gesture, he hears cries; everything shows
that the body is ill at ease. Tell him plainly, without affectation
or mystery, "This poor man is ill, he is in a fever."
You may take the opportunity of giving him in a few words some
idea of disease and its effects; for that too belongs to nature,
and is one of the bonds of necessity which he must recognise.
By means of this idea, which is not false in itself, may he not
early acquire a certain aversion to giving way to excessive passions,
which he regards as diseases; and do you not think that such a
notion, given at the right moment, will produce a more wholesome
effect than the most tedious sermon? But consider the after effects
of this idea; you have authority, if ever you find it necessary,
to treat the rebellious child as a sick child; to keep him in
his room, in bed if need be, to diet him, to make him afraid of
his growing vices, to make him hate and dread them without ever
regarding as a punishment the strict measures you will perhaps
have to use for his recovery. If it happens that you yourself
in a moment's heat depart from the calm and self-control which
you should aim at, do not try to conceal your fault, but tell
him frankly, with a gentle reproach, "My dear, you have hurt
me."
Moreover, it is a matter of great importance that no notice should
be taken in his presence of the quaint sayings which result from
the simplicity of the ideas in which he is brought up, nor should
they be quoted in a way he can understand. A foolish laugh may
destroy six months' work and do irreparable damage for life. I
cannot repeat too often that to control the child one must often
control oneself.
I picture my little Emile at the height of a dispute between two
neighbours going up to the fiercest of them and saying in a tone
of pity, "You are ill, I am very sorry for you." This
speech will no doubt have its effect on the spectators and perhaps
on the disputants. Without laughter, scolding, or praise I should
take him away, willing or no, before he could see this result,
or at least before he could think about it; and I should make
haste to turn his thoughts to other things, so that he would soon
forget all about it.
I do not propose to enter into every detail, but only to explain
general rules and to give illustrations in cases of difficulty.
I think it is impossible to train a child up to the age of twelve
in the midst of society, without giving him some idea of the relations
between one man and another, and of the morality of human actions.
It is enough to delay the development of these ideas as long as
possible, and when they can no longer be avoided to limit them
to present needs, so that he may neither think himself master
of everything nor do harm to others without knowing or caring.
There are calm and gentle characters which can be led a long way
in their first innocence without any danger; but there are also
stormy dispositions whose passions develop early; you must hasten
to make men of them lest you should have to keep them in chains.
Our first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are centred
on self; all our instincts are at first directed to our own preservation
and our own welfare. Thus the first notion of justice springs
not from what we owe to others, but from what is due to us. Here
is another error in popular methods of education. If you talk
to children of their duties, and not of their rights, you are
beginning at the wrong end, and telling them what they cannot
understand, what cannot be of any interest to them.
If I had to train a child such as I have just described, I should
say to myself, "A child never attacks people, [Footnote:
A child should never be allowed to play with grown-up people as
if they were his inferiors, nor even as if they were only his
equals. If he ventured to strike any one in earnest, were it only
the footman, were it the hangman himself, let the sufferer return
his blows with interest, so that he will not want to do it again.
I have seen silly women inciting children to rebellion, encouraging
them to hit people, allowing themselves to be beaten, and laughing
at the harmless blows, never thinking that those blows were in
intention ........................Continua
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