gave them to man's use; but this I say,
that in everything the art which is most generally useful and
necessary, is undoubtedly that which most deserves esteem, and
that art which requires the least help from others, is more worthy
of honour than those which are dependent on other arts, since
it is freer and more nearly independent. These are the true laws
of value in the arts; all others are arbitrary and dependent on
popular prejudice.
Agriculture is the earliest and most honourable of arts; metal
work I put next, then carpentry, and so on. This is the order
in which the child will put them, if he has not been spoilt by
vulgar prejudices. What valuable considerations Emile will derive
from his Robinson in such matters. What will he think when he
sees the arts only brought to perfection by sub-division, by the
infinite multiplication of tools. He will say, "All those
people are as silly as they are ingenious; one would think they
were afraid to use their eyes and their hands, they invent so
many tools instead. To carry on one trade they become the slaves
of many others; every single workman needs a whole town. My friend
and I try to gain skill; we only make tools we can take about
with us; these people, who are so proud of their talents in Paris,
would be no use at all on our island; they would have to become
apprentices."
Reader, do not stay to watch the bodily exercises and manual skill
of our pupil, but consider the bent we are giving to his childish
curiosity; consider his common-sense, his inventive spirit, his
foresight; consider what a head he will have on his shoulders.
He will want to know all about everything he sees or does, to
learn the why and the wherefore of it; from tool to tool he will
go back to the first beginning, taking nothing for granted; he
will decline to learn anything that requires previous knowledge
which he has not acquired. If he sees a spring made he will want
to know how they got the steel from the mine; if he sees the pieces
of a chest put together, he will want to know how the tree was
out down; when at work he will say of each tool, "If I had
not got this, how could I make one like it, or how could I get
along without it?"
It is, however, difficult to avoid another error. When the master
is very fond of certain occupations, he is apt to assume that
the child shares his tastes; beware lest you are carried away
by the interest of your work, while the child is bored by it,
but is afraid to show it. The child must come first, and you must
devote yourself entirely to him. Watch him, study him constantly,
without his knowing it; consider his feelings beforehand, and
provide against those which are undesirable, keep him occupied
in such a way that he not only feels the usefulness of the thing,
but takes a pleasure in understanding the purpose which his work
will serve.
The solidarity of the arts consists in the exchange of industry,
that of commerce in the exchange of commodities, that of banks
in the exchange of money or securities. All these ideas hang together,
and their foundation has already been laid in early childhood
with the help of Robert the gardener. All we have now to do is
to substitute general ideas for particular, and to enlarge these
ideas by means of numerous examples, so as to make the child understand
the game of business itself, brought home to him by means of particular
instances of natural history with regard to the special products
of each country, by particular instances of the arts and sciences
which concern navigation and the difficulties of transport, greater
or less in proportion to the distance between places, the position
of land, seas, rivers, etc.
There can be no society without exchange, no exchange without
a common standard of measurement, no common standard of measurement
without equality. Hence the first law of every society is some
conventional equality either in men or things.
Conventional equality between men, a very different thing from
natural equality, leads to the necessity for positive law, i.e.,
government and kings. A child's political knowledge should be
clear and restricted; he should know nothing of government in
general, beyond what concerns the rights of property, of which
he has already some idea.
Conventional equality between things has led to the invention
of money, for money is only one term in a comparison between the
values of different sorts of things; and in this sense money is
the real bond of society; but anything may be money; in former
days it was cattle; shells are used among many tribes at the present
day; Sparta used iron; Sweden, leather; while we use gold and
silver.
Metals, being easier to carry, have generally been chosen as the
middle term of every exchange, and these metals have been made
into coin to save the trouble of continual weighing and measuring,
for the stamp on the coin is merely evidence that the coin is
of given weight; and the sole right of coining money is vested
in the ruler because he alone has the right to demand the recognition
of his authority by the whole nation.
The stupidest person can perceive the use of money when it is
explained in this way. It is difficult to make a direct comparison
between various things, for instance, between cloth and corn;
but when we find a common measure, in money, it is easy for the
manufacturer and the farmer to estimate the value of the goods
they wish to exchange in terms of this common measure. If a given
quantity of cloth is worth a given some of money, and a given
quantity of corn is worth the same sum of money, then the seller,
receiving the corn in exchange for his cloth, makes a fair bargain.
Thus by means of money it becomes possible to compare the values
of goods of various kinds.
Be content with this, and do not touch upon the moral effects
of this institution. In everything you must show clearly the use
before the abuse. If you attempt to teach children how the sign
has led to the neglect of the thing signified, how money is the
source of all the false ideas of society, how countries rich in
silver must be poor in everything else, you will be treating these
children as philosophers, and not only as philosophers but as
wise men, for you are professing to teach them what very few philosophers
have grasped.
What a wealth of interesting objects, towards which the curiosity
of our pupil may be directed without ever quitting the real and
material relations he can understand, and without permitting the
formation of a single idea beyond his grasp! The teacher's art
consists in this: To turn the child's attention from trivial details
and to guide his thoughts continually towards relations of importance
which he will one day need to know, that he may judge rightly
of good and evil in human society. The teacher must be able to
adapt the conversation with which he amuses his pupil to the turn
already given to his mind. A problem which another child would
never heed will torment Emile half a year.
We are going to dine with wealthy people; when we get there everything
is ready for a feast, many guests, many servants, many dishes,
dainty and elegant china. There is something intoxicating in all
these preparations for pleasure and festivity when you are not
used to them. I see how they will affect my young pupil. While
dinner is going on, while course follows course, and conversation
is loud around us, I whisper in his ear, "How many hands
do you suppose the things on this table passed through before
they got here?" What a crowd of ideas is called up by these
few words. In a moment the mists of excitement have rolled away.
He is thinking, considering, calculating, and anxious. The child
is philosophising, while philosophers, excited by wine or perhaps
by female society, are babbling like children. If he asks questions
I decline to answer and put him off to another day. He becomes
impatient, he forgets to eat and drink, he longs to get away from
table and talk as he pleases. What an object of curiosity, what
a text for instruction. Nothing has so far succeeded in corrupting
his healthy reason; what will he think of luxury when he finds
that every quarter of the globe has been ransacked, that some
2,000,000 men have laboured for years, that many lives have perhaps
been sacrificed, and all to furnish him with fine clothes to be
worn at midday and laid by in the wardrobe at night.
Be sure you observe what private conclusions he draws from all
his observations. If you have watched him less carefully than
I suppose, his thoughts may be tempted in another direction; he
may consider himself a person of great importance in the world,
when he sees so much labour concentrated on the preparation of
his dinner. If you suspect his thoughts will take this direction
you can easily prevent it, or at any rate promptly efface the
false impression. As yet he can only appropriate things by personal
enjoyment, he can only judge of their fitness or unfitness by
their outward effects. Compare a plain rustic meal, preceded by
exercise, seasoned by hunger, freedom, and delight, with this
magnificent but tedious repast. This will suffice to make him
realise that he has got no real advantage from the splendour of
the feast, that his stomach was as well satisfied when he left
the table of the peasant, as when he left the table of the banker;
from neither had he gained anything he could really call his own.
Just fancy what a tutor might say to him on such an occasion.
Consider the two dinners and decide for yourself which gave you
most pleasure, which seemed the merriest, at which did you eat
and drink most heartily, which was the least tedious and required
least change of courses? Yet note the difference--this black bread
you so enjoy is made from the peasant's own harvest; his wine
is dark in colour and of a common kind, but wholesome and refreshing;
it was made in his own vineyard; the cloth is made of his own
hemp, spun and woven in the winter by his wife and daughters and
the maid; no hands but theirs have touched the food. His world
is bounded by the nearest mill and the next market. How far did
you enjoy all that the produce of distant lands and the service
of many people had prepared for you at the other dinner? If you
did not get a better meal, what good did this wealth do you? how
much of it was made for you? Had you been the master of the house,
the tutor might say, it would have been of still less use to you;
for the anxiety of displaying your enjoyment before the eyes of
others would have robbed you of it; the pains would be yours,
the pleasure theirs.
This may be a very fine speech, but it would be thrown away upon
Emile, as he cannot understand it, and he does not accept second-hand
opinions. Speak more simply to him. After these two experiences,
say to him some day, "Where shall we have our dinner to-day?
Where that mountain of silver covered three quarters of the table
and those beds of artificial flowers on looking glass were served
with the dessert, where those smart ladies treated you as a toy
and pretended you said what you did not mean; or in that village
two leagues away, with those good people who were so pleased to
see us and gave us such delicious cream?" Emile will not
hesitate; he is not vain and he is no chatterbox; he cannot endure
constraint, and he does not care for fine dishes; but he is always
ready for a run in the country and is very fond of good fruit
and vegetables, sweet cream and kindly people. [Footnote: This
taste, which I assume my pupil to have acquired, is a natural
result of his education. Moreover, he has nothing foppish or affected
about him, so that the ladies take little notice of him and he
is less petted than other children; therefore he does not care
for them, and is less spoilt by their company; he is not yet of
an age to feel its charm. I have taken care not to teach him to
kiss their hands, to pay them compliments, or even to be more
polite to them than to men. It is my constant rule to ask nothing
from him but what he can understand, and there is no good reason
why a child should treat one sex differently from the other.]
On our way, the thought will occur to him, "All those people
who laboured to prepare that grand feast were either wasting their
time or they have no idea how to enjoy themselves."
My example may be right for one child and wrong for the rest.
If you enter into their way of looking at things you will know
how to vary your instances as required; the choice depends on
the study of the individual temperament, and this study in turn
depends on the opportunities which occur to show this temperament.
You will not suppose that, in the three or four years at our disposal,
even the most gifted child can get an idea of all the arts and
sciences, sufficient to enable him to study them for himself when
he is older; but by bringing before him what he needs to know,
we enable him to develop his own tastes, his own talents, to take
the first step towards the object which appeals to his individuality
and to show us the road we must open up to aid the work of nature.
There is another advantage of these trains of limited but exact
bits of knowledge; he learns by their connection and interdependence
how to rank them in his own estimation and to be on his guard
against those prejudices, common to most men, which draw them
towards the gifts they themselves cultivate and away from those
they have neglected. The man who clearly sees the whole, sees
where each part should be; the man who sees one part clearly and
knows it thoroughly may be a learned man, but the former is a
wise man, and you remember it is wisdom rather than knowledge
that we hope to acquire.
However that may be, my method does not depend on my examples;
it depends on the amount of a man's powers at different ages,
and the choice of occupations adapted to those powers. I think
it would be easy to find a method which appeared to give better
results, but if it were less suited to the type, sex, and age
of the scholar, I doubt whether the results would really be as
good.
At the beginning of this second period we took advantage of the
fact that our strength was more than enough for our needs, to
enable us to get outside ourselves. We have ranged the heavens
and measured the earth; we have sought out the laws of nature;
we have explored the whole of our island. Now let us return to
ourselves, let us unconsciously approach our own dwelling. We
are happy indeed if we do not find it already occupied by the
dreaded foe, who is preparing to seize it.
What remains to be done when we have observed all that lies around
us? We must turn to our own use all that we can get, we must increase
our comfort by means of our curiosity. Hitherto we have provided
ourselves with tools of all kinds, not knowing which we require.
Perhaps those we do not want will be useful to others, and perhaps
we may need theirs. Thus we discover the use of exchange; but
for this we must know each other's needs, what tools other people
use, what they can offer in exchange. Given ten men, each of them
has ten different requirements. To get what he needs for himself
each must work at ten different trades; but considering our different
talents, one will do better at this trade, another at that. Each
of them, fitted for one thing, will work at all, and will be badly
served. Let us form these ten men into a society, and let each
devote himself to the trade for which he is best adapted, and
let him work at it for himself and for the rest. Each will reap
the advantage of the others' talents, just as if they were his
own; by practice each will perfect his own talent, and thus all
the ten, well provided for, will still have something to spare
for others. This is the plain foundation of all our institutions.
It is not my aim to examine its results here; I have done so in
another book (Discours sur l'inegalite).
According to this principle, any one who wanted to consider himself
as an isolated individual, self-sufficing and independent of others,
could only be utterly wretched. He could not even continue to
exist, for finding the whole earth appropriated by others while
he had only himself, how could he get the means of subsistence?
When we leave the state of nature we compel others to do the same;
no one can remain in a state of nature in spite of his fellow-creatures,
and to try to remain in it when it is no longer practicable, would
really be to leave it, for self-preservation is nature's first
law.
Thus the idea of social relations is gradually developed in the
child's mind, before he can really be an active member of human
society. Emile sees that to get tools for his own use, other people
must have theirs, and that he can get in exchange what he needs
and they possess. I easily bring him to feel the need of such
exchange and to take advantage of it.
"Sir, I must live," said a miserable writer of lampoons
to the minister who reproved him for his infamous trade. "I
do not see the necessity," replied the great man coldly.
This answer, excellent from the minister, would have been barbarous
and untrue in any other mouth. Every man must live; this argument,
which appeals to every one with more or less force in proportion
to his humanity, strikes me as unanswerable when applied to oneself.
Since our dislike of death is the strongest of those aversions
nature has implanted in us, it follows that everything is permissible
to the man who has no other means of living. The principles, which
teach the good man to count his life a little thing and to sacrifice
it at duty's call, are far removed from this primitive simplicity.
Happy are those nations where one can be good without effort,
and just without conscious virtue. If in this world there is any
condition so miserable that one cannot live without wrong-doing,
where the citizen is driven into evil, you should hang, not the
criminal, but those who drove him into crime.
As soon as Emile knows what life is, my first care will be to
teach him to preserve his life. Hitherto I have made no distinction
of condition, rank, station, or fortune; nor shall I distinguish
between them in the future, since man is the same in every station;
the rich man's stomach is no bigger than the poor man's, nor is
his digestion any better; the master's arm is neither longer nor
stronger than the slave's; a great man is no taller than one of
the people, and indeed the natural needs are the same to all,
and the means of satisfying them should be equally within the
reach of all. Fit a man's education to his real self, not to what
is no part of him. Do you not see that in striving to fit him
merely for one station, you are unfitting him for anything else,
so that some caprice of Fortune may make your work really harmful
to him? What could be more absurd than a nobleman in rags, who
carries with him into his poverty the prejudices of his birth?
What is more despicable than a rich man fallen into poverty, who
recalls the scorn with which he himself regarded the poor, and
feels that he has sunk to the lowest depth of degradation? The
one may become a professional thief, the other a cringing servant,
with this fine saying, "I must live."
You reckon on the present order of society, without considering
that this order is itself subject to inscrutable changes, and
that you can neither foresee nor provide against the revolution
which may affect your children. The great become small, the rich
poor, the king a commoner. Does fate strike so seldom that you
can count on immunity from her blows? The crisis is approaching,
and we are on the edge of a revolution. [Footnote: In my opinion
it is impossible that the great kingdoms of Europe should last
much longer. Each of them has had its period of splendour, after
which it must inevitably decline. I have my own opinions as to
the special applications of this general statement, but this is
not the place to enter into details, and they are only too evident
to everybody.] Who can answer for your fate? What man has made,
man may destroy. Nature's characters alone are ineffaceable, and
nature makes neither the prince, the rich man, nor the nobleman.
This satrap whom you have educated for greatness, what will become
of him in his degradation? This farmer of the taxes who can only
live on gold, what will he do in poverty? This haughty fool who
cannot use his own hands, who prides himself on what is not really
his, what will he do when he is stripped of all? In that day,
happy will he be who can give up the rank which is no longer his,
and be still a man in Fate's despite. Let men praise as they will
that conquered monarch who like a madman would be buried beneath
the fragments of his throne; I behold him with scorn; to me he
is merely a crown, and when that is gone he is nothing. But he
who loses his crown and lives without it, is more than a king;
from the rank of a king, which may be held by a coward, a villain,
or madman, he rises to the rank of a man, a position few can fill.
Thus he triumphs over Fortune, he dares to look her in the face;
he depends on himself alone, and when he has nothing left to show
but himself he is not a nonentity, he is somebody. Better a thousandfold
the king of Corinth a schoolmaster at Syracuse, than a wretched
Tarquin, unable to be anything but a king, or the heir of the
ruler of three kingdoms, the sport of all who would scorn his
poverty, wandering from court to court in search of help, and
finding nothing but insults, for want of knowing any trade but
one which he can no longer practise.
The man and the citizen, whoever he may be, has no property to
invest in society but himself, all his other goods belong to society
in spite of himself, and when a man is rich, either he does not
enjoy his wealth, or the public enjoys it too; in the first case
he robs others as well as himself; in the second he gives them
nothing. Thus his debt to society is still unpaid, while he only
pays with his property. "But my father was serving society
while he was acquiring his wealth." Just so; he paid his
own debt, not yours. You owe more to others than if you had been
born with nothing, since you were born under favourable conditions.
It is not fair that what one man has done for society should pay
another's debt, for since every man owes all that he is, he can
only pay his own debt, and no father can transmit to his son any
right to be of no use to mankind. "But," you say, "this
is just what he does when he leaves me his wealth, the reward
of his labour." The man who eats in idleness what he has
not himself earned, is a thief, and in my eyes, the man who lives
on an income paid him by the state for doing nothing, differs
little from a highwayman who lives on those who travel his way.
Outside the pale of society, the solitary, owing nothing to any
man, may live as he pleases, but in society either he lives at
the cost of others, or he owes them in labour the cost of his
keep; there is no exception to this rule. Man in society is bound
to work; rich or poor, weak or strong, every idler is a thief.
Now of all the pursuits by which a man may earn his living, the
nearest to a state of nature is manual labour; of all stations
that of the artisan is least dependent on Fortune. The artisan
depends on his labour alone, he is a free man while the ploughman
is a slave; for the latter depends on his field where the crops
may be destroyed by others. An enemy, a prince, a powerful neighbour,
or a law-suit may deprive him of his field; through this field
he may be harassed in all sorts of ways. But if the artisan is
ill-treated his goods are soon packed and he takes himself off.
Yet agriculture is the earliest, the most honest of trades, and
more useful than all the rest, and therefore more honourable for
those who practise it. I do not say to Emile, "Study agriculture,"
he is already familiar with it. He is acquainted with every kind
of rural labour, it was his first occupation, and he returns to
it continually. So I say to him, "Cultivate your father's
lands, but if you lose this inheritance, or if you have none to
lose, what will you do? Learn a trade."
"A trade for my son! My son a working man! What are you thinking
of, sir?" Madam, my thoughts are wiser than yours; you want
to make him fit for nothing but a lord, a marquis, or a prince;
and some day he may be less than nothing. I want to give him a
rank which he cannot lose, a rank which will always do him honour;
I want to raise him to the status of a man, and, whatever you
may say, he will have fewer equals in that rank than in your own.
The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Learning a trade matters
less than overcoming the prejudices he despises. You will never
be reduced to earning your livelihood; so much the worse for you.
No matter; work for honour, not for need: stoop to the position
of a working man, to rise above your own. To conquer Fortune and
everything else, begin by independence. To rule through public
opinion, begin by ruling over it.
Remember I demand no talent, only a trade, a genuine trade, a
mere mechanical art, in which the hands work harder than the head,
a trade which does not lead to fortune but makes you independent
of her. In households far removed from all danger of want I have
known fathers carry prudence to such a point as to provide their
children not only with ordinary teaching but with knowledge by
means of which they could get a living if anything happened. These
far-sighted parents thought they were doing a great thing. It
is nothing, for the resources they fancy they have secured depend
on that very fortune of which they would make their children independent;
so that unless they found themselves in circumstances fitted for
the display of their talents, they would die of hunger as if they
had none.
As soon as it is a question of influence and intrigue you may
as well use these means to keep yourself in plenty, as to acquire,
in the depths of poverty, the means of returning to your former
position. If you cultivate the arts which depend on the artist's
reputation, if you fit yourself for posts which are only obtained
by favour, how will that help you when, rightly disgusted with
the world, you scorn the steps by which you must climb. You have
studied politics and state-craft, so far so good; but how will
you use this knowledge, if you cannot gain the ear of the ministers,
the favourites, or the officials? if you have not the secret of
winning their favour, if they fail to find you a rogue to their
taste? You are an architect or a painter; well and good; but your
talents must be displayed. Do you suppose you can exhibit in the
salon without further ado? That is not the way to set about it.
Lay aside the rule and the pencil, take a cab and drive from door
to door; there is the road to fame. Now you must know that the
doors of the great are guarded by porters and flunkeys, who only
understand one language, and their ears are in their palms. If
you wish to teach what you have learned, geography, mathematics,
languages, music, drawing, even to find pupils, you must have
friends who will sing your praises. Learning, remember, gains
more credit than skill, and with no trade but your own none will
believe in your skill. See how little you can depend on these
fine "Resources," and how many other resources are required
before you can use what you have got. And what will become of
you in your degradation? Misfortune will make you worse rather
than better. More than ever the sport of public opinion, how will
you rise above the prejudices on which your fate depends? How
will you despise the vices and the baseness from which you get
your living? You were dependent on wealth, now you are dependent
on the wealthy; you are still a slave and a poor man into the
bargain. Poverty without freedom, can a man sink lower than this!
But if instead of this recondite learning adapted to feed the
mind, not the body, you have recourse, at need, to your hands
and your handiwork, there is no call for deceit, your trade is
ready when required. Honour and honesty will not stand in the
way of your living. You need no longer cringe and lie to the great,
nor creep and crawl before rogues, a despicable flatterer of both,
a borrower or a thief, for there is little to choose between them
when you are penniless. Other people's opinions are no concern
of yours, you need not pay court to any one, there is no fool
to flatter, no flunkey to bribe, no woman to win over. Let rogues
conduct the affairs of state; in your lowly rank you can still
be an honest man and yet get a living. You walk into the first
workshop of your trade. "Master, I want work." "Comrade,
take your place and work." Before dinner-time you have earned
your dinner. If you are sober and industrious, before the week
is out you will have earned your keep for another week; you will
have lived in freedom, health, truth, industry, and righteousness.
Time is not wasted when it brings these returns.
Emile shall learn a trade. "An honest trade, at least,"
you say. What do you mean by honest? Is not every useful trade
honest? I would not make an embroiderer, a gilder, a polisher
of him, like Locke's young gentleman. Neither would I make him
a musician, an actor, or an author.[Footnote: You are an author
yourself, you will reply. Yes, for my sins; and my ill deeds,
which I think I have fully expiated, are no reason why others
should be like me. I do not write to excuse my faults, but to
prevent my readers from copying them.] With the exception of these
and others like them, let him choose his own trade, I do not mean
to interfere with his choice. I would rather have him a shoemaker
than a poet, I would rather he paved streets than painted flowers
on china. "But," you will say, "policemen, spies,
and hangmen are useful people." There would be no use for
them if it were not for the government. But let that pass. I was
wrong. It is not enough to choose an honest trade, it must be
a trade which does not develop detestable qualities in the mind,
qualities incompatible with humanity. To return to our original
expression, "Let us choose an honest trade," but let
us remember there can be no honesty without usefulness.
A famous writer of this century, whose books are full of great
schemes and narrow views, was under a vow, like the other priests
of his communion, not to take a wife. Finding himself more scrupulous
than others with regard to his neighbour's wife, he decided, so
they say, to employ pretty servants, and so did his best to repair
the wrong done to the race by his rash promise. He thought it
the duty of a citizen to breed children for the state, and he
made his children artisans. As soon as they were old enough they
were taught whatever trade they chose; only idle or useless trades
were excluded, such as that of the wigmaker who is never necessary,
and may any day cease to be required, so long as nature does not
get tired of providing us with hair.
This spirit shall guide our choice of trade for Emile, or rather,
not our choice but his; for the maxims he has imbibed make him
despise useless things, and he will never be content to waste
his time on vain labours; his trade must be of use to Robinson
on his island.
When we review with the child the productions of art and nature,
when we stimulate his curiosity and follow its lead, we have great
opportunities of studying his tastes and inclinations, and perceiving
the first spark of genius, if he has any decided talent in any
direction. You must, however, be on your guard against the common
error which mistakes the effects of environment for the ardour
of genius, or imagines there is a decided bent towards any one
of the arts, when there is nothing more than that spirit of emulation,
common to men and monkeys, which impels them instinctively to
do what they see others doing, without knowing why. The world
is full of artisans, and still fuller of artists, who have no
native gift for their calling, into which they were driven in
early childhood, either through the conventional ideas of other
people, or because those about them were deceived by an appearance
of zeal, which would have led them to take to any other art they
saw practised. One hears a drum and fancies he is a general; another
sees a building and wants to be an architect. Every one is drawn
towards the trade he sees before him if he thinks it is held in
honour.
I once knew a footman who watched his master drawing and painting
and took it into his head to become a designer and artist. He
seized a pencil which he only abandoned for a paint-brush, to
which he stuck for the rest of his days. Without teaching or rules
of art he began to draw everything he saw. Three whole years were
devoted to these daubs, from which nothing but his duties could
stir him, nor was he discouraged by the small progress resulting
from his very mediocre talents. I have seen him spend the whole
of a broiling summer in a little ante-room towards the south,
a room where one was suffocated merely passing through it; there
he was, seated or rather nailed all day to his chair, before a
globe, drawing it again and again and yet again, with invincible
obstinacy till he had reproduced the rounded surface to his own
satisfaction. At last with his master's help and under the guidance
of an artist he got so far as to abandon his livery and live by
his brush. Perseverance does instead of talent up to a certain
point; he got so far, but no further. This honest lad's perseverance
and ambition are praiseworthy; he will always be respected for
his industry and steadfastness of purpose, but his paintings will
always be third-rate. Who would not have been deceived by his
zeal and taken it for real talent! There is all the difference
in the world between a liking and an aptitude. To make sure of
real genius or real taste in a child calls for more accurate observations
than is generally suspected, for the child displays his wishes
not his capacity, and we judge by the former instead of considering
the latter. I wish some trustworthy person would give us a treatise
on the art of child-study. This art is well worth studying, but
neither parents nor teachers have mastered its elements.
Perhaps we are laying too much stress on the choice of a trade;
as it is a manual occupation, Emile's choice is no great matter,
and his apprenticeship is more than half accomplished already,
through the exercises which have hitherto occupied him. What would
you have him do? He is ready for anything. He can handle the spade
and hoe, he can use the lathe, hammer, plane, or file; he is already
familiar with these tools which are common to many trades. He
only needs to acquire sufficient skill in the use of any one of
them to rival the speed, the familiarity, and the diligence of
good workmen, and he will have a great advantage over them in
suppleness of body and limb, so that he can easily take any position
and can continue any kind of movements without effort. Moreover
his senses are acute and well-practised, he knows the principles
of the various trades; to work like a master of his craft he only
needs experience, and experience comes with practice. To which
of these trades which are open to us will he give sufficient time
to make himself master of it? That is the whole question.
Give a man a trade befitting his sex, to a young man a trade befitting
his age. Sedentary indoor employments, which make the body tender
and effeminate, are neither pleasing nor suitable. No lad ever
wanted to be a tailor. It takes some art to attract a man to this
woman's work.[Footnote: There were no tailors among the ancients;
men's clothes were made at home by the women.] The same hand cannot
hold the needle and the sword. If I were king I would only allow
needlework and dressmaking to be done by women and cripples who
are obliged to work at such trades. If eunuchs were required I
think the Easterns were very foolish to make them on purpose.
Why not take those provided by nature, that crowd of base persons
without natural feeling? There would be enough and to spare. The
weak, feeble, timid man is condemned by nature to a sedentary
life, he is fit to live among women or in their fashion. Let him
adopt one of their trades if he likes; and if there must be eunuchs
let them take those men who dishonour their sex by adopting trades
unworthy of it. Their choice proclaims a blunder on the part of
nature; correct it one way or other, you will do no harm.
An unhealthy trade I forbid to my pupil, but not a difficult or
dangerous one. He will exercise himself in strength and courage;
such trades are for men not women, who claim no share in them,
Are not men ashamed to poach upon the women's trades?
"Luctantur paucae, comedunt coliphia paucae. Vos lanam trahitis,
calathisque peracta refertis Vellera."--Juven. Sat. II. V.
55.
Women are not seen in shops in Italy, and to persons accustomed
to the streets of England and France nothing could look gloomier.
When I saw drapers selling ladies ribbons, pompons, net, and chenille,
I thought these delicate ornaments very absurd in the coarse hands
fit to blow the bellows and strike the anvil. I said to myself,
"In this country women should set up as steel-polishers and
armourers." Let each make and sell the weapons of his or
her own sex; knowledge is acquired through use.
I know I have said too much for my agreeable contemporaries, but
I sometimes let myself be carried away by my argument. If any
one is ashamed to be seen wearing a leathern apron or handling
a plane, I think him a mere slave of public opinion, ready to
blush for what is right when people poke fun at it. But let us
yield to parents' prejudices so long as they do not hurt the children.
To honour trades we are not obliged to practise every one of them,
so long as we do not think them beneath us. When the choice is
ours and we are under no compulsion, why not choose the pleasanter,
more attractive and more suitable trade. Metal work is useful,
more useful, perhaps, than the rest, but unless for some special
reason Emile shall not be a blacksmith, a locksmith nor an iron-worker.
I do not want to see him a Cyclops at the forge. Neither would
I have him a mason, still less a shoemaker. All trades must be
carried on, but when the choice is ours, cleanliness should be
taken into account; this is not a matter of class prejudice, our
senses are our guides. In conclusion, I do not like those stupid
trades in which the workmen mechanically perform the same action
without pause and almost without mental effort. Weaving, stocking-knitting,
stone-cutting; why employ intelligent men on such work? it is
merely one machine employed on another.
All things considered, the trade I should choose for my pupil,
among the trades he likes, is that of a carpenter. It is clean
and useful; it may be carried on at home; it gives enough exercise;
it calls for skill and industry, and while fashioning articles
for everyday use, there is scope for elegance and taste. If your
pupil's talents happened to take a scientific turn, I should not
blame you if you gave him a trade in accordance with his tastes,
for instance, he might learn to make mathematical instruments,
glasses, telescopes, etc.
When Emile learns his trade I shall learn it too. I am convinced
he will never learn anything thoroughly unless we learn it together.
So we shall both serve our apprenticeship, and we do not mean
to be treated as gentlemen, but as real apprentices who are not
there for fun; why should not we actually be apprenticed? Peter
the Great was a ship's carpenter and drummer to his own troops;
was not that prince at least your equal in birth and merit? You
understand this is addressed not to Emile but to you--to you,
whoever you may be.
Unluckily we cannot spend the whole of our time at the workshop.
We are not only 'prentice-carpenters but 'prentice-men--a trade
whose apprenticeship is longer and more exacting than the rest.
What shall we do? Shall we take a master to teach us the use of
the plane and engage him by the hour like the dancing-master?
In that case we should be not apprentices but students, and our
ambition is not merely to learn carpentry but to be carpenters.
Once or twice a week I think we should spend the whole day at
our master's; we should get up when he does, we should be at our
work before him, we should take our meals with him, work under
his orders, and after having had the honour of supping at his
table we may if we please return to sleep upon our own hard beds.
This is the way to learn several trades at once, to learn to do
manual work without neglecting our apprenticeship to life.
Let us do what is right without ostentation; let us not fall into
vanity through our efforts to resist it. To pride ourselves on
our victory over prejudice is to succumb to prejudice. It is said
that in accordance with an old custom of the Ottomans, the sultan
is obliged to work with his hands, and, as every one knows, the
handiwork of a king is a masterpiece. So he royally distributes
his masterpieces among the great lords of the Porte and the price
paid is in accordance with the rank of the workman. It is not
this so-called abuse to which I object; on the contrary, it is
an advantage, and by compelling the lords to share with him the
spoils of the people it is so much the less necessary for the
prince to plunder the people himself. Despotism needs some such
relaxation, and without it that hateful rule could not last.
The real evil in such a custom is the idea it gives that poor
man of his own worth. Like King Midas he sees all things turn
to gold at his touch, but he does not see the ass' ears growing.
Let us keep Emile's hands from money lest he should become an
ass, let him take the work but not the wages. Never let his work
be judged by any standard but that of the work of a master. Let
it be judged as work, not because it is his. If anything is well
done, I say, "That is a good piece of work," but do
not ask who did it. If he is pleased and proud and says, "I
did it," answer indifferently, "No matter who did it,
it is well done."
Good mother, be on your guard against the deceptions prepared
for you. If your son knows many things, distrust his knowledge;
if he is unlucky enough to be rich and educated in Paris he is
ruined. As long as there are clever artists he will have every
talent, but apart from his masters he will have none. In Paris
a rich man knows everything, it is the poor who are ignorant.
Our capital is full of amateurs, especially women, who do their
work as M. Gillaume invents his colours. Among the men I know
three striking exceptions, among the women I know no exceptions,
and I doubt if there are any. In a general way a man becomes an
artist and a judge of art as he becomes a Doctor of Laws and a
magistrate.
If then it is once admitted that it is a fine thing to have a
trade, your children would soon have one without learning it.
They would become postmasters like the councillors of Zurich.
Let us have no such ceremonies for Emile; let it be the real thing
not the sham. Do not say what he knows, let him learn in silence.
Let him make his masterpiece, but not be hailed as master; let
him be a workman not in name but in deed.
If I have made my meaning clear you ought to realise how bodily
exercise and manual work unconsciously arouse thought and reflexion
in my pupil, and counteract the idleness which might result from
his indifference to men's judgments, and his freedom from passion.
He must work like a peasant and think like a philosopher, if he
is not to be as idle as a savage. The great secret of education
is to use exercise of mind and body as relaxation one to the other.
But beware of anticipating teaching which demands more maturity
of mind. Emile will not long be a workman before he discovers
those social inequalities he had not previously observed. He will
want to question me in turn on the maxims I have given him, maxims
he is able to understand. When he derives everything from me,
when he is so nearly in the position of the poor, he will want
to know why I am so far removed from it. All of a sudden he may
put scathing questions to me. "You are rich, you tell me,
and I see you are. A rich man owes his work to the community like
the rest because he is a man. What are you doing for the community?"
What would a fine tutor say to that? I do not know. He would perhaps
be foolish enough to talk to the child of the care he bestows
upon him. The workshop will get me out of the difficulty. "My
dear Emile that is a very good question; I will undertake to answer
for myself, when you can answer for yourself to your own satisfaction.
Meanwhile I will take care to give what I can spare to you and
to the poor, and to make a table or a bench every week, so as
not to be quite useless."
We have come back to ourselves. Having entered into possession
of himself, our child is now ready to cease to be a child. He
is more than ever conscious of the necessity which makes him dependent
on things. After exercising his body and his senses you have exercised
his mind and his judgment. Finally we have joined together the
use of his limbs and his faculties. We have made him a worker
and a thinker; we have now to make him loving and tender-hearted,
to perfect reason through feeling. But before we enter on this
new order of things, let us cast an eye over the stage we are
leaving behind us, and perceive as clearly as we can how far we
have got.
At first our pupil had merely sensations, now he has ideas; he
could only feel, now he reasons. For from the comparison of many
successive or simultaneous sensations and the judgment arrived
at with regard to them, there springs a sort of mixed or complex
sensation which I call an idea.
The way in which ideas are formed gives a character to the human
mind. The mind which derives its ideas from real relations is
thorough; the mind which relies on apparent relations is superficial.
He who sees relations as they are has an exact mind; he who fails
to estimate them aright has an inaccurate mind; he who concocts
imaginary relations, which have no real existence, is a madman;
he who does not perceive any relation at all is an imbecile. Clever
men are distinguished from others by their greater or less aptitude
for the comparison of ideas and the discovery of relations between
them.
Simple ideas consist merely of sensations compared one with another.
Simple sensations involve judgments, as do the complex sensations
which I call simple ideas. In the sensation the judgment is purely
passive; it affirms that I feel what I feel. In the percept or
idea the judgment is active; it connects, compares, it discriminates
between relations not perceived by the senses. That is the whole
difference; but it is a great difference. Nature never deceives
us; we deceive ourselves.
I see some one giving an ice-cream to an eight-year-old child;
he does not know what it is and puts the spoon in his mouth. Struck
by the cold he cries out, "Oh, it burns!" He feels a
very keen sensation, and the heat of the fire is the keenest sensation
he knows, so he thinks that is what he feels. Yet he is mistaken;
cold hurts, but it does not burn; and these two sensations are
different, for persons with more experience do not confuse them.
So it is not the sensation that is wrong, but the judgment formed
with regard to it.
It is just the same with those who see a mirror or some optical
instrument for the first time, or enter a deep cellar in the depths
of winter or at midsummer, or dip a very hot or cold hand into
tepid water, or roll a little ball between two crossed fingers.
If they are content to say what they really feel, their judgment,
being purely passive, cannot go wrong; but when they judge according
to appearances, their judgment is active; it compares and establishes
by induction relations which are not really perceived. Then these
inductions may or may not be mistaken. Experience is required
to correct or prevent error.
Show your pupil the clouds at night passing between himself and
the moon; he will think the moon is moving in the opposite direction
and that the clouds are stationary. He will think this through
a hasty induction, because he generally sees small objects moving
and larger ones at rest, and the clouds seems larger than the
moon, whose distance is beyond his reckoning. When he watches
the shore from a moving boat he falls into the opposite mistake
and thinks the earth is moving because he does not feel the motion
of the boat and considers it along with the sea or river as one
motionless whole, of which the shore, which appears to move, forms
no part.
The first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water he
thinks he sees a broken stick; the sensation is true and would
not cease to be true even if he knew the reason of this appearance.
So if you ask him what he sees, he replies, "A broken stick,"
for he is quite sure he is experiencing this sensation. But when
deceived by his judgment he goes further and, after saying he
sees a broken stick, he affirms that it really is broken he says
what is not true. Why? Because he becomes active and judges no
longer by observation but by induction, he affirms what he does
not perceive, i.e., that the judgment he receives through one
of his senses would be confirmed by another.
Since all our errors arise in our judgment, it is clear, that
had we no need for judgment, we should not need to learn; we should
never be liable to mistakes, we should be happier in our ignorance
than we can be in our knowledge. Who can deny that a vast number
of things are known to the learned, which the unlearned will never
know? Are the learned any nearer truth? Not so, the further they
go the further they get from truth, for their pride in their judgment
increases faster than their progress in knowledge, so that for
every truth they acquire they draw a hundred mistaken conclusions.
Every one knows that the learned societies of Europe are mere
schools of falsehood, and there are assuredly more mistaken notions
in the Academy of Sciences than in a whole tribe of American Indians.
The more we know, the more mistakes we make; therefore ignorance
is the only way to escape error. Form no judgments and you will
never be mistaken. This is the teaching both of nature and reason.
We come into direct contact with very few things, and these are
very readily perceived; the rest we regard with profound indifference.
A savage will not turn his head to watch the working of the finest
machinery or all the wonders of electricity. "What does that
matter to me?" is the common saying of the ignorant; it is
the fittest phrase for the wise.
Unluckily this phrase will no longer serve our turn. Everything
matters to us, as we are dependent on everything, and our curiosity
naturally increases with our needs. This is why I attribute much
curiosity to the man of science and none to the savage. The latter
needs no help from anybody; the former requires every one, and
admirers most of all.
You will tell me I am going beyond nature. I think not. She chooses
her instruments and orders them, not according to fancy, but necessity.
Now a man's needs vary with his circumstances. There is all the
difference in the world between a natural man living in a state
of nature, and a natural man living in society. Emile is no savage
to be banished to the desert, he is a savage who has to live in
the town. He must know how to get his living in a town, how to
use its inhabitants, and how to live among them, if not of them.
In the midst of so many new relations and dependent on them, he
must reason whether he wants to or no. Let us therefore teach
him to reason correctly.
The best way of learning to reason aright is that which tends
to simplify our experiences, or to enable us to dispense with
them altogether without falling into error. Hence it follows that
we must learn to confirm the experiences of each sense by itself,
without recourse to any other, though we have been in the habit
of verifying the experience of one sense by that of another. Then
each of our sensations will become an idea, and this idea will
always correspond to the truth. This is the sort of knowledge
I have tried to accumulate during this third phase of man's life.
This method of procedure demands a patience and circumspection
which few teachers possess; without them the scholar will never
learn to reason. For example, if you hasten to take the stick
out of the water when the child is deceived by its appearance,
you may perhaps undeceive him, but what have you taught him? Nothing
more than he would soon have learnt for himself. That is not the
right thing to do. You have not got to teach him truths so much
as to show him how to set about discovering them for himself.
To teach him better you must not be in such a hurry to correct
his mistakes. Let us take Emile and myself as an illustration.
To begin with, any child educated in the usual way could not fail
to answer the second of my imaginary questions in the affirmative.
He will say, "That is certainly a broken stick." I very
much doubt whether Emile will give the same reply. He sees no
reason for knowing everything or pretending to know it; he is
never in a hurry to draw conclusions. He only reasons from evidence
and on this occasion he has not got the evidence. He knows how
appearances deceive us, if only through perspective.
Moreover, he knows by experience that there is always a reason
for my slightest questions, though he may not see it at once;
so he has not got into the habit of giving silly answers; on the
contrary, he is on his guard, he considers things carefully and
attentively before answering. He never gives me an answer unless
he is satisfied with it himself, and he is hard to please. Lastly
we neither of us take any pride in merely knowing a thing, but
only in avoiding mistakes. We should be more ashamed to deceive
ourselves with bad reasoning, than to find no explanation at all.
There is no phrase so appropriate to us, or so often on our lips,
as, "I do not know;" neither of us are ashamed to use
it. But whether he gives the silly answer or whether he avoids
it by our convenient phrase "I do not know," my answer
is the same. "Let us examine it."
This stick immersed half way in the water is fixed in an upright
position. To know if it is broken, how many things must be done
before we take it out of the water or even touch it.
1. First we walk round it, and we see that the broken part follows
us. So it is only our eye that changes it; looks do not make things
move.
2. We look straight down on that end of the stick which is above
the water, the stick is no longer bent, [Footnote: I have since
found by more exact experiment that this is not the case. Refraction
acts in a circle, and the stick appears larger at the end which
is in the water, but this makes no difference to the strength
of the argument, and the conclusion is correct.] the end near
our eye exactly hides the other end. Has our eye set the stick
straight?
3. We stir the surface of the water; we see the stick break into
several pieces, it moves in zigzags and follows the ripples of
the water. Can the motion we gave the water suffice to break,
soften, or melt the stick like this?
4. We draw the water off, and little by little we see the stick
straightening itself as the water sinks. Is not this more than
enough to clear up the business and to discover refraction? So
it is not true that our eyes deceive us, for nothing more has
been required to correct the mistakes attributed to it.
Suppose the child were stupid enough not to perceive the result
of these experiments, then you must call touch to the help of
sight. Instead of taking the stick out of the water, leave it
where it is and let the child pass his hand along it from end
to end; he will feel no angle, therefore the stick is not broken.
You will tell me this is not mere judgment but formal reasoning.
Just so; but do not you see that as soon as the mind has got any
ideas at all, every judgment is a process of reasoning? So that
as soon as we compare one sensation with another, we are beginning
to reason. The art of judging and the art of reasoning are one
and the same.
Emile will never learn dioptrics unless he learns with this stick.
He will not have dissected insects nor counted the spots on the
sun; he will not know what you mean by a microscope or a telescope.
Your learned pupils will laugh at his ignorance and rightly, I
intend him to invent these instruments before he uses them, and
you will expect that to take some time.
This is the spirit of my whole method at this stage. If the child
rolls a little ball between two crossed fingers and thinks he
feels two balls, I shall not let him look until he is convinced
there is only one.
This explanation will suffice, I hope, to show plainly the progress
made by my pupil hitherto and the route followed by him. But perhaps
the number of things I have brought to his notice alarms you.
I shall crush his mind beneath this weight of knowledge. Not so,
I am rather teaching him to be ignorant of things than to know
them. I am showing him the path of science, easy indeed, but long,
far-reaching and slow to follow. I am taking him a few steps along
this path, but I do not allow him to go far.
Compelled to learn for himself, he uses his own reason not that
of others, for there must be no submission to authority if you
would have no submission to convention. Most of our errors are
due to others more than ourselves. This continual exercise should
develop a vigour of mind like that acquired by the body through
labour and weariness. Another advantage is that his progress is
in proportion to his strength, neither mind nor body carries more
than it can bear. When the understanding lays hold of things before
they are stored in the memory, what is drawn from that store is
his own; while we are in danger of never finding anything of our
own in a memory over-burdened with undigested knowledge.
Emile knows little, but what he knows is really his own; he has
no half-knowledge. Among the few things he knows and knows thoroughly
this is the most valuable, that there are many things he does
not know now but may know some day, many more that other men know
but he will never know, and an infinite number which nobody will
ever know. He is large-minded, not through knowledge, but through
the power of acquiring it; he is open-minded, intelligent, ready
for anything, and, as Montaigne says, capable of learning if not
learned. I am content if he knows the "Wherefore" of
his actions and the "Why" of his beliefs. For once more
my object is not to supply him with exact knowledge, but the means
of getting it when required, to teach him to value it at its true
worth, and to love truth above all things. By this method progress
is slow but sure, and we never need to retrace our steps.
Emile's knowledge is confined to nature and things. The very name
of history is unknown to him, along with metaphysics and morals.
He knows the essential relations between men and things, but nothing
of the moral relations between man and man. He has little power
of generalisation, he has no skill in abstraction. He perceives
that certain qualities are common to certain things, without reasoning
about these qualities themselves. He is acquainted with the abstract
idea of space by the help of his geometrical figures; he is acquainted
with the abstract idea of quantity by the help of his algebraical
symbols. These figures and signs are the supports on which these
ideas may be said to rest, the supports on which his senses repose.
He does not attempt to know the nature of things, but only to
know things in so far as they affect himself. He only judges what
is outside himself in relation to himself, and his judgment is
exact and certain. Caprice and prejudice have no part in it. He
values most the things which are of use to himself, and as he
never departs from this standard of values, he owes nothing to
prejudice.
Emile is industrious, temperate, patient, stedfast, and full of
courage. His imagination is still asleep, so he has no exaggerated
ideas of danger; the few ills he feels he knows how to endure
in patience, because he has not learnt to rebel against fate.
As to death, he knows not what it means; but accustomed as he
is to submit without resistance to the law of necessity, he will
die, if die he must, without a groan and without a struggle; that
is as much as we can demand of nature, in that hour which we all
abhor. To live in freedom, and to be independent of human affairs,
is the best way to learn how to die.
In a word Emile is possessed of all that portion of virtue which
concerns himself. To acquire the social virtues he only needs
a knowledge of the relations which make those virtues necessary;
he only lacks knowledge which he is quite ready to receive.
He thinks not of others but of himself, and prefers that others
should do the same. He makes no claim upon them, and acknowledges
no debt to them. He is alone in the midst of human society, he
depends on himself alone, for he is all that a boy can be at his
age. He has no errors, or at least only such as are inevitable;
he has no vices, or only those from which no man can escape. His
body is healthy, his limbs are supple, his mind is accurate and
unprejudiced, his heart is free and untroubled by passion. Pride,
the earliest and the most natural of passions, has scarcely shown
itself. Without disturbing the peace of others, he has passed
his life contented, happy, and free, so far as nature allows.
Do you think that the earlier years of a child, who has reached
his fifteenth year in this condition, have been wasted?
BOOK IV
How swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is
gone before we know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapable
of enjoying life. At first we do not know how to live; and when
we know how to live it is too late. In the interval between these
two useless extremes we waste three-fourths of our time sleeping,
working, sorrowing, enduring restraint and every kind of suffering.
Life is short, not so much because of the short time it lasts,
but because we are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain
is there a long interval between the hour of death and that of
birth; life is still too short, if this interval is not well spent.
We are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and
born into life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who
regard woman as an imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they
have external resemblance on their side. Up to the age of puberty
children of both sexes have little to distinguish them to the
eye, the same face and form, the same complexion and voice, everything
is the same; girls are children and boys are children; one name
is enough for creatures so closely resembling one another. Males
whose development is arrested preserve this resemblance all their
lives; they are always big children; and women who never lose
this resemblance seem in many respects never to be more than children.
But, speaking generally, man is not meant to remain a child. He
leaves childhood behind him at the time ordained by nature; and
this critical moment, short enough in itself, has far-reaching
consequences.
As the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmur
of rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressed
excitement warns us of the approaching danger. A change of temper,
frequent outbreaks of anger, a perpetual stirring of the mind,
make the child almost ungovernable. He becomes deaf to the voice
he used to obey; he is a lion in a fever; he distrusts his keeper
and refuses to be controlled.
With the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptible
changes in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the
stamp of his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks
becomes darker and stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he
loses it altogether. He is neither a child nor a man and cannot
speak like either of them. His eyes, those organs of the soul
which till now were dumb, find speech and meaning; a kindling
fire illumines them, there is still a sacred innocence in their
ever brightening glance, but they have lost their first meaningless
expression; he is already aware that they can say too much; he
is beginning to learn to lower his eyes and blush, he is becoming
sensitive, though he does not know what it is that he feels; he
is uneasy without knowing why. All this may happen gradually and
give you time enough; but if his keenness becomes impatience,
his eagerness madness, if he is angry and sorry all in a moment,
if he weeps without cause, if in the presence of objects which
are beginning to be a source of danger his pulse quickens and
his eyes sparkle, if he trembles when a woman's hand touches his,
if he is troubled or timid in her presence, O Ulysses, wise Ulysses!
have a care! The passages you closed with so much pains are open;
the winds are unloosed; keep your hand upon the helm or all is
lost.
This is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man really
enters upon life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to
him. Our efforts so far have been child's play, now they are of
the greatest importance. This period when education is usually
finished is just the time to begin; but to explain this new plan
properly, let us take up our story where we left it.
Our passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try
to destroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this
would be to overcome nature, to reshape God's handiwork. If God
bade man annihilate the passions he has given him, God would bid
him be and not be; He would contradict himself. He has never given
such a foolish commandment, there is nothing like it written on
the heart of man, and what God will have a man do, He does not
leave to the words of another man. He speaks Himself; His words
are written in the secret heart.
Now I consider those who would prevent the birth of the passions
almost as foolish as those who would destroy them, and those who
think this has been my object hitherto are greatly mistaken.
But should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passions are
natural to man, we inferred that all the passions we feel in ourselves
and behold in others are natural? Their source, indeed, is natural;
but they have been swollen by a thousand other streams; they are
a great river which is constantly growing, one in which we can
scarcely find a single drop of the original stream. Our natural
passions are few in number; they are the means to freedom, they
tend to self-preservation. All those which enslave and destroy
us have another source; nature does not bestow them on us; we
seize on them in her despite.
The origin of our passions, the root and spring of all the rest,
the only one which is born with man, which never leaves him as
long as he lives, is self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive,
it precedes all the rest, which are in a sense only modifications
of it. In this sense, if you like, they are all natural. But most
of these modifications are the result of external influences,
without which they would never occur, and such modifications,
far from being advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the
original purpose and work against its end; then it is that man
finds himself outside nature and at strife with himself.
Self-love is always good, always in accordance with the order
of nature. The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted
to each one of us, and our first care is, and must be, to watch
over our own life; and how can we continually watch over it, if
we do not take the greatest interest in it?
Self-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love ourselves;
we must love ourselves above everything, and it follows directly
from this that we love what contributes to our preservation. Every
child becomes fond of its nurse; Romulus must have loved the she-wolf
who suckled him. At first this attachment is quite unconscious;
the individual is attracted to that which contributes to his welfare
and repelled by that which is harmful; this is merely blind instinct.
What transforms this instinct into feeling, the liking into love,
the aversion into hatred, is the evident intention of helping
or hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to objects
without feeling, which only follow the direction given them; but
those from which we expect benefit or injury from their internal
disposition, from their will, those we see acting freely for or
against us, inspire us with like feelings to those they exhibit
towards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but we love
the person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink
from it, but we hate the person who tries to hurt us.
The child's first sentiment is self-love, his second, which is
derived from it, is love of those about him; for in his present
state of weakness he is only aware of people through the help
and attention received from them. At first his affection for his
nurse and his governess is mere habit. He seeks them because he
needs them and because he is happy when they are there; it is
rather perception than kindly feeling. It takes a long time to
discover not merely that they are useful to him, but that they
desire to be useful to him, and then it is that he begins to love
them.
So a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because he
sees that every one about him is inclined to help him, and from
this experience he gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards
his species; but with the expansion of his relations, his needs,
his dependence, active or passive, the consciousness of his relations
to others is awakened, and leads to the sense of duties and preferences.
Then the child becomes masterful, jealous, deceitful, and vindictive.
If he is not compelled to obedience, when he does not see the
usefulness of what he is told to do, he attributes it to caprice,
to an intention of tormenting him, and he rebels. If people give
in to him, as soon as anything opposes him he regards it as rebellion,
as a determination to resist him; he beats the chair or table
for disobeying him. Self-love, which concerns itself only with
ourselves, is content to satisfy our own needs; but selfishness,
which is always comparing self with others, is never satisfied
and never can be; for this feeling, which prefers ourselves to
others, requires that they should prefer us to themselves, which
is impossible. Thus the tender and gentle passions spring from
self-love, while the hateful and angry passions spring from selfishness.
So it is the fewness of his needs, the narrow limits within which
he can compare himself with others, that makes a man really good;
what makes him really bad is a multiplicity of needs and dependence
on the opinions of others. It is easy to see how we can apply
this principle and guide every passion of children and men towards
good or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will
be hard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increase
of necessity as his relations with others are extended. For this
reason, above all, the dangers of social life demand that the
necessary skill and care shall be devoted to guarding the human
heart against the depravity which springs from fresh needs.
Man's proper study is that of his relation to his environment.
So long as he only knows that environment through his physical
nature, he should study himself in relation to things; this is
the business of his childhood; when he begins to be aware of his
moral nature, he should study himself in relation to his fellow-men;
this is the business of his whole life, and we have now reached
the time when that study should be begun.
As soon as a man needs a companion he is no longer an isolated
creature, his heart is no longer alone. All his relations with
his species, all the affections of his heart, come into being
along with this. His first passion soon arouses the rest.
The direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attracted
by the other; that is the impulse of nature. Choice, preferences,
individual likings, are the work of reason, prejudice, and habit;
time and knowledge are required to make us capable of love; we
do not love without reasoning or prefer without comparison. These
judgments are none the less real, although they are formed unconsciously.
True love, whatever you may say, will always be held in honour
by mankind; for although its impulses lead us astray, although
it does not bar the door of the heart to certain detestable qualities,
although it even gives rise to these, yet it always presupposes
certain worthy characteristics, without which we should be incapable
of love. This choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason,
really springs from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyes
are better than ours, and he perceives relations which we cannot
discern. All women would be alike to a man who had no idea of
virtue or beauty, and the first comer would always be the most
charming. Love does not spring from nature, far from it; it is
the curb and law of her desires; it is love that makes one sex
indifferent to the other, the loved one alone excepted.
We wish to inspire the preference we feel; love must be mutual.
To be loved we must be worthy of love; to be preferred we must
be more worthy than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved.
Hence we begin to look around among our fellows; we begin to compare
ourselves with them, there is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy.
A heart full to overflowing loves to make itself known; from the
need of a mistress there soon springs the need of a friend He
who feels how sweet it is to be loved, desires to be loved by
everybody; and there could be no preferences if there were not
many that fail to find satisfaction. With love and friendship
there begin dissensions, enmity, and hatred. I behold deference
to other people's opinions enthroned among all these divers passions,
and foolish mortals, enslaved by her power, base their very existence
merely on what other people think.
Expand these ideas and you will see where we get that form of
selfishness which we call natural selfishness, and how selfishness
ceases to be a simple feeling and becomes pride in great minds,
vanity in little ones, and in both feeds continually at our neighbour's
cost. Passions of this kind, not having any germ in the child's
heart, cannot spring up in it of themselves; it is we who sow
the seeds, and they never take root unless by our fault. Not so
with the young man; they will find an entrance in spite of us.
It is therefore time to change our methods.
Let us begin with some considerations of importance with regard
to the critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood
to puberty is not so clearly determined by nature but that it
varies according to individual temperament and racial conditions.
Everybody knows the differences which have been observed with
regard to this between hot and cold countries, and every one sees
that ardent temperaments mature earlier than others; but we may
be mistaken as to the causes, and we may often attribute to physical
causes what is really due to moral: this is one of the commonest
errors in the philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature
comes slowly; man's lessons are mostly premature. In the former
case, the senses kindle the imagination, in the latter the imagination
kindles the senses; it gives them a precocious activity which
cannot fail to enervate the individual and, in the long run, the
race. It is a more general and more trustworthy fact than that
of climatic influences, that puberty and sexual power is always
more precocious among educated and civilised races, than among
the ignorant and barbarous. [Footnote: "In towns," says
M. Buffon, "and among the well-to-do classes, children accustomed
to plentiful and nourishing food sooner reach this state; in the
country and among the poor, children are more backward, because
of their poor and scanty food." I admit the fact but not
the explanation, for in the districts where the food of the villagers
is plentiful and good, as in the Valais and even in some of the
mountain districts of Italy, such as Friuli, the age of puberty
for both sexes is quite as much later than in the heart of the
towns, where, in order to gratify their vanity, people are often
extremely parsimonious in the matter of food, and where most people,
in the words of the proverb, have a velvet coat and an empty belly.
It is astonishing to find in these mountainous regions big lads
as strong as a man with shrill voices and smooth chins, and tall
girls, well developed in other respects, without any trace of
the periodic functions of their sex. This difference is, in my
opinion, solely due to the fact that in the simplicity of their
manners the imagination remains calm and peaceful, and does not
stir the blood till much later, and thus their temperament is
much less precocious.] Children are preternaturally quick to discern
immoral habits under the cloak of decency with which they are
concealed. The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessons in good
behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang before their
eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. It is plain, from
the way you set about it, that they are meant to learn what you
profess to conceal; and of all you teach them this is most quickly
assimilated.
Consult experience and you will find how far this foolish method
hastens the work of nature and ruins the character. This is one
of the chief causes of physical degeneration in our towns. The
young people, prematurely exhausted, remain small, puny, and misshapen,
they grow old instead of growing up, like a vine forced to bear
fruit in spring, which fades and dies before autumn.
To know how far a happy ignorance may prolong the innocence of
children, you must live among rude and simple people. It is a
sight both touching and amusing to see both sexes, left to the
protection of their own hearts, continuing the sports of childhood
in the flower of youth and beauty, showing by their very familiarity
the purity of their pleasures. When at length those delightful
young people marry, they bestow on each other the first fruits
of their person, and are all the dearer therefore. Swarms of strong
and healthy children are the pledges of a union which nothing
can change, and the fruit of the virtue of their early years.
If the age at which a man becomes conscious of his sex is deferred
as much by the effects of education as by the action of nature,
it follows that this age may be hastened or retarded according
to the way in which the child is brought up; and if the body gains
or loses strength in proportion as its development is accelerated
or retarded, it also follows that the more we try to retard it
the stronger and more vigorous will the young man be. I am still
speaking of purely physical consequences; you will soon see that
this is not all.
From these considerations I arrive at the solution of the question
so often discussed--Should we enlighten children at an early period
as to the objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put them
off with decent shams? I think we need do neither. In the first
place, this curiosity will not arise unless we give it a chance.
We must therefore take care not to give it an opportunity. In
the next place, questions one is not obliged to answer do not
compel us to deceive those who ask them; it is better to bid the
child hold his tongue than to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly
surprised at this treatment if you have already accustomed him
to it in matters of no importance. Lastly, if you decide to answer
his questions, let it be with the greatest plainness, without
mystery or confusion, without a smile. It is much less dangerous
to satisfy a child's curiosity than to stimulate it.
Let your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without
trace of hesitation. I need not add that they should be true.
We cannot teach children the danger of telling lies to men without
realising, on the man's part, the danger of telling lies to children.
A single untruth on the part of the master will destroy the results
of his education.
Complete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps the
best thing for children; but let them learn very early what it
is impossible to conceal from them permanently. Either their curiosity
must never be aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age
when it becomes a source of danger. Your conduct towards your
pupil in this respect depends greatly on his individual circumstances,
the society in which he moves, the position in which he may find
himself, etc. Nothing must be left to chance; and if you are not
sure of keeping him in ignorance of the difference between the
sexes till he is sixteen, take care you teach him before he is
ten.
I do not like people to be too fastidious in speaking with children,
nor should they go out of their way to avoid calling a spade a
spade; they are always found out if they do. Good manners in this
respect are always perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled
by vice makes the ear over-sensitive and compels us to be constantly
refining our expressions. Plain words do not matter; it is lascivious
ideas which must be avoided.
Although modesty is natural to man, it is not natural to children.
Modesty only begins with the knowledge of evil; and how should
children without this knowledge of evil have the feeling which
results from it? To give them lessons in modesty and good conduct
is to teach them that there are things shameful and wicked, and
to give them a secret wish to know what these things are. Sooner
or later they will find out, and the first spark which touches
the imagination will certainly hasten the awakening of the senses.
Blushes are the sign of guilt; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.
Children have not the same desires as men; but they are subject
like them to the same disagreeable needs which offend the senses,
and by this means they may receive the same lessons in propriety.
Follow the mind of nature which has located in the same place
the organs of secret pleasures and those of disgusting needs;
she teaches us the same precautions at different ages, sometimes
by means of one idea and sometimes by another; to the man through
modesty, to the child through cleanliness.
I can only find one satisfactory way of preserving the child's
innocence, to surround him by those who respect and love him.
Without this all our efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooner
or later; a smile, a wink, a careless gesture tells him all we
sought to hide; it is enough to teach him to perceive that there
is something we want to hide from him. The delicate phrases and
expressions employed by persons of politeness assume a knowledge
which children ought not to possess, and they are quite out of
place with them, but when we truly respect the child's innocence
we easily find in talking to him the simple phrases which befit
him. There is a certain directness of speech which is suitable
and pleasing to innocence; this is the right tone to adopt in
order to turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By speaking
simply to him about everything you do not let him suspect there
is anything left unsaid. By connecting coarse words with the unpleasant
ideas which belong to them, you quench the first spark of imagination;
you do not forbid the child to say these words or to form these
ideas; but without his knowing it you make him unwilling to recall
them. And how much confusion is spared to those who speaking from
the heart always say the right thing, and say it as they themselves
have felt it!
"Where do little children come from?" This is an embarrassing
question, which occurs very naturally to children, one which foolishly
or wisely answered may decide their health and their morals for
life. The quickest way for a mother to escape from it without
deceiving her son is to tell him to hold his tongue. That will
serve its turn if he has always been accustomed to it in matters
of no importance, and if he does not suspect some mystery from
this new way of speaking. But the mother rarely stops there. "It
is the married people's secret," she will say, "little
boys should not be so curious." That is all very well so
far as the mother is concerned, but she may be sure that the little
boy, piqued by her scornful manner, will not rest till he has
found out the married people's secret, which will very soon be
the case.
Let me tell you a very different answer which I heard given to
the same question, one which made all the more impression on me,
coming, as it did, from a woman, modest in speech and behaviour,
but one who was able on occasion, for the welfare of her child
and for the cause of virtue, to cast aside the false fear of blame
and the silly jests of the foolish. Not long before the child
had passed a small stone which had torn the passage, but the trouble
was over and forgotten. "Mamma," said the eager child,
"where do little children come from?" "My child,"
replied his mother without hesitation, "women pass them with
pains that sometimes cost their life." Let fools laugh and
silly people be shocked; but let the wise inquire if it is possible
to find a wiser answer and one which would better serve its purpose.
In the first place the thought of a need of nature with which
the child is well acquainted turns his thoughts from the idea
of a mysterious process. The accompanying ideas of pain and death
cover it with a veil of sadness which deadens the imagination
and suppresses curiosity; everything leads the mind to the results,
not the causes, of child-birth. This is the information to which
this answer leads. If the repugnance inspired by this answer should
permit the child to inquire further, his thoughts are turned to
the infirmities of human nature, disgusting things, images of
pain. What chance is there for any stimulation of desire in such
a conversation? And yet you see there is no departure from truth,
no need to deceive the scholar in order to teach him.
Your children read; in the course of their reading they meet with
things they would never have known without reading. Are they students,
their imagination is stimulated and quickened in the silence of
the study. Do they move in the world of society, they hear a strange
jargon, they see conduct which makes a great impression on them;
they have been told so continually that they are men that in everything
men do in their presence they at once try to find how that will
suit themselves; the conduct of others must indeed serve as their
pattern when the opinions of others are their law. Servants, dependent
on them, and therefore anxious to please them, flatter them at
the expense of their morals; giggling governesses say things to
the four-year-old child which the most shameless woman would not
dare to say to them at fifteen. They soon forget what they said,
but the child has not forgotten what he heard. Loose conversation
prepares the way for licentious conduct; the child is debauched
by the cunning lacquey, and the secret of the one guarantees the
secret of the other.
The child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knows
no attachment but that of habit, he loves his sister like his
watch, and his friend like his dog. He is unconscious of his sex
and his species; men and women are alike unknown; he does not
connect their sayings and doings with himself, he neither sees
nor hears, or he pays no heed to them; he is no more concerned
with their talk than their actions; he has nothing to do with
it. This is no artificial error induced by our method, it is the
ignorance of nature. The time is at hand when that same nature
will take care to enlighten her pupil, and then only does she
make him capable of profiting by the lessons without danger. This
is our principle; the details of its rules are outside my subject;
and the means I suggest with regard to other matters will still
serve to illustrate this.
Do you wish to establish law and order among the rising passions,
prolong the period of their development, so that they may have
time to find their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlled
by nature herself, not by man; your task is merely to leave it
in her hands. If your pupil were alone, you would have nothing
to do; but everything about him enflames his imagination. He is
swept along on the torrent of conventional ideas; to rescue him
you must urge him in the opposite direction. Imagination must
be curbed by feeling and reason must silence the voice of conventionality.
Sensibility is the source of all the passions, imagination determines
their course. Every creature who is aware of his relations must
be disturbed by changes in these relations and when he imagines
or fancies he imagines others better adapted to his nature. It
is the errors of the imagination which transmute into vices the
passions of finite beings, of angels even, if indeed they have
passions; for they must needs know the nature of every creature
to realise what relations are best adapted to themselves.
This is the sum of human wisdom with regard to the use of the
passions. First, to be conscious of the true relations of man
both in the species and the individual; second, to control all
the affections in accordance with these relations.
But is man in a position to control his affections according to
such and such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix
his imagination on this or that object, or to form this or that
habit. Moreover, we are not so much concerned with what a man
can do for himself, as with what we can do for our pupil through
our choice of the circumstances in which he shall be placed. To
show the means by which he may be kept in the path of nature is
to show plainly enough how he might stray from that path.
So long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is no
morality in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyond
himself that he forms first the sentiments and then the ideas
of good and ill, which make him indeed a man, and an integral
part of his species. To begin with we must therefore confine our
observations to this point.
These observations are difficult to make, for we must reject the
examples before our eyes, and seek out those in which the successive
developments follow the order of nature.
A child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only awaiting
the power to put into practice the precocious instruction he has
received, is never mistaken with regard to the time when this
power is acquired. Far from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he
stirs his blood to a premature ferment; he knows what should be
the object of his desires long before those desires are experienced.
It is not nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces the
hand of nature; she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a
man; he was a man in thought long before he was a man in reality.
The true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little by
little the blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the character
is formed. The wise workman who directs the process is careful
to perfect every tool before he puts it to use; the first desires
are preceded by a long period of unrest, they are deceived by
a prolonged ignorance, they know not what they want. The blood
ferments and bubbles; overflowing vitality seeks to extend its
sphere. The eye grows brighter and surveys others, we begin to
be interested in those about us, we begin to feel that we are
not meant to live alone; thus the heart is thrown open to human
affection, and becomes capable of attachment.
The first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable
is not love but friendship. The first work of his rising imagination
is to make known to him his fellows; the species affects him before
........Continua
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