EMILE

By Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Translated by Barbara Foxley

Author's Preface

This collection of scattered thoughts and observations has littleorder or continuity; it was begun to give pleasure to a good motherwho thinks for herself. My first idea was to write a tract a fewpages long, but I was carried away by my subject, and before I knewwhat I was doing my tract had become a kind of book, too large indeedfor the matter contained in it, but too small for the subject ofwhich it treats. For a long time I hesitated whether to publishit or not, and I have often felt, when at work upon it, that it isone thing to publish a few pamphlets and another to write a book. After vain attempts to improve it, I have decided that it is myduty to publish it as it stands. I consider that public attentionrequires to be directed to this subject, and even if my own ideasare mistaken, my time will not have been wasted if I stir up othersto form right ideas. A solitary who casts his writings before thepublic without any one to advertise them, without any party readyto defend them, one who does not even know what is thought and saidabout those writings, is at least free from one anxiety--if he ismistaken, no one will take his errors for gospel. 

I shall say very little about the value of a good education, norshall I stop to prove that the customary method of education is bad;this has been done again and again, and I do not wish to fill mybook with things which everyone knows. I will merely state that, goas far back as you will, you will find a continual outcry againstthe established method, but no attempt to suggest a better. Theliterature and science of our day tend rather to destroy than tobuild up. We find fault after the manner of a master; to suggest, we must adopt another style, a style less in accordance with thepride of the philosopher. In spite of all those books, whose onlyaim, so they say, is public utility, the most useful of all arts, the art of training men, is still neglected. Even after Locke'sbook was written the subject remained almost untouched, and I fearthat my book will leave it pretty much as it found it. 

We know nothing of childhood; and with our mistaken notions thefurther we advance the further we go astray. The wisest writersdevote themselves to what a man ought to know, without asking whata child is capable of learning. They are always looking for theman in the child, without considering what he is before he becomesa man. It is to this study that I have chiefly devoted myself, so that if my method is fanciful and unsound, my observations maystill be of service. I may be greatly mistaken as to what ought tobe done, but I think I have clearly perceived the material whichis to be worked upon. Begin thus by making a more careful study ofyour scholars, for it is clear that you know nothing about them;yet if you read this book with that end in view, I think you willfind that it is not entirely useless. 

With regard to what will be called the systematic portion of thebook, which is nothing more than the course of nature, it is herethat the reader will probably go wrong, and no doubt I shall beattacked on this side, and perhaps my critics may be right. Youwill tell me, "This is not so much a treatise on education as thevisions of a dreamer with regard to education. " What can I do? I havenot written about other people's ideas of education, but about myown. My thoughts are not those of others; this reproach has beenbrought against me again and again. But is it within my powerto furnish myself with other eyes, or to adopt other ideas? It iswithin my power to refuse to be wedded to my own opinions and torefuse to think myself wiser than others. I cannot change my mind;I can distrust myself. This is all I can do, and this I have done. If I sometimes adopt a confident tone, it is not to impress thereader, it is to make my meaning plain to him. Why should I professto suggest as doubtful that which is not a matter of doubt tomyself? I say just what I think. 

When I freely express my opinion, I have so little idea of claimingauthority that I always give my reasons, so that you may weighand judge them for yourselves; but though I would not obstinatelydefend my ideas, I think it my duty to put them forward; for theprinciples with regard to which I differ from other writers arenot matters of indifference; we must know whether they are true orfalse, for on them depends the happiness or the misery of mankind. People are always telling me to make PRACTICABLE suggestions. Youmight as well tell me to suggest what people are doing already, or at least to suggest improvements which may be incorporated withthe wrong methods at present in use. There are matters with regardto which such a suggestion is far more chimerical than my own, for in such a connection the good is corrupted and the bad is nonethe better for it. I would rather follow exactly the establishedmethod than adopt a better method by halves. There would be fewercontradictions in the man; he cannot aim at one and the same timeat two different objects. Fathers and mothers, what you desire thatyou can do. May I count on your goodwill?

There are two things to be considered with regard to any scheme. In the first place, "Is it good in itself" In the second, "Can itbe easily put into practice?"

With regard to the first of these it is enough that the schemeshould be intelligible and feasible in itself, that what is goodin it should be adapted to the nature of things, in this case, forexample, that the proposed method of education should be suitableto man and adapted to the human heart. 

The second consideration depends upon certain given conditions inparticular cases; these conditions are accidental and thereforevariable; they may vary indefinitely. Thus one kind of educationwould be possible in Switzerland and not in France; another would beadapted to the middle classes but not to the nobility. The schemecan be carried out, with more or less success, according to amultitude of circumstances, and its results can only be determinedby its special application to one country or another, to this classor that. Now all these particular applications are not essentialto my subject, and they form no part of my scheme. It is enoughfor me that, wherever men are born into the world, my suggestionswith regard to them may be carried out, and when you have made themwhat I would have them be, you have done what is best for them andbest for other people. If I fail to fulfil this promise, no doubtI am to blame; but if I fulfil my promise, it is your own fault ifyou ask anything more of me, for I have promised you nothing more. 

BOOK I

God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they becomeevil. He forces one soil to yield the products of another, one treeto bear another's fruit. He confuses and confounds time, place, and natural conditions. He mutilates his dog, his horse, and hisslave. He destroys and defaces all things; he loves all that isdeformed and monstrous; he will have nothing as nature made it, not even man himself, who must learn his paces like a saddle-horse, and be shaped to his master's taste like the trees in his garden. Yet things would be worse without this education, and mankind cannotbe made by halves. Under existing conditions a man left to himselffrom birth would be more of a monster than the rest. Prejudice, authority, necessity, example, all the social conditions into whichwe are plunged, would stifle nature in him and put nothing in herplace. She would be like a sapling chance sown in the midst of thehighway, bent hither and thither and soon crushed by the passers-by. 

Tender, anxious mother, [Footnote: The earliest education ismost important and it undoubtedly is woman's work. If the authorof nature had meant to assign it to men he would have given themmilk to feed the child. Address your treatises on education to thewomen, for not only are they able to watch over it more closely thanmen, not only is their influence always predominant in education, its success concerns them more nearly, for most widows are at themercy of their children, who show them very plainly whether theireducation was good or bad. The laws, always more concerned aboutproperty than about people, since their object is not virtue butpeace, the laws give too little authority to the mother. Yet herposition is more certain than that of the father, her duties aremore trying; the right ordering of the family depends more uponher, and she is usually fonder of her children. There are occasionswhen a son may be excused for lack of respect for his father, butif a child could be so unnatural as to fail in respect for themother who bore him and nursed him at her breast, who for so manyyears devoted herself to his care, such a monstrous wretch shouldbe smothered at once as unworthy to live. You say mothers spoiltheir children, and no doubt that is wrong, but it is worse todeprave them as you do. The mother wants her child to be happynow. She is right, and if her method is wrong, she must be taughta better. Ambition, avarice, tyranny, the mistaken foresight of fathers, their neglect, their harshness, are a hundredfold more harmful tothe child than the blind affection of the mother. Moreover, I mustexplain what I mean by a mother and that explanation follows. ] Iappeal to you. You can remove this young tree from the highway andshield it from the crushing force of social conventions. Tend andwater it ere it dies. One day its fruit will reward your care. From the outset raise a wall round your child's soul; another maysketch the plan, you alone should carry it into execution. 

Plants are fashioned by cultivation, man by education. If a manwere born tall and strong, his size and strength would be of nogood to him till he had learnt to use them; they would even harmhim by preventing others from coming to his aid; [Footnote: Likethem in externals, but without speech and without the ideas whichare expressed by speech, he would be unable to make his wants known, while there would be nothing in his appearance to suggest that heneeded their help. ] left to himself he would die of want before heknew his needs. We lament the helplessness of infancy; we fail toperceive that the race would have perished had not man begun bybeing a child. 

We are born weak, we need strength; helpless, we need aid; foolish, we need reason. All that we lack at birth, all that we need whenwe come to man's estate, is the gift of education. 

This education comes to us from nature, from men, or from things. The inner growth of our organs and faculties is the education ofnature, the use we learn to make of this growth is the educationof men, what we gain by our experience of our surroundings is theeducation of things. 

Thus we are each taught by three masters. If their teachingconflicts, the scholar is ill-educated and will never be at peacewith himself; if their teaching agrees, he goes straight to hisgoal, he lives at peace with himself, he is well-educated. 

Now of these three factors in education nature is wholly beyondour control, things are only partly in our power; the education ofmen is the only one controlled by us; and even here our power islargely illusory, for who can hope to direct every word and deedof all with whom the child has to do. 

Viewed as an art, the success of education is almost impossible, since the essential conditions of success are beyond our control. Our efforts may bring us within sight of the goal, but fortune mustfavour us if we are to reach it. 

What is this goal? As we have just shown, it is the goal of nature. Since all three modes of education must work together, the twothat we can control must follow the lead of that which is beyondour control. Perhaps this word Nature has too vague a meaning. Letus try to define it. 

Nature, we are told, is merely habit. What does that mean? Are therenot habits formed under compulsion, habits which never stifle nature?Such, for example, are the habits of plants trained horizontally. The plant keeps its artificial shape, but the sap has not changedits course, and any new growth the plant may make will be vertical. It is the same with a man's disposition; while the conditions remainthe same, habits, even the least natural of them, hold good; butchange the conditions, habits vanish, nature reasserts herself. Education itself is but habit, for are there not people who forgetor lose their education and others who keep it? Whence comesthis difference? If the term nature is to be restricted to habitsconformable to nature we need say no more. 

We are born sensitive and from our birth onwards we are affectedin various ways by our environment. As soon as we become consciousof our sensations we tend to seek or shun the things that causethem, at first because they are pleasant or unpleasant, then becausethey suit us or not, and at last because of judgments formed bymeans of the ideas of happiness and goodness which reason givesus. These tendencies gain strength and permanence with the growthof reason, but hindered by our habits they are more or less warpedby our prejudices. Before this change they are what I call Naturewithin us. 

Everything should therefore be brought into harmony with thesenatural tendencies, and that might well be if our three modes ofeducation merely differed from one another; but what can be donewhen they conflict, when instead of training man for himself youtry to train him for others? Harmony becomes impossible. Forced tocombat either nature or society, you must make your choice betweenthe man and the citizen, you cannot train both. 

The smaller social group, firmly united in itself and dwellingapart from others, tends to withdraw itself from the larger society. Every patriot hates foreigners; they are only men, and nothing tohim. [Footnote: Thus the wars of republics are more cruel than thoseof monarchies. But if the wars of kings are less cruel, their peaceis terrible; better be their foe than their subject. ] This defectis inevitable, but of little importance. The great thing is to bekind to our neighbours. Among strangers the Spartan was selfish, grasping, and unjust, but unselfishness, justice, and harmony ruledhis home life. Distrust those cosmopolitans who search out remoteduties in their books and neglect those that lie nearest. Suchphilosophers will love the Tartars to avoid loving their neighbour. 

The natural man lives for himself; he is the unit, the whole, dependent only on himself and on his like. The citizen is but thenumerator of a fraction, whose value depends on its denominator;his value depends upon the whole, that is, on the community. Goodsocial institutions are those best fitted to make a man unnatural, to exchange his independence for dependence, to merge the unitin the group, so that he no longer regards himself as one, but asa part of the whole, and is only conscious of the common life. Acitizen of Rome was neither Caius nor Lucius, he was a Roman; heever loved his country better than his life. The captive Regulusprofessed himself a Carthaginian; as a foreigner he refused to takehis seat in the Senate except at his master's bidding. He scornedthe attempt to save his life. He had his will, and returned intriumph to a cruel death. There is no great likeness between Regulusand the men of our own day. 

The Spartan Pedaretes presented himself for admission to the councilof the Three Hundred and was rejected; he went away rejoicing thatthere were three hundred Spartans better than himself. I suppose hewas in earnest; there is no reason to doubt it. That was a citizen. 

A Spartan mother had five sons with the army. A Helot arrived;trembling she asked his news. "Your five sons are slain. " "Vileslave, was that what I asked thee?" "We have won the victory. "She hastened to the temple to render thanks to the gods. That wasa citizen. 

He who would preserve the supremacy of natural feelings in sociallife knows not what he asks. Ever at war with himself, hesitatingbetween his wishes and his duties, he will be neither a man nora citizen. He will be of no use to himself nor to others. He willbe a man of our day, a Frenchman, an Englishman, one of the greatmiddle class. 

To be something, to be himself, and always at one with himself, aman must act as he speaks, must know what course he ought to take, and must follow that course with vigour and persistence. When Imeet this miracle it will be time enough to decide whether he isa man or a citizen, or how he contrives to be both. 

Two conflicting types of educational systems spring from theseconflicting aims. One is public and common to many, the otherprivate and domestic. 

If you wish to know what is meant by public education, read Plato'sRepublic. Those who merely judge books by their titles take this fora treatise on politics, but it is the finest treatise on educationever written. 

In popular estimation the Platonic Institute stands for all thatis fanciful and unreal. For my own part I should have thought thesystem of Lycurgus far more impracticable had he merely committedit to writing. Plato only sought to purge man's heart; Lycurgusturned it from its natural course. 

The public institute does not and cannot exist, for there is neithercountry nor patriot. The very words should be struck out of ourlanguage. The reason does not concern us at present, so that thoughI know it I refrain from stating it. 

I do not consider our ridiculous colleges [Footnote: There areteachers dear to me in many schools and especially in the Universityof Paris, men for whom I have a great respect, men whom I believeto be quite capable of instructing young people, if they were notcompelled to follow the established custom. I exhort one of themto publish the scheme of reform which he has thought out. Perhapspeople would at length seek to cure the evil if they realised thatthere was a remedy. ] as public institutes, nor do I include underthis head a fashionable education, for this education facing twoways at once achieves nothing. It is only fit to turn out hypocrites, always professing to live for others, while thinking of themselvesalone. These professions, however, deceive no one, for every onehas his share in them; they are so much labour wasted. 

Our inner conflicts are caused by these contradictions. Drawnthis way by nature and that way by man, compelled to yield to bothforces, we make a compromise and reach neither goal. We go throughlife, struggling and hesitating, and die before we have found peace, useless alike to ourselves and to others. 

There remains the education of the home or of nature; but how willa man live with others if he is educated for himself alone? Ifthe twofold aims could be resolved into one by removing the man'sself-contradictions, one great obstacle to his happiness would begone. To judge of this you must see the man full-grown; you musthave noted his inclinations, watched his progress, followed hissteps; in a word you must really know a natural man. When you haveread this work, I think you will have made some progress in thisinquiry. 

What must be done to train this exceptional man! We can do much, but the chief thing is to prevent anything being done. To sailagainst the wind we merely follow one tack and another; to keep ourposition in a stormy sea we must cast anchor. Beware, young pilot, lest your boat slip its cable or drag its anchor before you knowit. 

In the social order where each has his own place a man must beeducated for it. If such a one leave his own station he is fit fornothing else. His education is only useful when fate agrees withhis parents' choice; if not, education harms the scholar, if onlyby the prejudices it has created. In Egypt, where the son wascompelled to adopt his father's calling, education had at leasta settled aim; where social grades remain fixed, but the men whoform them are constantly changing, no one knows whether he is notharming his son by educating him for his own class. 

In the natural order men are all equal and their common callingis that of manhood, so that a well-educated man cannot fail to dowell in that calling and those related to it. It matters little tome whether my pupil is intended for the army, the church, or thelaw. Before his parents chose a calling for him nature called himto be a man. Life is the trade I would teach him. When he leavesme, I grant you, he will be neither a magistrate, a soldier, nor apriest; he will be a man. All that becomes a man he will learn asquickly as another. In vain will fate change his station, he willalways be in his right place. "Occupavi te, fortuna, atque cepi;omnes-que aditus tuos interclusi, ut ad me aspirare non posses. "The real object of our study is man and his environment. To my mindthose of us who can best endure the good and evil of life are thebest educated; hence it follows that true education consists lessin precept than in practice. We begin to learn when we begin tolive; our education begins with ourselves, our first teacher isour nurse. The ancients used the word "Education" in a differentsense, it meant "Nurture. " "Educit obstetrix, " says Varro. "Educatnutrix, instituit paedagogus, docet magister. " Thus, education, discipline, and instruction are three things as different intheir purpose as the dame, the usher, and the teacher. But thesedistinctions are undesirable and the child should only follow oneguide. 

We must therefore look at the general rather than the particular, and consider our scholar as man in the abstract, man exposed to allthe changes and chances of mortal life. If men were born attachedto the soil of our country, if one season lasted all the year round, if every man's fortune were so firmly grasped that he could neverlose it, then the established method of education would havecertain advantages; the child brought up to his own calling wouldnever leave it, he could never have to face the difficulties ofany other condition. But when we consider the fleeting nature ofhuman affairs, the restless and uneasy spirit of our times, whenevery generation overturns the work of its predecessor, can weconceive a more senseless plan than to educate a child as if hewould never leave his room, as if he would always have his servantsabout him? If the wretched creature takes a single step up or downhe is lost. This is not teaching him to bear pain; it is traininghim to feel it. 

People think only of preserving their child's life; this is notenough, he must be taught to preserve his own life when he is aman, to bear the buffets of fortune, to brave wealth and poverty, to live at need among the snows of Iceland or on the scorching rocksof Malta. In vain you guard against death; he must needs die; andeven if you do not kill him with your precautions, they are mistaken. Teach him to live rather than to avoid death: life is not breath, but action, the use of our senses, our mind, our faculties, everypart of ourselves which makes us conscious of our being. Lifeconsists less in length of days than in the keen sense of living. A man maybe buried at a hundred and may never have lived at all. He would have fared better had he died young. 

Our wisdom is slavish prejudice, our customs consist in control, constraint, compulsion. Civilised man is born and dies a slave. The infant is bound up in swaddling clothes, the corpse is naileddown in his coffin. All his life long man is imprisoned by ourinstitutions. 

I am told that many midwives profess to improve the shape of theinfant's head by rubbing, and they are allowed to do it. Our headsare not good enough as God made them, they must be moulded outsideby the nurse and inside by the philosopher. The Caribs are betteroff than we are. The child has hardly left the mother's womb, ithas hardly begun to move and stretch its limbs, when it is deprivedof its freedom. It is wrapped in swaddling bands, laid down withits head fixed, its legs stretched out, and its arms by its sides;it is wound round with linen and bandages of all sorts so that itcannot move. It is fortunate if it has room to breathe, and it islaid on its side so that water which should flow from its mouth canescape, for it is not free to turn its head on one side for thispurpose. 

The new-born child requires to stir and stretch his limbs to freethem from the stiffness resulting from being curled up so long. His limbs are stretched indeed, but he is not allowed to move them. Even the head is confined by a cap. One would think they were afraidthe child should look as if it were alive. 

Thus the internal impulses which should lead to growth find aninsurmountable obstacle in the way of the necessary movements. Thechild exhausts his strength in vain struggles, or he gains strengthvery slowly. He was freer and less constrained in the womb; he hasgained nothing by birth. 

The inaction, the constraint to which the child's limbs are subjectedcan only check the circulation of the blood and humours; it canonly hinder the child's growth in size and strength, and injure itsconstitution. Where these absurd precautions are absent, all themen are tall, strong, and well-made. Where children are swaddled, the country swarms with the hump-backed, the lame, the bow-legged, the rickety, and every kind of deformity. In our fear lest thebody should become deformed by free movement, we hasten to deformit by putting it in a press. We make our children helpless lestthey should hurt themselves. 

Is not such a cruel bondage certain to affect both health and temper?Their first feeling is one of pain and suffering; they find everynecessary movement hampered; more miserable than a galley slave, invain they struggle, they become angry, they cry. Their first wordsyou say are tears. That is so. From birth you are always checkingthem, your first gifts are fetters, your first treatment, torture. Their voice alone is free; why should they not raise it in complaint?They cry because you are hurting them; if you were swaddled youwould cry louder still. 

What is the origin of this senseless and unnatural custom? Sincemothers have despised their first duty and refused to nurse theirown children, they have had to be entrusted to hired nurses. Findingthemselves the mothers of a stranger's children, without the tiesof nature, they have merely tried to save themselves trouble. A child unswaddled would need constant watching; well swaddled itis cast into a corner and its cries are unheeded. So long as thenurse's negligence escapes notice, so long as the nursling doesnot break its arms or legs, what matter if it dies or becomes aweakling for life. Its limbs are kept safe at the expense of itsbody, and if anything goes wrong it is not the nurse's fault. 

These gentle mothers, having got rid of their babies, devotethemselves gaily to the pleasures of the town. Do they know howtheir children are being treated in the villages? If the nurse is atall busy, the child is hung up on a nail like a bundle of clothesand is left crucified while the nurse goes leisurely about herbusiness. Children have been found in this position purple in theface, their tightly bandaged chest forbade the circulation of theblood, and it went to the head; so the sufferer was considered veryquiet because he had not strength to cry. How long a child mightsurvive under such conditions I do not know, but it could not belong. That, I fancy, is one of the chief advantages of swaddlingclothes. 

It is maintained that unswaddled infants would assume faulty positionsand make movements which might injure the proper development oftheir limbs. That is one of the empty arguments of our false wisdomwhich has never been confirmed by experience. Out of all the crowdsof children who grow up with the full use of their limbs amongnations wiser than ourselves, you never find one who hurts himselfor maims himself; their movements are too feeble to be dangerous, and when they assume an injurious position, pain warns them tochange it. 

We have not yet decided to swaddle our kittens and puppies; arethey any the worse for this neglect? Children are heavier, I admit, but they are also weaker. They can scarcely move, how could theyhurt themselves! If you lay them on their backs, they will liethere till they die, like the turtle, unable to turn itself over. Not content with having ceased to suckle their children, women nolonger wish to do it; with the natural result motherhood becomes aburden; means are found to avoid it. They will destroy their workto begin it over again, and they thus turn to the injury of the racethe charm which was given them for its increase. This practice, withother causes of depopulation, forbodes the coming fate of Europe. Her arts and sciences, her philosophy and morals, will shortlyreduce her to a desert. She will be the home of wild beasts, andher inhabitants will hardly have changed for the worse. 

I have sometimes watched the tricks of young wives who pretendthat they wish to nurse their own children. They take care to bedissuaded from this whim. They contrive that husbands, doctors, and especially mothers should intervene. If a husband should lethis wife nurse her own baby it would be the ruin of him; they wouldmake him out a murderer who wanted to be rid of her. A prudent husbandmust sacrifice paternal affection to domestic peace. Fortunatelyfor you there are women in the country districts more continent thanyour wives. You are still more fortunate if the time thus gainedis not intended for another than yourself. 

There can be no doubt about a wife's duty, but, considering thecontempt in which it is held, it is doubtful whether it is notjust as good for the child to be suckled by a stranger. This isa question for the doctors to settle, and in my opinion they havesettled it according to the women's wishes, [Footnote: The leaguebetween the women and the doctors has always struck me as one ofthe oddest things in Paris. The doctors' reputation depends on thewomen, and by means of the doctors the women get their own way. It is easy to see what qualifications a doctor requires in Parisif he is to become celebrated. ] and for my own part I think it isbetter that the child should suck the breast of a healthy nurserather than of a petted mother, if he has any further evil to fearfrom her who has given him birth. 

Ought the question, however, to be considered only from thephysiological point of view? Does not the child need a mother'scare as much as her milk? Other women, or even other animals, maygive him the milk she denies him, but there is no substitute fora mother's love. 

The woman who nurses another's child in place of her own is a badmother; how can she be a good nurse? She may become one in time;use will overcome nature, but the child may perish a hundred timesbefore his nurse has developed a mother's affection for him. 

And this affection when developed has its drawbacks, which shouldmake any feeling woman afraid to put her child out to nurse. Isshe prepared to divide her mother's rights, or rather to abdicatethem in favour of a stranger; to see her child loving another morethan herself; to feel that the affection he retains for his ownmother is a favour, while his love for his foster-mother is a duty;for is not some affection due where there has been a mother's care?

To remove this difficulty, children are taught to look down ontheir nurses, to treat them as mere servants. When their task iscompleted the child is withdrawn or the nurse is dismissed. Hervisits to her foster-child are discouraged by a cold reception. Aftera few years the child never sees her again. The mother expects totake her place, and to repair by her cruelty the results of her ownneglect. But she is greatly mistaken; she is making an ungratefulfoster-child, not an affectionate son; she is teaching him ingratitude, and she is preparing him to despise at a later day the mother whobore him, as he now despises his nurse. 

How emphatically would I speak if it were not so hopeless to keepstruggling in vain on behalf of a real reform. More depends onthis than you realise. Would you restore all men to their primalduties, begin with the mothers; the results will surprise you. Every evil follows in the train of this first sin; the whole moralorder is disturbed, nature is quenched in every breast, the homebecomes gloomy, the spectacle of a young family no longer stirsthe husband's love and the stranger's reverence. The mother whosechildren are out of sight wins scanty esteem; there is no homelife, the ties of nature are not strengthened by those of habit;fathers, mothers, children, brothers, and sisters cease to exist. They are almost strangers; how should they love one another? Eachthinks of himself first. When the home is a gloomy solitude pleasurewill be sought elsewhere. 

But when mothers deign to nurse their own children, then will bea reform in morals; natural feeling will revive in every heart;there will be no lack of citizens for the state; this first stepby itself will restore mutual affection. The charms of home arethe best antidote to vice. The noisy play of children, which wethought so trying, becomes a delight; mother and father rely moreon each other and grow dearer to one another; the marriage tie isstrengthened. In the cheerful home life the mother finds her sweetestduties and the father his pleasantest recreation. Thus the cure ofthis one evil would work a wide-spread reformation; nature wouldregain her rights. When women become good mothers, men will be goodhusbands and fathers. 

My words are vain! When we are sick of worldly pleasures we donot return to the pleasures of the home. Women have ceased to bemothers, they do not and will not return to their duty. Could theydo it if they would? The contrary custom is firmly established; eachwould have to overcome the opposition of her neighbours, leaguedtogether against the example which some have never given and othersdo not desire to follow. 

Yet there are still a few young women of good natural dispositionwho refuse to be the slaves of fashion and rebel against theclamour of other women, who fulfil the sweet task imposed on themby nature. Would that the reward in store for them might drawothers to follow their example. My conclusion is based upon plainreason, and upon facts I have never seen disputed; and I ventureto promise these worthy mothers the firm and steadfast affectionof their husbands and the truly filial love of their children andthe respect of all the world. Child-birth will be easy and willleave no ill-results, their health will be strong and vigorous, andthey will see their daughters follow their example, and find thatexample quoted as a pattern to others. 

No mother, no child; their duties are reciprocal, and when ill doneby the one they will be neglected by the other. The child shouldlove his mother before he knows what he owes her. If the voice ofinstinct is not strengthened by habit it soon dies, the heart isstill-born. From the outset we have strayed from the path of nature. 

There is another by-way which may tempt our feet from the path ofnature. The mother may lavish excessive care on her child insteadof neglecting him; she may make an idol of him; she may developand increase his weakness to prevent him feeling it; she wardsoff every painful experience in the hope of withdrawing him fromthe power of nature, and fails to realise that for every triflingill from which she preserves him the future holds in store manyaccidents and dangers, and that it is a cruel kindness to prolongthe child's weakness when the grown man must bear fatigue. 

Thetis, so the story goes, plunged her son in the waters of Styx tomake him invulnerable. The truth of this allegory is apparent. Thecruel mothers I speak of do otherwise; they plunge their childreninto softness, and they are preparing suffering for them, they openthe way to every kind of ill, which their children will not failto experience after they grow up. 

Fix your eyes on nature, follow the path traced by her. She keepschildren at work, she hardens them by all kinds of difficulties, she soon teaches them the meaning of pain and grief. They cut theirteeth and are feverish, sharp colics bring on convulsions, theyare choked by fits of coughing and tormented by worms, evil humourscorrupt the blood, germs of various kinds ferment in it, causingdangerous eruptions. Sickness and danger play the chief part ininfancy. One half of the children who are born die before theireighth year. The child who has overcome hardships has gained strength, and as soon as he can use his life he holds it more securely. 

This is nature's law; why contradict it? Do you not see that inyour efforts to improve upon her handiwork you are destroying it;her cares are wasted? To do from without what she does within isaccording to you to increase the danger twofold. On the contrary, it is the way to avert it; experience shows that children delicatelynurtured are more likely to die. Provided we do not overdo it, thereis less risk in using their strength than in sparing it. Accustomthem therefore to the hardships they will have to face; train themto endure extremes of temperature, climate, and condition, hunger, thirst, and weariness. Dip them in the waters of Styx. Before bodilyhabits become fixed you may teach what habits you will without anyrisk, but once habits are established any change is fraught withperil. A child will bear changes which a man cannot bear, the musclesof the one are soft and flexible, they take whatever directionyou give them without any effort; the muscles of the grown man areharder and they only change their accustomed mode of action whensubjected to violence. So we can make a child strong without riskinghis life or health, and even if there were some risk, it should notbe taken into consideration. Since human life is full of dangers, can we do better than face them at a time when they can do theleast harm?

A child's worth increases with his years. To his personal valuemust be added the cost of the care bestowed upon him. For himselfthere is not only loss of life, but the consciousness of death. We must therefore think most of his future in our efforts for hispreservation. He must be protected against the ills of youth beforehe reaches them: for if the value of life increases until the childreaches an age when he can be useful, what madness to spare somesuffering in infancy only to multiply his pain when he reaches theage of reason. Is that what our master teaches us!

Man is born to suffer; pain is the means of his preservation. His childhood is happy, knowing only pain of body. These bodilysufferings are much less cruel, much less painful, than other formsof suffering, and they rarely lead to self-destruction. It is notthe twinges of gout which make a man kill himself, it is mentalsuffering that leads to despair. We pity the sufferings of childhood;we should pity ourselves; our worst sorrows are of our own making. 

The new-born infant cries, his early days are spent in crying. Heis alternately petted and shaken by way of soothing him; sometimeshe is threatened, sometimes beaten, to keep him quiet. We do whathe wants or we make him do what we want, we submit to his whims orsubject him to our own. There is no middle course; he must rule orobey. Thus his earliest ideas are those of the tyrant or the slave. He commands before he can speak, he obeys before he can act, andsometimes he is punished for faults before he is aware of them, orrather before they are committed. Thus early are the seeds of evilpassions sown in his young heart. At a later day these are attributedto nature, and when we have taken pains to make him bad we lamenthis badness. 

In this way the child passes six or seven years in the hands ofwomen, the victim of his own caprices or theirs, and after theyhave taught him all sorts of things, when they have burdened hismemory with words he cannot understand, or things which are of nouse to him, when nature has been stifled by the passions they haveimplanted in him, this sham article is sent to a tutor. The tutorcompletes the development of the germs of artificiality which he findsalready well grown, he teaches him everything except self-knowledgeand self-control, the arts of life and happiness. When at lengththis infant slave and tyrant, crammed with knowledge but empty ofsense, feeble alike in mind and body, is flung upon the world, andhis helplessness, his pride, and his other vices are displayed, we begin to lament the wretchedness and perversity of mankind. Weare wrong; this is the creature of our fantasy; the natural man iscast in another mould. 

Would you keep him as nature made him? Watch over him from hisbirth. Take possession of him as soon as he comes into the worldand keep him till he is a man; you will never succeed otherwise. The real nurse is the mother and the real teacher is the father. Let them agree in the ordering of their duties as well as in theirmethod, let the child pass from one to the other. He will be bettereducated by a sensible though ignorant father than by the cleverestmaster in the world. For zeal will atone for lack of knowledge, rather than knowledge for lack of zeal. But the duties of publicand private business! Duty indeed! Does a father's duty come last. [Footnote: When we read in Plutarch that Cato the Censor, who ruledRome with such glory, brought up his own sons from the cradle, and so carefully that he left everything to be present when theirnurse, that is to say their mother, bathed them; when we readin Suetonius that Augustus, the master of the world which he hadconquered and which he himself governed, himself taught his grandsonsto write, to swim, to understand the beginnings of science, and thathe always had them with him, we cannot help smiling at the littlepeople of those days who amused themselves with such follies, andwho were too ignorant, no doubt, to attend to the great affairsof the great people of our own time. ] It is not surprising thatthe man whose wife despises the duty of suckling her child shoulddespise its education. There is no more charming picture thanthat of family life; but when one feature is wanting the whole ismarred. If the mother is too delicate to nurse her child, the fatherwill be too busy to teach him. Their children, scattered aboutin schools, convents, and colleges, will find the home of theiraffections elsewhere, or rather they will form the habit of oaringfor nothing. Brothers and sisters will scarcely know each other;when they are together in company they will behave as strangers. When there is no confidence between relations, when the familysociety ceases to give savour to life, its place is soon usurpedby vice. Is there any man so stupid that he cannot see how all thishangs together?

A father has done but a third of his task when he begets childrenand provides a living for them. He owes men to humanity, citizensto the state. A man who can pay this threefold debt and neglect todo so is guilty, more guilty, perhaps, if he pays it in part thanwhen he neglects it entirely. He has no right to be a father ifhe cannot fulfil a father's duties. Poverty, pressure of business, mistaken social prejudices, none of these can excuse a man from hisduty, which is to support and educate his own children. If a manof any natural feeling neglects these sacred duties he will repentit with bitter tears and will never be comforted. 

But what does this rich man do, this father of a family, compelled, so he says, to neglect his children? He pays another man to performthose duties which are his alone. Mercenary man! do you expect topurchase a second father for your child? Do not deceive yourself;it is not even a master you have hired for him, it is a flunkey, who will soon train such another as himself. 

There is much discussion as to the characteristics of a goodtutor. My first requirement, and it implies a good many more, isthat he should not take up his task for reward. There are callingsso great that they cannot be undertaken for money without showingour unfitness for them; such callings are those of the soldier andthe teacher. 

"But who must train my child?" "I have just told you, you shoulddo it yourself. " "I cannot. " "You cannot! Then find a friend. Isee no other course. "

A tutor! What a noble soul! Indeed for the training of a man onemust either be a father or more than man. It is this duty you wouldcalmly hand over to a hireling!

The more you think of it the harder you will find it. The tutormust have been trained for his pupil, his servants must have beentrained for their master, so that all who come near him may havereceived the impression which is to be transmitted to him. We mustpass from education to education, I know not how far. How can achild be well educated by one who has not been well educated himself!

Can such a one be found? I know not. In this age of degradation whoknows the height of virtue to which man's soul may attain? But letus assume that this prodigy has been discovered. We shall learnwhat he should be from the consideration of his duties. I fancy thefather who realises the value of a good tutor will contrive to dowithout one, for it will be harder to find one than to become sucha tutor himself; he need search no further, nature herself havingdone half the work. 

Some one whose rank alone is known to me suggested that I shouldeducate his son. He did me a great honour, no doubt, but far fromregretting my refusal, he ought to congratulate himself on myprudence. Had the offer been accepted, and had I been mistaken inmy method, there would have been an education ruined; had I succeeded, things would have been worse--his son would have renounced histitle and refused to be a prince. 

I feel too deeply the importance of a tutor's duties and my ownunfitness, ever to accept such a post, whoever offered it, andeven the claims of friendship would be only an additional motivefor my refusal. Few, I think, will be tempted to make me such anoffer when they have read this book, and I beg any one who woulddo so to spare his pains. I have had enough experience of the taskto convince myself of my own unfitness, and my circumstances wouldmake it impossible, even if my talents were such as to fit me forit. I have thought it my duty to make this public declaration tothose who apparently refuse to do me the honour of believing inthe sincerity of my determination. If I am unable to undertake themore useful task, I will at least venture to attempt the easierone; I will follow the example of my predecessors and take up, notthe task, but my pen; and instead of doing the right thing I willtry to say it. 

I know that in such an undertaking the author, who ranges at willamong theoretical systems, utters many fine precepts impossibleto practise, and even when he says what is practicable it remainsundone for want of details and examples as to its application. 

I have therefore decided to take an imaginary pupil, to assume onmy own part the age, health, knowledge, and talents required forthe work of his education, to guide him from birth to manhood, whenhe needs no guide but himself. This method seems to me useful foran author who fears lest he may stray from the practical to thevisionary; for as soon as he departs from common practice he hasonly to try his method on his pupil; he will soon know, or thereader will know for him, whether he is following the developmentof the child and the natural growth of the human heart. 

This is what I have tried to do. Lest my book should be undulybulky, I have been content to state those principles the truth ofwhich is self-evident. But as to the rules which call for proof, Ihave applied them to Emile or to others, and I have shown, in verygreat detail, how my theories may be put into practice. Such atleast is my plan; the reader must decide whether I have succeeded. At first I have said little about Emile, for my earliest maximsof education, though very different from those generally accepted, are so plain that it is hard for a man of sense to refuse to acceptthem, but as I advance, my scholar, educated after another fashionthan yours, is no longer an ordinary child, he needs a specialsystem. Then he appears upon the scene more frequently, and towardsthe end I never lose sight of him for a moment, until, whatever hemay say, he needs me no longer. 

I pass over the qualities required in a good tutor; I take them forgranted, and assume that I am endowed with them. As you read thisbook you will see how generous I have been to myself. 

I will only remark that, contrary to the received opinion, a child'stutor should be young, as young indeed as a man may well be whois also wise. Were it possible, he should become a child himself, that he may be the companion of his pupil and win his confidenceby sharing his games. Childhood and age have too little in commonfor the formation of a really firm affection. Children sometimesflatter old men; they never love them. 

People seek a tutor who has already educated one pupil. This istoo much; one man can only educate one pupil; if two were essentialto success, what right would he have to undertake the first? Withmore experience you may know better what to do, but you are lesscapable of doing it; once this task has been well done, you willknow too much of its difficulties to attempt it a second time--ifill done, the first attempt augurs badly for the second. 

It is one thing to follow a young man about for four years, anotherto be his guide for five-and-twenty. You find a tutor for your sonwhen he is already formed; I want one for him before he is born. Your man may change his pupil every five years; mine will never havebut one pupil. You distinguish between the teacher and the tutor. Another piece of folly! Do you make any distinction between thepupil and the scholar? There is only one science for children tolearn--the duties of man. This science is one, and, whatever Xenophonmay say of the education of the Persians, it is indivisible. Besides, I prefer to call the man who has this knowledge master rather thanteacher, since it is a question of guidance rather than instruction. He must not give precepts, he must let the scholar find them outfor himself. 

If the master is to be so carefully chosen, he may well choosehis pupil, above all when he proposes to set a pattern for others. This choice cannot depend on the child's genius or character, as Iadopt him before he is born, and they are only known when my taskis finished. If I had my choice I would take a child of ordinarymind, such as I assume in my pupil. It is ordinary people who haveto be educated, and their education alone can serve as a patternfor the education of their fellows. The others find their way alone. 

The birthplace is not a matter of indifference in the educationof man; it is only in temperate climes that he comes to his fullgrowth. The disadvantages of extremes are easily seen. A man isnot planted in one place like a tree, to stay there the rest ofhis life, and to pass from one extreme to another you must traveltwice as far as he who starts half-way. 

If the inhabitant of a temperate climate passes in turn through bothextremes his advantage is plain, for although he may be changed asmuch as he who goes from one extreme to the other, he only removeshalf-way from his natural condition. A Frenchman can live inNew Guinea or in Lapland, but a negro cannot live in Tornea nor aSamoyed in Benin. It seems also as if the brain were less perfectlyorganised in the two extremes. Neither the negroes nor the Lapsare as wise as Europeans. So if I want my pupil to be a citizen ofthe world I will choose him in the temperate zone, in France forexample, rather than elsewhere. 

In the north with its barren soil men devour much food, in thefertile south they eat little. This produces another difference: theone is industrious, the other contemplative. Society shows us, inone and the same spot, a similar difference between rich and poor. The one dwells in a fertile land, the other in a barren land. 

The poor man has no need of education. The education of hisown station in life is forced upon him, he can have no other; theeducation received by the rich man from his own station is leastfitted for himself and for society. Moreover, a natural educationshould fit a man for any position. Now it is more unreasonableto train a poor man for wealth than a rich man for poverty, forin proportion to their numbers more rich men are ruined and fewerpoor men become rich. Let us choose our scholar among the rich; weshall at least have made another man; the poor may come to manhoodwithout our help. 

For the same reason I should not be sorry if Emile came of a goodfamily. He will be another victim snatched from prejudice. 

Emile is an orphan. No matter whether he has father or mother, having undertaken their duties I am invested with their rights. He must honour his parents, but he must obey me. That is my firstand only condition. 

I must add that there is just one other point arising out of this;we must never be separated except by mutual consent. This clause isessential, and I would have tutor and scholar so inseparable thatthey should regard their fate as one. If once they perceive thetime of their separation drawing near, the time which must makethem strangers to one another, they become strangers then andthere; each makes his own little world, and both of them beingbusy in thought with the time when they will no longer be together, they remain together against their will. The disciple regards hismaster as the badge and scourge of childhood, the master regardshis scholar as a heavy burden which he longs to be rid of. Bothare looking forward to the time when they will part, and as thereis never any real affection between them, there will be scantvigilance on the one hand, and on the other scant obedience. 

But when they consider they must always live together, they mustneeds love one another, and in this way they really learn to loveone another. The pupil is not ashamed to follow as a child thefriend who will be with him in manhood; the tutor takes an interestin the efforts whose fruits he will enjoy, and the virtues he iscultivating in his pupil form a store laid up for his old age. 

This agreement made beforehand assumes a normal birth, a strong, well-made, healthy child. A father has no choice, and should haveno preference within the limits of the family God has given him; allhis children are his alike, the same care and affection is due toall. Crippled or well-made, weak or strong, each of them is a trustfor which he is responsible to the Giver, and nature is a party tothe marriage contract along with husband and wife. 

But if you undertake a duty not imposed upon you by nature, youmust secure beforehand the means for its fulfilment, unless youwould undertake duties you cannot fulfil. If you take the care ofa sickly, unhealthy child, you are a sick nurse, not a tutor. Topreserve a useless life you are wasting the time which should bespent in increasing its value, you risk the sight of a despairingmother reproaching you for the death of her child, who ought tohave died long ago. 

I would not undertake the care of a feeble, sickly child, shouldhe live to four score years. I want no pupil who is useless aliketo himself and others, one whose sole business is to keep himselfalive, one whose body is always a hindrance to the training of hismind. If I vainly lavish my care upon him, what can I do but doublethe loss to society by robbing it of two men, instead of one? Letanother tend this weakling for me; I am quite willing, I approvehis charity, but I myself have no gift for such a task; I couldnever teach the art of living to one who needs all his strength tokeep himself alive. 

The body must be strong enough to obey the mind; a good servantmust be strong. I know that intemperance stimulates the passions;in course of time it also destroys the body; fasting and penanceoften produce the same results in an opposite way. The weakerthe body, the more imperious its demands; the stronger it is, thebetter it obeys. All sensual passions find their home in effeminatebodies; the less satisfaction they can get the keener their sting. 

A feeble body makes a feeble mind. Hence the influence of physic, an art which does more harm to man than all the evils it professesto cure. I do not know what the doctors cure us of, but I knowthis: they infect us with very deadly diseases, cowardice, timidity, credulity, the fear of death. What matter if they make the deadwalk, we have no need of corpses; they fail to give us men, and itis men we need. 

Medicine is all the fashion in these days, and very naturally. Itis the amusement of the idle and unemployed, who do not know whatto do with their time, and so spend it in taking care of themselves. If by ill-luck they had happened to be born immortal, they wouldhave been the most miserable of men; a life they could not losewould be of no value to them. Such men must have doctors to threatenand flatter them, to give them the only pleasure they can enjoy, the pleasure of not being dead. 

I will say no more at present as to the uselessness of medicine. Myaim is to consider its bearings on morals. Still I cannot refrainfrom saying that men employ the same sophism about medicine asthey do about the search for truth. They assume that the patientis cured and that the seeker after truth finds it. They fail to seethat against one life saved by the doctors you must set a hundredslain, and against the value of one truth discovered the errorswhich creep in with it. The science which instructs and the medicinewhich heals are no doubt excellent, but the science which misleadsus and the medicine which kills us are evil. Teach us to knowthem apart. That is the real difficulty. If we were content to beignorant of truth we should not be the dupes of falsehood; if wedid not want to be cured in spite of nature, we should not be killedby the doctors. We should do well to steer clear of both, and weshould evidently be the gainers. I do not deny that medicine isuseful to some men; I assert that it is fatal to mankind. 

You will tell me, as usual, that the doctors are to blame, thatmedicine herself is infallible. Well and good, then give us themedicine without the doctor, for when we have both, the blunders ofthe artist are a hundredfold greater than our hopes from the art. This lying art, invented rather for the ills of the mind thanof the body, is useless to both alike; it does less to cure us ofour diseases than to fill us with alarm. It does less to ward offdeath than to make us dread its approach. It exhausts life ratherthan prolongs it; should it even prolong life it would only be tothe prejudice of the race, since it makes us set its precautionsbefore society and our fears before our duties. It is the knowledgeof danger that makes us afraid. If we thought ourselves invulnerablewe should know no fear. The poet armed Achilles against danger andso robbed him of the merit of courage; on such terms any man wouldbe an Achilles. 

Would you find a really brave man? Seek him where there are nodoctors, where the results of disease are unknown, and where deathis little thought of. By nature a man bears pain bravely and diesin peace. It is the doctors with their rules, the philosophers withtheir precepts, the priests with their exhortations, who debasethe heart and make us afraid to die. 

Give me a pupil who has no need of these, or I will have nothingto do with him. No one else shall spoil my work, I will educate himmyself or not at all. That wise man, Locke, who had devoted partof his life to the study of medicine, advises us to give no drugsto the child, whether as a precaution, or on account of slightailments. I will go farther, and will declare that, as I nevercall in a doctor for myself, I will never send for one for Emile, unless his life is clearly in danger, when the doctor can but killhim. 

I know the doctor will make capital out of my delay. If the childdies, he was called in too late; if he recovers, it is his doing. So be it; let the doctor boast, but do not call him in except inextremity. 

As the child does not know how to be cured, he knows how to beill. The one art takes the place of the other and is often moresuccessful; it is the art of nature. When a beast is ill, it keepsquiet and suffers in silence; but we see fewer sickly animals thansick men. How many men have been slain by impatience, fear, anxiety, and above all by medicine, men whom disease would have spared, and time alone have cured. I shall be told that animals, who liveaccording to nature, are less liable to disease than ourselves. Well, that way of living is just what I mean to teach my pupil; heshould profit by it in the same way. 

Hygiene is the only useful part of medicine, and hygiene is rathera virtue than a science. Temperance and industry are man's trueremedies; work sharpens his appetite and temperance teaches him tocontrol it. 

To learn what system is most beneficial you have only to studythose races remarkable for health, strength, and length of days. Ifcommon observation shows us that medicine neither increases healthnor prolongs life, it follows that this useless art is worse thanuseless, since it wastes time, men, and things on what is pureloss. Not only must we deduct the time spent, not in using life, but preserving it, but if this time is spent in tormenting ourselvesit is worse than wasted, it is so much to the bad, and to reckonfairly a corresponding share must be deducted from what remains tous. A man who lives ten years for himself and others without thehelp of doctors lives more for himself and others than one whospends thirty years as their victim. I have tried both, so I thinkI have a better right than most to draw my own conclusions. 

For these reasons I decline to take any but a strong and healthypupil, and these are my principles for keeping him in health. I willnot stop to prove at length the value of manual labour and bodilyexercise for strengthening the health and constitution; no onedenies it. Nearly all the instances of long life are to be foundamong the men who have taken most exercise, who have endured fatigueand labour. [Footnote: I cannot help quoting the following passagefrom an English newspaper, as it throws much light on my opinions:"A certain Patrick O'Neil, born in 1647, has just married his seventhwife in 1760. In the seventeenth year of Charles II. He served inthe dragoons and in other regiments up to 1740, when he took hisdischarge. He served in all the campaigns of William III. AndMarlborough. This man has never drunk anything but small beer; hehas always lived on vegetables, and has never eaten meat except onfew occasions when he made a feast for his relations. He has alwaysbeen accustomed to rise with the sun and go to bed at sunset unlessprevented by his military duties. He is now in his 130th year;he is healthy, his hearing is good, and he walks with the helpof a stick. In spite of his great age he is never idle, and everySunday he goes to his parish church accompanied by his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. "] Neither will I enterinto details as to the care I shall take for this alone. It willbe clear that it forms such an essential part of my practice thatit is enough to get hold of the idea without further explanation. 

When our life begins our needs begin too. The new-born infant musthave a nurse. If his mother will do her duty, so much the better;her instructions will be given her in writing, but this advantagehas its drawbacks, it removes the tutor from his charge. But itis to be hoped that the child's own interests, and her respect forthe person to whom she is about to confide so precious a treasure, will induce the mother to follow the master's wishes, and whatevershe does you may be sure she will do better than another. If wemust have a strange nurse, make a good choice to begin with. 

It is one of the misfortunes of the rich to be cheated on all sides;what wonder they think ill of mankind! It is riches that corruptmen, and the rich are rightly the first to feel the defects of theonly tool they know. Everything is ill-done for them, except whatthey do themselves, and they do next to nothing. When a nurse mustbe selected the choice is left to the doctor. What happens? Thebest nurse is the one who offers the highest bribe. I shall notconsult the doctor about Emile's nurse, I shall take care to chooseher myself. I may not argue about it so elegantly as the surgeon, but I shall be more reliable, I shall be less deceived by my zealthan the doctor by his greed. 

There is no mystery about this choice; its rules are well known, but I think we ought probably to pay more attention to the age ofthe milk as well as its quality. The first milk is watery, it mustbe almost an aperient, to purge the remains of the meconium curdledin the bowels of the new-born child. Little by little the milkthickens and supplies more solid food as the child is able todigest it. It is surely not without cause that nature changes themilk in the female of every species according to the age of theoffspring. 

Thus a new-born child requires a nurse who has recently become mother. There is, I know, a difficulty here, but as soon as we leave thepath of nature there are difficulties in the way of all well-doing. The wrong course is the only right one under the circumstances, sowe take it. 

The nurse must be healthy alike in disposition and in body. Theviolence of the passions as well as the humours may spoil her milk. Moreover, to consider the body only is to keep only half our aimin view. The milk may be good and the nurse bad; a good characteris as necessary as a good constitution. If you choose a viciousperson, I do not say her foster-child will acquire her vices, buthe will suffer for them. Ought she not to bestow on him day byday, along with her milk, a care which calls for zeal, patience, gentleness, and cleanliness. If she is intemperate and greedy hermilk will soon be spoilt; if she is careless and hasty what willbecome of a poor little wretch left to her mercy, and unable eitherto protect himself or to complain. The wicked are never good foranything. 

The choice is all the more important because her foster-child shouldhave no other guardian, just as he should have no teacher but histutor. This was the custom of the ancients, who talked less butacted more wisely than we. The nurse never left her foster-daughter;this is why the nurse is the confidante in most of their plays. A child who passes through many hands in turn, can never be wellbrought up. 

At every change he makes a secret comparison, which continuallytends to lessen his respect for those who control him, and withit their authority over him. If once he thinks there are grown-uppeople with no more sense than children the authority of ageis destroyed and his education is ruined. A child should know nobetters but its father and mother, or failing them its foster-motherand its tutor, and even this is one too many, but this division isinevitable, and the best that can be done in the way of remedy isthat the man and woman who control him shall be so well agreed withregard to him that they seem like one. 

The nurse must live rather more comfortably, she must have rathermore substantial food, but her whole way of living must notbe altered, for a sudden change, even a change for the better, isdangerous to health, and since her usual way of life has made herhealthy and strong, why change it?

Country women eat less meat and more vegetables than towns-women, and this vegetarian diet seems favourable rather than otherwise tothemselves and their children. When they take nurslings from theupper classes they eat meat and broth with the idea that they willform better chyle and supply more milk. I do not hold with thisat all, and experience is on my side, for we do not find childrenfed in this way less liable to colic and worms. 

That need not surprise us, for decaying animal matter swarms withworms, but this is not the case with vegetable matter. [Footnote:Women eat bread, vegetables, and dairy produce; female dogs andcats do the same; the she-wolves eat grass. This supplies vegetablejuices to their milk. There are still those species which areunable to eat anything but flesh, if such there are, which I verymuch doubt. ] Milk, although manufactured in the body of an animal, is a vegetable substance; this is shown by analysis; it readilyturns acid, and far from showing traces of any volatile alkali likeanimal matter, it gives a neutral salt like plants. 

The milk of herbivorous creatures is sweeter and more wholesome thanthe milk of the carnivorous; formed of a substance similar to itsown, it keeps its goodness and becomes less liable to putrifaction. If quantity is considered, it is well known that farinaceous foodsproduce more blood than meat, so they ought to yield more milk. Ifa child were not weaned too soon, and if it were fed on vegetarianfood, and its foster-mother were a vegetarian, I do not think itwould be troubled with worms. 

Milk derived from vegetable foods may perhaps be more liable to gosour, but I am far from considering sour milk an unwholesome food;whole nations have no other food and are none the worse, and all thearray of absorbents seems to me mere humbug. There are constitutionswhich do not thrive on milk, others can take it without absorbents. People are afraid of the milk separating or curdling; that isabsurd, for we know that milk always curdles in the stomach. Thisis how it becomes sufficiently solid to nourish children and younganimals; if it did not curdle it would merely pass away withoutfeeding them. [Footnote: Although the juices which nourish us areliquid, they must be extracted from solids. A hard-working man whoate nothing but soup would soon waste away. He would be far betterfed on milk, just because it curdles. ] In vain you dilute milk anduse absorbents; whoever swallows milk digests cheese, this rule iswithout exception; rennet is made from a calf's stomach. 

Instead of changing the nurse's usual diet, I think it would beenough to give food in larger quantities and better of its kind. It is not the nature of the food that makes a vegetable dietindigestible, but the flavouring that makes it unwholesome. Reformyour cookery, use neither butter nor oil for frying. Butter, salt, and milk should never be cooked. Let your vegetables be cookedin water and only seasoned when they come to table. The vegetablediet, far from disturbing the nurse, will give her a plentifulsupply of milk. [Footnote: Those who wish to study a full accountof the advantages and disadvantages of the Pythagorean regime, mayconsult the works of Dr. Cocchi and his opponent Dr. Bianchi onthis important subject. ] If a vegetable diet is best for the child, how can meat food be best for his nurse? The things are contradictory. 

Fresh air affects children's constitutions, particularly in earlyyears. It enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it hasa powerful effect on their young bodies. Its effects can neverbe destroyed. So I should not agree with those who take a countrywoman from her village and shut her up in one room in a town andher nursling with her. I would rather send him to breathe the freshair of the country than the foul air of the town. He will take hisnew mother's position, will live in her cottage, where his tutorwill follow him. The reader will bear in mind that this tutor isnot a paid servant, but the father's friend. But if this friendcannot be found, if this transfer is not easy, if none of my advicecan be followed, you will say to me, "What shall I do instead?" Ihave told you already--"Do what you are doing;" no advice is neededthere. 

Men are not made to be crowded together in ant-hills, but scatteredover the earth to till it. The more they are massed together, themore corrupt they become. Disease and vice are the sure results ofover-crowded cities. Of all creatures man is least fitted to livein herds. Huddled together like sheep, men would very soon die. Man's breath is fatal to his fellows. This is literally as well asfiguratively true. 

Men are devoured by our towns. In a few generations the race diesout or becomes degenerate; it needs renewal, and it is alwaysrenewed from the country. Send your children to renew themselves, so to speak, send them to regain in the open fields the strengthlost in the foul air of our crowded cities. Women hurry home thattheir children may be born in the town; they ought to do just theopposite, especially those who mean to nurse their own children. Theywould lose less than they think, and in more natural surroundingsthe pleasures associated by nature with maternal duties would soondestroy the taste for other delights. 

The new-born infant is first bathed in warm water to which a littlewine is usually added. I think the wine might be dispensed with. As nature does not produce fermented liquors, it is not likely thatthey are of much value to her creatures. 

In the same way it is unnecessary to take the precaution of heatingthe water; in fact among many races the new-born infants are bathedwith no more ado in rivers or in the sea. Our children, made tenderbefore birth by the softness of their parents, come into the worldwith a constitution already enfeebled, which cannot be at onceexposed to all the trials required to restore it to health. Littleby little they must be restored to their natural vigour. Begin thenby following this custom, and leave it off gradually. Wash yourchildren often, their dirty ways show the need of this. If theyare only wiped their skin is injured; but as they grow strongergradually reduce the heat of the water, till at last you bathe themwinter and summer in cold, even in ice-cold water. To avoid riskthis change must be slow, gradual, and imperceptible, so you mayuse the thermometer for exact measurements. 

This habit of the bath, once established, should never be brokenoff, it must be kept up all through life. I value it not only ongrounds of cleanliness and present health, but also as a wholesomemeans of making the muscles supple, and accustoming them to bearwithout risk or effort extremes of heat and cold. As he gets olderI would have the child trained to bathe occasionally in hot waterof every bearable degree, and often in every degree of cold water. Now water being a denser fluid touches us at more points than air, so that, having learnt to bear all the variations of temperature inwater, we shall scarcely feel this of the air. [Footnote: Childrenin towns are stifled by being kept indoors and too much wrappedup. Those who control them have still to learn that fresh air, far from doing them harm, will make them strong, while hot air willmake them weak, will give rise to fevers, and will eventually killthem. ]

When the child draws its first breath do not confine it in tightwrappings. No cap, no bandages, nor swaddling clothes. Loose andflowing flannel wrappers, which leave its limbs free and are not tooheavy to check his movements, not too warm to prevent his feelingthe air. [Footnote: I say "cradle" using the common word for wantof a better, though I am convinced that it is never necessaryand often harmful to rock children in the cradle. ] Put him in abig cradle, well padded, where he can move easily and safely. Ashe begins to grow stronger, let him crawl about the room; let himdevelop and stretch his tiny limbs; you will see him gain strengthfrom day to day. Compare him with a well swaddled child of the sameage and you will be surprised at their different rates of progress. [Footnote: The ancient Peruvians wrapped their children in looseswaddling bands, leaving the arms quite free. Later they placedthem unswaddled in a hole in the ground, lined with cloths, so thatthe lower part of the body was in the hole, and their arms werefree and they could move the head and bend the body at will withoutfalling or hurting themselves. When they began to walk they wereenticed to come to the breast. The little negroes are often in aposition much more difficult for sucking. They cling to the mother'ship, and cling so tightly that the mother's arm is often not neededto support them. They clasp the breast with their hand and continuesucking while their mother goes on with her ordinary work. Thesechildren begin to walk at two months, or rather to crawl. Later onthey can run on all fours almost as well as on their feet. --Buffon. M. Buffon might also have quoted the example of England, wherethe senseless and barbarous swaddling clothes have become almostobsolete. Cf. La Longue Voyage de Siam, Le Beau Voyage de Canada, etc. ]

You must expect great opposition from the nurses, who find a halfstrangled baby needs much less watching. Besides his dirtyness ismore perceptible in an open garment; he must be attended to morefrequently. Indeed, custom is an unanswerable argument in somelands and among all classes of people. 

Do not argue with the nurses; give your orders, see them carriedout, and spare no pains to make the attention you prescribe easy inpractice. Why not take your share in it? With ordinary nurslings, where the body alone is thought of, nothing matters so long as thechild lives and does not actually die, but with us, when educationbegins with life, the new-born child is already a disciple, notof his tutor, but of nature. The tutor merely studies under thismaster, and sees that his orders are not evaded. He watches overthe infant, he observes it, he looks for the first feeble glimmeringof intelligence, as the Moslem looks for the moment of the moon'srising in her first quarter. 

We are born capable of learning, but knowing nothing, perceivingnothing. The mind, bound up within imperfect and half grown organs, is not even aware of its own existence. The movements and cries ofthe new-born child are purely reflex, without knowledge or will. 

Suppose a child born with the size and strength of manhood, enteringupon life full grown like Pallas from the brain of Jupiter; such achild-man would be a perfect idiot, an automaton, a statue withoutmotion and almost without feeling; he would see and hear nothing, he would recognise no one, he could not turn his eyes towards whathe wanted to see; not only would he perceive no external object, he would not even be aware of sensation through the severalsense-organs. His eye would not perceive colour, his ear sounds, his body would be unaware of contact with neighbouring bodies, hewould not even know he had a body, what his hands handled wouldbe in his brain alone; all his sensations would be united in oneplace, they would exist only in the common "sensorium, " he wouldhave only one idea, that of self, to which he would refer all hissensations; and this idea, or rather this feeling, would be theonly thing in which he excelled an ordinary child. 

This man, full grown at birth, would also be unable to stand on hisfeet, he would need a long time to learn how to keep his balance;perhaps he would not even be able to try to do it, and you wouldsee the big strong body left in one place like a stone, or creepingand crawling like a young puppy. 

He would feel the discomfort of bodily needs without knowing whatwas the matter and without knowing how to provide for these needs. There is no immediate connection between the muscles of the stomachand those of the arms and legs to make him take a step towardsfood, or stretch a hand to seize it, even were he surrounded withit; and as his body would be full grown and his limbs well developedhe would be without the perpetual restlessness and movementof childhood, so that he might die of hunger without stirringto seek food. However little you may have thought about the orderand development of our knowledge, you cannot deny that such a onewould be in the state of almost primitive ignorance and stupiditynatural to man before he has learnt anything from experience orfrom his fellows. 

We know then, or we may know, the point of departure from whichwe each start towards the usual level of understanding; but whoknows the other extreme? Each progresses more or less according tohis genius, his taste, his needs, his talents, his zeal, and hisopportunities for using them. No philosopher, so far as I know, has dared to say to man, "Thus far shalt thou go and no further. "We know not what nature allows us to be, none of us has measuredthe possible difference between man and man. Is there a mind sodead that this thought has never kindled it, that has never saidin his pride, "How much have I already done, how much more may Iachieve? Why should I lag behind my fellows?"

As I said before, man's education begins at birth; before he canspeak or understand he is learning. Experience precedes instruction;when he recognises his nurse he has learnt much. The knowledgeof the most ignorant man would surprise us if we had followed hiscourse from birth to the present time. If all human knowledge weredivided into two parts, one common to all, the other peculiar tothe learned, the latter would seem very small compared with theformer. But we scarcely heed this general experience, becauseit is acquired before the age of reason. Moreover, knowledge onlyattracts attention by its rarity, as in algebraic equations commonfactors count for nothing. Even animals learn much. They havesenses and must learn to use them; they have needs, they must learnto satisfy them; they must learn to eat, walk, or fly. Quadrupedswhich can stand on their feet from the first cannot walk for allthat; from their first attempts it is clear that they lack confidence. Canaries who escape from their cage are unable to fly, having neverused their wings. Living and feeling creatures are always learning. If plants could walk they would need senses and knowledge, elsetheir species would die out. The child's first mental experiences arepurely affective, he is only aware of pleasure and pain; it takeshim a long time to acquire the definite sensations which showhim things outside himself, but before these things present andwithdraw themselves, so to speak, from his sight, taking size andshape for him, the recurrence of emotional experiences is beginning tosubject the child to the rule of habit. You see his eyes constantlyfollow the light, and if the light comes from the side the eyes turntowards it, so that one must be careful to turn his head towardsthe light lest he should squint. He must also be accustomed from thefirst to the dark, or he will cry if he misses the light. Food andsleep, too, exactly measured, become necessary at regular intervals, and soon desire is no longer the effect of need, but of habit, orrather habit adds a fresh need to those of nature. You must be onyour guard against this. 

The only habit the child should be allowed to contract is thatof having no habits; let him be carried on either arm, let him beaccustomed to offer either hand, to use one or other indifferently;let him not want to eat, sleep, or do anything at fixed hours, norbe unable to be left alone by day or night. Prepare the way forhis control of his liberty and the use of his strength by leavinghis body its natural habit, by making him capable of lastingself-control, of doing all that he wills when his will is formed. 

As soon as the child begins to take notice, what is shown himmust be carefully chosen. The natural man is interested in all newthings. He feels so feeble that he fears the unknown: the habit ofseeing fresh things without ill effects destroys this fear. Childrenbrought up in clean houses where there are no spiders are afraidof spiders, and this fear often lasts through life. I never sawpeasants, man, woman, or child, afraid of spiders. 

Since the mere choice of things shown him may make the child timidor brave, why should not his education begin before he can speakor understand? I would have him accustomed to see fresh things, ugly, repulsive, and strange beasts, but little by little, and faroff till he is used to them, and till having seen others handlethem he handles them himself. If in childhood he sees toads, snakes, and crayfish, he will not be afraid of any animal when he is grownup. Those who are continually seeing terrible things think nothingof them. 

All children are afraid of masks. I begin by showing Emile a maskwith a pleasant face, then some one puts this mask before his face;I begin to laugh, they all laugh too, and the child with them. Bydegrees I accustom him to less pleasing masks, and at last hideousones. If I have arranged my stages skilfully, far from being afraidof the last mask, he will laugh at it as he did at the first. Afterthat I am not afraid of people frightening him with masks. 

When Hector bids farewell to Andromache, the young Astyanax, startledby the nodding plumes on the helmet, does not know his father; heflings himself weeping upon his nurse's bosom and wins from hismother a smile mingled with tears. What must be done to stay thisterror? Just what Hector did; put the helmet on the ground andcaress the child. In a calmer moment one would do more; one wouldgo up to the helmet, play with the plumes, let the child feel them;at last the nurse would take the helmet and place it laughinglyon her own head, if indeed a woman's hand dare touch the armour ofHector. 

If Emile must get used to the sound of a gun, I first fire a pistolwith a small charge. He is delighted with this sudden flash, thissort of lightning; I repeat the process with more powder; graduallyI add a small charge without a wad, then a larger; in the end Iaccustom him to the sound of a gun, to fireworks, cannon, and themost terrible explosions. 

I have observed that children are rarely afraid of thunder unlessthe peals are really terrible and actually hurt the ear, otherwisethis fear only comes to them when they know that thunder sometimeshurts or kills. When reason begins to cause fear, let use reassurethem. By slow and careful stages man and child learn to fear nothing. 

In the dawn of life, when memory and imagination have not begun tofunction, the child only attends to what affects its senses. Hissense experiences are the raw material of thought; they should, therefore, be presented to him in fitting order, so that memory mayat a future time present them in the same order to his understanding;but as he only attends to his sensations it is enough, at first, to show him clearly the connection between these sensations and thethings which cause them. He wants to touch and handle everything;do not check these movements which teach him invaluable lessons. Thus he learns to perceive the heat, cold, hardness, softness, weight, or lightness of bodies, to judge their size and shape andall their physical properties, by looking, feeling, [Footnote: Ofall the senses that of smell is the latest to develop in childrenup to two or three years of age they appear to be insensible ofpleasant or unpleasant odours; in this respect they are as indifferentor rather as insensible as many animals. ] listening, and, aboveall, by comparing sight and touch, by judging with the eye whatsensation they would cause to his hand. 

It is only by movement that we learn the difference between selfand not self; it is only by our own movements that we gain the ideaof space. The child has not this idea, so he stretches out his handto seize the object within his reach or that which is a hundredpaces from him. You take this as a sign of tyranny, an attempt tobid the thing draw near, or to bid you bring it. Nothing of thekind, it is merely that the object first seen in his brain, thenbefore his eyes, now seems close to his arms, and he has no idea ofspace beyond his reach. Be careful, therefore, to take him about, to move him from place to place, and to let him perceive the changein his surroundings, so as to teach him to judge of distances. 

When he begins to perceive distances then you must change yourplan, and only carry him when you please, not when he pleases; foras soon as he is no longer deceived by his senses, there is anothermotive for his effort. This change is remarkable and calls forexplanation. 

The discomfort caused by real needs is shown by signs, when thehelp of others is required. Hence the cries of children; they oftencry; it must be so. Since they are only conscious of feelings, whenthose feelings are pleasant they enjoy them in silence; when theyare painful they say so in their own way and demand relief. Nowwhen they are awake they can scarcely be in a state of indifference, either they are asleep or else they are feeling something. 

All our languages are the result of art. It has long been a subjectof inquiry whether there ever was a natural language common to all;no doubt there is, and it is the language of children before theybegin to speak. This language is inarticulate, but it has tone, stress, and meaning. The use of our own language has led us toneglect it so far as to forget it altogether. Let us study childrenand we shall soon learn it afresh from them. Nurses can teach usthis language; they understand all their nurslings say to them, theyanswer them, and keep up long conversations with them; and thoughthey use words, these words are quite useless. It is not the hearingof the word, but its accompanying intonation that is understood. 

To the language of intonation is added the no less forcible languageof gesture. The child uses, not its weak hands, but its face. Theamount of expression in these undeveloped faces is extraordinary;their features change from one moment to another with incrediblespeed. You see smiles, desires, terror, come and go like lightning;every time the face seems different. The muscles of the face areundoubtedly more mobile than our own. On the other hand the eyesare almost expressionless. Such must be the sort of signs they useat an age when their only needs are those of the body. Grimacesare the sign of sensation, the glance expresses sentiment. 

As man's first state is one of want and weakness, his first soundsare cries and tears. The child feels his needs and cannot satisfythem, he begs for help by his cries. Is he hungry or thirsty? thereare tears; is he too cold or too hot? more tears; he needs movementand 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 kindof discomfort. In the imperfect state of his sense organs he doesnot distinguish their several impressions; all ills produce onefeeling 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 hecannot satisfy; you watch him, seek this need, find it, and satisfyit. If you can neither find it nor satisfy it, the tears continueand become tiresome. The child is petted to quiet him, he is rockedor sung to sleep; if he is obstinate, the nurse becomes impatientand threatens him; cruel nurses sometimes strike him. What strangelessons for him at his first entrance into life!

I shall never forget seeing one of these troublesome crying childrenthus beaten by his nurse. He was silent at once. I thought he wasfrightened, and said to myself, "This will be a servile being fromwhom nothing can be got but by harshness. " I was wrong, the poorwretch was choking with rage, he could not breathe, he was blackin the face. A moment later there were bitter cries, every signof the anger, rage, and despair of this age was in his tones. I thought he would die. Had I doubted the innate sense of justiceand injustice in man's heart, this one instance would have convincedme. I am sure that a drop of boiling liquid falling by chance onthat child's hand would have hurt him less than that blow, slightin 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 thenature of convulsions, because the head being larger in proportionand the nervous system more extensive than in adults, they aremore liable to nervous irritation. Take the greatest care to removefrom them any servants who tease, annoy, or vex them. They are ahundredfold more dangerous and more fatal than fresh air and changingseasons. When children only experience resistance in things and neverin the will of man, they do not become rebellious or passionate, and their health is better. This is one reason why the children ofthe poor, who are freer and more independent, are generally lessfrail and weakly, more vigorous than those who are supposed to bebetter brought up by being constantly thwarted; but you must alwaysremember that it is one thing to refrain from thwarting them, butquite another to obey them. The child's first tears are prayers, beware lest they become commands; he begins by asking for aid, heends by demanding service. Thus from his own weakness, the sourceof his first consciousness of dependence, springs the later idea ofrule and tyranny; but as this idea is aroused rather by his needsthan by our services, we begin to see moral results whose causesare not in nature; thus we see how important it is, even at theearliest age, to discern the secret meaning of the gesture or cry. 

When the child tries to seize something without speaking, hethinks he can reach the object, for he does not rightly judge itsdistance; when he cries and stretches out his hands he no longermisjudges the distance, he bids the object approach, or orders youto bring it to him. In the first case bring it to him slowly; inthe second do not even seem to hear his cries. The more he criesthe less you should heed him. He must learn in good time not togive commands to men, for he is not their master, nor to things, for they cannot hear him. Thus when the child wants something youmean to give him, it is better to carry him to it rather than tobring the thing to him. From this he will draw a conclusion suitedto his age, and there is no other way of suggesting it to him. 

The Abbe Saint-Pierre calls men big children; one might also callchildren little men. These statements are true, but they requireexplanation. But when Hobbes calls the wicked a strong child, his statement is contradicted by facts. All wickedness comes fromweakness. The child is only naughty because he is weak; make himstrong and he will be good; if we could do everything we shouldnever do wrong. Of all the attributes of the Almighty, goodness isthat which it would be hardest to dissociate from our conceptionof Him. All nations who have acknowledged a good and an evil power, have always regarded the evil as inferior to the good; otherwisetheir opinion would have been absurd. Compare this with the creedof 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 isindependent of reason, cannot develop without it. Before the ageof reason we do good or ill without knowing it, and there is nomorality in our actions, although there is sometimes in our feelingwith regard to other people's actions in relation to ourselves. Achild wants to overturn everything he sees. He breaks and smasheseverything 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 byinbred sin, man's pride, love of power, selfishness, spite; perhapsit will say in addition to this that the child's consciousness ofhis own weakness makes him eager to use his strength, to convincehimself of it. But watch that broken down old man reduced in thedownward course of life to the weakness of a child; not only is hequiet and peaceful, he would have all about him quiet and peacefultoo; the least change disturbs and troubles him, he would like tosee universal calm. How is it possible that similar feebleness andsimilar passions should produce such different effects in age andin infancy, if the original cause were not different? And where canwe find this difference in cause except in the bodily condition ofthe two. The active principle, common to both, is growing in onecase and declining in the other; it is being formed in the oneand destroyed in the other; one is moving towards life, the othertowards death. The failing activity of the old man is centred in hisheart, the child's overflowing activity spreads abroad. He feels, if we may say so, strong enough to give life to all about him. Tomake or to destroy, it is all one to him; change is what he seeks, and all change involves action. If he seems to enjoy destructiveactivity it is only that it takes time to make things and verylittle time to break them, so that the work of destruction accordsbetter with his eagerness. 

While the Author of nature has given children this activity, Hetakes care that it shall do little harm by giving them small powerto use it. But as soon as they can think of people as tools to beused, they use them to carry out their wishes and to supplementtheir own weakness. This is how they become tiresome, masterful, imperious, naughty, and unmanageable; a development which does notspring from a natural love of power, but one which has been taughtthem, for it does not need much experience to realise how pleasantit 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 andunquiet and more independent. Soul and body become better balancedand nature no longer asks for more movement than is required forself-preservation. But the love of power does not die with the needthat aroused it; power arouses and flatters self-love, and habitstrengthens it; thus caprice follows upon need, and the first seedsof prejudice and obstinacy are sown. 

FIRST MAXIM. --Far from being too strong, children are not strongenough for all the claims of nature. Give them full use of suchstrength as they have; they will not abuse it. 

SECOND MAXIM. --Help them and supply the experience and strengththey lack whenever the need is of the body. 

THIRD MAXIM. --In the help you give them confine yourself to what isreally needful, without granting anything to caprice or unreason;for they will not be tormented by caprice if you do not call itinto existence, seeing it is no part of nature. 

FOURTH MAXIM--Study carefully their speech and gestures, so thatat an age when they are incapable of deceit you may discriminatebetween those desires which come from nature and those which springfrom perversity. 

The spirit of these rules is to give children more real liberty andless power, to let them do more for themselves and demand less ofothers; so that by teaching them from the first to confine theirwishes within the limits of their powers they will scarcely feelthe want of whatever is not in their power. 

This is another very important reason for leaving children's limbsand 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 muchless than a child tied up in swaddling clothes. He who knows onlybodily needs, only cries when in pain; and this is a great advantage, for then we know exactly when he needs help, and if possible weshould not delay our help for an instant. But if you cannot relievehis pain, stay where you are and do not flatter him by way ofsoothing him; your caresses will not cure his colic, but he willremember what he must do to win them; and if he once finds outhow to gain your attention at will, he is your master; the wholeeducation is spoilt. 

Their movements being less constrained, children will cry less;less wearied with their tears, people will not take so much troubleto check them. With fewer threats and promises, they will be lesstimid and less obstinate, and will remain more nearly in theirnatural state. Ruptures are produced less by letting children crythan by the means taken to stop them, and my evidence for this isthe fact that the most neglected children are less liable to themthan others. I am very far from wishing that they should be neglected;on the contrary, it is of the utmost importance that their wantsshould be anticipated, so that they need not proclaim their wantsby crying. But neither would I have unwise care bestowed on them. Why should they think it wrong to cry when they find they can getso much by it? When they have learned the value of their silence theytake good care not to waste it. In the end they will so exaggerateits importance that no one will be able to pay its price; then wornout with crying they become exhausted, and are at length silent. 

Prolonged crying on the part of a child neither swaddled nor outof health, a child who lacks nothing, is merely the result of habitor obstinacy. Such tears are no longer the work of nature, but thework of the child's nurse, who could not resist its importunityand so has increased it, without considering that while she quietsthe 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 attentionby some pleasant or conspicuous object which makes them forget thatthey want to cry. Most nurses excel in this art, and rightly usedit is very useful; but it is of the utmost importance that thechild should not perceive that you mean to distract his attention, and that he should be amused without suspecting you are thinkingabout him; now this is what most nurses cannot do. 

Most children are weaned too soon. The time to wean them is whenthey cut their teeth. This generally causes pain and suffering. Atthis time the child instinctively carries everything he gets holdof to his mouth to chew it. To help forward this process he is givenas 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 notsoften them; far from it, they make the process of cutting theteeth more difficult and painful. Let us always take instinct asour guide; we never see puppies practising their budding teeth onpebbles, iron, or bones, but on wood, leather, rags, soft materialswhich yield to their jaws, and on which the tooth leaves its mark. 

We can do nothing simply, not even for our children. Toys ofsilver, gold, coral, cut crystal, rattles of every price and kind;what vain and useless appliances. Away with them all! Let us haveno corals or rattles; a small branch of a tree with its leaves andfruit, a stick of liquorice which he may suck and chew, will amusehim as well as these splendid trifles, and they will have thisadvantage at least, he will not be brought up to luxury from hisbirth. 

It is admitted that pap is not a very wholesome food. Boiled milkand uncooked flour cause gravel and do not suit the stomach. Inpap the flour is less thoroughly cooked than in bread and it hasnot fermented. I think bread and milk or rice-cream are better. Ifyou will have pap, the flour should be lightly cooked beforehand. In my own country they make a very pleasant and wholesome soup fromflour thus heated. Meat-broth or soup is not a very suitable foodand should be used as little as possible. The child must first getused to chewing his food; this is the right way to bring the teeththrough, and when the child begins to swallow, the saliva mixedwith the food helps digestion. 

I would have them first chew dried fruit or crusts. I should givethem as playthings little bits of dry bread or biscuits, likethe Piedmont bread, known in the country as "grisses. " By dint ofsoftening this bread in the mouth some of it is eventually swallowedthe teeth come through of themselves, and the child is weanedalmost 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 tothem before they can understand or even imitate spoken sounds. Thevocal organs are still stiff, and only gradually lend themselves tothe reproduction of the sounds heard; it is even doubtful whetherthese sounds are heard distinctly as we hear them. The nurse mayamuse the child with songs and with very merry and varied intonation, but I object to her bewildering the child with a multitude ofvain words of which it understands nothing but her tone of voice. I would have the first words he hears few in number, distinctlyand often repeated, while the words themselves should be related tothings which can first be shown to the child. That fatal facilityin the use of words we do not understand begins earlier than wethink. In the schoolroom the scholar listens to the verbiage of hismaster as he listened in the cradle to the babble of his nurse. Ithink it would be a very useful education to leave him in ignoranceof both. 

All sorts of ideas crowd in upon us when we try to consider thedevelopment of speech and the child's first words. Whatever wedo they all learn to talk in the same way, and all philosophicalspeculations are utterly useless. 

To begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whoserules and syntax are more general than our own; if you attendcarefully you will be surprised to find how exactly they followcertain analogies, very much mistaken if you like, but very regular;these forms are only objectionable because of their harshness orbecause they are not recognised by custom. I have just heard a childseverely scolded by his father for saying, "Mon pere, irai-je-t-y?"Now we see that this child was following the analogy more closelythan our grammarians, for as they say to him, "Vas-y, " why shouldhe not say, "Irai-je-t-y?" Notice too the skilful way in which heavoids the hiatus in irai-je-y or y-irai-je? Is it the poor child'sfault that we have so unskilfully deprived the phrase of thisdeterminative adverb "y, " because we did not know what to do withit? It is an intolerable piece of pedantry and most superfluousattention to detail to make a point of correcting all children'slittle sins against the customary expression, for they alwayscure themselves with time. Always speak correctly before them, letthem never be so happy with any one as with you, and be sure thattheir speech will be imperceptibly modelled upon yours without anycorrection 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 afraidthey would not learn to talk of themselves. This indiscreet zealproduces an effect directly opposite to what is meant. They speaklater and more confusedly; the extreme attention paid to everythingthey say makes it unnecessary for them to speak distinctly, andas they will scarcely open their mouths, many of them contract avicious pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all theirlife 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 organsdifferently made from our own? No, but they are differently used. There is a hillock facing my window on which the children of theplace assemble for their games. Although they are far enough away, I can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get good notesfor this book. Every day my ear deceives me as to their age. I hearthe voices of children of ten; I look and see the height and featuresof children of three or four. This experience is not confined tome; the townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult on thispoint, all fall into the same mistake. 

This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children intown, 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. Assoon as their lips move people take pains to make out what theymean; they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately, and bypaying great attention to them the people who are always with themrather guess what they meant to say than what they said. 

It is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman isnot always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very clearlyand 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 themselvesheard at a distance, and in adapting the loudness of the voice tothe distance which separates them from those to whom they want tospeak. This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not by stammeringout a few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess. So whenyou question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer, but whathe says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve as interpreterfor the town child; without her one can understand nothing of whathe is muttering between his teeth. [Footnote: There are exceptionsto this; and often those children who at first are most difficultto hear, become the noisiest when they begin to raise their voices. But if I were to enter into all these details I should never makean end; every sensible reader ought to see that defect and excess, caused by the same abuse, are both corrected by my method. I regardthe two maxims as inseparable--always enough--never too much. Whenthe first ii well established, the latter necessarily follows onit. ]

As they grow older, the boys are supposed to be cured of this faultat college, the girls in the convent schools; and indeed both usuallyspeak more clearly than children brought up entirely at home. Butthey are prevented from acquiring as clear a pronunciation as thepeasants in this way--they are required to learn all sorts of thingsby heart, and to repeat aloud what they have learnt; for when theyare studying they get into the way of gabbling and pronouncingcarelessly 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 doesnot stammer of itself. Thus they acquire or continue habits of badpronunciation. Later on you will see that Emile does not acquiresuch habits or at least not from this cause. 

I grant you uneducated people and villagers often fall into the oppositeextreme. They almost always speak too loud; their pronunciation istoo exact, and leads to rough and coarse articulation; their accentis too pronounced, they choose their expressions badly, etc. 

But, to begin with, this extreme strikes me as much less dangerousthan the other, for the first law of speech is to make oneselfunderstood, and the chief fault is to fail to be understood. To prideourselves on having no accent is to pride ourselves on ridding ourphrases of strength and elegance. Emphasis is the soul of speech, it gives it its feeling and truth. Emphasis deceives less thanwords; perhaps that is why well-educated people are so afraid ofit. From the custom of saying everything in the same tone has arisenthat of poking fun at people without their knowing it. When emphasisis proscribed, its place is taken by all sorts of ridiculous, affected, and ephemeral pronunciations, such as one observes especially amongthe young people about court. It is this affectation of speech andmanner which makes Frenchmen disagreeable and repulsive to othernations on first acquaintance. Emphasis is found, not in theirspeech, but in their bearing. That is not the way to make themselvesattractive. 

All these little faults of speech, which you are so afraid thechildren will acquire, are mere trifles; they may be prevented orcorrected with the greatest ease, but the faults which are taughtthem when you make them speak in a low, indistinct, and timid voice, when you are always criticising their tone and finding fault withtheir words, are never cured. A man who has only learnt to speakin society of fine ladies could not make himself heard at the headof his troops, and would make little impression on the rabble ina riot. First teach the child to speak to men; he will be able tospeak to the women when required. 

Brought up in all the rustic simplicity of the country, yourchildren will gain a more sonorous voice; they will not acquirethe hesitating stammer of town children, neither will they acquirethe expressions nor the tone of the villagers, or if they do theywill easily lose them; their master being with them from theirearliest years, and more and more in their society the older theygrow, will be able to prevent or efface by speaking correctly himselfthe impression of the peasants' talk. Emile will speak the purestFrench I know, but he will speak it more distinctly and with abetter articulation than myself. 

The child who is trying to speak should hear nothing but words hecan understand, nor should he say words he cannot articulate; hisefforts lead him to repeat the same syllable as if he were practisingits clear pronunciation. When he begins to stammer, do not try tounderstand him. To expect to be always listened to is a form oftyranny which is not good for the child. See carefully to his realneeds, and let him try to make you understand the rest. Stillless should you hurry him into speech; he will learn to talk whenhe feels the want of it. 

It has indeed been remarked that those who begin to speak very latenever speak so distinctly as others; but it is not because theytalked late that they are hesitating; on the contrary, they beganto talk late because they hesitate; if not, why did they begin totalk so late? Have they less need of speech, have they been lessurged to it? On the contrary, the anxiety aroused with the firstsuspicion of this backwardness leads people to tease them muchmore to begin to talk than those who articulated earlier; and thismistaken zeal may do much to make their speech confused, when withless haste they might have had time to bring it to greater perfection. 

Children who are forced to speak too soon have no time to learneither to pronounce correctly or to understand what they are madeto say; while left to themselves they first practise the easiestsyllables, and then, adding to them little by little some meaningwhich their gestures explain, they teach you their own words beforethey learn yours. By this means they do not acquire your wordstill they have understood them. Being in no hurry to use them, theybegin by carefully observing the sense in which you use them, andwhen they are sure of them they adopt them. 

The worst evil resulting from the precocious use of speech by youngchildren is that we not only fail to understand the first wordsthey use, we misunderstand them without knowing it; so that whilethey seem to answer us correctly, they fail to understand us and wethem. This is the most frequent cause of our surprise at children'ssayings; we attribute to them ideas which they did not attach totheir words. This lack of attention on our part to the real meaningwhich words have for children seems to me the cause of their earliestmisconceptions; and these misconceptions, even when corrected, colour their whole course of thought for the rest of their life. Ishall have several opportunities of illustrating these by exampleslater on. 

Let the child's vocabulary, therefore, be limited; it is veryundesirable that he should have more words than ideas, that heshould be able to say more than he thinks. One of the reasons whypeasants are generally shrewder than townsfolk is, I think, thattheir vocabulary is smaller. They have few ideas, but those feware thoroughly grasped. 

The infant is progressing in several ways at once; he is learningto talk, eat, and walk about the same time. This is really thefirst phase of his life. Up till now, he was little more than hewas before birth; he had neither feeling nor thought, he was barelycapable 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, strictlyso-called, is over; for the words infans and puer are notsynonymous. 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) accordingto the custom of our language till an age for which there is anotherterm. 

When children begin to talk they cry less. This progress is quitenatural; one language supplants another. As soon as they can say"It hurts me, " why should they cry, unless the pain is too sharpfor words? If they still cry, those about them are to blame. Whenonce Emile has said, "It hurts me, " it will take a very sharp painto make him cry. 

If the child is delicate and sensitive, if by nature he begins tocry for nothing, I let him cry in vain and soon check his tears attheir source. So long as he cries I will not go near him; I comeat once when he leaves off crying. He will soon be quiet when hewants to call me, or rather he will utter a single cry. Childrenlearn the meaning of signs by their effects; they have no othermeaning for them. However much a child hurts himself when he isalone, he rarely cries, unless he expects to be heard. 

Should he fall or bump his head, or make his nose bleed, or cuthis fingers, I shall show no alarm, nor shall I make any fuss overhim; 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 makehim more nervous. Indeed it is not the blow but the fear of it whichdistresses us when we are hurt. I shall spare him this sufferingat least, for he will certainly regard the injury as he sees meregard it; if he finds that I hasten anxiously to him, if I pityhim or comfort him, he will think he is badly hurt. If he finds Itake no notice, he will soon recover himself, and will think thewound is healed when it ceases to hurt. This is the time for hisfirst lesson in courage, and by bearing slight ills without fearwe gradually learn to bear greater. 

I shall not take pains to prevent Emile hurting himself; far fromit, I should be vexed if he never hurt himself, if he grew upunacquainted with pain. To bear pain is his first and most usefullesson. It seems as if children were small and weak on purpose toteach them these valuable lessons without danger. The child hassuch a little way to fall he will not break his leg; if he knockshimself with a stick he will not break his arm; if he seizes a sharpknife he will not grasp it tight enough to make a deep wound. Sofar as I know, no child, left to himself, has ever been known tokill or maim itself, or even to do itself any serious harm, unlessit 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 forall the paraphernalia with which the child is surrounded to shieldhim on every side so that he grows up at the mercy of pain, withneither courage nor experience, so that he thinks he is killed bya pin-prick and faints at the sight of blood?

With our foolish and pedantic methods we are always preventing childrenfrom learning what they could learn much better by themselves, whilewe neglect what we alone can teach them. Can anything be sillierthan the pains taken to teach them to walk, as if there were anyone who was unable to walk when he grows up through his nurse'sneglect? How many we see walking badly all their life because theywere 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 shallonly be supported along pavements, and he shall be taken quicklyacross them. [Footnote: There is nothing so absurd and hesitatingas the gait of those who have been kept too long in leading-stringswhen they were little. This is one of the observations which areconsidered trivial because they are true. ] Instead of keeping himmewed 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, theoftener the better; he will learn all the sooner to pick himselfup. The delights of liberty will make up for many bruises. Mypupil will hurt himself oftener than yours, but he will always bemerry; your pupils may receive fewer injuries, but they are alwaysthwarted, constrained, and sad. I doubt whether they are any betteroff. 

As their strength increases, children have also less need for tears. They can do more for themselves, they need the help of others lessfrequently. With strength comes the sense to use it. It is withthis second phase that the real personal life has its beginning; itis then that the child becomes conscious of himself. During everymoment of his life memory calls up the feeling of self; he becomesreally one person, always the same, and therefore capable of joyor sorrow. Hence we must begin to consider him as a moral being. 

Although we know approximately the limits of human life and ourchances of attaining those limits, nothing is more uncertain thanthe 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 ourpast life, the less we must hope to live. Of all the children whoare born scarcely one half reach adolescence, and it is very likelyyour pupil will not live to be a man. 

What is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education whichsacrifices the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a childwith all sorts of restrictions and begins by making him miserable, in order to prepare him for some far-off happiness which he maynever enjoy? Even if I considered that education wise in its aims, how could I view without indignation those poor wretches subjectedto an intolerable slavery and condemned like galley-slaves to endlesstoil, with no certainty that they will gain anything by it? Theage of harmless mirth is spent in tears, punishments, threats, and slavery. You torment the poor thing for his good; you failto see that you are calling Death to snatch him from these gloomysurroundings. Who can say how many children fall victims to theexcessive care of their fathers and mothers? They are happy toescape from this cruelty; this is all that they gain from the illsthey are forced to endure: they die without regretting, havingknown nothing of life but its sorrows. 

Men, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind toevery 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. Whohas not sometimes regretted that age when laughter was ever on thelips, and when the heart was ever at peace? Why rob these innocentsof the joys which pass so quickly, of that precious gift which theycannot abuse? Why fill with bitterness the fleeting days of earlychildhood, 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 shortspan which nature has allotted to them. As soon as they are awareof the joy of life, let them rejoice in it, go that whenever Godcalls 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 ofthat false wisdom which is ever dragging us onwards, counting thepresent as nothing, and pursuing without a pause a future whichflies as we pursue, that false wisdom which removes us from ourplace and never brings us to any other. 

Now is the time, you say, to correct his evil tendencies; we mustincrease suffering in childhood, when it is less keenly felt, tolessen it in manhood. But how do you know that you can carry outall these fine schemes; how do you know that all this fine teachingwith which you overwhelm the feeble mind of the child will not dohim more harm than good in the future? How do you know that youcan spare him anything by the vexations you heap upon him now? Whyinflict on him more ills than befit his present condition unlessyou are quite sure that these present ills will save him futureill? And what proof can you give me that those evil tendenciesyou profess to cure are not the result of your foolish precautionsrather than of nature? What a poor sort of foresight, to make achild wretched in the present with the more or less doubtful hopeof making him happy at some future day. If such blundering thinkersfail to distinguish between liberty and licence, between a merrychild and a spoilt darling, let them learn to discriminate. 

Let us not forget what befits our present state in the pursuitof vain fancies. Mankind has its place in the sequence of things;childhood has its place in the sequence of human life; the man mustbe treated as a man and the child as a child. Give each his place, and keep him there. Control human passions according to man'snature; that is all we can do for his welfare. The rest depends onexternal forces, which are beyond our control. 

Absolute good and evil are unknown to us. In this life they areblended together; we never enjoy any perfectly pure feeling, nordo we remain for more than a moment in the same state. The feelingsof our minds, like the changes in our bodies, are in a continualflux. Good and ill are common to all, but in varying proportions. The happiest is he who suffers least; the most miserable is he whoenjoys least. Ever more sorrow than joy--this is the lot of all ofus. Man's happiness in this world is but a negative state; it mustbe reckoned by the fewness of his ills. 

Every feeling of hardship is inseparable from the desire to escapefrom it; every idea of pleasure from the desire to enjoy it. All desireimplies a want, and all wants are painful; hence our wretchednessconsists in the disproportion between our desires and our powers. A conscious being whose powers were equal to his desires would beperfectly 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 wereless than our powers, part of our faculties would be idle, and weshould not enjoy our whole being; neither is the mere extension ofour powers enough, for if our desires were also increased we shouldonly be the more miserable. True happiness consists in decreasingthe difference between our desires and our powers, in establishinga perfect equilibrium between the power and the will. Then only, when all its forces are employed, will the soul be at rest and manwill find himself in his true position. 

In this condition, nature, who does everything for the best, hasplaced him from the first. To begin with, she gives him only suchdesires as are necessary for self-preservation and such powers asare sufficient for their satisfaction. All the rest she has storedin his mind as a sort of reserve, to be drawn upon at need. Itis only in this primitive condition that we find the equilibriumbetween desire and power, and then alone man is not unhappy. Assoon 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 desiresby the hope of satisfying them. But the object which seemed withinour grasp flies quicker than we can follow; when we think we havegrasped it, it transforms itself and is again far ahead of us. We no longer perceive the country we have traversed, and we thinknothing of it; that which lies before us becomes vaster and stretchesstill before us. Thus we exhaust our strength, yet never reach ourgoal, and the nearer we are to pleasure, the further we are fromhappiness. 

On the other hand, the more nearly a man's condition approximatesto this state of nature the less difference is there between hisdesires 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 isboundless; as we cannot enlarge the one, let us restrict the other;for all the sufferings which really make us miserable arise fromthe difference between the real and the imaginary. Health, strength, and a good conscience excepted, all the good things of life are amatter of opinion; except bodily suffering and remorse, all our woesare imaginary. You will tell me this is a commonplace; I admit it, but its practical application is no commonplace, and it is withpractice only that we are now concerned. 

What do you mean when you say, "Man is weak"? The term weak impliesa relation, a relation of the creature to whom it is applied. Aninsect or a worm whose strength exceeds its needs is strong; anelephant, a lion, a conqueror, a hero, a god himself, whose needsexceed his strength is weak. The rebellious angel who fought againsthis own nature was weaker than the happy mortal who is living atpeace according to nature. When man is content to be himself heis strong indeed; when he strives to be more than man he is weakindeed. But do not imagine that you can increase your strengthby increasing your powers. Not so; if your pride increases morerapidly your strength is diminished. Let us measure the extent ofour sphere and remain in its centre like the spider in its web;we shall have strength sufficient for our needs, we shall have nocause to lament our weakness, for we shall never be aware of it. 

The other animals possess only such powers as are required forself-preservation; man alone has more. Is it not very strange thatthis superfluity should make him miserable? In every land a man'slabour yields more than a bare living. If he were wise enough todisregard this surplus he would always have enough, for he wouldnever have too much. "Great needs, " said Favorin, "spring fromgreat wealth; and often the best way of getting what we want isto get rid of what we have. " By striving to increase our happinesswe change it into wretchedness. If a man were content to live, hewould live happy; and he would therefore be good, for what wouldhe have to gain by vice?

If we were immortal we should all be miserable; no doubt it is hardto 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 thisworld. If we had the offer of immortality here below, who wouldaccept the sorrowful gift? [Footnote: You understand I am speakingof those who think, and not of the crowd. ] What resources, whathopes, what consolation would be left against the cruelties offate and man's injustice? The ignorant man never looks before; heknows 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 andwhat lies beyond it; and they thus create the worst of our ills. The wise man bears life's ills all the better because he knowshe must die. Life would be too dearly bought did we not know thatsooner 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 endto themselves or to us. Time or death will cure them, but the lesswe know how to bear it, the greater is our pain, and we suffer morein our efforts to cure our diseases than if we endured them. Liveaccording to nature; be patient, get rid of the doctors; you willnot escape death, but you will only die once, while the doctorsmake you die daily through your diseased imagination; their lyingart, instead of prolonging your days, robs you of all delight inthem. I am always asking what real good this art has done to mankind. True, the doctors cure some who would have died, but they killmillions who would have lived. If you are wise you will decline totake part in this lottery when the odds are so great against you. Suffer, die, or get better; but whatever you do, live while youare alive. 

Human institutions are one mass of folly and contradiction. As ourlife loses its value we set a higher price upon it. The old regretlife more than the young; they do not want to lose all they havespent in preparing for its enjoyment. At sixty it is cruel todie when one has not begun to live. Man is credited with a strongdesire for self-preservation, and this desire exists; but we failto perceive that this desire, as felt by us, is largely the workof man. In a natural state man is only eager to preserve his lifewhile he has the means for its preservation; when self-preservationis no longer possible, he resigns himself to his fate and dies withoutvain torments. Nature teaches us the first law of resignation. Savages, like wild beasts, make very little struggle againstdeath, and meet it almost without a murmur. When this natural lawis overthrown reason establishes another, but few discern it, andman's resignation is never so complete as nature's. 

Prudence! Prudence which is ever bidding us look forward into thefuture, a future which in many cases we shall never reach; here isthe real source of all our troubles! How mad it is for so short-liveda creature as man to look forward into a future to which he rarelyattains, while he neglects the present which is his? This madnessis all the more fatal since it increases with years, and the old, always timid, prudent, and miserly, prefer to do without necessariesto-day that they may have luxuries at a hundred. Thus we graspeverything, we cling to everything; we are anxious about time, place, people, things, all that is and will be; we ourselves arebut 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 landsthey never saw, and how many merchants lament in Paris over somemisfortune in the Indies!

Is it nature that carries men so far from their real selves? Is ither will that each should learn his fate from others and even bethe last to learn it; so that a man dies happy or miserable beforehe knows what he is about. There is a healthy, cheerful, strong, and vigorous man; it does me good to see him; his eyes tell ofcontent and well-being; he is the picture of happiness. A lettercomes 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 paleand falls into a swoon. When he comes to himself he weeps, laments, and groans, he tears his hair, and his shrieks re-echo through theair. You would say he was in convulsions. Fool, what harm has thisbit of paper done you? What limb has it torn away? What crime hasit made you commit? What change has it wrought in you to reduceyou to this state of misery?

Had the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into thefire, it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once happy andunhappy, would have offered us a strange problem. His misfortunes, you say, were real enough. Granted; but he did not feel them. Whatof that? His happiness was imaginary. I admit it; health, wealth, a contented spirit, are mere dreams. We no longer live in our ownplace, we live outside it. What does it profit us to live in suchfear 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 cantear 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 farand so long as heaven pleases. Your freedom and your power extendas far and no further than your natural strength; anything more isbut slavery, deceit, and trickery. Power itself is servile when itdepends upon public opinion; for you are dependent on the prejudicesof others when you rule them by means of those prejudices. To leadthem as you will, they must be led as they will. They have onlyto change their way of thinking and you are forced to change yourcourse of action. Those who approach you need only contrive tosway the opinions of those you rule, or of the favourite by whomyou are ruled, or those of your own family or theirs. Had you thegenius of Themistocles, [Footnote: "You see that little boy, " saidThemistocles to his friends, "the fate of Greece is in his hands, for he rules his mother and his mother rules me, I rule the Atheniansand the Athenians rule the Greeks. " What petty creatures we shouldoften find controlling great empires if we traced the course of powerfrom the prince to those who secretly put that power in motion. ]viziers, courtiers, priests, soldiers, servants, babblers, thevery children themselves, would lead you like a child in the midstof your legions. Whatever you do, your actual authority can neverextend beyond your own powers. As soon as you are obliged tosee with another's eyes you must will what he wills. You say withpride, "My people are my subjects. " Granted, but what are you? Thesubject of your ministers. And your ministers, what are they? Thesubjects of their clerks, their mistresses, the servants of theirservants. Grasp all, usurp all, and then pour out your silver withboth 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, whatgood does it do you? You will be no better served, you will benone the less robbed and deceived, you will be no nearer absolutepower. You will say continually, "It is our will, " and you willcontinually do the will of others. 

There is only one man who gets his own way--he who can get itsingle-handed; therefore freedom, not power, is the greatest good. That man is truly free who desires what he is able to perform, anddoes what he desires. This is my fundamental maxim. Apply it tochildhood, and all the rules of education spring from it. 

Society has enfeebled man, not merely by robbing him of the rightto his own strength, but still more by making his strength insufficientfor his needs. This is why his desires increase in proportion tohis weakness; and this is why the child is weaker than the man. Ifa man is strong and a child is weak it is not because the strengthof the one is absolutely greater than the strength of the other, but because the one can naturally provide for himself and the othercannot. Thus the man will have more desires and the child morecaprices, a word which means, I take it, desires which are not trueneeds, desires which can only be satisfied with the help of others. 

I have already given the reason for this state of weakness. Parentalaffection is nature's provision against it; but parental affectionmay be carried to excess, it may be wanting, or it may be ill applied. Parents who live under our ordinary social conditions bring theirchild into these conditions too soon. By increasing his needs theydo not relieve his weakness; they rather increase it. They furtherincrease it by demanding of him what nature does not demand, bysubjecting to their will what little strength he has to furtherhis own wishes, by making slaves of themselves or of him insteadof recognising that mutual dependence which should result from hisweakness or their affection. 

The wise man can keep his own place; but the child who does notknow what his place is, is unable to keep it. There are a thousandways out of it, and it is the business of those who have chargeof 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 hisweakness, but not suffer through it; he must be dependent, buthe must not obey; he must ask, not command. He is only subject toothers because of his needs, and because they see better than hewhat he really needs, what may help or hinder his existence. Noone, not even his father, has the right to bid the child do whatis of no use to him. 

When our natural tendencies have not been interfered with by humanprejudice and human institutions, the happiness alike of childrenand of men consists in the enjoyment of their liberty. But thechild's liberty is restricted by his lack of strength. He who doesas he likes is happy provided he is self-sufficing; it is so withthe man who is living in a state of nature. He who does what helikes is not happy if his desires exceed his strength; it is sowith a child in like conditions. Even in a state of nature childrenonly enjoy an imperfect liberty, like that enjoyed by men in sociallife. Each of us, unable to dispense with the help of others, becomes so far weak and wretched. We were meant to be men, laws andcustoms thrust us back into infancy. The rich and great, the verykings themselves are but children; they see that we are ready torelieve their misery; this makes them childishly vain, and they arequite proud of the care bestowed on them, a care which they wouldnever get if they were grown men. 

These are weighty considerations, and they provide a solutionfor all the conflicting problems of our social system. There aretwo kinds of dependence: dependence on things, which is the workof nature; and dependence on men, which is the work of society. Dependence on things, being non-moral, does no injury to liberty andbegets no vices; dependence on men, being out of order, [Footnote:In my PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL LAW it is proved that no private willcan be ordered in the social system. ] gives rise to every kind ofvice, and through this master and slave become mutually depraved. If there is any cure for this social evil, it is to be found inthe substitution of law for the individual; in arming the generalwill with a real strength beyond the power of any individual will. If the laws of nations, like the laws of nature, could never bebroken by any human power, dependence on men would become dependenceon things; all the advantages of a state of nature would be combinedwith all the advantages of social life in the commonwealth. Theliberty which preserves a man from vice would be united with themorality which raises him to virtue. 

Keep the child dependent on things only. By this course of educationyou will have followed the order of nature. Let his unreasonablewishes meet with physical obstacles only, or the punishment whichresults from his own actions, lessons which will be recalled whenthe same circumstances occur again. It is enough to prevent himfrom wrong doing without forbidding him to do wrong. Experience orlack of power should take the place of law. Give him, not what hewants, but what he needs. Let there be no question of obedience forhim or tyranny for you. Supply the strength he lacks just so faras is required for freedom, not for power, so that he may receiveyour services with a sort of shame, and look forward to the time whenhe may dispense with them and may achieve the honour of self-help. 

Nature provides for the child's growth in her own fashion, and thisshould never be thwarted. Do not make him sit still when he wantsto run about, nor run when he wants to be quiet. If we did notspoil our children's wills by our blunders their desires would befree from caprice. Let them run, jump, and shout to their heart'scontent. All their own activities are instincts of the body forits growth in strength; but you should regard with suspicion thosewishes which they cannot carry out for themselves, those whichothers must carry out for them. Then you must distinguish carefullybetween natural and artificial needs, between the needs of buddingcaprice and the needs which spring from the overflowing life justdescribed. 

I have already told you what you ought to do when a child cries forthis thing or that. I will only add that as soon as he has wordsto ask for what he wants and accompanies his demands with tears, either to get his own way quicker or to over-ride a refusal, heshould never have his way. If his words were prompted by a realneed you should recognise it and satisfy it at once; but to yieldto his tears is to encourage him to cry, to teach him to doubtyour kindness, and to think that you are influenced more by hisimportunity than your own good-will. If he does not think you kindhe will soon think you unkind; if he thinks you weak he will soonbecome obstinate; what you mean to give must be given at once. Bechary 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, andto get him what he wants at once. The artificial education of therich never fails to make them politely imperious, by teaching themthe words to use so that no one will dare to resist them. Theirchildren have neither the tone nor the manner of suppliants; they areas haughty or even more haughty in their entreaties than in theircommands, as though they were more certain to be obeyed. You seeat once that "If you please" means "It pleases me, " and "I beg"means "I command. " What a fine sort of politeness which only succeedsin changing the meaning of words so that every word is a command!For my own part, I would rather Emile were rude than haughty, thathe should say "Do this" as a request, rather than "Please" as acommand. What concerns me is his meaning, not his words. 

There is such a thing as excessive severity as well as excessiveindulgence, and both alike should be avoided. If you let childrensuffer you risk their health and life; you make them miserable now;if you take too much pains to spare them every kind of uneasinessyou are laying up much misery for them in the future; you are makingthem delicate and over-sensitive; you are taking them out of theirplace 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 thesame mistake as those bad fathers whom I blamed for sacrificing thepresent happiness of their children to a future which may never betheirs. 

Not so; for the liberty I give my pupil makes up for the slighthardships to which he is exposed. I see little fellows playing inthe snow, stiff and blue with cold, scarcely able to stir a finger. They could go and warm themselves if they chose, but they do notchoose; if you forced them to come in they would feel the harshnessof constraint a hundredfold more than the sharpness of the cold. Thenwhat becomes of your grievance? Shall I make your child miserableby exposing him to hardships which he is perfectly ready to endure? Isecure his present good by leaving him his freedom, and his futuregood by arming him against the evils he will have to bear. If hehad his choice, would he hesitate for a moment between you and me?

Do you think any man can find true happiness elsewhere than in hisnatural state; and when you try to spare him all suffering, are younot taking him out of his natural state? Indeed I maintain that toenjoy great happiness he must experience slight ills; such is hisnature. Too much bodily prosperity corrupts the morals. A man whoknew nothing of suffering would be incapable of tenderness towardshis fellow-creatures and ignorant of the joys of pity; he would behard-hearted, unsocial, a very monster among men. 

Do you know the surest way to make your child miserable? Let himhave everything he wants; for as his wants increase in proportionto the ease with which they are satisfied, you will be compelled, sooner or later, to refuse his demands, and this unlooked-forrefusal will hurt him more than the lack of what he wants. He willwant your stick first, then your watch, the bird that flies, orthe 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 thissense Hobbes' theory is true to a certain extent: Multiply both ourwishes and the means of satisfying them, and each will be master ofall. Thus the child, who has only to ask and have, thinks himselfthe master of the universe; he considers all men as his slaves;and when you are at last compelled to refuse, he takes your refusalas an act of rebellion, for he thinks he has only to command. Allthe 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 everyone. Though he has never felt grateful for kindness, he resentsall opposition. 

How should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He isthe slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He isa tyrant, at once the basest of slaves and the most wretched ofcreatures. I have known children brought up like this who expectedyou to knock the house down, to give them the weather-cock on thesteeple, to stop a regiment on the march so that they might listento the band; when they could not get their way they screamed andcried and would pay no attention to any one. In vain everybody stroveto please them; as their desires were stimulated by the ease withwhich 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 criedall day. Were they really so greatly favoured? Weakness, combinedwith love of power, produces nothing but folly and suffering. Onespoilt child beats the table; another whips the sea. They may beatand whip long enough before they find contentment. 

If their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power andtyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with theirfellow-men begin to grow and multiply? They are used to find everythinggive way to them; what a painful surprise to enter society and meetwith opposition on every side, to be crushed beneath the weightof a universe which they expected to move at will. Their insolentmanners, their childish vanity, only draw down upon them mortification, scorn, and mockery; they swallow insults like water; sharp experiencesoon teaches them that they have realised neither their positionnor their strength. As they cannot do everything, they think theycan do nothing. They are daunted by unexpected obstacles, degradedby the scorn of men; they become base, cowardly, and deceitful, andfall as far below their true level as they formerly soared aboveit. 

Let us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made childrenhelpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyedand feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye, aloud and threatening voice with which to make themselves feared?I understand how the roaring of the lion strikes terror into theother beasts, so that they tremble when they behold his terriblemane, but of all unseemly, hateful, and ridiculous sights, was thereever anything like a body of statesmen in their robes of officewith their chief at their head bowing down before a swaddled babe, addressing him in pompous phrases, while he cries and slavers inreply?

If we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak andwretched as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those aboutit, so dependent on their pity, their care, and their affection?Does it not seem as if his gentle face and touching appearancewere intended to interest every one on behalf of his weakness andto 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 ofa master towards those without whom he would perish?

On the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by theweakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increasethis servitude by obedience to our caprices, by depriving them ofsuch 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, thereis nothing that claims our pity like a timid child. With the ageof reason the child becomes the slave of the community; then whyforestall this by slavery in the home? Let this brief hour of lifebe free from a yoke which nature has not laid upon it; leave thechild the use of his natural liberty, which, for a time at least, secures him from the vices of the slave. Bring me those harshmasters, and those fathers who are the slaves of their children, bring them both with their frivolous objections, and before theyboast of their own methods let them for once learn the method ofnature. 

I return to practical matters. I have already said your childmust not get what he asks, but what he needs; [Footnote: We mustrecognise that pain is often necessary, pleasure is sometimes needed. So there is only one of the child's desires which should never becomplied with, the desire for power. Hence, whenever they ask foranything we must pay special attention to their motive in asking. As far as possible give them everything they ask for, provided itcan really give them pleasure; refuse everything they demand frommere 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 init. Before the age of reason it is impossible to form any idea ofmoral beings or social relations; so avoid, as far as may be, theuse of words which express these ideas, lest the child at an earlyage should attach wrong ideas to them, ideas which you cannot orwill not destroy when he is older. The first mistaken idea he getsinto his head is the germ of error and vice; it is the first stepthat needs watching. Act in such a way that while he only noticesexternal objects his ideas are confined to sensations; let him onlysee the physical world around him. If not, you may be sure thateither he will pay no heed to you at all, or he will form fantasticideas of the moral world of which you prate, ideas which you willnever efface as long as he lives. 

"Reason with children" was Locke's chief maxim; it is in the heightof fashion at present, and I hardly think it is justified by itsresults; those children who have been constantly reasoned withstrike me as exceedingly silly. Of all man's faculties, reason, which is, so to speak, compounded of all the rest, is the lastand choicest growth, and it is this you would use for the child'searly training. To make a man reasonable is the coping stone of agood education, and yet you profess to train a child through hisreason! You begin at the wrong end, you make the end the means. If children understood reason they would not need education, butby talking to them from their earliest age in a language they donot understand you accustom them to be satisfied with words, toquestion all that is said to them, to think themselves as wise astheir teachers; you train them to be argumentative and rebellious;and whatever you think you gain from motives of reason, you reallygain from greediness, fear, or vanity with which you are obligedto reinforce your reasoning. 

Most of the moral lessons which are and can be given to childrenmay 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 willnot understand you. What sort of use is there in such teaching?I should greatly like to know what you would substitute for thisdialogue. It would have puzzled Locke himself. It is no part of achild's business to know right and wrong, to perceive the reasonfor a man's duties. 

Nature would have them children before they are men. If we tryto invert this order we shall produce a forced fruit immature andflavourless, fruit which will be rotten before it is ripe; we shallhave young doctors and old children. Childhood has its own waysof seeing, thinking, and feeling; nothing is more foolish than totry and substitute our ways; and I should no more expect judgmentin a ten-year-old child than I should expect him to be five feethigh. Indeed, what use would reason be to him at that age? It isthe curb of strength, and the child does not need the curb. 

When you try to persuade your scholars of the duty of obedience, youadd to this so-called persuasion compulsion and threats, or stillworse, flattery and bribes. Attracted by selfishness or constrainedby force, they pretend to be convinced by reason. They see as soonas you do that obedience is to their advantage and disobedience totheir disadvantage. But as you only demand disagreeable things ofthem, and as it is always disagreeable to do another's will, theyhide themselves so that they may do as they please, persuaded thatthey are doing no wrong so long as they are not found out, butready, if found out, to own themselves in the wrong for fear ofworse evils. The reason for duty is beyond their age, and thereis 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 confessionsas you want; and you think you have convinced them when you haveonly wearied or frightened them. 

What does it all come to? In the first place, by imposing on thema duty which they fail to recognise, you make them disinclined tosubmit to your tyranny, and you turn away their love; you teachthem deceit, falsehood, and lying as a way to gain rewards or escapepunishment; then by accustoming them to conceal a secret motiveunder the cloak of an apparent one, you yourself put into theirhands the means of deceiving you, of depriving you of a knowledgeof their real character, of answering you and others with emptywords whenever they have the chance. Laws, you say, though bindingon conscience, exercise the same constraint over grown-up men. Thatis so, but what are these men but children spoilt by education?This is just what you should avoid. Use force with children andreasoning with men; this is the natural order; the wise man needsno laws. 

Treat your scholar according to his age. Put him in his place fromthe first, and keep him in it, so that he no longer tries to leaveit. Then before he knows what goodness is, he will be practisingits chief lesson. Give him no orders at all, absolutely none. Donot even let him think that you claim any authority over him. Lethim only know that he is weak and you are strong, that his conditionand yours puts him at your mercy; let this be perceived, learned, and felt. Let him early find upon his proud neck, the heavy yokewhich nature has imposed upon us, the heavy yoke of necessity, underwhich every finite being must bow. Let him find this necessity inthings, not in the caprices [Footnote: You may be sure the childwill regard as caprice any will which opposes his own or any willwhich he does not understand. Now the child does not understandanything which interferes with his own fancies. ] of man; letthe curb be force, not authority. If there is something he shouldnot do, do not forbid him, but prevent him without explanation orreasoning; what you give him, give it at his first word withoutprayers or entreaties, above all without conditions. Give willingly, refuse unwillingly, but let your refusal be irrevocable; letno entreaties move you; let your "No, " once uttered, be a wall ofbrass, against which the child may exhaust his strength some fiveor six times, but in the end he will try no more to overthrow it. 

Thus you will make him patient, equable, calm, and resigned, evenwhen he does not get all he wants; for it is in man's nature to bearpatiently with the nature of things, but not with the ill-will ofanother. A child never rebels against, "There is none left, " unlesshe thinks the reply is false. Moreover, there is no middle course;you must either make no demands on him at all, or else you mustfashion him to perfect obedience. The worst education of all isto leave him hesitating between his own will and yours, constantlydisputing whether you or he is master; I would rather a hundredtimes that he were master. 

It is very strange that ever since people began to think abouteducation they should have hit upon no other way of guiding childrenthan 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 forceinto their minds you plant a vice in the depths of their hearts;foolish teachers think they are doing wonders when they are makingtheir scholars wicked in order to teach them what goodness is, andthen they tell us seriously, "Such is man. " Yes, such is man, asyou have made him. Every means has been tried except one, the veryone which might succeed--well-regulated liberty. Do not undertaketo bring up a child if you cannot guide him merely by the laws ofwhat can or cannot be. The limits of the possible and the impossibleare alike unknown to him, so they can be extended or contractedaround him at your will. Without a murmur he is restrained, urgedon, held back, by the hands of necessity alone; he is made adaptableand teachable by the mere force of things, without any chance forvice to spring up in him; for passions do not arise so long as theyhave accomplished nothing. 

Give your scholar no verbal lessons; he should be taught byexperience alone; never punish him, for he does not know what itis to do wrong; never make him say, "Forgive me, " for he does notknow how to do you wrong. Wholly unmoral in his actions, he cando nothing morally wrong, and he deserves neither punishment norreproof. 

Already I see the frightened reader comparing this child with thoseof our time; he is mistaken. The perpetual restraint imposed uponyour scholars stimulates their activity; the more subdued they arein your presence, the more boisterous they are as soon as they areout of your sight. They must make amends to themselves in some wayor other for the harsh constraint to which you subject them. Twoschoolboys from the town will do more damage in the country thanall the children of the village. Shut up a young gentleman anda young peasant in a room; the former will have upset and smashedeverything before the latter has stirred from his place. Why isthat, 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, arestill very far from the state in which I would have them kept. 

Let us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the firstimpulses of nature are always right; there is no original sin inthe human heart, the how and why of the entrance of every vice canbe traced. The only natural passion is self-love or selfishnesstaken in a wider sense. This selfishness is good in itself and inrelation to ourselves; and as the child has no necessary relationsto other people he is naturally indifferent to them; his self-loveonly becomes good or bad by the use made of it and the relationsestablished by its means. Until the time is ripe for the appearanceof reason, that guide of selfishness, the main thing is that thechild shall do nothing because you are watching him or listeningto him; in a word, nothing because of other people, but only whatnature asks of him; then he will never do wrong. 

I do not mean to say that he will never do any mischief, never hurthimself, never break a costly ornament if you leave it within hisreach. He might do much damage without doing wrong, since wrong-doingdepends on the harmful intention which will never be his. If oncehe meant to do harm, his whole education would be ruined; he wouldbe almost hopelessly bad. 

Greed considers some things wrong which are not wrong in the eyesof reason. When you leave free scope to a child's heedlessness, youmust put anything he could spoil out of his way, and leave nothingfragile or costly within his reach. Let the room be furnished withplain and solid furniture; no mirrors, china, or useless ornaments. My pupil Emile, who is brought up in the country, shall have aroom just like a peasant's. Why take such pains to adorn it when hewill be so little in it? I am mistaken, however; he will ornamentit for himself, and we shall soon see how. 

But if, in spite of your precautions, the child contrives to dosome damage, if he breaks some useful article, do not punish himfor your carelessness, do not even scold him; let him hear no wordof reproval, do not even let him see that he has vexed you; behavejust as if the thing had come to pieces of itself; you may consideryou have done great things if you have managed to hold your tongue. 

May I venture at this point to state the greatest, the mostimportant, the most useful rule of education? It is: Do not savetime, but lose it. I hope that every-day readers will excuse myparadoxes; you cannot avoid paradox if you think for yourself, andwhatever you may say I would rather fall into paradox than intoprejudice. The most dangerous period in human life lies betweenbirth and the age of twelve. It is the time when errors and vicesspring up, while as yet there is no means to destroy them; whenthe means of destruction are ready, the roots have gone too deep tobe pulled up. If the infant sprang at one bound from its mother'sbreast to the age of reason, the present type of education would bequite suitable, but its natural growth calls for quite a differenttraining. The mind should be left undisturbed till its facultieshave developed; for while it is blind it cannot see the torch youoffer it, nor can it follow through the vast expanse of ideas apath so faintly traced by reason that the best eyes can scarcelyfollow it. 

Therefore the education of the earliest years should be merelynegative. It consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but inpreserving the heart from vice and from the spirit of error. If onlyyou could let well alone, and get others to follow your example;if you could bring your scholar to the age of twelve strong andhealthy, but unable to tell his right hand from his left, the eyesof his understanding would be open to reason as soon as you beganto teach him. Free from prejudices and free from habits, therewould be nothing in him to counteract the effects of your labours. In your hands he would soon become the wisest of men; by doingnothing 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 childbut 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 especiallydo not try to make him approve what he dislikes; for if reason isalways connected with disagreeable matters, you make it distastefulto him, you discredit it at an early age in a mind not yet readyto understand it. Exercise his body, his limbs, his senses, hisstrength, but keep his mind idle as long as you can. Distrust allopinions which appear before the judgment to discriminate betweenthem. Restrain and ward off strange impressions; and to preventthe birth of evil do not hasten to do well, for goodness is onlypossible when enlightened by reason. Regard all delays as so muchtime gained; you have achieved much, you approach the boundarywithout loss. Leave childhood to ripen in your children. In a word, beware of giving anything they need to-day if it can be deferredwithout danger to to-morrow. 

There is another point to be considered which confirms the suitabilityof this method: it is the child's individual bent, which must bethoroughly known before we can choose the fittest moral training. Every mind has its own form, in accordance with which it must becontrolled; and the success of the pains taken depends largely onthe fact that he is controlled in this way and no other. Oh, wiseman, take time to observe nature; watch your scholar well beforeyou say a word to him; first leave the germ of his character freeto show itself, do not constrain him in anything, the better to seehim as he really is. Do you think this time of liberty is wasted?On the contrary, your scholar will be the better employed, forthis is the way you yourself will learn not to lose a single momentwhen time is of more value. If, however, you begin to act beforeyou know what to do, you act at random; you may make mistakes, andmust retrace your steps; your haste to reach your goal will onlytake you further from it. Do not imitate the miser who loses muchlest he should lose a little. Sacrifice a little time in earlychildhood, and it will be repaid you with usury when your scholaris older. The wise physician does not hastily give prescriptionsat first sight, but he studies the constitution of the sick manbefore he prescribes anything; the treatment is begun later, butthe patient is cured, while the hasty doctor kills him. 

But where shall we find a place for our child so as to bring himup as a senseless being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in themoon, or on a desert island? Shall we remove him from human society?Will he not always have around him the sight and the pattern ofthe passions of other people? Will he never see children of hisown age? Will he not see his parents, his neighbours, his nurse, his governess, his man-servant, his tutor himself, who after allwill not be an angel? Here we have a real and serious objection. But did I tell you that an education according to nature would bean easy task? Oh, men! is it my fault that you have made all goodthings difficult? I admit that I am aware of these difficulties;perhaps they are insuperable; but nevertheless it is certain thatwe do to some extent avoid them by trying to do so. I am showingwhat we should try to attain, I do not say we can attain it, butI 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 childis still unconscious there is time to prepare his surroundings, sothat nothing shall strike his eye but what is fit for his sight. Gain the respect of every one, begin to win their hearts, so thatthey may try to please you. You will not be master of the childif you cannot control every one about him; and this authority willnever suffice unless it rests upon respect for your goodness. Thereis no question of squandering one's means and giving money rightand left; I never knew money win love. You must neither be harshnor niggardly, nor must you merely pity misery when you can relieveit; but in vain will you open your purse if you do not open yourheart along with it, the hearts of others will always be closed toyou. You must give your own time, attention, affection, your veryself; for whatever you do, people always perceive that your moneyis not you. There are proofs of kindly interest which produce moreresults and are really more useful than any gift; how many of thesick and wretched have more need of comfort than of charity; howmany of the oppressed need protection rather than money? Reconcilethose 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 theweak who cannot obtain justice, the weak who are oppressed by thestrong. Be just, human, kindly. Do not give alms alone, give charity;works of mercy do more than money for the relief of suffering; loveothers 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 excepttheir masters; far from the vile morals of the town, whose gildedsurface makes them seductive and contagious to children; whilethe vices of peasants, unadorned and in their naked grossness, aremore fitted to repel than to seduce, when there is no motive forimitating them. 

In the village a tutor will have much more control over the things hewishes to show the child; his reputation, his words, his example, will have a weight they would never have in the town; he is ofuse to every one, so every one is eager to oblige him, to win hisesteem, to appeal before the disciple what the master would have himbe; 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 corruptedless by what they see than by your own teaching. With your endlesspreaching, moralising, and pedantry, for one idea you give yourscholars, believing it to be good, you give them twenty more whichare good for nothing; you are full of what is going on in your ownminds, and you fail to see the effect you produce on theirs. Inthe continual flow of words with which you overwhelm them, do youthink there is none which they get hold of in a wrong sense? Doyou suppose they do not make their own comments on your long-windedexplanations, that they do not find material for the constructionof a system they can understand--one which they will use againstyou when they get the chance?

Listen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction; lethim chatter freely, ask questions, and talk at his ease, and youwill be surprised to find the strange forms your arguments haveassumed in his mind; he confuses everything, and turns everythingtopsy-turvy; you are vexed and grieved by his unforeseen objections;he reduces you to be silent yourself or to silence him: and whatcan he think of silence in one who is so fond of talking? If everhe gains this advantage and is aware of it, farewell education;from that moment all is lost; he is no longer trying to learn, heis trying to refute you. 

Zealous teachers, be simple, sensible, and reticent; be in no hurryto act unless to prevent the actions of others. Again and again Isay, reject, if it may be, a good lesson for fear of giving a badone. Beware of playing the tempter in this world, which natureintended as an earthly paradise for men, and do not attempt togive the innocent child the knowledge of good and evil; since youcannot prevent the child learning by what he sees outside himself, restrict your own efforts to impressing those examples on his mindin the form best suited for him. 

The explosive passions produce a great effect upon the childwhen he sees them; their outward expression is very marked; he isstruck by this and his attention is arrested. Anger especially isso noisy in its rage that it is impossible not to perceive it ifyou are within reach. You need not ask yourself whether this is anopportunity for a pedagogue to frame a fine disquisition. What! nofine 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 haveappealed to his senses. He sees a flushed face, flashing eyes, athreatening gesture, he hears cries; everything shows that the bodyis ill at ease. Tell him plainly, without affectation or mystery, "This poor man is ill, he is in a fever. " You may take the opportunityof 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 necessitywhich he must recognise. By means of this idea, which is not falsein itself, may he not early acquire a certain aversion to givingway to excessive passions, which he regards as diseases; and doyou not think that such a notion, given at the right moment, willproduce a more wholesome effect than the most tedious sermon? Butconsider the after effects of this idea; you have authority, ifever you find it necessary, to treat the rebellious child as a sickchild; to keep him in his room, in bed if need be, to diet him, tomake him afraid of his growing vices, to make him hate and dreadthem without ever regarding as a punishment the strict measuresyou will perhaps have to use for his recovery. If it happens thatyou yourself in a moment's heat depart from the calm and self-controlwhich you should aim at, do not try to conceal your fault, but tellhim frankly, with a gentle reproach, "My dear, you have hurt me. "

Moreover, it is a matter of great importance that no notice shouldbe taken in his presence of the quaint sayings which result fromthe simplicity of the ideas in which he is brought up, nor shouldthey be quoted in a way he can understand. A foolish laugh maydestroy six months' work and do irreparable damage for life. Icannot repeat too often that to control the child one must oftencontrol oneself. 

I picture my little Emile at the height of a dispute between twoneighbours going up to the fiercest of them and saying in a toneof pity, "You are ill, I am very sorry for you. " This speech willno doubt have its effect on the spectators and perhaps on thedisputants. Without laughter, scolding, or praise I should take himaway, willing or no, before he could see this result, or at leastbefore he could think about it; and I should make haste to turn histhoughts to other things, so that he would soon forget all aboutit. 

I do not propose to enter into every detail, but only to explaingeneral rules and to give illustrations in cases of difficulty. Ithink it is impossible to train a child up to the age of twelve inthe midst of society, without giving him some idea of the relationsbetween one man and another, and of the morality of human actions. It is enough to delay the development of these ideas as longas possible, and when they can no longer be avoided to limit themto present needs, so that he may neither think himself master ofeverything nor do harm to others without knowing or caring. Thereare calm and gentle characters which can be led a long way intheir first innocence without any danger; but there are also stormydispositions whose passions develop early; you must hasten to makemen of them lest you should have to keep them in chains. 

Our first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are centredon self; all our instincts are at first directed to our ownpreservation and our own welfare. Thus the first notion of justicesprings not from what we owe to others, but from what is dueto us. Here is another error in popular methods of education. Ifyou talk to children of their duties, and not of their rights, youare beginning at the wrong end, and telling them what they cannotunderstand, what cannot be of any interest to them. 

If I had to train a child such as I have just described, I shouldsay to myself, "A child never attacks people, [Footnote: A childshould never be allowed to play with grown-up people as if theywere his inferiors, nor even as if they were only his equals. Ifhe ventured to strike any one in earnest, were it only the footman, were it the hangman himself, let the sufferer return his blows withinterest, so that he will not want to do it again. I have seensilly women inciting children to rebellion, encouraging them tohit people, allowing themselves to be beaten, and laughing at theharmless blows, never thinking that those blows were in intentionthe blows of a murderer, and that the child who desires to beatpeople now will desire to kill them when he is grown up. ] onlythings; and he soon learns by experience to respect those older andstronger than himself. Things, however, do not defend themselves. Therefore the first idea he needs is not that of liberty but ofproperty, and that he may get this idea he must have something ofhis own. " It is useless to enumerate his clothes, furniture, andplaythings; although he uses these he knows not how or why he hascome by them. To tell him they were given him is little better, forgiving implies having; so here is property before his own, and itis the principle of property that you want to teach him; moreover, giving is a convention, and the child as yet has no idea ofconventions. I hope my reader will note, in this and many othercases, how people think they have taught children thoroughly, whenthey have only thrust on them words which have no intelligiblemeaning to them. [Footnote: This is why most children want to takeback what they have given, and cry if they cannot get it. They donot do this when once they know what a gift is; only they are morecareful about giving things away. ]

We must therefore go back to the origin of property, for that iswhere the first idea of it must begin. The child, living in thecountry, will have got some idea of field work; eyes and leisuresuffice for that, and he will have both. In every age, andespecially in childhood, we want to create, to copy, to produce, to give all the signs of power and activity. He will hardly haveseen the gardener at work twice, sowing, planting, and growingvegetables, before he will want to garden himself. 

According to the principles I have already laid down, I shall notthwart him; on the contrary, I shall approve of his plan, sharehis hobby, and work with him, not for his pleasure but my own; atleast, so he thinks; I shall be his under-gardener, and dig theground for him till his arms are strong enough to do it; he willtake possession of it by planting a bean, and this is surely amore sacred possession, and one more worthy of respect, than thatof Nunes Balboa, who took possession of South America in the nameof the King of Spain, by planting his banner on the coast of theSouthern Sea. 

We water the beans every day, we watch them coming up with thegreatest delight. Day by day I increase this delight by saying, "Those belong to you. " To explain what that word "belong" means, I show him how he has given his time, his labour, and his trouble, his very self to it; that in this ground there is a part of himselfwhich he can claim against all the world, as he could withdraw hisarm from the hand of another man who wanted to keep it against hiswill. 

One fine day he hurries up with his watering-can in his hand. Whata scene of woe! Alas! all the beans are pulled up, the soil is dugover, you can scarcely find the place. Oh! what has become of mylabour, my work, the beloved fruits of my care and effort? Who hasstolen my property! Who has taken my beans? The young heart revolts;the first feeling of injustice brings its sorrow and bitterness;tears come in torrents, the unhappy child fills the air with criesand groans, I share his sorrow and anger; we look around us, wemake inquiries. At last we discover that the gardener did it. Wesend for him. 

But we are greatly mistaken. The gardener, hearing our complaint, begins to complain louder than we:

What, gentlemen, was it you who spoilt my work! I had sown someMaltese melons; the seed was given me as something quite out ofthe common, and I meant to give you a treat when they were ripe;but you have planted your miserable beans and destroyed my melons, which were coming up so nicely, and I can never get any more. Youhave behaved very badly to me and you have deprived yourselves ofthe pleasure of eating most delicious melons. 

JEAN JACQUES. My poor Robert, you must forgive us. You had givenyour labour and your pains to it. I see we were wrong to spoilyour work, but we will send to Malta for some more seed for you, and we will never dig the ground again without finding out if someone else has been beforehand with us. 

ROBERT. Well, gentlemen, you need not trouble yourselves, forthere is no more waste ground. I dig what my father tilled; everyone does the same, and all the land you see has been occupied timeout of mind. 

EMILE. Mr. Robert, do people often lose the seed of Maltese melons?

ROBERT. No indeed, sir; we do not often find such silly littlegentlemen as you. No one meddles with his neighbour's garden; everyone respects other people's work so that his own may be safe. 

EMILE. But I have not got a garden. 

ROBERT. I don't care; if you spoil mine I won't let you walk init, for you see I do not mean to lose my labour. 

JEAN JACQUES. Could not we suggest an arrangement with this kindRobert? Let him give my young friend and myself a corner of hisgarden to cultivate, on condition that he has half the crop. 

ROBERT. You may have it free. But remember I shall dig up yourbeans if you touch my melons. 

In this attempt to show how a child may be taught certain primitiveideas we see how the notion of property goes back naturally to theright of the first occupier to the results of his work. That isplain and simple, and quite within the child's grasp. From thatto the rights of property and exchange there is but a step, afterwhich you must stop short. 

You also see that an explanation which I can give in writing in acouple of pages may take a year in practice, for in the course ofmoral ideas we cannot advance too slowly, nor plant each step toofirmly. Young teacher, pray consider this example, and rememberthat your lessons should always be in deeds rather than words, forchildren soon forget what they say or what is said to them, butnot what they have done nor what has been done to them. 

Such teaching should be given, as I have said, sooner or later, asthe scholar's disposition, gentle or turbulent, requires it. Theway of using it is unmistakable; but to omit no matter of importancein a difficult business let us take another example. 

Your ill-tempered child destroys everything he touches. Do not vexyourself; put anything he can spoil out of his reach. He breaksthe things he is using; do not be in a hurry to give him more; lethim feel the want of them. He breaks the windows of his room; letthe wind blow upon him night and day, and do not be afraid of hiscatching cold; it is better to catch cold than to be reckless. Never complain of the inconvenience he causes you, but let him feelit first. At last you will have the windows mended without sayinganything. He breaks them again; then change your plan; tell himdryly and without anger, "The windows are mine, I took pains to havethem put in, and I mean to keep them safe. " Then you will shut himup in a dark place without a window. At this unexpected proceedinghe cries and howls; no one heeds. Soon he gets tired and changeshis tone; he laments and sighs; a servant appears, the rebel begsto be let out. Without seeking any excuse for refusing, the servantmerely says, "I, too, have windows to keep, " and goes away. At last, when the child has been there several hours, long enough to getvery tired of it, long enough to make an impression on his memory, some one suggests to him that he should offer to make terms withyou, so that you may set him free and he will never break windowsagain. That is just what he wants. He will send and ask you tocome and see him; you will come, he will suggest his plan, and youwill agree to it at once, saying, "That is a very good idea; itwill suit us both; why didn't you think of it sooner?" Then withoutasking for any affirmation or confirmation of his promise, you willembrace him joyfully and take him back at once to his own room, considering this agreement as sacred as if he had confirmed itby a formal oath. What idea do you think he will form from theseproceedings, as to the fulfilment of a promise and its usefulness?If I am not greatly mistaken, there is not a child upon earth, unless he is utterly spoilt already, who could resist this treatment, or one who would ever dream of breaking windows again on purpose. Follow out the whole train of thought. The naughty little fellowhardly thought when he was making a hole for his beans that he washewing out a cell in which his own knowledge would soon imprisonhim. [Footnote: Moreover if the duty of keeping his word were notestablished in the child's mind by its own utility, the child's growingconsciousness would soon impress it on him as a law of conscience, as an innate principle, only requiring suitable experiences forits development. This first outline is not sketched by man, it isengraved on the heart by the author of all justice. Take away theprimitive law of contract and the obligation imposed by contractand there is nothing left of human society but vanity and emptyshow. He who only keeps his word because it is to his own profitis hardly more pledged than if he had given no promise at all. Thisprinciple is of the utmost importance, and deserves to be thoroughlystudied, for man is now beginning to be at war with himself. ]

We are now in the world of morals, the door to vice is open. Deceitand falsehood are born along with conventions and duties. As soonas we can do what we ought not to do, we try to hide what we oughtnot to have done. As soon as self-interest makes us give a promise, a greater interest may make us break it; it is merely a questionof doing it with impunity; we naturally take refuge in concealmentand falsehood. As we have not been able to prevent vice, we mustpunish it. The sorrows of life begin with its mistakes. 

I have already said enough to show that children should never receivepunishment merely as such; it should always come as the naturalconsequence of their fault. Thus you will not exclaim againsttheir falsehood, you will not exactly punish them for lying, butyou will arrange that all the ill effects of lying, such as notbeing believed when we speak the truth, or being accused of what wehave not done in spite of our protests, shall fall on their headswhen they have told a lie. But let us explain what lying means tothe child. 

There are two kinds of lies; one concerns an accomplished fact, the other concerns a future duty. The first occurs when we falselydeny or assert that we did or did not do something, or, to put itin general terms, when we knowingly say what is contrary to facts. The other occurs when we promise what we do not mean to perform, or, in general terms, when we profess an intention which we donot really mean to carry out. These two kinds of lie are sometimesfound in combination, [Footnote: Thus the guilty person, accusedof some evil deed, defends himself by asserting that he is a goodman. His statement is false in itself and false in its application tothe matter in hand. ] but their differences are my present business. 

He who feels the need of help from others, he who is constantlyexperiencing their kindness, has nothing to gain by deceiving them;it is plainly to his advantage that they should see things as theyare, lest they should mistake his interests. It is therefore plainthat lying with regard to actual facts is not natural to children, but lying is made necessary by the law of obedience; since obedienceis disagreeable, children disobey as far as they can in secret, and the present good of avoiding punishment or reproof outweighsthe remoter good of speaking the truth. Under a free and naturaleducation why should your child lie? What has he to conceal fromyou? You do not thwart him, you do not punish him, you demand nothingfrom him. Why should he not tell everything to you as simply as tohis little playmate? He cannot see anything more risky in the onecourse than in the other. 

The lie concerning duty is even less natural, since promises to door refrain from doing are conventional agreements which are outsidethe state of nature and detract from our liberty. Moreover, allpromises made by children are in themselves void; when they pledgethemselves they do not know what they are doing, for their narrowvision cannot look beyond the present. A child can hardly lie whenhe makes a promise; for he is only thinking how he can get out ofthe present difficulty, any means which has not an immediate resultis the same to him; when he promises for the future he promisesnothing, and his imagination is as yet incapable of projecting himinto the future while he lives in the present. If he could escapea whipping or get a packet of sweets by promising to throw himselfout of the window to-morrow, he would promise on the spot. Thisis why the law disregards all promises made by minors, and whenfathers and teachers are stricter and demand that promises shallbe kept, it is only when the promise refers to something the childought to do even if he had made no promise. 

The child cannot lie when he makes a promise, for he does not knowwhat he is doing when he makes his promise. The case is differentwhen he breaks his promise, which is a sort of retrospective falsehood;for he clearly remembers making the promise, but he fails to seethe importance of keeping it. Unable to look into the future, hecannot foresee the results of things, and when he breaks his promiseshe does nothing contrary to his stage of reasoning. 

Children's lies are therefore entirely the work of their teachers, and to teach them to speak the truth is nothing less than to teachthem the art of lying. In your zeal to rule, control, and teachthem, you never find sufficient means at your disposal. You wishto gain fresh influence over their minds by baseless maxims, byunreasonable precepts; and you would rather they knew their lessonsand told lies, than leave them ignorant and truthful. 

We, who only give our scholars lessons in practice, who prefer tohave them good rather than clever, never demand the truth lest theyshould conceal it, and never claim any promise lest they should betempted to break it. If some mischief has been done in my absenceand I do not know who did it, I shall take care not to accuseEmile, nor to say, "Did you do it?" [Footnote: Nothing could be moreindiscreet than such a question, especially if the child is guilty. Then if he thinks you know what he has done, he will think you aresetting a trap for him, and this idea can only set him against you. If he thinks you do not know, he will say to himself, "Why shouldI make my fault known?" And here we have the first temptation tofalsehood as the direct result of your foolish question. ] For in sodoing what should I do but teach him to deny it? If his difficulttemperament compels me to make some agreement with him, I will takegood care that the suggestion always comes from him, never fromme; that when he undertakes anything he has always a present andeffective interest in fulfilling his promise, and if he ever failsthis lie will bring down on him all the unpleasant consequenceswhich he sees arising from the natural order of things, and notfrom his tutor's vengeance. But far from having recourse to suchcruel measures, I feel almost certain that Emile will not know formany years what it is to lie, and that when he does find out, hewill be astonished and unable to understand what can be the use ofit. It is quite clear that the less I make his welfare dependent onthe will or the opinions of others, the less is it to his interestto lie. 

When we are in no hurry to teach there is no hurry to demand, andwe can take our time, so as to demand nothing except under fittingconditions. Then the child is training himself, in so far as heis not being spoilt. But when a fool of a tutor, who does not knowhow to set about his business, is always making his pupil promisefirst this and then that, without discrimination, choice, orproportion, the child is puzzled and overburdened with all thesepromises, and neglects, forgets or even scorns them, and consideringthem as so many empty phrases he makes a game of making and breakingpromises. Would you have him keep his promise faithfully, bemoderate in your claims upon him. 

The detailed treatment I have just given to lying may be appliedin many respects to all the other duties imposed upon children, whereby these duties are made not only hateful but impracticable. For the sake of a show of preaching virtue you make them love everyvice; you instil these vices by forbidding them. Would you havethem pious, you take them to church till they are sick of it; youteach them to gabble prayers until they long for the happy timewhen they will not have to pray to God. To teach them charity youmake them give alms as if you scorned to give yourself. It is notthe child, but the master, who should give; however much he loveshis pupil he should vie with him for this honour; he should makehim think that he is too young to deserve it. Alms-giving is thedeed of a man who can measure the worth of his gift and the needsof his fellow-men. The child, who knows nothing of these, can haveno merit in giving; he gives without charity, without kindness; heis almost ashamed to give, for, to judge by your practice and hisown, he thinks it is only children who give, and that there is noneed for charity when we are grown up. 

Observe that the only things children are set to give are thingsof which they do not know the value, bits of metal carried in theirpockets for which they have no further use. A child would rathergive a hundred coins than one cake. But get this prodigal giverto distribute what is dear to him, his toys, his sweets, his ownlunch, and we shall soon see if you have made him really generous. 

People try yet another way; they soon restore what he gave to thechild, so that he gets used to giving everything which he knowswill come back to him. I have scarcely seen generosity in childrenexcept of these two types, giving what is of no use to them, orwhat they expect to get back again. "Arrange things, " says Locke. "so that experience may convince them that the most generous givergets the biggest share. " That is to make the child superficiallygenerous but really greedy. He adds that "children will thus formthe habit of liberality. " Yes, a usurer's liberality, which expectscent. Per cent. But when it is a question of real giving, good-byeto the habit; when they do not get things back, they will not give. It is the habit of the mind, not of the hands, that needs watching. All the other virtues taught to children are like this, and topreach these baseless virtues you waste their youth in sorrow. Whata sensible sort of education!

Teachers, have done with these shams; be good and kind; let yourexample sink into your scholars' memories till they are old enoughto take it to heart. Rather than hasten to demand deeds of charityfrom my pupil I prefer to perform such deeds in his presence, evendepriving him of the means of imitating me, as an honour beyondhis years; for it is of the utmost importance that he should notregard a man's duties as merely those of a child. If when he seesme help the poor he asks me about it, and it is time to reply tohis questions, [Footnote: It must be understood that I do not answerhis questions when he wants; that would be to subject myself to hiswill and to place myself in the most dangerous state of dependencethat ever a tutor was in. ] I shall say, "My dear boy, the rich onlyexist, through the good-will of the poor, so they have promisedto feed those who have not enough to live on, either in goodsor labour. " "Then you promised to do this?" "Certainly; I am onlymaster of the wealth that passes through my hands on the conditionattached to its ownership. "

After this talk (and we have seen how a child may be brought tounderstand it) another than Emile would be tempted to imitate meand behave like a rich man; in such a case I should at least takecare that it was done without ostentation; I would rather he robbedme of my privilege and hid himself to give. It is a fraud suitableto his age, and the only one I could forgive in him. 

I know that all these imitative virtues are only the virtues of amonkey, and that a good action is only morally good when it is doneas such and not because of others. But at an age when the heartdoes not yet feel anything, you must make children copy the deedsyou wish to grow into habits, until they can do them with understandingand for the love of what is good. Man imitates, as do the beasts. The love of imitating is well regulated by nature; in society itbecomes a vice. The monkey imitates man, whom he fears, and notthe other beasts, which he scorns; he thinks what is done by hisbetters must be good. Among ourselves, our harlequins imitate allthat is good to degrade it and bring it into ridicule; knowingtheir owners' baseness they try to equal what is better than theyare, or they strive to imitate what they admire, and their badtaste appears in their choice of models, they would rather deceiveothers or win applause for their own talents than become wiseror better. Imitation has its roots in our desire to escape fromourselves. If I succeed in my undertaking, Emile will certainlyhave no such wish. So we must dispense with any seeming good thatmight arise from it. 

Examine your rules of education; you will find them all topsy-turvy, especially in all that concerns virtue and morals. The only morallesson which is suited for a child--the most important lesson forevery time of life--is this: "Never hurt anybody. " The very rule ofwell-doing, if not subordinated to this rule, is dangerous, false, and contradictory. Who is there who does no good? Every one doessome good, the wicked as well as the righteous; he makes one happyat the cost of the misery of a hundred, and hence spring all ourmisfortunes. The noblest virtues are negative, they are also themost difficult, for they make little show, and do not even makeroom for that pleasure so dear to the heart of man, the thoughtthat some one is pleased with us. If there be a man who does noharm to his neighbours, what good must he have accomplished! Whata bold heart, what a strong character it needs! It is not in talkingabout this maxim, but in trying to practise it, that we discoverboth its greatness and its difficulty. [Footnote: The precept"Never hurt anybody, " implies the greatest possible independenceof human society; for in the social state one man's good is anotherman's evil. This relation is part of the nature of things; it isinevitable. You may apply this test to man in society and to thehermit to discover which is best. A distinguished author says, "Nonebut the wicked can live alone. " I say, "None but the good can livealone. " This proposition, if less sententious, is truer and morelogical than the other. If the wicked were alone, what evil wouldhe do? It is among his fellows that he lays his snares for others. If they wish to apply this argument to the man of property, myanswer is to be found in the passage to which this note is appended. ]

This will give you some slight idea of the precautions I wouldhave you take in giving children instruction which cannot alwaysbe refused without risk to themselves or others, or the far greaterrisk of the formation of bad habits, which would be difficult tocorrect later on; but be sure this necessity will not often arisewith children who are properly brought up, for they cannot possiblybecome rebellious, spiteful, untruthful, or greedy, unless theseeds of these vices are sown in their hearts. What I have justsaid applies therefore rather to the exception than the rule. Butthe oftener children have the opportunity of quitting their propercondition, and contracting the vices of men, the oftener willthese exceptions arise. Those who are brought up in the world mustreceive more precocious instruction than those who are brought upin retirement. So this solitary education would be preferable, evenif it did nothing more than leave childhood time to ripen. 

There is quite another class of exceptions: those so gifted by naturethat they rise above the level of their age. As there are men whonever get beyond infancy, so there are others who are never, soto speak, children, they are men almost from birth. The difficultyis that these cases are very rare, very difficult to distinguish;while every mother, who knows that a child may be a prodigy, is convinced that her child is that one. They go further; theymistake the common signs of growth for marks of exceptional talent. Liveliness, sharp sayings, romping, amusing simplicity, theseare the characteristic marks of this age, and show that the childis a child indeed. Is it strange that a child who is encouragedto chatter and allowed to say anything, who is restrained neitherby consideration nor convention, should chance to say somethingclever? Were he never to hit the mark, his case would be strangerthan that of the astrologer who, among a thousand errors, occasionallypredicts the truth. "They lie so often, " said Henry IV. , "that atlast they say what is true. " If you want to say something clever, you have only to talk long enough. May Providence watch over thosefine folk who have no other claim to social distinction. 

The finest thoughts may spring from a child's brain, or rather thebest words may drop from his lips, just as diamonds of great worthmay fall into his hands, while neither the thoughts nor the diamondsare his own; at that age neither can be really his. The child'ssayings do not mean to him what they mean to us, the ideas heattaches to them are different. His ideas, if indeed he has anyideas at all, have neither order nor connection; there is nothingsure, nothing certain, in his thoughts. Examine your so-calledprodigy. Now and again you will discover in him extreme activity ofmind and extraordinary clearness of thought. More often this samemind will seem slack and spiritless, as if wrapped in mist. Sometimeshe goes before you, sometimes he will not stir. One moment youwould call him a genius, another a fool. You would be mistaken inboth; he is a child, an eaglet who soars aloft for a moment, onlyto drop back into the nest. 

Treat him, therefore, according to his age, in spite of appearances, and beware of exhausting his strength by over-much exercise. If theyoung brain grows warm and begins to bubble, let it work freely, but do not heat it any further, lest it lose its goodness, and whenthe first gases have been given off, collect and compress the restso that in after years they may turn to life-giving heat and realenergy. If not, your time and your pains will be wasted, you willdestroy your own work, and after foolishly intoxicating yourselfwith these heady fumes, you will have nothing left but an insipidand worthless wine. 

Silly children grow into ordinary men. I know no generalisationmore certain than this. It is the most difficult thing in theworld to distinguish between genuine stupidity, and that apparentand deceitful stupidity which is the sign of a strong character. At first sight it seems strange that the two extremes should havethe same outward signs; and yet it may well be so, for at an agewhen man has as yet no true ideas, the whole difference betweenthe genius and the rest consists in this: the latter only take infalse ideas, while the former, finding nothing but false ideas, receives no ideas at all. In this he resembles the fool; the oneis fit for nothing, the other finds nothing fit for him. The onlyway of distinguishing between them depends upon chance, which mayoffer the genius some idea which he can understand, while the foolis always the same. As a child, the young Cato was taken for anidiot by his parents; he was obstinate and silent, and that was allthey perceived in him; it was only in Sulla's ante-chamber thathis uncle discovered what was in him. Had he never found his waythere, he might have passed for a fool till he reached the ageof reason. Had Caesar never lived, perhaps this same Cato, whodiscerned his fatal genius, and foretold his great schemes, wouldhave passed for a dreamer all his days. Those who judge childrenhastily are apt to be mistaken; they are often more childish thanthe child himself. I knew a middle-aged man, [Footnote: The Abbe deCondillac] whose friendship I esteemed an honour, who was reckoneda fool by his family. All at once he made his name as a philosopher, and I have no doubt posterity will give him a high place among thegreatest thinkers and the profoundest metaphysicians of his day. 

Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judgeit for good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves, let their qualities be tested and confirmed, before special methodsare adopted. Give nature time to work before you take over herbusiness, lest you interfere with her dealings. You assert thatyou know the value of time and are afraid to waste it. You failto perceive that it is a greater waste of time to use it ill thanto do nothing, and that a child ill taught is further from virtuethan a child who has learnt nothing at all. You are afraid to seehim spending his early years doing nothing. What! is it nothingto be happy, nothing to run and jump all day? He will never be sobusy again all his life long. Plato, in his Republic, which isconsidered so stern, teaches the children only through festivals, games, songs, and amusements. It seems as if he had accomplished hispurpose when he had taught them to be happy; and Seneca, speakingof the Roman lads in olden days, says, "They were always on theirfeet, they were never taught anything which kept them sitting. " Werethey any the worse for it in manhood? Do not be afraid, therefore, of this so-called idleness. What would you think of a man whorefused to sleep lest he should waste part of his life? You wouldsay, "He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is robbing himselfof part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his death. " Rememberthat these two cases are alike, and that childhood is the sleep ofreason. 

The apparent ease with which children learn is their ruin. You failto see that this very facility proves that they are not learning. Their shining, polished brain reflects, as in a mirror, the thingsyou show them, but nothing sinks in. The child remembers the wordsand the ideas are reflected back; his hearers understand them, butto him they are meaningless. 

Although memory and reason are wholly different faculties, theone does not really develop apart from the other. Before the ageof reason the child receives images, not ideas; and there is thisdifference between them: images are merely the pictures of externalobjects, while ideas are notions about those objects determined bytheir relations. An image when it is recalled may exist by itselfin the mind, but every idea implies other ideas. When we imagewe merely perceive, when we reason we compare. Our sensations aremerely passive, our notions or ideas spring from an active principlewhich judges. The proof of this will be given later. 

I maintain, therefore, that as children are incapable of judging, they have no true memory. They retain sounds, form, sensation, butrarely ideas, and still more rarely relations. You tell me theyacquire some rudiments of geometry, and you think you prove yourcase; not so, it is mine you prove; you show that far from being ableto reason themselves, children are unable to retain the reasoningof others; for if you follow the method of these little geometriciansyou will see they only retain the exact impression of the figureand the terms of the demonstration. They cannot meet the slightestnew objection; if the figure is reversed they can do nothing. Alltheir knowledge is on the sensation-level, nothing has penetratedto their understanding. Their memory is little better than theirother powers, for they always have to learn over again, when theyare grown up, what they learnt as children. 

I am far from thinking, however, that children have no sort of reason. [Footnote: I have noticed again and again that it is impossiblein writing a lengthy work to use the same words always in thesame sense. There is no language rich enough to supply terms andexpressions sufficient for the modifications of our ideas. The methodof defining every term and constantly substituting the definitionfor the term defined looks well, but it is impracticable. For howcan we escape from our vicious circle? Definitions would be allvery well if we did not use words in the making of them. In spiteof this I am convinced that even in our poor language we can makeour meaning clear, not by always using words in the same sense, but by taking care hat every time we use a word the sense in whichwe use it is sufficiently indicated by the sense of the context, so that each sentence in which the word occurs acts as a sort ofdefinition. Sometimes I say children are incapable of reasoning. Sometimes I say they reason cleverly. I must admit that my words areoften contradictory, but I do not think there is any contradictionin my ideas. ] On the contrary, I think they reason very well withregard to things that affect their actual and sensible well-being. But people are mistaken as to the extent of their information, andthey attribute to them knowledge they do not possess, and make themreason about things they cannot understand. Another mistake is totry to turn their attention to matters which do not concern themin the least, such as their future interest, their happiness whenthey are grown up, the opinion people will have of them when theyare men--terms which are absolutely meaningless when addressed tocreatures who are entirely without foresight. But all the forcedstudies of these poor little wretches are directed towards mattersutterly remote from their minds. You may judge how much attentionthey can give to them. 

The pedagogues, who make a great display of the teaching they givetheir pupils, are paid to say just the opposite; yet their actionsshow that they think just as I do. For what do they teach? Words!words! words! Among the various sciences they boast of teachingtheir scholars, they take good care never to choose those whichmight be really useful to them, for then they would be compelled todeal with things and would fail utterly; the sciences they chooseare those we seem to know when we know their technical terms--heraldry, geography, chronology, languages, etc. , studies so remote from man, and even more remote from the child, that it is a wonder if he canever make any use of any part of them. 

You will be surprised to find that I reckon the study of languagesamong the useless lumber of education; but you must remember thatI am speaking of the studies of the earliest years, and whateveryou may say, I do not believe any child under twelve or fifteenever really acquired two languages. 

If the study of languages were merely the study of words, that is, of the symbols by which language expresses itself, then this mightbe a suitable study for children; but languages, as they changethe symbols, also modify the ideas which the symbols express. Mindsare formed by language, thoughts take their colour from its ideas. Reason alone is common to all. Every language has its own form, adifference which may be partly cause and partly effect of differencesin national character; this conjecture appears to be confirmedby the fact that in every nation under the sun speech follows thechanges of manners, and is preserved or altered along with them. 

By use the child acquires one of these different forms, and it isthe only language he retains till the age of reason. To acquiretwo languages he must be able to compare their ideas, and how canhe compare ideas he can barely understand? Everything may havea thousand meanings to him, but each idea can only have one form, so he can only learn one language. You assure me he learns severallanguages; I deny it. I have seen those little prodigies who aresupposed to speak half a dozen languages. I have heard them speakfirst in German, then in Latin, French, or Italian; true, they usedhalf a dozen different vocabularies, but they always spoke German. In a word, you may give children as many synonyms as you like; itis not their language but their words that you change; they willnever have but one language. 

To conceal their deficiencies teachers choose the dead languages, in which we have no longer any judges whose authority is beyonddispute. The familiar use of these tongues disappeared long ago, so they are content to imitate what they find in books, and theycall that talking. If the master's Greek and Latin is such poorstuff, what about the children? They have scarcely learnt theirprimer by heart, without understanding a word of it, when they areset to translate a French speech into Latin words; then when theyare more advanced they piece together a few phrases of Cicero forprose or a few lines of Vergil for verse. Then they think they canspeak Latin, and who will contradict them?

In any study whatsoever the symbols are of no value without theidea of the things symbolised. Yet the education of the child inconfined to those symbols, while no one ever succeeds in makinghim understand the thing signified. You think you are teaching himwhat the world is like; he is only learning the map; he is taughtthe names of towns, countries, rivers, which have no existence forhim except on the paper before him. I remember seeing a geographysomewhere which began with: "What is the world?"--"A sphere ofcardboard. " That is the child's geography. I maintain that after twoyears' work with the globe and cosmography, there is not a singleten-year-old child who could find his way from Paris to Saint Denisby the help of the rules he has learnt. I maintain that not one ofthese children could find his way by the map about the paths on hisfather's estate without getting lost. These are the young doctorswho can tell us the position of Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and everycountry in the world. 

You tell me the child must be employed on studies which only needeyes. That may be; but if there are any such studies, they areunknown to me. 

It is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history, which is considered within their grasp because it is merelya collection of facts. But what is meant by this word "fact"? Doyou think the relations which determine the facts of history areso easy to grasp that the corresponding ideas are easily developedin the child's mind! Do you think that a real knowledge of eventscan exist apart from the knowledge of their causes and effects, and that history has so little relation to words that the one canbe learnt without the other? If you perceive nothing in a man'sactions beyond merely physical and external movements, what do youlearn from history? Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbedof all that makes it interesting, gives you neither pleasure norinformation. If you want to judge actions by their moral bearings, try to make these moral bearings intelligible to your scholars. You will soon find out if they are old enough to learn history. 

Remember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholarnor a philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man whois pledged to no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little withother men, and has less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices, and more time to reflect on the things that strike him in hisintercourse with them. My arguments are based less on theories thanon facts, and I think I can find no better way to bring the factshome to you than by quoting continually some example from theobservations which suggested my arguments. 

I had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy motherof a family who took great pains with her children and theireducation. One morning I was present while the eldest boy had hislessons. His tutor, who had taken great pains to teach him ancienthistory, began upon the story of Alexander and lighted on thewell-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor. There is a picture ofit, and the story is well worth study. The tutor, worthy man, madeseveral reflections which I did not like with regard to Alexander'scourage, but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in theeyes of his pupil. At dinner they did not fail to get the littlefellow talking, French fashion. The eager spirit of a child ofhis age, and the confident expectation of applause, made him saya number of silly things, and among them from time to time therewere things to the point, and these made people forget the rest. Atlast came the story of Philip the Doctor. He told it very distinctlyand prettily. After the usual meed of praise, demanded by hismother and expected by the child himself, they discussed what hehad said. Most of them blamed Alexander's rashness, some of them, following the tutor's example, praised his resolution, which showedme that none of those present really saw the beauty of the story. "For my own part, " I said, "if there was any courage or anysteadfastness at all in Alexander's conduct I think it was onlya piece of bravado. " Then every one agreed that it was a piece ofbravado. I was getting angry, and would have replied, when a ladysitting beside me, who had not hitherto spoken, bent towards meand whispered in my ear. "Jean Jacques, " said she, "say no more, they will never understand you. " I looked at her, I recognised thewisdom of her advice, and I held my tongue. 

Several things made me suspect that our young professor had not inthe least understood the story he told so prettily. After dinnerI took his hand in mine and we went for a walk in the park. WhenI had questioned him quietly, I discovered that he admired thevaunted courage of Alexander more than any one. But in what do yousuppose he thought this courage consisted? Merely in swallowinga disagreeable drink at a single draught without hesitation andwithout any signs of dislike. Not a fortnight before the poor childhad been made to take some medicine which he could hardly swallow, and the taste of it was still in his mouth. Death, and death bypoisoning, were for him only disagreeable sensations, and senna washis only idea of poison. I must admit, however, that Alexander'sresolution had made a great impression on his young mind, and hewas determined that next time he had to take medicine he would bean Alexander. Without entering upon explanations which were clearlybeyond his grasp, I confirmed him in his praiseworthy intention, and returned home smiling to myself over the great wisdom of parentsand teachers who expect to teach history to children. 

Such words as king, emperor, war, conquest, law, and revolution areeasily put into their mouths; but when it is a question of attachingclear ideas to these words the explanations are very different fromour talk with Robert the gardener. 

I feel sure some readers dissatisfied with that "Say no more, JeanJacques, " will ask what I really saw to admire in the conduct ofAlexander. Poor things! if you need telling, how can you comprehendit? Alexander believed in virtue, he staked his head, he stakedhis own life on that faith, his great soul was fitted to hold sucha faith. To swallow that draught was to make a noble professionof the faith that was in him. Never did mortal man recite a finercreed. If there is an Alexander in our own days, show me such deeds. 

If children have no knowledge of words, there is no study that issuitable for them. If they have no real ideas they have no realmemory, for I do not call that a memory which only recalls sensations. What is the use of inscribing on their brains a list of symbolswhich mean nothing to them? They will learn the symbols when theylearn the things signified; why give them the useless trouble oflearning them twice over? And yet what dangerous prejudices are youimplanting when you teach them to accept as knowledge words whichhave no meaning for them. The first meaningless phrase, the firstthing taken for granted on the word of another person withoutseeing its use for himself, this is the beginning of the ruin ofthe child's judgment. He may dazzle the eyes of fools long enoughbefore he recovers from such a loss. [Footnote: The learning ofmost philosophers is like the learning of children. Vast eruditionresults less in the multitude of ideas than in a multitude ofimages. Dates, names, places, all objects isolated or unconnectedwith ideas are merely retained in the memory for symbols, and werarely recall any of these without seeing the right or left pageof the book in which we read it, or the form in which we first sawit. Most science was of this kind till recently. The science ofour times is another matter; study and observation are things ofthe past; we dream and the dreams of a bad night are given to us asphilosophy. You will say I too am a dreamer; I admit it, but I dowhat the others fail to do, I give my dreams as dreams, and leavethe reader to discover whether there is anything in them which mayprove useful to those who are awake. ]

No, if nature has given the child this plasticity of brain whichfits him to receive every kind of impression, it was not that youshould imprint on it the names and dates of kings, the jargon ofheraldry, the globe and geography, all those words without presentmeaning or future use for the child, which flood of words overwhelmshis sad and barren childhood. But by means of this plasticity allthe ideas he can understand and use, all that concern his happinessand will some day throw light upon his duties, should be traced atan early age in indelible characters upon his brain, to guide himto live in such a way as befits his nature and his powers. 

Without the study of books, such a memory as the child may possessis not left idle; everything he sees and hears makes an impressionon him, he keeps a record of men's sayings and doings, and hiswhole environment is the book from which he unconsciously enricheshis memory, till his judgment is able to profit by it. 

To select these objects, to take care to present him constantlywith those he may know, to conceal from him those he ought not toknow, this is the real way of training his early memory; and inthis way you must try to provide him with a storehouse of knowledgewhich will serve for his education in youth and his conduct throughoutlife. True, this method does not produce infant prodigies, nor willit reflect glory upon their tutors and governesses, but it producesmen, strong, right-thinking men, vigorous both in mind and body, men who do not win admiration as children, but honour as men. 

Emile will not learn anything by heart, not even fables, not eventhe fables of La Fontaine, simple and delightful as they are, for the words are no more the fable than the words of history arehistory. How can people be so blind as to call fables the child'ssystem of morals, without considering that the child is not onlyamused by the apologue but misled by it? He is attracted by whatis false and he misses the truth, and the means adopted to make theteaching pleasant prevent him profiting by it. Men may be taughtby fables; children require the naked truth. 

All children learn La Fontaine's fables, but not one of themunderstands them. It is just as well that they do not understand, for the morality of the fables is so mixed and so unsuitable fortheir age that it would be more likely to incline them to vicethan to virtue. "More paradoxes!" you exclaim. Paradoxes they maybe; but let us see if there is not some truth in them. 

I maintain that the child does not understand the fables he istaught, for however you try to explain them, the teaching you wishto extract from them demands ideas which he cannot grasp, while thepoetical form which makes it easier to remember makes it harder tounderstand, so that clearness is sacrificed to facility. Withoutquoting the host of wholly unintelligible and useless fables whichare taught to children because they happen to be in the same bookas the others, let us keep to those which the author seems to havewritten specially for children. 

In the whole of La Fontaine's works I only know five or six fablesconspicuous for child-like simplicity; I will take the first ofthese as an example, for it is one whose moral is most suitable forall ages, one which children get hold of with the least difficulty, which they have most pleasure in learning, one which for this veryreason the author has placed at the beginning of his book. If hisobject were really to delight and instruct children, this fable ishis masterpiece. Let us go through it and examine it briefly. 

THE FOX AND THE CROW

A FABLE

"Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche" (Mr. Crow perched on atree). --"Mr. !" what does that word really mean? What does it meanbefore a proper noun? What is its meaning here? What is a crow?What is "un arbre perche"? We do not say "on a tree perched, " butperched on a tree. So we must speak of poetical inversions, wemust distinguish between prose and verse. 

"Tenait dans son bec un fromage" (Held a cheese in his beak)--Whatsort of a cheese? Swiss, Brie, or Dutch? If the child has neverseen crows, what is the good of talking about them? If he has seencrows will he believe that they can hold a cheese in their beak?Your illustrations should always be taken from nature. 

"Maitre renard, par l'odeur alleche" (Mr. Fox, attracted bythe smell). --Another Master! But the title suits the fox, --who ismaster of all the tricks of his trade. You must explain what a foxis, and distinguish between the real fox and the conventional foxof the fables. 

"Alleche. " The word is obsolete; you will have to explain it. Youwill say it is only used in verse. Perhaps the child will ask whypeople talk differently in verse. How will you answer that question?

"Alleche, par l'odeur d'un fromage. " The cheese was held in his beakby a crow perched on a tree; it must indeed have smelt strong ifthe fox, in his thicket or his earth, could smell it. This is theway you train your pupil in that spirit of right judgment, whichrejects all but reasonable arguments, and is able to distinguishbetween truth and falsehood in other tales. 

"Lui tient a peu pres ce langage" (Spoke to him after this fashion). --"Celangage. " So foxes talk, do they! They talk like crows! Mind whatyou are about, oh, wise tutor; weigh your answer before you giveit, it is more important than you suspect. 

"Eh! Bonjour, Monsieur le Corbeau!" ("Good-day, Mr. Crow!")--Mr. !The child sees this title laughed to scorn before he knows it isa title of honour. Those who say "Monsieur du Corbeau" will findtheir work cut out for them to explain that "du. "

"Que vous etes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!" ("How handsome youare, how beautiful in my eyes!")--Mere padding. The child, findingthe same thing repeated twice over in different words, is learningto speak carelessly. If you say this redundance is a device of theauthor, a part of the fox's scheme to make his praise seem all thegreater by his flow of words, that is a valid excuse for me, butnot for my pupil. 

"Sans mentir, si votre ramage" ("Without lying, if your song"). --"Withoutlying. " So people do tell lies sometimes. What will the child thinkof you if you tell him the fox only says "Sans mentir" because heis lying?

"Se rapporte a votre plumage" ("Answered to your finefeathers"). --"Answered!" What does that mean? Try to make thechild compare qualities so different as those of song and plumage;you will see how much he understands. 

"Vous seriez le phenix des hotes de ces bois!" ("You would be thephoenix of all the inhabitants of this wood!")--The phoenix! Whatis a phoenix? All of a sudden we are floundering in the lies ofantiquity--we are on the edge of mythology. 

"The inhabitants of this wood. " What figurative language! Theflatterer adopts the grand style to add dignity to his speech, tomake it more attractive. Will the child understand this cunning?Does he know, how could he possibly know, what is meant by grandstyle and simple style?

"A ces mots le corbeau ne se sent pas de joie" (At these words, thecrow is beside himself with delight). --To realise the full forceof this proverbial expression we must have experienced very strongfeeling. 

"Et, pour montrer sa belle voix" (And, to show his fine voice). --Rememberthat the child, to understand this line and the whole fable, mustknow what is meant by the crow's fine voice. 

"Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie" (He opens his widebeak and drops his prey). --This is a splendid line; its very soundsuggests a picture. I see the great big ugly gaping beak, I hearthe cheese crashing through the branches; but this kind of beautyis thrown away upon children. 

"Le renard s'en saisit, et dit, 'Mon bon monsieur'" (The fox catchesit, and says, "My dear sir"). --So kindness is already folly. Youcertainly waste no time in teaching your children. 

"Apprenez que tout flatteur" ("You must learn that every flatterer"). --Ageneral maxim. The child can make neither head nor tail of it. 

"Vit au depens de celui qui l'ecoute" ("Lives at the expense ofthe person who listens to his flattery"). --No child of ten everunderstood that. 

"Ce lecon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute" ("No doubt this lessonis well worth a cheese"). --This is intelligible and its meaning isvery good. Yet there are few children who could compare a cheese anda lesson, few who would not prefer the cheese. You will thereforehave to make them understand that this is said in mockery. Whatsubtlety for a child!

"Le corbeau, honteux et confus" (The crow, ashamed and confused). --A nothingpleonasm, and there is no excuse for it this time. 

"Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus" (Swore, but rather too late, that he would not be caught in that wayagain). --"Swore. " What master will be such a fool as to try toexplain to a child the meaning of an oath?

What a host of details! but much more would be needed for theanalysis of all the ideas in this fable and their reduction to thesimple and elementary ideas of which each is composed. But who thinksthis analysis necessary to make himself intelligible to children?Who of us is philosopher enough to be able to put himself in thechild's place? Let us now proceed to the moral. 

Should we teach a six-year-old child that there are people whoflatter and lie for the sake of gain? One might perhaps teach themthat there are people who make fools of little boys and laugh attheir foolish vanity behind their backs. But the whole thing isspoilt by the cheese. You are teaching them how to make anotherdrop his cheese rather than how to keep their own. This is my secondparadox, and it is not less weighty than the former one. 

Watch children learning their fables and you will see that whenthey have a chance of applying them they almost always use themexactly contrary to the author's meaning; instead of being on theirguard against the fault which you would prevent or cure, they aredisposed to like the vice by which one takes advantage of another'sdefects. In the above fable children laugh at the crow, but theyall love the fox. In the next fable you expect them to followthe example of the grasshopper. Not so, they will choose the ant. They do not care to abase themselves, they will always choose theprincipal part--this is the choice of self-love, a very naturalchoice. But what a dreadful lesson for children! There could beno monster more detestable than a harsh and avaricious child, whorealised what he was asked to give and what he refused. The antdoes more; she teaches him not merely to refuse but to revile. 

In all the fables where the lion plays a part, usually the chiefpart, the child pretends to be the lion, and when he has to presideover some distribution of good things, he takes care to keepeverything for himself; but when the lion is overthrown by the gnat, the child is the gnat. He learns how to sting to death those whomhe dare not attack openly. 

From the fable of the sleek dog and the starving wolf he learns alesson of licence rather than the lesson of moderation which youprofess to teach him. I shall never forget seeing a little girlweeping bitterly over this tale, which had been told her as a lessonin obedience. The poor child hated to be chained up; she felt thechain chafing her neck; she was crying because she was not a wolf. 

So from the first of these fables the child learns the basestflattery; from the second, cruelty; from the third, injustice; fromthe fourth, satire; from the fifth, insubordination. The last ofthese lessons is no more suitable for your pupils than for mine, though he has no use for it. What results do you expect to getfrom your teaching when it contradicts itself! But perhaps thesame system of morals which furnishes me with objections againstthe fables supplies you with as many reasons for keeping to them. Society requires a rule of morality in our words; it also requiresa rule of morality in our deeds; and these two rules are quitedifferent. The former is contained in the Catechism and it is leftthere; the other is contained in La Fontaine's fables for childrenand his tales for mothers. The same author does for both. 

Let us make a bargain, M. De la Fontaine. For my own part, I undertake to make your books my favourite study; I undertake tolove you, and to learn from your fables, for I hope I shall notmistake their meaning. As to my pupil, permit me to prevent himstudying any one of them till you have convinced me that it is goodfor him to learn things three-fourths of which are unintelligibleto him, and until you can convince me that in those fables he canunderstand he will never reverse the order and imitate the villaininstead of taking warning from his dupe. 

When I thus get rid of children's lessons, I get rid of the chiefcause of their sorrows, namely their books. Reading is the curseof childhood, yet it is almost the only occupation you can findfor children. Emile, at twelve years old, will hardly know what abook is. "But, " you say, "he must, at least, know how to read. "

When reading is of use to him, I admit he must learn to read, buttill then he will only find it a nuisance. 

If children are not to be required to do anything as a matter ofobedience, it follows that they will only learn what they perceiveto be of real and present value, either for use or enjoyment; whatother motive could they have for learning? The art of speaking toour absent friends, of hearing their words; the art of letting themknow at first hand our feelings, our desires, and our longings, isan art whose usefulness can be made plain at any age. How is itthat this art, so useful and pleasant in itself, has become a terrorto children? Because the child is compelled to acquire it againsthis will, and to use it for purposes beyond his comprehension. Achild has no great wish to perfect himself in the use of an instrumentof torture, but make it a means to his pleasure, and soon you willnot be able to keep him from it. 

People make a great fuss about discovering the beat way to teachchildren to read. They invent "bureaux" [Footnote: Translator'snote. --The "bureau" was a sort of case containing letters tobe put together to form words. It was a favourite device for theteaching of reading and gave its name to a special method, calledthe bureau-method, of learning to read. ] and cards, they turn thenursery into a printer's shop. Locke would have them taught to readby means of dice. What a fine idea! And the pity of it! There is abetter way than any of those, and one which is generally overlooked--itconsists in the desire to learn. Arouse this desire in your scholarand have done with your "bureaux" and your dice--any method willserve. 

Present interest, that is the motive power, the only motive powerthat takes us far and safely. Sometimes Emile receives notes ofinvitation from his father or mother, his relations or friends; heis invited to a dinner, a walk, a boating expedition, to see somepublic entertainment. These notes are short, clear, plain, and wellwritten. Some one must read them to him, and he cannot always findanybody when wanted; no more consideration is shown to him than hehimself showed to you yesterday. Time passes, the chance is lost. The note is read to him at last, but it is too late. Oh! ifonly he had known how to read! He receives other notes, so short, so interesting, he would like to try to read them. Sometimes hegets help, sometimes none. He does his best, and at last he makesout half the note; it is something about going to-morrow to drinkcream--Where? With whom? He cannot tell--how hard he tries to makeout the rest! I do not think Emile will need a "bureau. " Shall Iproceed to the teaching of writing? No, I am ashamed to toy withthese trifles in a treatise on education. 

I will just add a few words which contain a principle of greatimportance. It is this--What we are in no hurry to get is usuallyobtained with speed and certainty. I am pretty sure Emile will learnto read and write before he is ten, just because I care very littlewhether he can do so before he is fifteen; but I would rather henever learnt to read at all, than that this art should be acquiredat the price of all that makes reading useful. What is the use ofreading to him if he always hates it? "Id imprimis cavere oportebit, ne studia, qui amare nondum potest, oderit, et amaritudinem semelperceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidet. "--Quintil. 

The more I urge my method of letting well alone, the more objectionsI perceive against it. If your pupil learns nothing from you, hewill learn from others. If you do not instil truth he will learnfalsehoods; the prejudices you fear to teach him he will acquirefrom those about him, they will find their way through every oneof his senses; they will either corrupt his reason before it isfully developed or his mind will become torpid through inaction, and will become engrossed in material things. If we do not form thehabit of thinking as children, we shall lose the power of thinkingfor the rest of our life. 

I fancy I could easily answer that objection, but why should I answerevery objection? If my method itself answers your objections, itis good; if not, it is good for nothing. I continue my explanation. 

If, in accordance with the plan I have sketched, you follow ruleswhich are just the opposite of the established practice, if insteadof taking your scholar far afield, instead of wandering with himin distant places, in far-off lands, in remote centuries, in theends of the earth, and in the very heavens themselves, you try tokeep him to himself, to his own concerns, you will then find himable to perceive, to remember, and even to reason; this is nature'sorder. As the sentient being becomes active his discernment developsalong with his strength. Not till his strength is in excess ofwhat is needed for self-preservation, is the speculative facultydeveloped, the faculty adapted for using this superfluous strengthfor other purposes. Would you cultivate your pupil's intelligence, cultivate the strength it is meant to control. Give his body constantexercise, make it strong and healthy, in order to make him goodand wise; let him work, let him do things, let him run and shout, let him be always on the go; make a man of him in strength, and hewill soon be a man in reason. 

Of course by this method you will make him stupid if you are alwaysgiving him directions, always saying come here, go there, stop, do this, don't do that. If your head always guides his hands, hisown mind will become useless. But remember the conditions we laiddown; if you are a mere pedant it is not worth your while to readmy book. 

It is a lamentable mistake to imagine that bodily activity hindersthe working of the mind, as if these two kinds of activity oughtnot to advance hand in hand, and as if the one were not intendedto act as guide to the other. 

There are two classes of men who are constantly engaged in bodilyactivity, peasants and savages, and certainly neither of thesepays the least attention to the cultivation of the mind. Peasantsare rough, coarse, and clumsy; savages are noted, not only for theirkeen senses, but for great subtility of mind. Speaking generally, there is nothing duller than a peasant or sharper than a savage. What is the cause of this difference? The peasant has always doneas he was told, what his father did before him, what he himselfhas always done; he is the creature of habit, he spends his lifealmost like an automaton on the same tasks; habit and obediencehave taken the place of reason. 

The case of the savage is very different; he is tied to no oneplace, he has no prescribed task, no superior to obey, he knowsno law but his own will; he is therefore forced to reason at everystep he takes. He can neither move nor walk without considering theconsequences. Thus the more his body is exercised, the more alertis his mind; his strength and his reason increase together, andeach helps to develop the other. 

Oh, learned tutor, let us see which of our two scholars is mostlike the savage and which is most like the peasant. Your scholaris subject to a power which is continually giving him instruction;he acts only at the word of command; he dare not eat when he ishungry, nor laugh when he is merry, nor weep when he is sad, noroffer one hand rather than the other, nor stir a foot unless he istold to do it; before long he will not venture to breathe withoutorders. What would you have him think about, when you do all thethinking for him? He rests securely on your foresight, why shouldhe think for himself? He knows you have undertaken to take care ofhim, to secure his welfare, and he feels himself freed from thisresponsibility. His judgment relies on yours; what you have notforbidden that he does, knowing that he runs no risk. Why shouldhe learn the signs of rain? He knows you watch the clouds for him. Why should he time his walk? He knows there is no fear of yourletting him miss his dinner hour. He eats till you tell him tostop, he stops when you tell him to do so; he does not attend tothe teaching of his own stomach, but yours. In vain do you make hisbody soft by inaction; his understanding does not become subtle. Far from it, you complete your task of discrediting reason inhis eyes, by making him use such reasoning power as he has on thethings which seem of least importance to him. As he never findshis reason any use to him, he decides at last that it is useless. If he reasons badly he will be found fault with; nothing worse willhappen to him; and he has been found fault with so often that hepays no attention to it, such a common danger no longer alarms him. 

Yet you will find he has a mind. He is quick enough to chatterwith the women in the way I spoke of further back; but if he is indanger, if he must come to a decision in difficult circumstances, you will find him a hundredfold more stupid and silly than the sonof the roughest labourer. 

As for my pupil, or rather Nature's pupil, he has been trained fromthe outset to be as self-reliant as possible, he has not formedthe habit of constantly seeking help from others, still less ofdisplaying his stores of learning. On the other hand, he exercisesdiscrimination and forethought, he reasons about everything thatconcerns himself. He does not chatter, he acts. Not a word doeshe know of what is going on in the world at large, but he knowsvery thoroughly what affects himself. As he is always stirring heis compelled to notice many things, to recognise many effects; hesoon acquires a good deal of experience. Nature, not man, is hisschoolmaster, and he learns all the quicker because he is not awarethat he has any lesson to learn. So mind and body work together. He is always carrying out his own ideas, not those of other people, and thus he unites thought and action; as he grows in health andstrength he grows in wisdom and discernment. This is the way toattain later on to what is generally considered incompatible, thoughmost great men have achieved it, strength of body and strength ofmind, the reason of the philosopher and the vigour of the athlete. 

Young teacher, I am setting before you a difficult task, the artof controlling without precepts, and doing everything without doinganything at all. This art is, I confess, beyond your years, it isnot calculated to display your talents nor to make your value knownto your scholar's parents; but it is the only road to success. You will never succeed in making wise men if you do not first makelittle imps of mischief. This was the education of the Spartans;they were not taught to stick to their books, they were set to stealtheir dinners. Were they any the worse for it in after life? Everready for victory, they crushed their foes in every kind of warfare, and the prating Athenians were as much afraid of their words as oftheir blows. 

When education is most carefully attended to, the teacher issueshis orders and thinks himself master, but it is the child whois really master. He uses the tasks you set him to obtain what hewants from you, and he can always make you pay for an hour's industryby a week's complaisance. You must always be making bargains withhim. These bargains, suggested in your fashion, but carried outin his, always follow the direction of his own fancies, especiallywhen you are foolish enough to make the condition some advantagehe is almost sure to obtain, whether he fulfils his part of thebargain or not. The child is usually much quicker to read themaster's thoughts than the master to read the child's feelings. And that is as it should be, for all the sagacity which the childwould have devoted to self-preservation, had he been left to himself, is now devoted to the rescue of his native freedom from the chainsof his tyrant; while the latter, who has no such pressing need tounderstand the child, sometimes finds that it pays him better toleave him in idleness or vanity. 

Take the opposite course with your pupil; let him always think heis master while you are really master. There is no subjection socomplete as that which preserves the forms of freedom; it is thusthat the will itself is taken captive. Is not this poor child, without knowledge, strength, or wisdom, entirely at your mercy? Areyou not master of his whole environment so far as it affects him?Cannot you make of him what you please? His work and play, hispleasure and pain, are they not, unknown to him, under your control?No doubt he ought only to do what he wants, but he ought to wantto do nothing but what you want him to do. He should never take astep you have not foreseen, nor utter a word you could not foretell. 

Then he can devote himself to the bodily exercises adapted to hisage without brutalising his mind; instead of developing his cunningto evade an unwelcome control, you will then find him entirelyoccupied in getting the best he can out of his environment witha view to his present welfare, and you will be surprised by thesubtlety of the means he devises to get for himself such things ashe can obtain, and to really enjoy things without the aid of otherpeople's ideas. You leave him master of his own wishes, but youdo not multiply his caprices. When he only does what he wants, hewill soon only do what he ought, and although his body is constantly inmotion, so far as his sensible and present interests are concerned, you will find him developing all the reason of which he is capable, far better and in a manner much better fitted for him than in purelytheoretical studies. 

Thus when he does not find you continually thwarting him, when heno longer distrusts you, no longer has anything to conceal fromyou, he will neither tell you lies nor deceive you; he will showhimself fearlessly as he really is, and you can study him at yourease, and surround him with all the lessons you would have himlearn, without awaking his suspicions. 

Neither will he keep a curious and jealous eye on your own conduct, nor take a secret delight in catching you at fault. It is a greatthing to avoid this. One of the child's first objects is, as I havesaid, to find the weak spots in its rulers. Though this leads tospitefulness, it does not arise from it, but from the desire toevade a disagreeable control. Overburdened by the yoke laid uponhim, he tries to shake it off, and the faults he finds in his mastergive him a good opportunity for this. Still the habit of spying outfaults and delighting in them grows upon people. Clearly we havestopped another of the springs of vice in Emile's heart. Havingnothing to gain from my faults, he will not be on the watch forthem, nor will he be tempted to look out for the faults of others. 

All these methods seem difficult because they are new to us, butthey ought not to be really difficult. I have a right to assume thatyou have the knowledge required for the business you have chosen;that you know the usual course of development of the human thought, that you can study mankind and man, that you know beforehand theeffect on your pupil's will of the various objects suited to hisage which you put before him. You have the tools and the art touse them; are you not master of your trade?

You speak of childish caprice; you are mistaken. Children's capricesare never the work of nature, but of bad discipline; they haveeither obeyed or given orders, and I have said again and again, they must do neither. Your pupil will have the caprices you havetaught him; it is fair you should bear the punishment of your ownfaults. "But how can I cure them?" do you say? That may still bedone by better conduct on your own part and great patience. I onceundertook the charge of a child for a few weeks; he was accustomednot only to have his own way, but to make every one else do as hepleased; he was therefore capricious. The very first day he wantedto get up at midnight, to try how far he could go with me. When Iwas sound asleep he jumped out of bed, got his dressing-gown, andwaked me up. I got up and lighted the candle, which was all hewanted. After a quarter of an hour he became sleepy and went backto bed quite satisfied with his experiment. Two days later herepeated it, with the same success and with no sign of impatienceon my part. When he kissed me as he lay down, I said to him veryquietly, "My little dear, this is all very well, but do not try itagain. " His curiosity was aroused by this, and the very next day hedid not fail to get up at the same time and woke me to see whetherI should dare to disobey him. I asked what he wanted, and he toldme he could not sleep. "So much the worse for you, " I replied, andI lay quiet. He seemed perplexed by this way of speaking. He felthis way to the flint and steel and tried to strike a light. I couldnot help laughing when I heard him strike his fingers. Convinced atlast that he could not manage it, he brought the steel to my bed;I told him I did not want it, and I turned my back to him. Thenhe began to rush wildly about the room, shouting, singing, makinga great noise, knocking against chairs and tables, but taking, however, good care not to hurt himself seriously, but screamingloudly in the hope of alarming me. All this had no effect, butI perceived that though he was prepared for scolding or anger, hewas quite unprepared for indifference. 

However, he was determined to overcome my patience with his ownobstinacy, and he continued his racket so successfully that at lastI lost my temper. I foresaw that I should spoil the whole businessby an unseemly outburst of passion. I determined on another course. I got up quietly, went to the tinder box, but could not find it;I asked him for it, and he gave it me, delighted to have won thevictory over me. I struck a light, lighted the candle, took myyoung gentleman by the hand and led him quietly into an adjoiningdressing-room with the shutters firmly fastened, and nothing hecould break. 

I left him there without a light; then locking him in I went backto my bed without a word. What a noise there was! That was what Iexpected, and took no notice. At last the noise ceased; I listened, heard him settling down, and I was quite easy about him. Next morningI entered the room at daybreak, and my little rebel was lying ona sofa enjoying a sound and much needed sleep after his exertions. 

The matter did not end there. His mother heard that the child hadspent a great part of the night out of bed. That spoilt the wholething; her child was as good as dead. Finding a good chance forrevenge, he pretended to be ill, not seeing that he would gainnothing by it. They sent for the doctor. Unluckily for the mother, the doctor was a practical joker, and to amuse himself with herterrors he did his best to increase them. However, he whispered tome, "Leave it to me, I promise to cure the child of wanting to beill for some time to come. " As a matter of fact he prescribed bedand dieting, and the child was handed over to the apothecary. Isighed to see the mother cheated on every hand except by me, whomshe hated because I did not deceive her. 

After pretty severe reproaches, she told me her son was delicate, that he was the sole heir of the family, his life must be preservedat all costs, and she would not have him contradicted. In thatI thoroughly agreed with her, but what she meant by contradictingwas not obeying him in everything. I saw I should have to treatthe mother as I had treated the son. "Madam, " I said coldly, "I donot know how to educate the heir to a fortune, and what is more, I do not mean to study that art. You can take that as settled. "I was wanted for some days longer, and the father smoothed thingsover. The mother wrote to the tutor to hasten his return, and thechild, finding he got nothing by disturbing my rest, nor yet bybeing ill, decided at last to get better and to go to sleep. 

You can form no idea of the number of similar caprices to which thelittle tyrant had subjected his unlucky tutor; for his educationwas carried on under his mother's eye, and she would not allow herson and heir to be disobeyed in anything. Whenever he wanted to goout, you must be ready to take him, or rather to follow him, andhe always took good care to choose the time when he knew his tutorwas very busy. He wished to exercise the same power over me andto avenge himself by day for having to leave me in peace at night. I gladly agreed and began by showing plainly how pleased I was togive him pleasure; after that when it was a matter of curing himof his fancies I set about it differently. 

In the first place, he must be shown that he was in the wrong. Thiswas not difficult; knowing that children think only of the present, I took the easy advantage which foresight gives; I took care toprovide him with some indoor amusement of which he was very fond. Just when he was most occupied with it, I went and suggested a shortwalk, and he sent me away. I insisted, but he paid no attention. I had to give in, and he took note of this sign of submission. 

The next day it was my turn. As I expected, he got tired of hisoccupation; I, however, pretended to be very busy. That was enoughto decide him. He came to drag me from my work, to take him atonce for a walk. I refused; he persisted. "No, " I said, "when Idid what you wanted, you taught me how to get my own way; I shallnot go out. " "Very well, " he replied eagerly, "I shall go out bymyself. " "As you please, " and I returned to my work. 

He put on his things rather uneasily when he saw I did not followhis example. When he was ready he came and made his bow; I bowedtoo; he tried to frighten me with stories of the expeditions hewas going to make; to hear him talk you would think he was goingto the world's end. Quite unmoved, I wished him a pleasant journey. He became more and more perplexed. However, he put a good face onit, and when he was ready to go out he told his foot man to followhim. The footman, who had his instructions, replied that he hadno time, and that he was busy carrying out my orders, and he mustobey me first. For the moment the child was taken aback. How couldhe think they would really let him go out alone, him, who, in hisown eyes, was the most important person in the world, who thoughtthat everything in heaven and earth was wrapped up in his welfare?However, he was beginning to feel his weakness, he perceived thathe should find himself alone among people who knew nothing of him. He saw beforehand the risks he would run; obstinacy alone sustainedhim; very slowly and unwillingly he went downstairs. At last hewent out into the street, consoling himself a little for the harmthat might happen to himself, in the hope that I should be heldresponsible for it. 

This was just what I expected. All was arranged beforehand, and asit meant some sort of public scene I had got his father's consent. He had scarcely gone a few steps, when he heard, first on this sidethen on that, all sorts of remarks about himself. "What a prettylittle gentleman, neighbour? Where is he going all alone? He willget lost! I will ask him into our house. " "Take care you don't. Don't you see he is a naughty little boy, who has been turned outof his own house because he is good for nothing? You must not stopnaughty boys; let him go where he likes. " "Well, well; the good Godtake care of him. I should be sorry if anything happened to him. "A little further on he met some young urchins of about his own agewho teased him and made fun of him. The further he got the moredifficulties he found. Alone and unprotected he was at the mercyof everybody, and he found to his great surprise that his shoulderknot and his gold lace commanded no respect. 

However, I had got a friend of mine, who was a stranger to him, to keep an eye on him. Unnoticed by him, this friend followed himstep by step, and in due time he spoke to him. The role, like thatof Sbrigani in Pourceaugnac, required an intelligent actor, and itwas played to perfection. Without making the child fearful and timidby inspiring excessive terror, he made him realise so thoroughlythe folly of his exploit that in half an hour's time he brought himhome to me, ashamed and humble, and afraid to look me in the face. 

To put the finishing touch to his discomfiture, just as he wascoming in his father came down on his way out and met him on thestairs. He had to explain where he had been, and why I was not withhim. [Footnote: In a case like this there is no danger in asking achild to tell the truth, for he knows very well that it cannot behid, and that if he ventured to tell a lie he would be found outat once. ] The poor child would gladly have sunk into the earth. Hisfather did not take the trouble to scold him at length, but saidwith more severity than I should have expected, "When you want togo out by yourself, you can do so, but I will not have a rebel inmy house, so when you go, take good care that you never come back. "

As for me, I received him somewhat gravely, but without blame andwithout mockery, and for fear he should find out we had been playingwith him, I declined to take him out walking that day. Next day Iwas well pleased to find that he passed in triumph with me throughthe very same people who had mocked him the previous day, when theymet him out by himself. You may be sure he never threatened to goout without me again. 

By these means and other like them I succeeded during the shorttime I was with him in getting him to do everything I wanted withoutbidding him or forbidding him to do anything, without preachingor exhortation, without wearying him with unnecessary lessons. Sohe was pleased when I spoke to him, but when I was silent he wasfrightened, for he knew there was something amiss, and he always gothis lesson from the thing itself. But let us return to our subject. 

The body is strengthened by this constant exercise under the guidanceof nature herself, and far from brutalising the mind, this exercisedevelops in it the only kind of reason of which young children arecapable, the kind of reason most necessary at every age. It teachesus how to use our strength, to perceive the relations between ourown and neighbouring bodies, to use the natural tools, which arewithin our reach and adapted to our senses. Is there anythingsillier than a child brought up indoors under his mother's eye, who, in his ignorance of weight and resistance, tries to uproot atall tree or pick up a rock. The first time I found myself outsideGeneva I tried to catch a galloping horse, and I threw stonesat Mont Saleve, two leagues away; I was the laughing stock of thewhole village, and was supposed to be a regular idiot. At eighteenwe are taught in our natural philosophy the use of the lever;every village boy of twelve knows how to use a lever better thanthe cleverest mechanician in the academy. The lessons the scholarslearn from one another in the playground are worth a hundredfoldmore than what they learn in the class-room. 

Watch a cat when she comes into a room for the first time; she goesfrom place to place, she sniffs about and examines everything, sheis never still for a moment; she is suspicious of everything tillshe has examined it and found out what it is. It is the same withthe child when he begins to walk, and enters, so to speak, the roomof the world around him. The only difference is that, while bothuse sight, the child uses his hands and the cat that subtle senseof smell which nature has bestowed upon it. It is this instinct, rightly or wrongly educated, which makes children skilful or clumsy, quick or slow, wise or foolish. 

Man's primary natural goals are, therefore, to measure himselfagainst his environment, to discover in every object he sees thosesensible qualities which may concern himself, so his first studyis a kind of experimental physics for his own preservation. He isturned away from this and sent to speculative studies before hehas found his proper place in the world. While his delicate andflexible limbs can adjust themselves to the bodies upon which theyare intended to act, while his senses are keen and as yet free fromillusions, then is the time to exercise both limbs and senses intheir proper business. It is the time to learn to perceive thephysical relations between ourselves and things. Since everythingthat comes into the human mind enters through the gates of sense, man's first reason is a reason of sense-experience. It is thisthat serves as a foundation for the reason of the intelligence;our first teachers in natural philosophy are our feet, hands, andeyes. To substitute books for them does not teach us to reason, it teaches us to use the reason of others rather than our own; itteaches us to believe much and know little. 

Before you can practise an art you must first get your tools; andif you are to make good use of those tools, they must be fashionedsufficiently strong to stand use. To learn to think we must thereforeexercise our limbs, our senses, and our bodily organs, which arethe tools of the intellect; and to get the best use out of thesetools, the body which supplies us with them must be strong andhealthy. Not only is it quite a mistake that true reason is developedapart from the body, but it is a good bodily constitution whichmakes the workings of the mind easy and correct. 

While I am showing how the child's long period of leisure should bespent, I am entering into details which may seem absurd. You willsay, "This is a strange sort of education, and it is subject toyour own criticism, for it only teaches what no one needs to learn. Why spend your time in teaching what will come of itself withoutcare or trouble? Is there any child of twelve who is ignorant of allyou wish to teach your pupil, while he also knows what his masterhas taught him. "

Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am teaching my pupil an art, theacquirement of which demands much time and trouble, an art whichyour scholars certainly do not possess; it is the art of beingignorant; for the knowledge of any one who only thinks he knows, whathe really does know is a very small matter. You teach science; welland good; I am busy fashioning the necessary tools for its acquisition. Once upon a time, they say the Venetians were displaying the treasuresof the Cathedral of Saint Mark to the Spanish ambassador; the onlycomment he made was, "Qui non c'e la radice. " When I see a tutorshowing off his pupil's learning, I am always tempted to say thesame to him. 

Every one who has considered the manner of life among theancients, attributes the strength of body and mind by which theyare distinguished from the men of our own day to their gymnasticexercises. The stress laid by Montaigne upon this opinion, showsthat it had made a great impression on him; he returns to it againand again. Speaking of a child's education he says, "To strengthenthe mind you must harden the muscles; by training the child to labouryou train him to suffering; he must be broken in to the hardshipsof gymnastic exercises to prepare him for the hardships of dislocations, colics, and other bodily ills. " The philosopher Locke, the worthyRollin, the learned Fleury, the pedant De Crouzas, differing asthey do so widely from one another, are agreed in this one matterof sufficient bodily exercise for children. This is the wisest oftheir precepts, and the one which is certain to be neglected. Ihave already dwelt sufficiently on its importance, and as betterreasons and more sensible rules cannot be found than those in Locke'sbook, I will content myself with referring to it, after taking theliberty of adding a few remarks of my own. 

The limbs of a growing child should be free to move easily in hisclothing; nothing should cramp their growth or movement; thereshould be nothing tight, nothing fitting closely to the body, nobelts of any kind. The French style of dress, uncomfortable andunhealthy for a man, is especially bad for children. The stagnanthumours, whose circulation is interrupted, putrify in a state ofinaction, and this process proceeds more rapidly in an inactive andsedentary life; they become corrupt and give rise to scurvy; thisdisease, which is continually on the increase among us, was almostunknown to the ancients, whose way of dressing and living protectedthem from it. The hussar's dress, far from correcting this fault, increases it, and compresses the whole of the child's body, by wayof dispensing with a few bands. The best plan is to keep childrenin frocks as long as possible and then to provide them with looseclothing, without trying to define the shape which is only anotherway of deforming it. Their defects of body and mind may all betraced to the same source, the desire to make men of them beforetheir time. 

There are bright colours and dull; children like the bright coloursbest, and they suit them better too. I see no reason why such naturalsuitability should not be taken into consideration; but as soon asthey prefer a material because it is rich, their hearts are alreadygiven over to luxury, to every caprice of fashion, and this tasteis certainly not their own. It is impossible to say how mucheducation is influenced by this choice of clothes, and the motivesfor this choice. Not only do short-sighted mothers offer ornamentsas rewards to their children, but there are foolish tutors whothreaten to make their pupils wear the plainest and coarsest clothesas a punishment. "If you do not do your lessons better, if you donot take more care of your clothes, you shall be dressed like thatlittle peasant boy. " This is like saying to them, "Understand thatclothes make the man. " Is it to be wondered at that our young peopleprofit by such wise teaching, that they care for nothing but dress, and that they only judge of merit by its outside. 

If I had to bring such a spoilt child to his senses, I would takecare that his smartest clothes were the most uncomfortable, thathe was always cramped, constrained, and embarrassed in every way;freedom and mirth should flee before his splendour. If he wantedto take part in the games of children more simply dressed, theyshould cease their play and run away. Before long I should makehim so tired and sick of his magnificence, such a slave to hisgold-laced coat, that it would become the plague of his life, andhe would be less afraid to behold the darkest dungeon than to seethe preparations for his adornment. Before the child is enslaved byour prejudices his first wish is always to be free and comfortable. The plainest and most comfortable clothes, those which leave himmost liberty, are what he always likes best. 

There are habits of body suited for an active life and others fora sedentary life. The latter leaves the humours an equable anduniform course, and the body should be protected from changes intemperature; the former is constantly passing from action to rest, from heat to cold, and the body should be inured to these changes. Hence people, engaged in sedentary pursuits indoors, should alwaysbe warmly dressed, to keep their bodies as nearly as possible atthe same temperature at all times and seasons. Those, however, whocome and go in sun, wind, and rain, who take much exercise, andspend most of their time out of doors, should always be lightly clad, so as to get used to the changes in the air and to every degree oftemperature without suffering inconvenience. I would advise bothnever to change their clothes with the changing seasons, and thatwould be the invariable habit of my pupil Emile. By this I do notmean that he should wear his winter clothes in summer like manypeople of sedentary habits, but that he should wear his summerclothes in winter like hard-working folk. Sir Isaac Newton alwaysdid this, and he lived to be eighty. 

Emile should wear little or nothing on his head all the year round. The ancient Egyptians always went bareheaded; the Persians used towear heavy tiaras and still wear large turbans, which according toChardin are required by their climate. I have remarked elsewhereon the difference observed by Herodotus on a battle-field betweenthe skulls of the Persians and those of the Egyptians. Since it isdesirable that the bones of the skull should grow harder and moresubstantial, less fragile and porous, not only to protect the brainagainst injuries but against colds, fever, and every influence ofthe air, you should therefore accustom your children to go bare-headedwinter and summer, day and night. If you make them wear a night-capto keep their hair clean and tidy, let it be thin and transparentlike the nets with which the Basques cover their hair. I am awarethat most mothers will be more impressed by Chardin's observationsthan my arguments, and will think that all climates are the climateof Persia, but I did not choose a European pupil to turn him intoan Asiatic. 

Children are generally too much wrapped up, particularly in infancy. They should be accustomed to cold rather than heat; great coldnever does them any harm, if they are exposed to it soon enough;but their skin is still too soft and tender and leaves too freea course for perspiration, so that they are inevitably exhaustedby excessive heat. It has been observed that infant mortality isgreatest in August. Moreover, it seems certain from a comparisonof northern and southern races that we become stronger by bearingextreme cold rather than excessive heat. But as the child's bodygrows bigger and his muscles get stronger, train him gradually tobear the rays of the sun. Little by little you will harden him tillhe can face the burning heat of the tropics without danger. 

Locke, in the midst of the manly and sensible advice he gives us, falls into inconsistencies one would hardly expect in such a carefulthinker. The same man who would have children take an ice-cold bathsummer and winter, will not let them drink cold water when theyare hot, or lie on damp grass. But he would never have their shoeswater-tight; and why should they let in more water when the childis hot than when he is cold, and may we not draw the same inferencewith regard to the feet and body that he draws with regard to thehands and feet and the body and face? If he would have a man allface, why blame me if I would have him all feet?

To prevent children drinking when they are hot, he says they shouldbe trained to eat a piece of bread first. It is a strange thing tomake a child eat because he is thirsty; I would as soon give him adrink when he is hungry. You will never convince me that our firstinstincts are so ill-regulated that we cannot satisfy them withoutendangering our lives. Were that so, the man would have perishedover and over again before he had learned how to keep himself alive. 

Whenever Emile is thirsty let him have a drink, and let him drinkfresh water just as it is, not even taking the chill off it in thedepths of winter and when he is bathed in perspiration. The onlyprecaution I advise is to take care what sort of water you givehim. If the water comes from a river, give it him just as it is;if it is spring-water let it stand a little exposed to the airbefore he drinks it. In warm weather rivers are warm; it is notso with springs, whose water has not been in contact with the air. You must wait till the temperature of the water is the same as thatof the air. In winter, on the other hand, spring water is saferthan river water. It is, however, unusual and unnatural to perspiregreatly in winter, especially in the open air, for the cold airconstantly strikes the skin and drives the perspiration inwards, and prevents the pores opening enough to give it passage. Now I donot intend Emile to take his exercise by the fireside in winter, but in the open air and among the ice. If he only gets warm withmaking and throwing snowballs, let him drink when he is thirsty, and go on with his game after drinking, and you need not be afraidof any ill effects. And if any other exercise makes him perspirelet him drink cold water even in winter provided he is thirsty. Only take care to take him to get the water some little distanceaway. In such cold as I am supposing, he would have cooled downsufficiently when he got there to be able to drink without danger. Above all, take care to conceal these precautions from him. Iwould rather he were ill now and then, than always thinking abouthis health. 

Since children take such violent exercise they need a great dealof sleep. The one makes up for the other, and this shows that bothare necessary. Night is the time set apart by nature for rest. Itis an established fact that sleep is quieter and calmer when thesun is below the horizon, and that our senses are less calm whenthe air is warmed by the rays of the sun. So it is certainly thehealthiest plan to rise with the sun and go to bed with the sun. Hence in our country man and all the other animals with him wantmore sleep in winter than in summer. But town life is so complex, so unnatural, so subject to chances and changes, that it is notwise to accustom a man to such uniformity that he cannot do withoutit. No doubt he must submit to rules; but the chief rule is this--beable to break the rule if necessary. So do not be so foolish as tosoften your pupil by letting him always sleep his sleep out. Leavehim at first to the law of nature without any hindrance, but neverforget that under our conditions he must rise above this law; hemust be able to go to bed late and rise early, be awakened suddenly, or sit up all night without ill effects. Begin early and proceedgently, a step at a time, and the constitution adapts itself tothe very conditions which would destroy it if they were imposedfor the first time on the grown man. 

In the next place he must be accustomed to sleep in an uncomfortablebed, which is the best way to find no bed uncomfortable. Speakinggenerally, a hard life, when once we have become used to it, increases our pleasant experiences; an easy life prepares the wayfor innumerable unpleasant experiences. Those who are too tenderlynurtured can only sleep on down; those who are used to sleep onbare boards can find them anywhere. There is no such thing as ahard bed for the man who falls asleep at once. 

The body is, so to speak, melted and dissolved in a soft bed whereone sinks into feathers and eider-down. The reins when too warmlycovered become inflamed. Stone and other diseases are often due tothis, and it invariably produces a delicate constitution, which isthe seed-ground of every ailment. 

The best bed is that in which we get the best sleep. Emile andI will prepare such a bed for ourselves during the daytime. We donot need Persian slaves to make our beds; when we are digging thesoil we are turning our mattresses. I know that a healthy child maybe made to sleep or wake almost at will. When the child is put tobed and his nurse grows weary of his chatter, she says to him, "Goto sleep. " That is much like saying, "Get well, " when he is ill. The right way is to let him get tired of himself. Talk so much thathe is compelled to hold his tongue, and he will soon be asleep. Here is at least one use for sermons, and you may as well preachto him as rock his cradle; but if you use this narcotic at night, do not use it by day. 

I shall sometimes rouse Emile, not so much to prevent his sleepingtoo much, as to accustom him to anything--even to waking with astart. Moreover, I should be unfit for my business if I could notmake him wake himself, and get up, so to speak, at my will, withoutbeing called. 

If he wakes too soon, I shall let him look forward to a tediousmorning, so that he will count as gain any time he can give tosleep. If he sleeps too late I shall show him some favourite toywhen he wakes. If I want him to wake at a given hour I shall say, "To-morrow at six I am going fishing, " or "I shall take a walk tosuch and such a place. Would you like to come too?" He assents, and begs me to wake him. I promise, or do not promise, as the caserequires. If he wakes too late, he finds me gone. There is somethingamiss if he does not soon learn to wake himself. 

Moreover, should it happen, though it rarely does, that a sluggishchild desires to stagnate in idleness, you must not give way tothis tendency, which might stupefy him entirely, but you must applysome stimulus to wake him. You must understand that is no questionof applying force, but of arousing some appetite which leads toaction, and such an appetite, carefully selected on the lines laiddown by nature, kills two birds with one stone. 

If one has any sort of skill, I can think of nothing for which ataste, a very passion, cannot be aroused in children, and that withoutvanity, emulation, or jealousy. Their keenness, their spirit ofimitation, is enough of itself; above all, there is their naturalliveliness, of which no teacher so far has contrived to takeadvantage. In every game, when they are quite sure it is only play, they endure without complaint, or even with laughter, hardshipswhich they would not submit to otherwise without floods of tears. The sports of the young savage involve long fasting, blows, burns, and fatigue of every kind, a proof that even pain has a charm ofits own, which may remove its bitterness. It is not every master, however, who knows how to season this dish, nor can every scholareat it without making faces. However, I must take care or I shallbe wandering off again after exceptions. 

It is not to be endured that man should become the slave of pain, disease, accident, the perils of life, or even death itself; themore familiar he becomes with these ideas the sooner he will becured of that over-sensitiveness which adds to the pain by impatiencein bearing it; the sooner he becomes used to the sufferings whichmay overtake him, the sooner he shall, as Montaigne has put it, rob those pains of the sting of unfamiliarity, and so make his soulstrong and invulnerable; his body will be the coat of mail whichstops all the darts which might otherwise find a vital part. Eventhe approach of death, which is not death itself, will scarcely befelt as such; he will not die, he will be, so to speak, alive ordead and nothing more. Montaigne might say of him as he did of acertain king of Morocco, "No man ever prolonged his life so far intodeath. " A child serves his apprenticeship in courage and enduranceas well as in other virtues; but you cannot teach children thesevirtues by name alone; they must learn them unconsciously throughexperience. 

But speaking of death, what steps shall I take with regard to mypupil and the smallpox? Shall he be inoculated in infancy, or shallI wait till he takes it in the natural course of things? The formerplan is more in accordance with our practice, for it preserves hislife at a time when it is of greater value, at the cost of somedanger when his life is of less worth; if indeed we can use theword danger with regard to inoculation when properly performed. 

But the other plan is more in accordance with our general principles--toleave nature to take the precautions she delights in, precautionsshe abandons whenever man interferes. The natural man is alwaysready; let nature inoculate him herself, she will choose the fittingoccasion better than we. 

Do not think I am finding fault with inoculation, for my reasonsfor exempting my pupil from it do not in the least apply to yours. Your training does not prepare them to escape catching smallpoxas soon as they are exposed to infection. If you let them take itanyhow, they will probably die. I perceive that in different landsthe resistance to inoculation is in proportion to the need forit; and the reason is plain. So I scarcely condescend to discussthis question with regard to Emile. He will be inoculated or notaccording to time, place, and circumstances; it is almost a matter ofindifference, as far as he is concerned. If it gives him smallpox, there will be the advantage of knowing what to expect, knowingwhat the disease is; that is a good thing, but if he catches itnaturally it will have kept him out of the doctor's hands, whichis better. 

An exclusive education, which merely tends to keep those who havereceived it apart from the mass of mankind, always selects suchteaching as is costly rather than cheap, even when the latter isof more use. Thus all carefully educated young men learn to ride, because it is costly, but scarcely any of them learn to swim, asit costs nothing, and an artisan can swim as well as any one. Yetwithout passing through the riding school, the traveller learnsto mount his horse, to stick on it, and to ride well enough forpractical purposes; but in the water if you cannot swim you willdrown, and we cannot swim unless we are taught. Again, you are notforced to ride on pain of death, while no one is sure of escapingsuch a common danger as drowning. Emile shall be as much at homein the water as on land. Why should he not be able to live in everyelement? If he could learn to fly, he should be an eagle; I wouldmake him a salamander, if he could bear the heat. 

People are afraid lest the child should be drowned while he islearning to swim; if he dies while he is learning, or if he diesbecause he has not learnt, it will be your own fault. Foolhardinessis the result of vanity; we are not rash when no one is looking. Emile will not be foolhardy, though all the world were watchinghim. As the exercise does not depend on its danger, he will learnto swim the Hellespont by swimming, without any danger, a streamin his father's park; but he must get used to danger too, so as notto be flustered by it. This is an essential part of the apprenticeshipI spoke of just now. Moreover, I shall take care to proportion thedanger to his strength, and I shall always share it myself, so thatI need scarcely fear any imprudence if I take as much care for hislife as for my own. 

A child is smaller than a man; he has not the man's strengthor reason, but he sees and hears as well or nearly as well; hissense of taste is very good, though he is less fastidious, and hedistinguishes scents as clearly though less sensuously. The sensesare the first of our faculties to mature; they are those mostfrequently overlooked or neglected. 

To train the senses it is not enough merely to use them; we mustlearn to judge by their means, to learn to feel, so to speak; forwe cannot touch, see, or hear, except as we have been taught. 

There is a mere natural and mechanical use of the senses whichstrengthens the body without improving the judgment. It is allvery well to swim, run, jump, whip a top, throw stones; but havewe nothing but arms and legs? Have we not eyes and ears as well;and are not these organs necessary for the use of the rest? Do notmerely exercise the strength, exercise all the senses by which itis guided; make the best use of every one of them, and check theresults of one by the other. Measure, count, weigh, compare. Do notuse force till you have estimated the resistance; let the estimationof the effect always precede the application of the means. Get thechild interested in avoiding insufficient or superfluous efforts. If in this way you train him to calculate the effects of all hismovements, and to correct his mistakes by experience, is it notclear that the more he does the wiser he will become?

Take the case of moving a heavy mass; if he takes too long a lever, he will waste his strength; if it is too short, he will not havestrength enough; experience will teach him to use the very stick heneeds. This knowledge is not beyond his years. Take, for example, a load to be carried; if he wants to carry as much as he can, andnot to take up more than he can carry, must he not calculate theweight by the appearance? Does he know how to compare masses of likesubstance and different size, or to choose between masses of thesame size and different substances? He must set to work to comparetheir specific weights. I have seen a young man, very highlyeducated, who could not be convinced, till he had tried it, thata bucket full of blocks of oak weighed less than the same bucketfull of water. 

All our senses are not equally under our control. One of them, touch, is always busy during our waking hours; it is spread overthe whole surface of the body, like a sentinel ever on the watch towarn us of anything which may do us harm. Whether we will or not, we learn to use it first of all by experience, by constant practice, and therefore we have less need for special training for it. Yet weknow that the blind have a surer and more delicate sense of touchthan we, for not being guided by the one sense, they are forced toget from the touch what we get from sight. Why, then, are not wetrained to walk as they do in the dark, to recognise what we touch, to distinguish things about us; in a word, to do at night and inthe dark what they do in the daytime without sight? We are betteroff than they while the sun shines; in the dark it is their turnto be our guide. We are blind half our time, with this difference:the really blind always know what to do, while we are afraid tostir in the dark. We have lights, you say. What always artificialaids. Who can insure that they will always be at hand when required. I had rather Emil's eyes were in his finger tips, than in thechandler's shop. 

If you are shut up in a building at night, clap your hands, youwill know from the sound whether the space is large or small, ifyou are in the middle or in one corner. Half a foot from a wall theair, which is refracted and does not circulate freely, produces adifferent effect on your face. Stand still in one place and turnthis way and that; a slight draught will tell you if there is adoor open. If you are on a boat you will perceive from the way theair strikes your face not merely the direction in which you aregoing, but whether the current is bearing you slow or fast. Theseobservations and many others like them can only be properly madeat night; however much attention we give to them by daylight, weare always helped or hindered by sight, so that the results escapeus. Yet here we use neither hand nor stick. How much may be learntby touch, without ever touching anything!

I would have plenty of games in the dark! This suggestion is morevaluable than it seems at first sight. Men are naturally afraidof the dark; so are some animals. [Footnote: This terror is verynoticeable during great eclipses of the sun. ] Only a few men arefreed from this burden by knowledge, determination, and courage. I have seen thinkers, unbelievers, philosophers, exceedingly braveby daylight, tremble like women at the rustling of a leaf in thedark. This terror is put down to nurses' tales; this is a mistake;it has a natural cause. What is this cause? What makes the deafsuspicious and the lower classes superstitious? Ignorance of thethings about us, and of what is taking place around us. [Footnote:Another cause has been well explained by a philosopher, often quotedin this work, a philosopher to whose wide views I am very greatlyindebted. ]

When under special conditions we cannot form a fair idea of distance, when we can only judge things by the size of the angle or ratherof the image formed in our eyes, we cannot avoid being deceivedas to the size of these objects. Every one knows by experience howwhen we are travelling at night we take a bush near at hand for agreat tree at a distance, and vice versa. In the same way, if theobjects were of a shape unknown to us, so that we could not telltheir size in that way, we should be equally mistaken with regardto it. If a fly flew quickly past a few inches from our eyes, weshould think it was a distant bird; a horse standing still at adistance from us in the midst of open country, in a position somewhatlike that of a sheep, would be taken for a large sheep, so long aswe did not perceive that it was a horse; but as soon as we recognisewhat it is, it seems as large as a horse, and we at once correctour former judgment. 

Whenever one finds oneself in unknown places at night where wecannot judge of distance, and where we cannot recognise objects bytheir shape on account of the darkness, we are in constant dangerof forming mistaken judgments as to the objects which presentthemselves to our notice. Hence that terror, that kind of inwardfear experienced by most people on dark nights. This is foundationfor the supposed appearances of spectres, or gigantic and terribleforms which so many people profess to have seen. They are generallytold that they imagined these things, yet they may really have seenthem, and it is quite possible they really saw what they say theydid see; for it will always be the case that when we can onlyestimate the size of an object by the angle it forms in the eye, that object will swell and grow as we approach it; and if thespectator thought it several feet high when it was thirty or fortyfeet away, it will seem very large indeed when it is a few feetoff; this must indeed astonish and alarm the spectator until hetouches it and perceives what it is, for as soon as he perceiveswhat it is, the object which seemed so gigantic will suddenlyshrink and assume its real size, but if we run away or are afraidto approach, we shall certainly form no other idea of the thingthan the image formed in the eye, and we shall have really seen agigantic figure of alarming size and shape. There is, therefore, anatural ground for the tendency to see ghosts, and these appearancesare not merely the creation of the imagination, as the men ofscience would have us think. --Buffon, Nat. Hist. 

In the text I have tried to show that they are always partly thecreation of the imagination, and with regard to the cause explainedin this quotation, it is clear that the habit of walking by nightshould teach us to distinguish those appearances which similarityof form and diversity of distance lend to the objects seen in thedark. For if the air is light enough for us to see the outlinesthere must be more air between us and them when they are furtheroff, so that we ought to see them less distinctly when furtheroff, which should be enough, when we are used to it, to prevent theerror described by M. Buffon. [Whichever explanation you prefer, my mode of procedure is still efficacious, and experience entirelyconfirms it. ] Accustomed to perceive things from a distance and tocalculate their effects, how can I help supposing, when I cannotsee, that there are hosts of creatures and all sorts of movementsall about me which may do me harm, and against which I cannotprotect myself? In vain do I know I am safe where I am; I am neverso sure of it as when I can actually see it, so that I have alwaysa cause for fear which did not exist in broad daylight. I know, indeed, that a foreign body can scarcely act upon me without someslight sound, and how intently I listen! At the least sound whichI cannot explain, the desire of self-preservation makes me pictureeverything that would put me on my guard, and therefore everythingmost calculated to alarm me. 

I am just as uneasy if I hear no sound, for I might be taken unawareswithout a sound. I must picture things as they were before, as theyought to be; I must see what I do not see. Thus driven to exercisemy imagination, it soon becomes my master, and what I did to reassuremyself only alarms me more. I hear a noise, it is a robber; I hearnothing, it is a ghost. The watchfulness inspired by the instinctof self-preservation only makes me more afraid. Everything thatought to reassure me exists only for my reason, and the voice ofinstinct is louder than that of reason. What is the good of thinkingthere is nothing to be afraid of, since in that case there isnothing we can do?

The cause indicates the cure. In everything habit overpowersimagination; it is only aroused by what is new. It is no longerimagination, but memory which is concerned with what we see everyday, and that is the reason of the maxim, "Ab assuetis non fitpassio, " for it is only at the flame of imagination that the passionsare kindled. Therefore do not argue with any one whom you want tocure of the fear of darkness; take him often into dark places andbe assured this practice will be of more avail than all the argumentsof philosophy. The tiler on the roof does not know what it is tobe dizzy, and those who are used to the dark will not be afraid. 

There is another advantage to be gained from our games in the dark. But if these games are to be a success I cannot speak too stronglyof the need for gaiety. Nothing is so gloomy as the dark: do notshut your child up in a dungeon, let him laugh when he goes, intoa dark place, let him laugh when he comes out, so that the thoughtof the game he is leaving and the games he will play next may protecthim from the fantastic imagination which might lay hold on him. 

There comes a stage in life beyond which we progress backwards. Ifeel I have reached this stage. I am, so to speak, returning to apast career. The approach of age makes us recall the happy days ofour childhood. As I grow old I become a child again, and I recallmore readily what I did at ten than at thirty. Reader, forgive meif I sometimes draw my examples from my own experience. If thisbook is to be well written, I must enjoy writing it. 

I was living in the country with a pastor called M. Lambercier. My companion was a cousin richer than myself, who was regarded asthe heir to some property, while I, far from my father, was but apoor orphan. My big cousin Bernard was unusually timid, especiallyat night. I laughed at his fears, till M. Lambercier was tired ofmy boasting, and determined to put my courage to the proof. Oneautumn evening, when it was very dark, he gave me the church key, and told me to go and fetch a Bible he had left in the pulpit. Toput me on my mettle he said something which made it impossible forme to refuse. 

I set out without a light; if I had had one, it would perhaps havebeen even worse. I had to pass through the graveyard; I crossed itbravely, for as long as I was in the open air I was never afraidof the dark. 

As I opened the door I heard a sort of echo in the roof; it soundedlike voices and it began to shake my Roman courage. Having openedthe door I tried to enter, but when I had gone a few steps I stopped. At the sight of the profound darkness in which the vast buildinglay I was seized with terror and my hair stood on end. I turned, I went out through the door, and took to my heels. In the yardI found a little dog, called Sultan, whose caresses reassured me. Ashamed of my fears, I retraced my steps, trying to take Sultanwith me, but he refused to follow. Hurriedly I opened the door andentered the church. I was hardly inside when terror again got holdof me and so firmly that I lost my head, and though the pulpit wason the right, as I very well knew, I sought it on the left, andentangling myself among the benches I was completely lost. Unableto find either pulpit or door, I fell into an indescribable stateof mind. At last I found the door and managed to get out of thechurch and run away as I had done before, quite determined neverto enter the church again except in broad daylight. 

I returned to the house; on the doorstep I heard M. Lambercierlaughing, laughing, as I supposed, at me. Ashamed to face his laughter, I was hesitating to open the door, when I heard Miss Lambercier, who was anxious about me, tell the maid to get the lantern, andM. Lambercier got ready to come and look for me, escorted by mygallant cousin, who would have got all the credit for the expedition. All at once my fears departed, and left me merely surprised atmy terror. I ran, I fairly flew, to the church; without losing myway, without groping about, I reached the pulpit, took the Bible, and ran down the steps. In three strides I was out of the church, leaving the door open. Breathless, I entered the room and threwthe Bible on the table, frightened indeed, but throbbing with pridethat I had done it without the proposed assistance. 

You will ask if I am giving this anecdote as an example, and asan illustration, of the mirth which I say should accompany thesegames. Not so, but I give it as a proof that there is nothing sowell calculated to reassure any one who is afraid in the dark as tohear sounds of laughter and talking in an adjoining room. Insteadof playing alone with your pupil in the evening, I would have youget together a number of merry children; do not send them alone tobegin with, but several together, and do not venture to send anyone quite alone, until you are quite certain beforehand that hewill not be too frightened. 

I can picture nothing more amusing and more profitable than suchgames, considering how little skill is required to organise them. In a large room I should arrange a sort of labyrinth of tables, armchairs, chairs, and screens. In the inextricable windings ofthis labyrinth I should place some eight or ten sham boxes, and onereal box almost exactly like them, but well filled with sweets. Ishould describe clearly and briefly the place where the right boxwould be found. I should give instructions sufficient to enablepeople more attentive and less excitable than children to find it. [Footnote: To practise them in attention, only tell them thingswhich it is clearly to their present interest that they shouldunderstand thoroughly; above all be brief, never say a word more thannecessary. But neither let your speech be obscure nor of doubtfulmeaning. ] Then having made the little competitors draw lots, I shouldsend first one and then another till the right box was found. Ishould increase the difficulty of the task in proportion to theirskill. 

Picture to yourself a youthful Hercules returning, box in hand, quiteproud of his expedition. The box is placed on the table and openedwith great ceremony. I can hear the bursts of laughter and theshouts of the merry party when, instead of the looked-for sweets, hefinds, neatly arranged on moss or cotton-wool, a beetle, a snail, a bit of coal, a few acorns, a turnip, or some such thing. Anothertime in a newly whitewashed room, a toy or some small article offurniture would be hung on the wall and the children would have tofetch it without touching the wall. When the child who fetches itcomes back, if he has failed ever so little to fulfil the conditions, a dab of white on the brim of his cap, the tip of his shoe, theflap of his coat or his sleeve, will betray his lack of skill. 

This is enough, or more than enough, to show the spirit of thesegames. Do not read my book if you expect me to tell you everything. 

What great advantages would be possessed by a man so educated, when compared with others. His feet are accustomed to tread firmlyin the dark, and his hands to touch lightly; they will guide himsafely in the thickest darkness. His imagination is busy with theevening games of his childhood, and will find it difficult to turntowards objects of alarm. If he thinks he hears laughter, it willbe the laughter of his former playfellows, not of frenzied spirits;if he thinks there is a host of people, it will not be the witches'sabbath, but the party in his tutor's study. Night only recallsthese cheerful memories, and it will never alarm him; it willinspire delight rather than fear. He will be ready for a militaryexpedition at any hour, with or without his troop. He will enterthe camp of Saul, he will find his way, he will reach the king'stent without waking any one, and he will return unobserved. Are thesteeds of Rhesus to be stolen, you may trust him. You will scarcelyfind a Ulysses among men educated in any other fashion. 

I have known people who tried to train the children not to fearthe dark by startling them. This is a very bad plan; its effectsare just the opposite of those desired, and it only makes childrenmore timid. Neither reason nor habit can secure us from the fearof a present danger whose degree and kind are unknown, nor fromthe fear of surprises which we have often experienced. Yet how willyou make sure that you can preserve your pupil from such accidents?I consider this the best advice to give him beforehand. I shouldsay to Emile, "This is a matter of self-defence, for the aggressordoes not let you know whether he means to hurt or frighten you, and as the advantage is on his side you cannot even take refugein flight. Therefore seize boldly anything, whether man or beast, which takes you unawares in the dark. Grasp it, squeeze it with allyour might; if it struggles, strike, and do not spare your blows;and whatever he may say or do, do not let him go till you knowjust who he is. The event will probably prove that you had littleto be afraid of, but this way of treating practical jokers wouldnaturally prevent their trying it again. "

Although touch is the sense oftenest used, its discriminationremains, as I have already pointed out, coarser and more imperfectthan that of any other sense, because we always use sight along withit; the eye perceives the thing first, and the mind almost alwaysjudges without the hand. On the other hand, discrimination by touchis the surest just because of its limitations; for extending onlyas far as our hands can reach, it corrects the hasty judgments ofthe other senses, which pounce upon objects scarcely perceived, while what we learn by touch is learnt thoroughly. Moreover, touch, when required, unites the force of our muscles to the action ofthe nerves; we associate by simultaneous sensations our ideas oftemperature, size, and shape, to those of weight and density. Thustouch is the sense which best teaches us the action of foreignbodies upon ourselves, the sense which most directly supplies uswith the knowledge required for self-preservation. 

As the trained touch takes the place of sight, why should it not, to some extent, take the place of hearing, since sounds set up, insonorous bodies, vibrations perceptible by touch? By placing thehand on the body of a 'cello one can distinguish without the useof eye or ear, merely by the way in which the wood vibrates andtrembles, whether the sound given out is sharp or flat, whetherit is drawn from the treble string or the bass. If our touch weretrained to note these differences, no doubt we might in time becomeso sensitive as to hear a whole tune by means of our fingers. Butif we admit this, it is clear that one could easily speak to thedeaf by means of music; for tone and measure are no less capableof regular combination than voice and articulation, so that theymight be used as the elements of speech. 

There are exercises by which the sense of touch is blunted anddeadened, and others which sharpen it and make it delicate anddiscriminating. The former, which employ much movement and forcefor the continued impression of hard bodies, make the skin hardand thick, and deprive it of its natural sensitiveness. The latterare those which give variety to this feeling, by slight and repeatedcontact, so that the mind is attentive to constantly recurringimpressions, and readily learns to discern their variations. Thisdifference is clear in the use of musical instruments. The harsh andpainful touch of the 'cello, bass-viol, and even of the violin, hardens the finger-tips, although it gives flexibility to thefingers. The soft and smooth touch of the harpsichord makes thefingers both flexible and sensitive. In this respect the harpsichordis to be preferred. 

The skin protects the rest of the body, so it is very importantto harden it to the effects of the air that it may be able to bearits changes. With regard to this I may say I would not have thehand roughened by too servile application to the same kind of work, nor should the skin of the hand become hardened so as to lose itsdelicate sense of touch which keeps the body informed of what isgoing on, and by the kind of contact sometimes makes us shudder indifferent ways even in the dark. 

Why should my pupil be always compelled to wear the skin of an oxunder his foot? What harm would come of it if his own skin couldserve him at need as a sole. It is clear that a delicate skincould never be of any use in this way, and may often do harm. TheGenevese, aroused at midnight by their enemies in the depth ofwinter, seized their guns rather than their shoes. Who can tellwhether the town would have escaped capture if its citizens hadnot been able to go barefoot?

Let a man be always fore-armed against the unforeseen. Let Emilerun about barefoot all the year round, upstairs, downstairs, andin the garden. Far from scolding him, I shall follow his example;only I shall be careful to remove any broken glass. I shall soonproceed to speak of work and manual occupations. Meanwhile, let himlearn to perform every exercise which encourages agility of body;let him learn to hold himself easily and steadily in any position, let him practise jumping and leaping, climbing trees and walls. Let him always find his balance, and let his every movement andgesture be regulated by the laws of weight, long before he learnsto explain them by the science of statics. By the way his foot isplanted on the ground, and his body supported on his leg, he oughtto know if he is holding himself well or ill. An easy carriage isalways graceful, and the steadiest positions are the most elegant. If I were a dancing master I would refuse to play the monkeytricks of Marcel, which are only fit for the stage where they areperformed; but instead of keeping my pupil busy with fancy steps, I would take him to the foot of a cliff. There I would show himhow to hold himself, how to carry his body and head, how to placefirst a foot then a hand, to follow lightly the steep, toilsome, and rugged paths, to leap from point to point, either up or down. He should emulate the mountain-goat, not the ballet dancer. 

As touch confines its operations to the man's immediate surroundings, so sight extends its range beyond them; it is this which makes itmisleading; man sees half his horizon at a glance. In the midst ofthis host of simultaneous impressions and the thoughts excited bythem, how can he fail now and then to make mistakes? Thus sight isthe least reliable of our senses, just because it has the widestrange; it functions long before our other senses, and its work istoo hasty and on too large a scale to be corrected by the rest. Moreover, the very illusions of perspective are necessary if we areto arrive at a knowledge of space and compare one part of space withanother. Without false appearances we should never see anything ata distance; without the gradations of size and tone we could notjudge of distance, or rather distance would have no existence forus. If two trees, one of which was a hundred paces from us and theother ten, looked equally large and distinct, we should think theywere side by side. If we perceived the real dimensions of things, we should know nothing of space; everything would seem close toour eyes. 

The angle formed between any objects and our eye is the only meansby which our sight estimates their size and distance, and as thisangle is the simple effect of complex causes, the judgment we formdoes not distinguish between the several causes; we are compelledto be inaccurate. For how can I tell, by sight alone, whetherthe angle at which an object appears to me smaller than another, indicates that it is really smaller or that it is further off. 

Here we must just reverse our former plan. Instead of simplifyingthe sensation, always reinforce it and verify it by means of anothersense. Subject the eye to the hand, and, so to speak, restrain theprecipitation of the former sense by the slower and more reasonedpace of the latter. For want of this sort of practice our sightmeasurements are very imperfect. We cannot correctly, and ata glance, estimate height, length, breadth, and distance; and thefact that engineers, surveyors, architects, masons, and paintersare generally quicker to see and better able to estimate distancescorrectly, proves that the fault is not in our eyes, but in ouruse of them. Their occupations give them the training we lack, and they check the equivocal results of the angle of vision by itsaccompanying experiences, which determine the relations of the twocauses of this angle for their eyes. 

Children will always do anything that keeps them moving freely. There are countless ways of rousing their interest in measuring, perceiving, and estimating distance. There is a very tall cherrytree; how shall we gather the cherries? Will the ladder in thebarn be big enough? There is a wide stream; how shall we get to theother side? Would one of the wooden planks in the yard reach frombank to bank? From our windows we want to fish in the moat; howmany yards of line are required? I want to make a swing between twotrees; will two fathoms of cord be enough? They tell me our roomin the new house will be twenty-five feet square; do you thinkit will be big enough for us? Will it be larger than this? We arevery hungry; here are two villages, which can we get to first forour dinner?

An idle, lazy child was to be taught to run. He had no liking forthis or any other exercise, though he was intended for the army. Somehow or other he had got it into his head that a man of his rankneed know nothing and do nothing--that his birth would serve as asubstitute for arms and legs, as well as for every kind of virtue. The skill of Chiron himself would have failed to make a fleet-footedAchilles of this young gentleman. The difficulty was increased bymy determination to give him no kind of orders. I had renounced allright to direct him by preaching, promises, threats, emulation, orthe desire to show off. How should I make him want to run withoutsaying anything? I might run myself, but he might not follow myexample, and this plan had other drawbacks. Moreover, I must findsome means of teaching him through this exercise, so as to trainmind and body to work together. This is how I, or rather how theteacher who supplied me with this illustration, set about it. 

When I took him a walk of an afternoon I sometimes put in my pocketa couple of cakes, of a kind he was very fond of; we each ate onewhile we were out, and we came back well pleased with our outing. One day he noticed I had three cakes; he could have easily eatensix, so he ate his cake quickly and asked for the other. "No, "said I, "I could eat it myself, or we might divide it, but I wouldrather see those two little boys run a race for it. " I called themto us, showed them the cake, and suggested that they should racefor it. They were delighted. The cake was placed on a large stonewhich was to be the goal; the course was marked out, we sat down, and at a given signal off flew the children! The victor seized thecake and ate it without pity in the sight of the spectators and ofhis defeated rival. 

The sport was better than the cake; but the lesson did not takeeffect all at once, and produced no result. I was not discouraged, nor did I hurry; teaching is a trade at which one must be able tolose time and save it. Our walks were continued, sometimes we tookthree cakes, sometimes four, and from time to time there were oneor two cakes for the racers. If the prize was not great, neitherwas the ambition of the competitors. The winner was praised andpetted, and everything was done with much ceremony. To give roomto run and to add interest to the race I marked out a longer courseand admitted several fresh competitors. Scarcely had they enteredthe lists than all the passers-by stopped to watch. They wereencouraged by shouting, cheering, and clapping. I sometimes saw mylittle man trembling with excitement, jumping up and shouting whenone was about to reach or overtake another--to him these were theOlympian games. 

However, the competitors did not always play fair, they got ineach other's way, or knocked one another down, or put stones onthe track. That led us to separate them and make them start fromdifferent places at equal distances from the goal. You will soonsee the reason for this, for I must describe this important affairat length. 

Tired of seeing his favourite cakes devoured before his eyes, theyoung lord began to suspect that there was some use in being aquick runner, and seeing that he had two legs of his own, he beganto practise running on the quiet. I took care to see nothing, butI knew my stratagem had taken effect. When he thought he was goodenough (and I thought so too), he pretended to tease me to givehim the other cake. I refused; he persisted, and at last he saidangrily, "Well, put it on the stone and mark out the course, andwe shall see. " "Very good, " said I, laughing, "You will get a goodappetite, but you will not get the cake. " Stung by my mockery, hetook heart, won the prize, all the more easily because I had markedout a very short course and taken care that the best runner was outof the way. It will be evident that, after the first step, I hadno difficulty in keeping him in training. Soon he took such a fancyfor this form of exercise that without any favour he was almostcertain to beat the little peasant boys at running, however longthe course. 

The advantage thus obtained led unexpectedly to another. So longas he seldom won the prize, he ate it himself like his rivals, butas he got used to victory he grew generous, and often shared itwith the defeated. That taught me a lesson in morals and I saw whatwas the real root of generosity. 

While I continued to mark out a different starting place for eachcompetitor, he did not notice that I had made the distances unequal, so that one of them, having farther to run to reach the goal, wasclearly at a disadvantage. But though I left the choice to my pupilhe did not know how to take advantage of it. Without thinking ofthe distance, he always chose the smoothest path, so that I couldeasily predict his choice, and could almost make him win or losethe cake at my pleasure. I had more than one end in view in thisstratagem; but as my plan was to get him to notice the differencehimself, I tried to make him aware of it. Though he was generallylazy and easy going, he was so eager in his sports and trusted meso completely that I had great difficulty in making him see thatI was cheating him. When at last I managed to make him see it inspite of his excitement, he was angry with me. "What have you tocomplain of?" said I. "In a gift which I propose to give of my ownfree will am not I master of the conditions? Who makes you run?Did I promise to make the courses equal? Is not the choice yours?Do not you see that I am favouring you, and that the inequality youcomplain of is all to your advantage, if you knew how to use it?"That was plain to him; and to choose he must observe more carefully. At first he wanted to count the paces, but a child measures pacesslowly and inaccurately; moreover, I decided to have several raceson one day; and the game having become a sort of passion withthe child, he was sorry to waste in measuring the portion of timeintended for running. Such delays are not in accordance with achild's impatience; he tried therefore to see better and to reckonthe distance more accurately at sight. It was now quite easyto extend and develop this power. At length, after some months'practice, and the correction of his errors, I so trained his powerof judging at sight that I had only to place an imaginary cake onany distant object and his glance was nearly as accurate as thesurveyor's chain. 

Of all the senses, sight is that which we can least distinguishfrom the judgments of the mind; as it takes a long time to learnto see. It takes a long time to compare sight and touch, and totrain the former sense to give a true report of shape and distance. Without touch, without progressive motion, the sharpest eyes inthe world could give us no idea of space. To the oyster the wholeworld must seem a point, and it would seem nothing more to it evenif it had a human mind. It is only by walking, feeling, counting, measuring the dimensions of things, that we learn to judge themrightly; but, on the other hand, if we were always measuring, oursenses would trust to the instrument and would never gain confidence. Nor must the child pass abruptly from measurement to judgment; hemust continue to compare the parts when he could not compare thewhole; he must substitute his estimated aliquot parts for exactaliquot parts, and instead of always applying the measure by handhe must get used to applying it by eye alone. I would, however, havehis first estimates tested by measurement, so that he may correcthis errors, and if there is a false impression left upon the senseshe may correct it by a better judgment. The same natural standardsof measurement are in use almost everywhere, the man's foot, theextent of his outstretched arms, his height. When the child wantsto measure the height of a room, his tutor may serve as a measuringrod; if he is estimating the height of a steeple let him measureit by the house; if he wants to know how many leagues of road thereare, let him count the hours spent in walking along it. Above all, do not do this for him; let him do it himself. 

One cannot learn to estimate the extent and size of bodies withoutat the same time learning to know and even to copy their shape; forat bottom this copying depends entirely on the laws of perspective, and one cannot estimate distance without some feeling for theselaws. All children in the course of their endless imitation try todraw; and I would have Emile cultivate this art; not so much forart's sake, as to give him exactness of eye and flexibility of hand. Generally speaking, it matters little whether he is acquaintedwith this or that occupation, provided he gains clearness ofsense--perception and the good bodily habits which belong to theexercise in question. So I shall take good care not to provide himwith a drawing master, who would only set him to copy copies anddraw from drawings. Nature should be his only teacher, and thingshis only models. He should have the real thing before his eyes, notits copy on paper. Let him draw a house from a house, a tree froma tree, a man from a man; so that he may train himself to observeobjects and their appearance accurately and not to take false andconventional copies for truth. I would even train him to draw onlyfrom objects actually before him and not from memory, so that, by repeated observation, their exact form may be impressed on hisimagination, for fear lest he should substitute absurd and fantasticforms for the real truth of things, and lose his sense of proportionand his taste for the beauties of nature. 

Of course I know that in this way he will make any number of daubsbefore he produces anything recognisable, that it will be longbefore he attains to the graceful outline and light touch of thedraughtsman; perhaps he will never have an eye for picturesque effector a good taste in drawing. On the other hand, he will certainlyget a truer eye, a surer hand, a knowledge of the real relationsof form and size between animals, plants, and natural objects, together with a quicker sense of the effects of perspective. Thatis just what I wanted, and my purpose is rather that he shouldknow things than copy them. I would rather he showed me a plant ofacanthus even if he drew a capital with less accuracy. 

Moreover, in this occupation as in others, I do not intend my pupilto play by himself; I mean to make it pleasanter for him by alwayssharing it with him. He shall have no other rival; but mine will bea continual rivalry, and there will be no risk attaching to it; itwill give interest to his pursuits without awaking jealousy betweenus. I shall follow his example and take up a pencil; at firstI shall use it as unskilfully as he. I should be an Apelles if Idid not set myself daubing. To begin with, I shall draw a man suchas lads draw on walls, a line for each arm, another for each leg, with the fingers longer than the arm. Long after, one or other ofus will notice this lack of proportion; we shall observe that theleg is thick, that this thickness varies, that the length of the armis proportionate to the body. In this improvement I shall eithergo side by side with my pupil, or so little in advance that he willalways overtake me easily and sometimes get ahead of me. We shallget brushes and paints, we shall try to copy the colours of thingsand their whole appearance, not merely their shape. We shall colourprints, we shall paint, we shall daub; but in all our daubing weshall be searching out the secrets of nature, and whatever we doshall be done under the eye of that master. 

We badly needed ornaments for our room, and now we have them readyto our hand. I will have our drawings framed and covered with goodglass, so that no one will touch them, and thus seeing them wherewe put them, each of us has a motive for taking care of his own. I arrange them in order round the room, each drawing repeated sometwenty or thirty times, thus showing the author's progress in eachspecimen, from the time when the house is merely a rude square, till its front view, its side view, its proportions, its light andshade are all exactly portrayed. These graduations will certainlyfurnish us with pictures, a source of interest to ourselves and ofcuriosity to others, which will spur us on to further emulation. The first and roughest drawings I put in very smart gilt framesto show them off; but as the copy becomes more accurate and thedrawing really good, I only give it a very plain dark frame; itneeds no other ornament than itself, and it would be a pity if theframe distracted the attention which the picture itself deserves. Thus we each aspire to a plain frame, and when we desire to pourscorn on each other's drawings, we condemn them to a gilded frame. Some day perhaps "the gilt frame" will become a proverb among us, and we shall be surprised to find how many people show what theyare really made of by demanding a gilt frame. 

I have said already that geometry is beyond the child's reach; butthat is our own fault. We fail to perceive that their method is notours, that what is for us the art of reasoning, should be for themthe art of seeing. Instead of teaching them our way, we should dobetter to adopt theirs, for our way of learning geometry is quiteas much a matter of imagination as of reasoning. When a proposition isenunciated you must imagine the proof; that is, you must discoveron what proposition already learnt it depends, and of all thepossible deductions from that proposition you must choose just theone required. 

In this way the closest reasoner, if he is not inventive, may findhimself at a loss. What is the result? Instead of making us discoverproofs, they are dictated to us; instead of teaching us to reason, our memory only is employed. 

Draw accurate figures, combine them together, put them one uponanother, examine their relations, and you will discover the wholeof elementary geometry in passing from one observation to another, without a word of definitions, problems, or any other form ofdemonstration but super-position. I do not profess to teach Emilegeometry; he will teach me; I shall seek for relations, he willfind them, for I shall seek in such a fashion as to make him find. For instance, instead of using a pair of compasses to draw a circle, I shall draw it with a pencil at the end of bit of string attachedto a pivot. After that, when I want to compare the radii one withanother, Emile will laugh at me and show me that the same threadat full stretch cannot have given distances of unequal length. IfI wish to measure an angle of 60 degrees I describe from the apexof the angle, not an arc, but a complete circle, for with childrennothing must be taken for granted. I find that the part of thecircle contained between the two lines of the angle is the sixthpart of a circle. Then I describe another and larger circle fromthe same centre, and I find the second arc is again the sixth partof its circle. I describe a third concentric circle with a similarresult, and I continue with more and more circles till Emile, shocked at my stupidity, shows me that every arc, large or small, contained by the same angle will always be the sixth part of itscircle. Now we are ready to use the protractor. 

To prove that two adjacent angles are equal to two right anglespeople describe a circle. On the contrary I would have Emile observethe fact in a circle, and then I should say, "If we took away thecircle and left the straight lines, would the angles have changedtheir size, etc. ?"

Exactness in the construction of figures is neglected; it is takenfor granted and stress is laid on the proof. With us, on the otherhand, there will be no question of proof. Our chief business willbe to draw very straight, accurate, and even lines, a perfectsquare, a really round circle. To verify the exactness of a figurewe will test it by each of its sensible properties, and that willgive us a chance to discover fresh properties day by day. We willfold the two semi-circles along the diameter, the two halves ofthe square by the diagonal; he will compare our two figures to seewho has got the edges to fit moat exactly, i. E. , who has done itbest; we should argue whether this equal division would always bepossible in parallelograms, trapezes, etc. We shall sometimes tryto forecast the result of an experiment, to find reasons, etc. 

Geometry means to my scholar the successful use of the ruleand compass; he must not confuse it with drawing, in which theseinstruments are not used. The rule and compass will be locked up, so that he will not get into the way of messing about with them, but we may sometimes take our figures with us when we go for awalk, and talk over what we have done, or what we mean to do. 

I shall never forget seeing a young man at Turin, who had learnt asa child the relations of contours and surfaces by having to chooseevery day isoperimetric cakes among cakes of every geometricalfigure. The greedy little fellow had exhausted the art of Archimedesto find which were the biggest. 

When the child flies a kite he is training eye and hand to accuracy;when he whips a top, he is increasing his strength by using it, butwithout learning anything. I have sometimes asked why children arenot given the same games of skill as men; tennis, mall, billiards, archery, football, and musical instruments. I was told that someof these are beyond their strength, that the child's senses arenot sufficiently developed for others. These do not strike me asvalid reasons; a child is not as tall as a man, but he wears thesame sort of coat; I do not want him to play with our cues at abilliard-table three feet high; I do not want him knocking aboutamong our games, nor carrying one of our racquets in his littlehand; but let him play in a room whose windows have been protected;at first let him only use soft balls, let his first racquets beof wood, then of parchment, and lastly of gut, according to hisprogress. You prefer the kite because it is less tiring and thereis no danger. You are doubly wrong. Kite-flying is a sport forwomen, but every woman will run away from a swift ball. Their whiteskins were not meant to be hardened by blows and their faces werenot made for bruises. But we men are made for strength; do youthink we can attain it without hardship, and what defence shall webe able to make if we are attacked? People always play carelesslyin games where there is no danger. A falling kite hurts nobody, but nothing makes the arm so supple as protecting the head, nothingmakes the sight so accurate as having to guard the eye. To dashfrom one end of the room to another, to judge the rebound of aball before it touches the ground, to return it with strength andaccuracy, such games are not so much sports fit for a man, as sportsfit to make a man of him. 

The child's limbs, you say, are too tender. They are not so strongas those of a man, but they are more supple. His arm is weak, stillit is an arm, and it should be used with due consideration as weuse other tools. Children have no skill in the use of their hands. That is just why I want them to acquire skill; a man with as littlepractice would be just as clumsy. We can only learn the use of ourlimbs by using them. It is only by long experience that we learn tomake the best of ourselves, and this experience is the real objectof study to which we cannot apply ourselves too early. 

What is done can be done. Now there is nothing commoner than to findnimble and skilful children whose limbs are as active as those ofa man. They may be seen at any fair, swinging, walking on theirhands, jumping, dancing on the tight rope. For many years past, troops of children have attracted spectators to the ballets at theItalian Comedy House. Who is there in Germany and Italy who hasnot heard of the famous pantomime company of Nicolini? Has it everoccurred to any one that the movements of these children were lessfinished, their postures less graceful, their ears less true, theirdancing more clumsy than those of grown-up dancers? If at firstthe fingers are thick, short, and awkward, the dimpled hands unableto grasp anything, does this prevent many children from learningto read and write at an age when others cannot even hold a penor pencil? All Paris still recalls the little English girl of tenwho did wonders on the harpsichord. I once saw a little fellow ofeight, the son of a magistrate, who was set like a statuette onthe table among the dishes, to play on a fiddle almost as big ashimself, and even artists were surprised at his execution. 

To my mind, these and many more examples prove that the supposedincapacity of children for our games is imaginary, and that if theyare unsuccessful in some of them, it is for want of practice. 

You will tell me that with regard to the body I am falling intothe same mistake of precocious development which I found fault withfor the mind. The cases are very different: in the one, progress isapparent only; in the other it is real. I have shown that childrenhave not the mental development they appear to have, while theyreally do what they seem to do. Besides, we must never forget thatall this should be play, the easy and voluntary control of themovements which nature demands of them, the art of varying theirgames to make them pleasanter, without the least bit of constraintto transform them into work; for what games do they play in whichI cannot find material for instruction for them? And even if Icould not do so, so long as they are amusing themselves harmlesslyand passing the time pleasantly, their progress in learning is notyet of such great importance. But if one must be teaching them thisor that at every opportunity, it cannot be done without constraint, vexation, or tedium. 

What I have said about the use of the two senses whose use is mostconstant and most important, may serve as an example of how totrain the rest. Sight and touch are applied to bodies at rest andbodies in motion, but as hearing is only affected by vibrationsof the air, only a body in motion can make a noise or sound;if everything were at rest we should never hear. At night, whenwe ourselves only move as we choose, we have nothing to fear butmoving bodies; hence we need a quick ear, and power to judge fromthe sensations experienced whether the body which causes them islarge or small, far off or near, whether its movements are gentleor violent. When once the air is set in motion, it is subject torepercussions which produce echoes, these renew the sensations andmake us hear a loud or penetrating sound in another quarter. If youput your ear to the ground you may hear the sound of men's voicesor horses' feet in a plain or valley much further off than whenyou stand upright. 

As we have made a comparison between sight and touch, it will beas well to do the same for hearing, and to find out which of thetwo impressions starting simultaneously from a given body firstreaches the sense-organ. When you see the flash of a cannon, youhave still time to take cover; but when you hear the sound it istoo late, the ball is close to you. One can reckon the distanceof a thunderstorm by the interval between the lightning and thethunder. Let the child learn all these facts, let him learn thosethat are within his reach by experiment, and discover the restby induction; but I would far rather he knew nothing at all aboutthem, than that you should tell him. 

In the voice we have an organ answering to hearing; we have nosuch organ answering to sight, and we do not repeat colours as werepeat sounds. This supplies an additional means of cultivating theear by practising the active and passive organs one with the other. 

Man has three kinds of voice, the speaking or articulate voice, thesinging or melodious voice, and the pathetic or expressive voice, which serves as the language of the passions, and gives life tosong and speech. The child has these three voices, just as the manhas them, but he does not know how to use them in combination. Likeus, he laughs, cries, laments, shrieks, and groans, but he doesnot know how to combine these inflexions with speech or song. Thesethree voices find their best expression in perfect music. Childrenare incapable of such music, and their singing lacks feeling. Inthe same way their spoken language lacks expression; they shout, but they do not speak with emphasis, and there is as little powerin their voice as there is emphasis in their speech. Our pupil'sspeech will be plainer and simpler still, for his passions are stillasleep, and will not blend their tones with his. Do not, therefore, set him to recite tragedy or comedy, nor try to teach declamationso-called. He will have too much sense to give voice to things hecannot understand, or expression to feelings he has never known. 

Teach him to speak plainly and distinctly, to articulate clearly, to pronounce correctly and without affectation, to perceive andimitate the right accent in prose and verse, and always to speakloud enough to be heard, but without speaking too loud--a commonfault with school-children. Let there be no waste in anything. 

The same method applies to singing; make his voice smooth and true, flexible and full, his ear alive to time and tune, but nothing more. Descriptive and theatrical music is not suitable at his age----Iwould rather he sang no words; if he must have words, I would tryto compose songs on purpose for him, songs interesting to a child, and as simple as his own thoughts. 

You may perhaps suppose that as I am in no hurry to teach Emile toread and write, I shall not want to teach him to read music. Letus spare his brain the strain of excessive attention, and let usbe in no hurry to turn his mind towards conventional signs. I grantyou there seems to be a difficulty here, for if at first sight theknowledge of notes seems no more necessary for singing than theknowledge of letters for speaking, there is really this differencebetween them: When we speak, we are expressing our own thoughts;when we sing we are expressing the thoughts of others. Now in orderto express them we must read them. 

But at first we can listen to them instead of reading them, and asong is better learnt by ear than by eye. Moreover, to learn musicthoroughly we must make songs as well as sing them, and the twoprocesses must be studied together, or we shall never have anyreal knowledge of music. First give your young musician practicein very regular, well-cadenced phrases; then let him connect thesephrases with the very simplest modulations; then show him theirrelation one to another by correct accent, which can be done by afit choice of cadences and rests. On no account give him anythingunusual, or anything that requires pathos or expression. A simple, tuneful air, always based on the common chords of the key, with itsbass so clearly indicated that it is easily felt and accompanied, for to train his voice and ear he should always sing with theharpsichord. 

We articulate the notes we sing the better to distinguish them;hence the custom of sol-faing with certain syllables. To tell thekeys one from another they must have names and fixed intervals; hencethe names of the intervals, and also the letters of the alphabetattached to the keys of the clavier and the notes of the scale. Cand A indicate fixed sounds, invariable and always rendered by thesame keys; Ut and La are different. Ut is always the dominant ofa major scale, or the leading-note of a minor scale. La is alwaysthe dominant of a minor scale or the sixth of a major scale. Thusthe letters indicate fixed terms in our system of music, and thesyllables indicate terms homologous to the similar relations indifferent keys. The letters show the keys on the piano, and thesyllables the degrees in the scale. French musicians have madea strange muddle of this. They have confused the meaning of thesyllables with that of the letters, and while they have unnecessarilygiven us two sets of symbols for the keys of the piano, they haveleft none for the chords of the scales; so that Ut and C are alwaysthe same for them; this is not and ought not to be; if so, whatis the use of C? Their method of sol-faing is, therefore, extremelyand needlessly difficult, neither does it give any clear ideato the mind; since, by this method, Ut and Me, for example, maymean either a major third, a minor third, an augmented third, ora diminished third. What a strange thing that the country whichproduces the finest books about music should be the very countrywhere it is hardest to learn music!

Let us adopt a simpler and clearer plan with our pupil; let him haveonly two scales whose relations remain unchanged, and indicated bythe same symbols. Whether he sings or plays, let him learn to fixhis scale on one of the twelve tones which may serve as a base, andwhether he modulates in D, C, or G, let the close be always Ut orLa, according to the scale. In this way he will understand what youmean, and the essential relations for correct singing and playingwill always be present in his mind; his execution will be betterand his progress quicker. There is nothing funnier than what theFrench call "natural sol-faing;" it consists in removing the realmeaning of things and putting in their place other meanings whichonly distract us. There is nothing more natural than sol-faing bytransposition, when the scale is transposed. But I have said enough, and more than enough, about music; teach it as you please, so longas it is nothing but play. 

We are now thoroughly acquainted with the condition of foreignbodies in relation to our own, their weight, form, colour, density, size, distance, temperature, stability, or motion. We have learntwhich of them to approach or avoid, how to set about overcomingtheir resistance or to resist them so as to prevent ourselves frominjury; but this is not enough. Our own body is constantly wastingand as constantly requires to be renewed. Although we have thepower of changing other substances into our own, our choice is nota matter of indifference. Everything is not food for man, and whatmay be food for him is not all equally suitable; it depends onhis racial constitution, the country he lives in, his individualtemperament, and the way of living which his condition demands. 

If we had to wait till experience taught us to know and choose fitfood for ourselves, we should die of hunger or poison; but a kindlyprovidence which has made pleasure the means of self-preservationto sentient beings teaches us through our palate what is suitablefor our stomach. In a state of nature there is no better doctorthan a man's own appetite, and no doubt in a state of nature mancould find the most palateable food the most wholesome. 

Nor is this all. Our Maker provides, not only for those needs hehas created, but for those we create for ourselves; and it is tokeep the balance between our wants and our needs that he has causedour tastes to change and vary with our way of living. The furtherwe are from a state of nature, the more we lose our natural tastes;or rather, habit becomes a second nature, and so completely replacesour real nature, that we have lost all knowledge of it. 

From this it follows that the most natural tastes should be thesimplest, for those are more easily changed; but when they aresharpened and stimulated by our fancies they assume a form whichis incapable of modification. The man who so far has not adaptedhimself to one country can learn the ways of any country whatsoever;but the man who has adopted the habits of one particular countrycan never shake them off. 

This seems to be true of all our senses, especially of taste. Ourfirst food is milk; we only become accustomed by degrees to strongflavours; at first we dislike them. Fruit, vegetables, herbs, andthen fried meat without salt or seasoning, formed the feasts ofprimitive man. When the savage tastes wine for the first time, hemakes a grimace and spits it out; and even among ourselves a man whohas not tasted fermented liquors before twenty cannot get used tothem; we should all be sober if we did not have wine when we werechildren. Indeed, the simpler our tastes are, the more general theyare; made dishes are those most frequently disliked. Did you evermeet with any one who disliked bread or water? Here is the fingerof nature, this then is our rule. Preserve the child's primitivetastes as long as possible; let his food be plain and simple, letstrong flavours be unknown to his palate, and do not let his dietbe too uniform. 

I am not asking, for the present, whether this way of living ishealthier or no; that is not what I have in view. It is enough forme to know that my choice is more in accordance with nature, andthat it can be more readily adapted to other conditions. In myopinion, those who say children should be accustomed to the foodthey will have when they are grown up are mistaken. Why shouldtheir food be the same when their way of living is so different?A man worn out by labour, anxiety, and pain needs tasty foods togive fresh vigour to his brain; a child fresh from his games, achild whose body is growing, needs plentiful food which will supplymore chyle. Moreover the grown man has already a settled profession, occupation, and home, but who can tell what Fate holds in storefor the child? Let us not give him so fixed a bent in any directionthat he cannot change it if required without hardship. Do not bringhim up so that he would die of hunger in a foreign land if he doesnot take a French cook about with him; do not let him say at somefuture time that France is the only country where the food is fitto eat. By the way, that is a strange way of praising one's country. On the other hand, I myself should say that the French are the onlypeople who do not know what good food is, since they require sucha special art to make their dishes eatable. 

Of all our different senses, we are usually most affected by taste. Thus it concerns us more nearly to judge aright of what willactually become part of ourselves, than of that which will merelyform part of our environment. Many things are matters of indifferenceto touch, hearing, and sight; but taste is affected by almosteverything. Moreover the activity of this sense is wholly physicaland material; of all the senses, it alone makes no appeal to theimagination, or at least, imagination plays a smaller part in itssensations; while imitation and imagination often bring moralityinto the impressions of the other senses. Thus, speaking generally, soft and pleasure-loving minds, passionate and truly sensitivedispositions, which are easily stirred by the other senses, areusually indifferent to this. From this very fact, which apparentlyplaces taste below our other senses and makes our inclination towardsit the more despicable, I draw just the opposite conclusion--thatthe best way to lead children is by the mouth. Greediness is a bettermotive than vanity; for the former is a natural appetite directlydependent on the senses, while the latter is the outcome ofconvention, it is the slave of human caprice and liable to everykind of abuse. Believe me the child will cease to care about hisfood only too soon, and when his heart is too busy, his palate willbe idle. When he is grown up greediness will be expelled by a hostof stronger passions, while vanity will only be stimulated by them;for this latter passion feeds upon the rest till at length theyare all swallowed up in it. I have sometimes studied those men whopay great attention to good eating, men whose first waking thoughtis--What shall we have to eat to-day? men who describe their dinnerwith as much detail as Polybius describes a combat. I have foundthese so-called men were only children of forty, without strengthor vigour--fruges consumere nati. Gluttony is the vice of feebleminds. The gourmand has his brains in his palate, he can do nothingbut eat; he is so stupid and incapable that the table is the onlyplace for him, and dishes are the only things he knows anythingabout. Let us leave him to this business without regret; it isbetter for him and for us. 

It is a small mind that fears lest greediness should take rootin the child who is fit for something better. The child thinks ofnothing but his food, the youth pays no heed to it at all; everykind of food is good, and we have other things to attend to. YetI would not have you use the low motive unwisely. I would not haveyou trust to dainties rather than to the honour which is the rewardof a good deed. But childhood is, or ought to be, a time of playand merry sports, and I do not see why the rewards of purely bodilyexercises should not be material and sensible rewards. If a littlelad in Majorca sees a basket on the tree-top and brings it downwith his sling, is it not fair that he should get something by this, and a good breakfast should repair the strength spent in gettingit. If a young Spartan, facing the risk of a hundred stripes, slipsskilfully into the kitchen, and steals a live fox cub, carries itoff in his garment, and is scratched, bitten till the blood comes, and for shame lest he should be caught the child allows his bowelsto be torn out without a movement or a cry, is it not fair that heshould keep his spoils, that he should eat his prey after it haseaten him? A good meal should never be a reward; but why should itnot be sometimes the result of efforts made to get it. Emile doesnot consider the cake I put on the stone as a reward for good running;he knows that the only way to get the cake is to get there first. 

This does not contradict my previous rules about simple food; forto tempt a child's appetite you need not stimulate it, you needonly satisfy it; and the commonest things will do this if you donot attempt to refine children's taste. Their perpetual hunger, the result of their need for growth, will be the best sauce. Fruit, milk, a piece of cake just a little better than ordinary bread, andabove all the art of dispensing these things prudently, by thesemeans you may lead a host of children to the world's end, withouton the one hand giving them a taste for strong flavours, nor onthe other hand letting them get tired of their food. 

The indifference of children towards meat is one proof that thetaste for meat is unnatural; their preference is for vegetablefoods, such as milk, pastry, fruit, etc. Beware of changing thisnatural taste and making children flesh-eaters, if not for theirhealth's sake, for the sake of their character; for how can oneexplain away the fact that great meat-eaters are usually fiercerand more cruel than other men; this has been recognised at alltimes and in all places. The English are noted for their cruelty[Footnote: I am aware that the English make a boast of theirhumanity and of the kindly disposition of their race, which theycall "good-natured people;" but in vain do they proclaim this fact;no one else says it of them. ] while the Gaures are the gentlestof men. [Footnote: The Banians, who abstain from flesh even morecompletely than the Gaures, are almost as gentle as the Gauresthemselves, but as their morality is less pure and their form ofworship less reasonable they are not such good men. ] All savagesare cruel, and it is not their customs that tend in this direction;their cruelty is the result of their food. They go to war as to thechase, and treat men as they would treat bears. Indeed in Englandbutchers are not allowed to give evidence in a court of law, nomore can surgeons. [Footnote: One of the English translators of mybook has pointed out my mistake, and both of them have correctedit. Butchers and surgeons are allowed to give evidence in the lawcourts, but butchers may not serve on juries in criminal cases, though surgeons are allowed to do so. ] Great criminals preparethemselves for murder by drinking blood. Homer makes his flesh-eatingCyclops a terrible man, while his Lotus-eaters are so delightfulthat those who went to trade with them forgot even their own countryto dwell among them. 

"You ask me, " said Plutarch, "why Pythagoras abstained from eatingthe flesh of beasts, but I ask you, what courage must have beenneeded by the first man who raised to his lips the flesh of theslain, who broke with his teeth the bones of a dying beast, who haddead bodies, corpses, placed before him and swallowed down limbswhich a few moments ago were bleating, bellowing, walking, and seeing?How could his hand plunge the knife into the heart of a sentientcreature, how could his eyes look on murder, how could he beholda poor helpless animal bled to death, scorched, and dismembered?how can he bear the sight of this quivering flesh? does not thevery smell of it turn his stomach? is he not repelled, disgusted, horror-struck, when he has to handle the blood from these wounds, and to cleanse his fingers from the dark and viscous bloodstains?

 "The scorched skins wriggled upon the ground, The shrinking flesh bellowed upon the spit. Man cannot eat them without a shudder; He seems to hear their cries within his breast. 

"Thus must he have felt the first time he did despite to nature andmade this horrible meal; the first time he hungered for the livingcreature, and desired to feed upon the beast which was stillgrazing; when he bade them slay, dismember, and cut up the sheepwhich licked his hands. It is those who began these cruel feasts, not those who abandon them, who should cause surprise, and therewere excuses for those primitive men, excuses which we have not, and the absence of such excuses multiplies our barbarity a hundredfold. 

"'Mortals, beloved of the gods, ' says this primitive man, 'compareour times with yours; see how happy you are, and how wretched werewe. The earth, newly formed, the air heavy with moisture, werenot yet subjected to the rule of the seasons. Three-fourths of thesurface of the globe was flooded by the ever-shifting channels ofrivers uncertain of their course, and covered with pools, lakes, and bottomless morasses. The remaining quarter was covered withwoods and barren forests. The earth yielded no good fruit, we hadno instruments of tillage, we did not even know the use of them, and the time of harvest never came for those who had sown nothing. Thus hunger was always in our midst. In winter, mosses and thebark of trees were our common food. A few green roots of dogs-bitor heather were a feast, and when men found beech-mast, nuts, oracorns, they danced for joy round the beech or oak, to the soundof some rude song, while they called the earth their mother andtheir nurse. This was their only festival, their only sport; allthe rest of man's life was spent in sorrow, pain, and hunger. 

"'At length, when the bare and naked earth no longer offered us anyfood, we were compelled in self-defence to outrage nature, and tofeed upon our companions in distress, rather than perish with them. But you, oh, cruel men! who forces you to shed blood? Behold thewealth of good things about you, the fruits yielded by the earth, the wealth of field and vineyard; the animals give their milk foryour drink and their fleece for your clothing. What more do youask? What madness compels you to commit such murders, when youhave already more than you can eat or drink? Why do you slanderour mother earth, and accuse her of denying you food? Why do yousin against Ceres, the inventor of the sacred laws, and against thegracious Bacchus, the comforter of man, as if their lavish giftswere not enough to preserve mankind? Have you the heart to mingletheir sweet fruits with the bones upon your table, to eat with themilk the blood of the beasts which gave it? The lions and panthers, wild beasts as you call them, are driven to follow their naturalinstinct, and they kill other beasts that they may live. But, a hundredfold fiercer than they, you fight against your instinctswithout cause, and abandon yourselves to the most cruel pleasures. The animals you eat are not those who devour others; you do not eatthe carnivorous beasts, you take them as your pattern. You onlyhunger for the sweet and gentle creatures which harm no one, whichfollow you, serve you, and are devoured by you as the reward oftheir service. 

"'O unnatural murderer! if you persist in the assertion that naturehas made you to devour your fellow-creatures, beings of flesh andblood, living and feeling like yourself, stifle if you can thathorror with which nature makes you regard these horrible feasts;slay the animals yourself, slay them, I say, with your own hands, without knife or mallet; tear them with your nails like the lionand the bear, take this ox and rend him in pieces, plunge yourclaws into his hide; eat this lamb while it is yet alive, devourits warm flesh, drink its soul with its blood. You shudder! you darenot feel the living throbbing flesh between your teeth? Ruthlessman; you begin by slaying the animal and then you devour it, asif to slay it twice. It is not enough. You turn against the deadflesh, it revolts you, it must be transformed by fire, boiled androasted, seasoned and disguised with drugs; you must have butchers, cooks, turnspits, men who will rid the murder of its horrors, whowill dress the dead bodies so that the taste deceived by thesedisguises will not reject what is strange to it, and will feast oncorpses, the very sight of which would sicken you. '"

Although this quotation is irrelevant, I cannot resist the temptationto transcribe it, and I think few of my readers will resent it. 

In conclusion, whatever food you give your children, provided youaccustom them to nothing but plain and simple dishes, let them eatand run and play as much as they want; you may be sure they willnever eat too much and will never have indigestion; but if you keepthem hungry half their time, when they do contrive to evade yourvigilance, they will take advantage of it as far as they can; theywill eat till they are sick, they will gorge themselves till theycan eat no more. Our appetite is only excessive because we try toimpose on it rules other than those of nature, opposing, controlling, prescribing, adding, or substracting; the scales are always in ourhands, but the scales are the measure of our caprices not of ourstomachs. I return to my usual illustration; among peasants thecupboard and the apple-loft are always left open, and indigestionis unknown alike to children and grown-up people. 

If, however, it happened that a child were too great an eater, though, under my system, I think it is impossible, he is so easilydistracted by his favourite games that one might easily starve himwithout his knowing it. How is it that teachers have failed to usesuch a safe and easy weapon. Herodotus records that the Lydians, [Footnote: The ancient historians are full of opinions which may beuseful, even if the facts which they present are false. But we donot know how to make any real use of history. Criticism and eruditionare our only care; as if it mattered more that a statement weretrue or false than that we should be able to get a useful lessonfrom it. A wise man should consider history a tissue of fables whosemorals are well adapted to the human heart. ] under the pressure ofgreat scarcity, decided to invent sports and other amusements withwhich to cheat their hunger, and they passed whole days withoutthought of food. Your learned teachers may have read this passagetime after time without seeing how it might be applied to children. One of these teachers will probably tell me that a child does notlike to leave his dinner for his lessons. You are right, sir--Iwas not thinking of that sort of sport. 

The sense of smell is to taste what sight is to touch; it goesbefore it and gives it warning that it will be affected by this orthat substance; and it inclines it to seek or shun this experienceaccording to the impressions received beforehand. I have been toldthat savages receive impressions quite different from ours, andthat they have quite different ideas with regard to pleasant orunpleasant odours. I can well believe it. Odours alone are slightsensations; they affect the imagination rather than the senses, and they work mainly through the anticipations they arouse. Thisbeing so, and the tastes of savages being so unlike the taste ofcivilised men, they should lead them to form very different ideaswith regard to flavours and therefore with regard to the odourswhich announce them. A Tartar must enjoy the smell of a haunch ofputrid horseflesh, much as a sportsman enjoys a very high partridge. Our idle sensations, such as the scents wafted from the flowerbeds, must pass unnoticed among men who walk too much to care forstrolling in a garden, and do not work enough to find pleasure inrepose. Hungry men would find little pleasure in scents which didnot proclaim the approach of food. 

Smell is the sense of the imagination; as it gives tone to the nervesit must have a great effect on the brain; that is why it revivesus for the time, but eventually causes exhaustion. Its effectson love are pretty generally recognised. The sweet perfumes of adressing-room are not so slight a snare as you may fancy them, andI hardly know whether to congratulate or condole with that wiseand somewhat insensible person whose senses are never stirred bythe scent of the flowers his mistress wears in her bosom. 

Hence the sense of smell should not be over-active in earlychildhood; the imagination, as yet unstirred by changing passions, is scarcely susceptible of emotion, and we have not enough experienceto discern beforehand from one sense the promise of another. Thisview is confirmed by observation, and it is certain that the senseof smell is dull and almost blunted in most children. Not that theirsensations are less acute than those of grown-up people, but thatthere is no idea associated with them; they do not easily experiencepleasure or pain, and are not flattered or hurt as we are. Withoutgoing beyond my system, and without recourse to comparativeanatomy, I think we can easily see why women are generally fonderof perfumes than men. 

It is said that from early childhood the Redskins of Canada, traintheir sense of smell to such a degree of subtlety that, althoughthey have dogs, they do not condescend to use them in hunting--theyare their own dogs. Indeed I believe that if children were trainedto scent their dinner as a dog scents game, their sense of smellmight be nearly as perfect; but I see no very real advantage to bederived from this sense, except by teaching the child to observethe relation between smell and taste. Nature has taken care to. Compel us to learn these relations. She has made the exercise ofthe latter sense practically inseparable from that of the former, by placing their organs close together, and by providing, in themouth, a direct pathway between them, so that we taste nothingwithout smelling it too. Only I would not have these naturalrelations disturbed in order to deceive the child, e. G. ; to concealthe taste of medicine with an aromatic odour, for the discordbetween the senses is too great for deception, the more activesense overpowers. The other, the medicine is just as distasteful, and this disagreeable association extends to every sensation experiencedat the time; so the slightest of these sensations recalls the restto his imagination and a very pleasant perfume is for him only anasty smell; thus our foolish precautions increase the sum totalof his unpleasant sensations at the cost of his pleasant sensations. 

In the following books I have still to speak of the training of asort of sixth sense, called common-sense, not so much because it iscommon to all men, but because it results from the well-regulateduse of the other five, and teaches the nature of things by thesum-total of their external aspects. So this sixth sense has nospecial organ, it has its seat in the brain, and its sensationswhich are purely internal are called percepts or ideas. The numberof these ideas is the measure of our knowledge; exactness of thoughtdepends on their clearness and precision; the art of comparingthem one with another is called human reason. Thus what I call thereasoning of the senses, or the reasoning of the child, consistsin the formation of simple ideas through the associated experienceof several sensations; what I call the reasoning of the intellect, consists in the formation, of complex ideas through the associationof several simple ideas. 

If my method is indeed that of nature, and if I am not mistaken inthe application of that method, we have led our pupil through theregion of sensation to the bounds of the child's reasoning; thefirst step we take beyond these bounds must be the step of a man. But before we make this fresh advance, let us glance back fora moment at the path we have hitherto followed. Every age, everystation in life, has a perfection, a ripeness, of its own. We haveoften heard the phrase "a grown man;" but we will consider "a grownchild. " This will be a new experience and none the less pleasing. 

The life of finite creatures is so poor and narrow that themere sight of what is arouses no emotion. It is fancy which decksreality, and if imagination does not lend its charm to that whichtouches our senses, our barren pleasure is confined to the sensesalone, while the heart remains cold. The earth adorned withthe treasures of autumn displays a wealth of colour which the eyeadmires; but this admiration fails to move us, it springs ratherfrom thought than from feeling. In spring the country is almostbare and leafless, the trees give no shade, the grass has hardlybegun to grow, yet the heart is touched by the sight. In this newbirth of nature, we feel the revival of our own life; the memoriesof past pleasures surround us; tears of delight, those companionsof pleasure ever ready to accompany a pleasing sentiment, trembleon our eyelids. Animated, lively, and delightful though the vintagemay be, we behold it without a tear. 

And why is this? Because imagination adds to the sight of springthe image of the seasons which are yet to come; the eye sees thetender shoot, the mind's eye beholds its flowers, fruit, and foliage, and even the mysteries they may conceal. It blends successive stagesinto one moment's experience; we see things, not so much as theywill be, but as we would have them be, for imagination has only totake her choice. In autumn, on the other hand, we only behold thepresent; if we wish to look forward to spring, winter bars the way, and our shivering imagination dies away among its frost and snow. 

This is the source of the charm we find in beholding the beautiesof childhood, rather than the perfection of manhood. When do wereally delight in beholding a man? When the memory of his deedsleads us to look back over his life and his youth is renewed inour eyes. If we are reduced to viewing him as he is, or to picturinghim as he will be in old age, the thought of declining years destroysall our pleasure. There is no pleasure in seeing a man hasteningto his grave; the image of death makes all hideous. 

But when I think of a child of ten or twelve, strong, healthy, well-grown for his age, only pleasant thoughts are called up, whetherof the present or the future. I see him keen, eager, and full oflife, free from gnawing cares and painful forebodings, absorbedin this present state, and delighting in a fullness of life whichseems to extend beyond himself. I look forward to a time when hewill use his daily increasing sense, intelligence and vigour, thosegrowing powers of which he continually gives fresh proof. I watchthe child with delight, I picture to myself the man with evengreater pleasure. His eager life seems to stir my own pulses, Iseem to live his life and in his vigour I renew my own. 

The hour strikes, the scene is changed. All of a sudden his eyegrows dim, his mirth has fled. Farewell mirth, farewell untrammelledsports in which he delighted. A stern, angry man takes him by thehand, saying gravely, "Come with me, sir, " and he is led away. Asthey are entering the room, I catch a glimpse of books. Books, whatdull food for a child of his age! The poor child allows himself tobe dragged away; he casts a sorrowful look on all about him, anddeparts in silence, his eyes swollen with the tears he dare notshed, and his heart bursting with the sighs he dare not utter. 

You who have no such cause for fear, you for whom no period of lifeis a time of weariness and tedium, you who welcome days withoutcare and nights without impatience, you who only reckon time byyour pleasures, come, my happy kindly pupil, and console us forthe departure of that miserable creature. Come! Here he is and athis approach I feel a thrill of delight which I see he shares. Itis his friend, his comrade, who meets him; when he sees me he knowsvery well that he will not be long without amusement; we are neverdependent on each other, but we are always on good terms, and weare never so happy as when together. 

His face, his bearing, his expression, speak of confidence andcontentment; health shines in his countenance, his firm step speaksof strength; his colour, delicate but not sickly, has nothing ofsoftness or effeminacy. Sun and wind have already set the honourablestamp of manhood on his countenance; his rounded muscles alreadybegin to show some signs of growing individuality; his eyes, as yetunlighted by the flame of feeling, have at least all their nativecalm; They have not been darkened by prolonged sorrow, nor are hischeeks furrowed by ceaseless tears. Behold in his quick and certainmovements the natural vigour of his age and the confidence ofindependence. His manner is free and open, but without a trace ofinsolence or vanity; his head which has not been bent over booksdoes not fall upon his breast; there is no need to say, "Hold yourhead up, " he will neither hang his head for shame or fear. 

Make room for him, gentlemen, in your midst; question him boldly;have no fear of importunity, chatter, or impertinent questions. Youneed not be afraid that he will take possession of you and expectyou to devote yourself entirely to him, so that you cannot get ridof him. 

Neither need you look for compliments from him; nor will he tellyou what I have taught him to say; expect nothing from him butthe plain, simple truth, without addition or ornament and withoutvanity. He will tell you the wrong things he has done and thoughtas readily as the right, without troubling himself in the least asto the effect of his words upon you; he will use speech with allthe simplicity of its first beginnings. 

We love to augur well of our children, and we are continuallyregretting the flood of folly which overwhelms the hopes we wouldfain have rested on some chance phrase. If my scholar rarely givesme cause for such prophecies, neither will he give me cause forsuch regrets, for he never says a useless word, and does not exhausthimself by chattering when he knows there is no one to listen tohim. His ideas are few but precise, he knows nothing by rote butmuch by experience. If he reads our books worse than other children, he reads far better in the book of nature; his thoughts are not inhis tongue but in his brain; he has less memory and more judgment;he can only speak one language, but he understands what he issaying, and if his speech is not so good as that of other childrenhis deeds are better. 

He does not know the meaning of habit, routine, and custom; whathe did yesterday has no control over what he is doing to-day; hefollows no rule, submits to no authority, copies no pattern, andonly acts or speaks as he pleases. So do not expect set speechesor studied manners from him, but just the faithful expression ofhis thoughts and the conduct that springs from his inclinations. [Footnote: Habit owes its charm to man's natural idleness, andthis idleness grows upon us if indulged; it is easier to do what wehave already done, there is a beaten path which is easily followed. Thus we may observe that habit is very strong in the aged and inthe indolent, and very weak in the young and active. The rule ofhabit is only good for feeble hearts, and it makes them more andmore feeble day by day. The only useful habit for children is tobe accustomed to submit without difficulty to necessity, and theonly useful habit for man is to submit without difficulty to therule of reason. Every other habit is a vice. ]

You will find he has a few moral ideas concerning his present stateand none concerning manhood; what use could he make of them, forthe child is not, as yet, an active member of society. Speak tohim of freedom, of property, or even of what is usually done; hemay understand you so far; he knows why his things are his own, and why other things are not his, and nothing more. Speak to himof duty or obedience; he will not know what you are talking about;bid him do something and he will pay no attention; but say to him, "If you will give me this pleasure, I will repay it when required, "and he will hasten to give you satisfaction, for he asks nothingbetter than to extend his domain, to acquire rights over you, which will, he knows, be respected. Maybe he is not sorry to havea place of his own, to be reckoned of some account; but if he hasformed this latter idea, he has already left the realms of nature, and you have failed to bar the gates of vanity. 

For his own part, should he need help, he will ask it readily ofthe first person he meets. He will ask it of a king as readily asof his servant; all men are equals in his eyes. From his way ofasking you will see he knows you owe him nothing, that he is askinga favour. He knows too that humanity moves you to grant this favour;his words are few and simple. His voice, his look, his gesture arethose of a being equally familiar with compliance and refusal. Itis neither the crawling, servile submission of the slave, nor theimperious tone of the master, it is a modest confidence in mankind;it is the noble and touching gentleness of a creature, free, yetsensitive and feeble, who asks aid of a being, free, but strongand kindly. If you grant his request he will not thank you, buthe will feel he has incurred a debt. If you refuse he will neithercomplain nor insist; he knows it is useless; he will not say, "They refused to help me, " but "It was impossible, " and as I havealready said, we do not rebel against necessity when once we haveperceived it. 

Leave him to himself and watch his actions without speaking, considerwhat he is doing and how he sets about it. He does not require toconvince himself that he is free, so he never acts thoughtlesslyand merely to show that he can do what he likes; does he not knowthat he is always his own master? He is quick, alert, and ready;his movements are eager as befits his age, but you will not findone which has no end in view. Whatever he wants, he will neverattempt what is beyond his powers, for he has learnt by experiencewhat those powers are; his means will always be adapted to the endin view, and he will rarely attempt anything without the certaintyof success; his eye is keen and true; he will not be so stupid asto go and ask other people about what he sees; he will examine iton his own account, and before he asks he will try every means athis disposal to discover what he wants to know for himself. If helights upon some unexpected difficulty, he will be less upset thanothers; if there is danger he will be less afraid. His imaginationis still asleep and nothing has been done to arouse it; he onlysees what is really there, and rates the danger at its true worth;so he never loses his head. He does not rebel against necessity, her hand is too heavy upon him; he has borne her yoke all his lifelong, he is well used to it; he is always ready for anything. 

Work or play are all one to him, his games are his work; he knowsno difference. He brings to everything the cheerfulness of interest, the charm of freedom, and he snows the bent of his own mind andthe extent of his knowledge. Is there anything better worth seeing, anything more touching or more delightful, than a pretty child, with merry, cheerful glance, easy contented manner, open smilingcountenance, playing at the most important things, or working atthe lightest amusements?

Would you now judge him by comparison? Set him among other childrenand leave him to himself. You will soon see which has made mostprogress, which comes nearer to the perfection of childhood. Amongall the children in the town there is none more skilful and noneso strong. Among young peasants he is their equal in strength andtheir superior in skill. In everything within a child's grasp hejudges, reasons, and shows a forethought beyond the rest. Is ita matter of action, running, jumping, or shifting things, raisingweights or estimating distance, inventing games, carrying offprizes; you might say, "Nature obeys his word, " so easily does hebend all things to his will. He is made to lead, to rule his fellows;talent and experience take the place of right and authority. In anygarb, under any name, he will still be first; everywhere he willrule the rest, they will always feel his superiority, he will bemaster without knowing it, and they will serve him unawares. 

He has reached the perfection of childhood; he has lived the lifeof a child; his progress has not been bought at the price of hishappiness, he has gained both. While he has acquired all the wisdomof a child, he has been as free and happy as his health permits. If the Reaper Death should cut him off and rob us of our hopes, we need not bewail alike his life and death, we shall not have theadded grief of knowing that we caused him pain; we will say, "Hischildhood, at least, was happy; we have robbed him of nothing thatnature gave him. "

The chief drawback to this early education is that it is onlyappreciated by the wise; to vulgar eyes the child so carefullyeducated is nothing but a rough little boy. A tutor thinks ratherof the advantage to himself than to his pupil; he makes a point ofshowing that there has been no time wasted; he provides his pupilwith goods which can be readily displayed in the shop window, accomplishments which can be shown off at will; no matter whetherthey are useful, provided they are easily seen. Without choice ordiscrimination he loads his memory with a pack of rubbish. If thechild is to be examined he is set to display his wares; he spreadsthem out, satisfies those who behold them, packs up his bundle andgoes his way. My pupil is poorer, he has no bundle to display, hehas only himself to show. Now neither child nor man can be readat a glance. Where are the observers who can at once discern thecharacteristics of this child? There are such people, but they arefew and far between; among a thousand fathers you will scarcelyfind one. 

Too many questions are tedious and revolting to most of us andespecially to children. After a few minutes their attention flags, they cease to listen to your everlasting questions and reply atrandom. This way of testing them is pedantic and useless; a chanceword will often show their sense and intelligence better than muchtalking, but take care that the answer is neither a matter of chancenor yet learnt by heart. A man must needs have a good judgment ifhe is to estimate the judgment of a child. 

I heard the late Lord Hyde tell the following story about one of hisfriends. He had returned from Italy after a three years' absence, and was anxious to test the progress of his son, a child of nineor ten. One evening he took a walk with the child and his tutoracross a level space where the schoolboys were flying their kites. As they went, the father said to his son, "Where is the kite thatcasts this shadow?" Without hesitating and without glancing upwardsthe child replied, "Over the high road. " "And indeed, " said LordHyde, "the high road was between us and the sun. " At these words, the father kissed his child, and having finished his examinationhe departed. The next day he sent the tutor the papers settlingan annuity on him in addition to his salary. 

What a father! and what a promising child! The question is exactlyadapted to the child's age, the answer is perfectly simple; butsee what precision it implies in the child's judgment. Thus didthe pupil of Aristotle master the famous steed which no squire hadever been able to tame. 

BOOK III

The whole course of man's life up to adolescence is a period ofweakness; yet there comes a time during these early years when thechild's strength overtakes the demands upon it, when the growingcreature, though absolutely weak, is relatively strong. His needsare not fully developed and his present strength is more than enoughfor them. He would be a very feeble man, but he is a strong child. 

What is the cause of man's weakness? It is to be found inthe disproportion between his strength and his desires. It is ourpassions that make us weak, for our natural strength is not enoughfor their satisfaction. To limit our desires comes to the samething, therefore, as to increase our strength. When we can do morethan we want, we have strength enough and to spare, we are reallystrong. This is the third stage of childhood, the stage with whichI am about to deal. I still speak of childhood for want of a betterword; for our scholar is approaching adolescence, though he hasnot yet reached the age of puberty. 

About twelve or thirteen the child's strength increases far morerapidly than his needs. The strongest and fiercest of the passionsis still unknown, his physical development is still imperfect andseems to await the call of the will. He is scarcely aware of extremesof heat and cold and braves them with impunity. He needs no coat, his blood is warm; no spices, hunger is his sauce, no food comesamiss at this age; if he is sleepy he stretches himself on theground and goes to sleep; he finds all he needs within his reach;he is not tormented by any imaginary wants; he cares nothing whatothers think; his desires are not beyond his grasp; not only ishe self-sufficing, but for the first and last time in his life hehas more strength than he needs. 

I know beforehand what you will say. You will not assert that thechild has more needs than I attribute to him, but you will denyhis strength. You forget that I am speaking of my own pupil, notof those puppets who walk with difficulty from one room to another, who toil indoors and carry bundles of paper. Manly strength, you say, appears only with manhood; the vital spirits, distilled in theirproper vessels and spreading through the whole body, can alone makethe muscles firm, sensitive, tense, and springy, can alone causereal strength. This is the philosophy of the study; I appeal tothat of experience. In the country districts, I see big lads hoeing, digging, guiding the plough, filling the wine-cask, driving thecart, like their fathers; you would take them for grown men iftheir voices did not betray them. Even in our towns, iron-workers', tool makers', and blacksmiths' lads are almost as strong as theirmasters and would be scarcely less skilful had their trainingbegun earlier. If there is a difference, and I do not deny thatthere is, it is, I repeat, much less than the difference betweenthe stormy passions of the man and the few wants of the child. Moreover, it is not merely a question of bodily strength, but moreespecially of strength of mind, which reinforces and directs thebodily strength. 

This interval in which the strength of the individual is in excessof his wants is, as I have said, relatively though not absolutelythe time of greatest strength. It is the most precious time in hislife; it comes but once; it is very short, all too short, as youwill see when you consider the importance of using it aright. 

He has, therefore, a surplus of strength and capacity which he willnever have again. What use shall he make of it? He will strive touse it in tasks which will help at need. He will, so to speak, casthis present surplus into the storehouse of the future; the vigorouschild will make provision for the feeble man; but he will not storehis goods where thieves may break in, nor in barns which are nothis own. To store them aright, they must be in the hands and thehead, they must be stored within himself. This is the time forwork, instruction, and inquiry. And note that this is no arbitrarychoice of mine, it is the way of nature herself. 

Human intelligence is finite, and not only can no man know everything, he cannot even acquire all the scanty knowledge of others. Since thecontrary of every false proposition is a truth, there are as manytruths as falsehoods. We must, therefore, choose what to teachas well as when to teach it. Some of the information within ourreach is false, some is useless, some merely serves to puff up itspossessor. The small store which really contributes to our welfarealone deserves the study of a wise man, and therefore of a childwhom one would have wise. He must know not merely what is, but whatis useful. 

From this small stock we must also deduct those truths which requirea full grown mind for their understanding, those which suppose aknowledge of man's relations to his fellow-men--a knowledge whichno child can acquire; these things, although in themselves true, leadan inexperienced mind into mistakes with regard to other matters. 

We are now confined to a circle, small indeed compared with thewhole of human thought, but this circle is still a vast sphere whenmeasured by the child's mind. Dark places of the human understanding, what rash hand shall dare to raise your veil? What pitfalls doesour so-called science prepare for the miserable child. Would youguide him along this dangerous path and draw the veil from theface of nature? Stay your hand. First make sure that neither henor you will become dizzy. Beware of the specious charms of errorand the intoxicating fumes of pride. Keep this truth ever beforeyou--Ignorance never did any one any harm, error alone is fatal, and we do not lose our way through ignorance but through self-confidence. 

His progress in geometry may serve as a test and a true measure ofthe growth of his intelligence, but as soon as he can distinguishbetween what is useful and what is useless, much skill and discretionare required to lead him towards theoretical studies. For example, would you have him find a mean proportional between two lines, contrive that he should require to find a square equal to a givenrectangle; if two mean proportionals are required, you must firstcontrive to interest him in the doubling of the cube. See how weare gradually approaching the moral ideas which distinguish betweengood and evil. Hitherto we have known no law but necessity, nowwe are considering what is useful; we shall soon come to what isfitting and right. 

Man's diverse powers are stirred by the same instinct. The bodilyactivity, which seeks an outlet for its energies, is succeeded bythe mental activity which seeks for knowledge. Children are firstrestless, then curious; and this curiosity, rightly directed, isthe means of development for the age with which we are dealing. Always distinguish between natural and acquired tendencies. Thereis a zeal for learning which has no other foundation than a wishto appear learned, and there is another which springs from man'snatural curiosity about all things far or near which may affecthimself. The innate desire for comfort and the impossibilityof its complete satisfaction impel him to the endless search forfresh means of contributing to its satisfaction. This is the firstprinciple of curiosity; a principle natural to the human heart, though its growth is proportional to the development of our feelingand knowledge. If a man of science were left on a desert islandwith his books and instruments and knowing that he must spend therest of his life there, he would scarcely trouble himself about thesolar system, the laws of attraction, or the differential calculus. He might never even open a book again; but he would never rest tillhe had explored the furthest corner of his island, however largeit might be. Let us therefore omit from our early studies suchknowledge as has no natural attraction for us, and confine ourselvesto such things as instinct impels us to study. 

Our island is this earth; and the most striking object we beholdis the sun. As soon as we pass beyond our immediate surroundings, one or both of these must meet our eye. Thus the philosophy ofmost savage races is mainly directed to imaginary divisions of theearth or to the divinity of the sun. 

What a sudden change you will say. Just now we were concerned withwhat touches ourselves, with our immediate environment, and allat once we are exploring the round world and leaping to the boundsof the universe. This change is the result of our growing strengthand of the natural bent of the mind. While we were weak and feeble, self-preservation concentrated our attention on ourselves; now thatwe are strong and powerful, the desire for a wider sphere carriesus beyond ourselves as far as our eyes can reach. But as theintellectual world is still unknown to us, our thoughts are boundedby the visible horizon, and our understanding only develops withinthe limits of our vision. 

Let us transform our sensations into ideas, but do not let us jumpall at once from the objects of sense to objects of thought. Thelatter are attained by means of the former. Let the senses be theonly guide for the first workings of reason. No book but the world, no teaching but that of fact. The child who reads ceases to think, he only reads. He is acquiring words not knowledge. 

Teach your scholar to observe the phenomena of nature; you willsoon rouse his curiosity, but if you would have it grow, do not bein too great a hurry to satisfy this curiosity. Put the problemsbefore him and let him solve them himself. Let him know nothingbecause you have told him, but because he has learnt it for himself. Let him not be taught science, let him discover it. If ever yousubstitute authority for reason he will cease to reason; he willbe a mere plaything of other people's thoughts. 

You wish to teach this child geography and you provide him withglobes, spheres, and maps. What elaborate preparations! What isthe use of all these symbols; why not begin by showing him the realthing so that he may at least know what you are talking about?

One fine evening we are walking in a suitable place where the widehorizon gives us a full view of the setting sun, and we note theobjects which mark the place where it sets. Next morning we returnto the same place for a breath of fresh air before sun-rise. Wesee the rays of light which announce the sun's approach; the glowincreases, the east seems afire, and long before the sun appearsthe light leads us to expect its return. Every moment you expect tosee it. There it is at last! A shining point appears like a flashof lightning and soon fills the whole space; the veil of darknessrolls away, man perceives his dwelling place in fresh beauty. During the night the grass has assumed a fresher green; in thelight of early dawn, and gilded by the first rays of the sun, itseems covered with a shining network of dew reflecting the lightand colour. The birds raise their chorus of praise to greet theFather of life, not one of them is mute; their gentle warbling issofter than by day, it expresses the langour of a peaceful waking. All these produce an impression of freshness which seems to reachthe very soul. It is a brief hour of enchantment which no man canresist; a sight so grand, so fair, so delicious, that none canbehold it unmoved. 

Fired with this enthusiasm, the master wishes to impart it to thechild. He expects to rouse his emotion by drawing attention to hisown. Mere folly! The splendour of nature lives in man's heart; tobe seen, it must be felt. The child sees the objects themselves, butdoes not perceive their relations, and cannot hear their harmony. It needs knowledge he has not yet acquired, feelings he has not yetexperienced, to receive the complex impression which results fromall these separate sensations. If he has not wandered over aridplains, if his feet have not been scorched by the burning sandsof the desert, if he has not breathed the hot and oppressive airreflected from the glowing rocks, how shall he delight in the freshair of a fine morning. The scent of flowers, the beauty of foliage, the moistness of the dew, the soft turf beneath his feet, how shallall these delight his senses. How shall the song of the birds arousevoluptuous emotion if love and pleasure are still unknown to him?How shall he behold with rapture the birth of this fair day, ifhis imagination cannot paint the joys it may bring in its track?How can he feel the beauty of nature, while the hand that formedit is unknown?

Never tell the child what he cannot understand: no descriptions, noeloquence, no figures of speech, no poetry. The time has not comefor feeling or taste. Continue to be clear and cold; the time willcome only too soon when you must adopt another tone. 

Brought up in the spirit of our maxims, accustomed to make his owntools and not to appeal to others until he has tried and failed, hewill examine everything he sees carefully and in silence. He thinksrather than questions. Be content, therefore, to show him things ata fit season; then, when you see that his curiosity is thoroughlyaroused, put some brief question which will set him trying todiscover the answer. 

On the present occasion when you and he have carefully observedthe rising sun, when you have called his attention to the mountainsand other objects visible from the same spot, after he has chatteredfreely about them, keep quiet for a few minutes as if lost inthought and then say, "I think the sun set over there last night;it rose here this morning. How can that be?" Say no more; if heasks questions, do not answer them; talk of something else. Lethim alone, and be sure he will think about it. 

To train a child to be really attentive so that he may be reallyimpressed by any truth of experience, he must spend anxious daysbefore he discovers that truth. If he does not learn enough in thisway, there is another way of drawing his attention to the matter. Turn the question about. If he does not know how the sun gets fromthe place where it sets to where it rises, he knows at least howit travels from sunrise to sunset, his eyes teach him that. Use thesecond question to throw light on the first; either your pupil isa regular dunce or the analogy is too clear to be missed. This ishis first lesson in cosmography. 

As we always advance slowly from one sensible idea to another, andas we give time enough to each for him to become really familiarwith it before we go on to another, and lastly as we never forceour scholar's attention, we are still a long way from a knowledgeof the course of the sun or the shape of the earth; but as allthe apparent movements of the celestial bodies depend on the sameprinciple, and the first observation leads on to all the rest, lesseffort is needed, though more time, to proceed from the diurnalrevolution to the calculation of eclipses, than to get a thoroughunderstanding of day and night. 

Since the sun revolves round the earth it describes a circle, andevery circle must have a centre; that we know already. This centreis invisible, it is in the middle of the earth, but we can markout two opposite points on the earth's surface which correspond toit. A skewer passed through the three points and prolonged to thesky at either end would represent the earth's axis and the sun'sdaily course. A round teetotum revolving on its point representsthe sky turning on its axis, the two points of the teetotum are thetwo poles; the child will be delighted to find one of them, and Ishow him the tail of the Little bear. Here is a another game forthe dark. Little by little we get to know the stars, and from thiscomes a wish to know the planets and observe the constellations. 

We saw the sun rise at midsummer, we shall see it rise at Christmasor some other fine winter's day; for you know we are no lie-a-bedsand we enjoy the cold. I take care to make this second observationin the same place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, oneor other will certainly exclaim, "What a funny thing! The sun isnot rising in the same place; here are our landmarks, but it isrising over there. So there is the summer east and the winter east, etc. " Young teacher, you are on the right track. These examplesshould show you how to teach the sphere without any difficulty, taking the earth for the earth and the sun for the sun. 

As a general rule--never substitute the symbol for the thingsignified, unless it is impossible to show the thing itself; forthe child's attention is so taken up with the symbol that he willforget what it signifies. 

I consider the armillary sphere a clumsy disproportioned bit ofapparatus. The confused circles and the strange figures describedon it suggest witchcraft and frighten the child. The earth is toosmall, the circles too large and too numerous, some of them, thecolures, for instance, are quite useless, and the thickness of thepasteboard gives them an appearance of solidity so that they aretaken for circular masses having a real existence, and when youtell the child that these are imaginary circles, he does not knowwhat he is looking at and is none the wiser. 

We are unable to put ourselves in the child's place, we fail to enterinto his thoughts, we invest him with our own ideas, and while weare following our own chain of reasoning, we merely fill his headwith errors and absurdities. 

Should the method of studying science be analytic or synthetic?People dispute over this question, but it is not always necessaryto choose between them. Sometimes the same experiments allow oneto use both analysis and synthesis, and thus to guide the childby the method of instruction when he fancies he is only analysing. Then, by using both at once, each method confirms the results of theother. Starting from opposite ends, without thinking of followingthe same road, he will unexpectedly reach their meeting place andthis will be a delightful surprise. For example, I would begingeography at both ends and add to the study of the earth's revolutionthe measurement of its divisions, beginning at home. While thechild is studying the sphere and is thus transported to the heavens, bring him back to the divisions of the globe and show him his ownhome. 

His geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father'scountry house, then the places between them, the rivers near them, and then the sun's aspect and how to find one's way by its aid. This is the meeting place. Let him make his own map, a very simplemap, at first containing only two places; others may be added fromtime to time, as he is able to estimate their distance and position. You see at once what a good start we have given him by making hiseye his compass. 

No doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but verylittle, and that little without his knowing it. If he goes wronglet him alone, do not correct his mistakes; hold your tongue tillhe finds them out for himself and corrects them, or at most arrangesomething, as opportunity offers, which may show him his mistakes. If he never makes mistakes he will never learn anything thoroughly. Moreover, what he needs is not an exact knowledge of localtopography, but how to find out for himself. No matter whether hecarries maps in his head provided he understands what they mean, andhas a clear idea of the art of making them. See what a differencethere is already between the knowledge of your scholars and theignorance of mine. They learn maps, he makes them. Here are freshornaments for his room. 

Remember that this is the essential point in my method--Do notteach the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate orconfused ideas. I care not if he knows nothing provided he is notmistaken, and I only acquaint him with truths to guard him againstthe errors he might put in their place. Reason and judgment comeslowly, prejudices flock to us in crowds, and from these he must beprotected. But if you make science itself your object, you embarkon an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean strewn with reefsfrom which you will never return. When I see a man in love withknowledge, yielding to its charms and flitting from one branchto another unable to stay his steps, he seems to me like a childgathering shells on the sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwingthem aside for others which he sees beyond them, then taking themagain, till overwhelmed by their number and unable to choose betweenthem, he flings them all away and returns empty handed. 

Time was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass ourtime for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have nottime enough for all that would be of use. The passions, remember, are drawing near, and when they knock at the door your scholar willhave no ear for anything else. The peaceful age of intelligence isso short, it flies so swiftly, there is so much to be done, thatit is madness to try to make your child learned. It is not yourbusiness to teach him the various sciences, but to give him a tastefor them and methods of learning them when this taste is more mature. That is assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education. 

This is also the time to train him gradually to prolonged attentionto a given object; but this attention should never be the resultof constraint, but of interest or desire; you must be very carefulthat it is not too much for his strength, and that it is not carriedto the point of tedium. Watch him, therefore, and whatever happens, stop before he is tired, for it matters little what he learns; itdoes matter that he should do nothing against his will. 

If he asks questions let your answers be enough to whet his curiositybut not enough to satisfy it; above all, when you find him talkingat random and overwhelming you with silly questions instead ofasking for information, at once refuse to answer; for it is clearthat he no longer cares about the matter in hand, but wants to makeyou a slave to his questions. Consider his motives rather than hiswords. This warning, which was scarcely needed before, becomes ofsupreme importance when the child begins to reason. 

There is a series of abstract truths by means of which all thesciences are related to common principles and are developed eachin its turn. This relationship is the method of the philosophers. We are not concerned with it at present. There is quite anothermethod by which every concrete example suggests another and alwayspoints to the next in the series. This succession, which stimulatesthe curiosity and so arouses the attention required by every objectin turn, is the order followed by most men, and it is the rightorder for all children. To take our bearings so as to make ourmaps we must find meridians. Two points of intersection betweenthe equal shadows morning and evening supply an excellent meridianfor a thirteen-year-old astronomer. But these meridians disappear, it takes time to trace them, and you are obliged to work in oneplace. So much trouble and attention will at last become irksome. We foresaw this and are ready for it. 

Again I must enter into minute and detailed explanations. I hearmy readers murmur, but I am prepared to meet their disapproval;I will not sacrifice the most important part of this book to yourimpatience. You may think me as long-winded as you please; I havemy own opinion as to your complaints. 

Long ago my pupil and I remarked that some substances such as amber, glass, and wax, when well rubbed, attracted straws, while othersdid not. We accidentally discover a substance which has a moreunusual property, that of attracting filings or other small particlesof iron from a distance and without rubbing. How much time do wedevote to this game to the exclusion of everything else! At lastwe discover that this property is communicated to the iron itself, which is, so to speak, endowed with life. We go to the fair oneday [Footnote: I could not help laughing when I read an elaboratecriticism of this little tale by M. De Formy. "This conjuror, "says he, "who is afraid of a child's competition and preaches tohis tutor is the sort of person we meet with in the world in whichEmile and such as he are living. " This witty M. De Formy couldnot guess that this little scene was arranged beforehand, and thatthe juggler was taught his part in it; indeed I did not state thisfact. But I have said again and again that I was not writing forpeople who expected to be told everything. ] and a conjuror hasa wax duck floating in a basin of water, and he makes it follow abit of bread. We are greatly surprised, but we do not call him awizard, never having heard of such persons. As we are continuallyobserving effects whose causes are unknown to us, we are in no hurryto make up our minds, and we remain in ignorance till we find anopportunity of learning. 

When we get home we discuss the duck till we try to imitate it. We take a needle thoroughly magnetised, we imbed it in white wax, shaped as far as possible like a duck, with the needle runningthrough the body, so that its eye forms the beak. We put the duckin water and put the end of a key near its beak, and you willreadily understand our delight when we find that our duck followsthe key just as the duck at the fair followed the bit of bread. Another time we may note the direction assumed by the duck whenleft in the basin; for the present we are wholly occupied with ourwork and we want nothing more. 

The same evening we return to the fair with some bread speciallyprepared in our pockets, and as soon as the conjuror has performedhis trick, my little doctor, who can scarcely sit still, exclaims, "The trick is quite easy; I can do it myself. " "Do it then. " Heat once takes the bread with a bit of iron hidden in it from hispocket; his heart throbs as he approaches the table and holds outthe bread, his hand trembles with excitement. The duck approachesand follows his hand. The child cries out and jumps for joy. Theapplause, the shouts of the crowd, are too much for him, he isbeside himself. The conjuror, though disappointed, embraces him, congratulates him, begs the honour of his company on the followingday, and promises to collect a still greater crowd to applaud hisskill. My young scientist is very proud of himself and is beginningto chatter, but I check him at once and take him home overwhelmedwith praise. 

The child counts the minutes till to-morrow with absurd anxiety. He invites every one he meets, he wants all mankind to behold hisglory; he can scarcely wait till the appointed hour. He hurries tothe place; the hall is full already; as he enters his young heartswells with pride. Other tricks are to come first. The conjurorsurpasses himself and does the most surprising things. The childsees none of these; he wriggles, perspires, and hardly breathes;the time is spent in fingering with a trembling hand the bit ofbread in his pocket. His turn comes at last; the master announcesit to the audience with all ceremony; he goes up looking somewhatshamefaced and takes out his bit of bread. Oh fleeting joys of humanlife! the duck, so tame yesterday, is quite wild to-day; insteadof offering its beak it turns tail and swims away; it avoids thebread and the hand that holds it as carefully as it followed themyesterday. After many vain attempts accompanied by derisive shoutsfrom the audience the child complains that he is being cheated, that is not the same duck, and he defies the conjuror to attractit. 

The conjuror, without further words, takes a bit of bread andoffers it to the duck, which at once follows it and comes to thehand which holds it. The child takes the same bit of bread withno better success; the duck mocks his efforts and swims round thebasin. Overwhelmed with confusion he abandons the attempt, ashamedto face the crowd any longer. Then the conjuror takes the bit ofbread the child brought with him and uses it as successfully ashis own. He takes out the bit of iron before the audience--anotherlaugh at our expense--then with this same bread he attracts theduck as before. He repeats the experiment with a piece of breadcut by a third person in full view of the audience. He does it withhis glove, with his finger-tip. Finally he goes into the middle ofthe room and in the emphatic tones used by such persons he declaresthat his duck will obey his voice as readily as his hand; he speaksand the duck obeys; he bids him go to the right and he goes, to comeback again and he comes. The movement is as ready as the command. The growing applause completes our discomfiture. We slip awayunnoticed and shut ourselves up in our room, without relating oursuccesses to everybody as we had expected. 

Next day there is a knock at the door. When I open it there is theconjuror, who makes a modest complaint with regard to our conduct. What had he done that we should try to discredit his tricks and deprivehim of his livelihood? What is there so wonderful in attracting aduck that we should purchase this honour at the price of an honestman's living? "My word, gentlemen! had I any other trade by whichI could earn a living I would not pride myself on this. You maywell believe that a man who has spent his life at this miserabletrade knows more about it than you who only give your spare time toit. If I did not show you my best tricks at first, it was becauseone must not be so foolish as to display all one knows at once. Ialways take care to keep my best tricks for emergencies; and I haveplenty more to prevent young folks from meddling. However, I havecome, gentlemen, in all kindness, to show you the trick that gaveyou so much trouble; I only beg you not to use it to my hurt, andto be more discreet in future. " He then shows us his apparatus, and to our great surprise we find it is merely a strong magnet inthe hand of a boy concealed under the table. The man puts up histhings, and after we have offered our thanks and apologies, we tryto give him something. He refuses it. "No, gentlemen, " says he, "Iowe you no gratitude and I will not accept your gift. I leave youin my debt in spite of all, and that is my only revenge. Generositymay be found among all sorts of people, and I earn my pay by doingmy tricks not by teaching them. "

As he is going he blames me out-right. "I can make excuses for thechild, " he says, "he sinned in ignorance. But you, sir, should knowbetter. Why did you let him do it? As you are living together andyou are older than he, you should look after him and give him goodadvice. Your experience should be his guide. When he is grown uphe will reproach, not only himself, but you, for the faults of hisyouth. "

When he is gone we are greatly downcast. I blame myself for myeasy-going ways. I promise the child that another time I will puthis interests first and warn him against faults before he falls intothem, for the time is coming when our relations will be changed, when the severity of the master must give way to the friendlinessof the comrade; this change must come gradually, you must lookahead, and very far ahead. 

We go to the fair again the next day to see the trick whose secretwe know. We approach our Socrates, the conjuror, with profoundrespect, we scarcely dare to look him in the face. He overwhelmsus with politeness, gives us the best places, and heaps coals offire on our heads. He goes through his performance as usual, buthe lingers affectionately over the duck, and often glances proudlyin our direction. We are in the secret, but we do not tell. If mypupil did but open his mouth he would be worthy of death. 

There is more meaning than you suspect in this detailed illustration. How many lessons in one! How mortifying are the results of a firstimpulse towards vanity! Young tutor, watch this first impulsecarefully. If you can use it to bring about shame and disgrace, you may be sure it will not recur for many a day. What a fuss youwill say. Just so; and all to provide a compass which will enableus to dispense with a meridian!

Having learnt that a magnet acts through other bodies, our nextbusiness is to construct a bit of apparatus similar to that shownus. A bare table, a shallow bowl placed on it and filled with water, a duck rather better finished than the first, and so on. We oftenwatch the thing and at last we notice that the duck, when at rest. Always turns the same way. We follow up this observation; we examinethe direction, we find that it is from south to north. Enough! wehave found our compass or its equivalent; the study of physics isbegun. 

There are various regions of the earth, and these regions differin temperature. The variation is more evident as we approach thepoles; all bodies expand with heat and contract with cold; thisis best measured in liquids and best of all in spirits; hence thethermometer. The wind strikes the face, then the air is a body, a fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. I invert a glass inwater; the water will not fill it unless you leave a passage forthe escape of the air; so air is capable of resistance. Plunge theglass further in the water; the water will encroach on the air-spacewithout filling it entirely; so air yields somewhat to pressure. A ball filled with compressed air bounces better than one filledwith anything else; so air is elastic. Raise your arm horizontallyfrom the water when you are lying in your bath; you will feel aterrible weight on it; so air is a heavy body. By establishing anequilibrium between air and other fluids its weight can be measured, hence the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump. Allthe laws of statics and hydrostatics are discovered by such roughexperiments. For none of these would I take the child into a physicalcabinet; I dislike that array of instruments and apparatus. Thescientific atmosphere destroys science. Either the child isfrightened by these instruments or his attention, which should befixed on their effects, is distracted by their appearance. 

We shall make all our apparatus ourselves, and I would not make itbeforehand, but having caught a glimpse of the experiment by chancewe mean to invent step by step an instrument for its verification. I would rather our apparatus was somewhat clumsy and imperfect, but our ideas clear as to what the apparatus ought to be, and theresults to be obtained by means of it. For my first lesson in statics, instead of fetching a balance, I lay a stick across the back of achair, I measure the two parts when it is balanced; add equal orunequal weights to either end; by pulling or pushing it as required, I find at last that equilibrium is the result of a reciprocalproportion between the amount of the weights and the length ofthe levers. Thus my little physicist is ready to rectify a balancebefore ever he sees one. 

Undoubtedly the notions of things thus acquired for oneselfare clearer and much more convincing than those acquired from theteaching of others; and not only is our reason not accustomed to aslavish submission to authority, but we develop greater ingenuityin discovering relations, connecting ideas and inventing apparatus, than when we merely accept what is given us and allow our minds tobe enfeebled by indifference, like the body of a man whose servantsalways wait on him, dress him and put on his shoes, whose horsecarries him, till he loses the use of his limbs. Boileau used toboast that he had taught Racine the art of rhyming with difficulty. Among the many short cuts to science, we badly need some one toteach us the art of learning with difficulty. 

The most obvious advantage of these slow and laborious inquiriesis this: the scholar, while engaged in speculative studies, isactively using his body, gaining suppleness of limb, and traininghis hands to labour so that he will be able to make them usefulwhen he is a man. Too much apparatus, designed to guide us in ourexperiments and to supplement the exactness of our senses, makesus neglect to use those senses. The theodolite makes it unnecessaryto estimate the size of angles; the eye which used to judge distanceswith much precision, trusts to the chain for its measurements; thesteel yard dispenses with the need of judging weight by the handas I used to do. The more ingenious our apparatus, the coarser andmore unskilful are our senses. We surround ourselves with toolsand fail to use those with which nature has provided every one ofus. 

But when we devote to the making of these instruments the skillwhich did instead of them, when for their construction we use theintelligence which enabled us to dispense with them, this is gainnot loss, we add art to nature, we gain ingenuity without loss ofskill. If instead of making a child stick to his books I employhim in a workshop, his hands work for the development of his mind. While he fancies himself a workman he is becoming a philosopher. Moreover, this exercise has other advantages of which I shall speaklater; and you will see how, through philosophy in sport, one mayrise to the real duties of man. 

I have said already that purely theoretical science is hardlysuitable for children, even for children approaching adolescence;but without going far into theoretical physics, take care that alltheir experiments are connected together by some chain of reasoning, so that they may follow an orderly sequence in the mind, and maybe recalled at need; for it is very difficult to remember isolatedfacts or arguments, when there is no cue for their recall. 

In your inquiry into the laws of nature always begin with thecommonest and most conspicuous phenomena, and train your scholarnot to accept these phenomena as causes but as facts. I take astone and pretend to place it in the air; I open my hand, the stonefalls. I see Emile watching my action and I say, "Why does thisstone fall?"

What child will hesitate over this question? None, not even Emile, unless I have taken great pains to teach him not to answer. Everyone will say, "The stone falls because it is heavy. " "And what doyou mean by heavy?" "That which falls. " "So the stone falls becauseit falls?" Here is a poser for my little philosopher. This is hisfirst lesson in systematic physics, and whether he learns physicsor no it is a good lesson in common-sense. 

As the child develops in intelligence other important considerationsrequire us to be still more careful in our choice of his occupations. As soon as he has sufficient self-knowledge to understand whatconstitutes his well-being, as soon as he can grasp such far-reachingrelations as to judge what is good for him and what is not, thenhe is able to discern the difference between work and play, andto consider the latter merely as relaxation. The objects of realutility may be introduced into his studies and may lead him to moreprolonged attention than he gave to his games. The ever-recurringlaw of necessity soon teaches a man to do what he does not like, so as to avert evils which he would dislike still more. Such isthe use of foresight, and this foresight, well or ill used, is thesource of all the wisdom or the wretchedness of mankind. 

Every one desires happiness, but to secure it he must know whathappiness is. For the natural man happiness is as simple as hislife; it consists in the absence of pain; health, freedom, thenecessaries of life are its elements. The happiness of the moral manis another matter, but it does not concern us at present. I cannotrepeat too often that it is only objects which can be perceivedby the senses which can have any interest for children, especiallychildren whose vanity has not been stimulated nor their mindscorrupted by social conventions. 

As soon as they foresee their needs before they feel them, theirintelligence has made a great step forward, they are beginning toknow the value of time. They must then be trained to devote thistime to useful purposes, but this usefulness should be such asthey can readily perceive and should be within the reach of theirage and experience. What concerns the moral order and the customsof society should not yet be given them, for they are not in acondition to understand it. It is folly to expect them to attendto things vaguely described as good for them, when they do not knowwhat this good is, things which they are assured will be to theiradvantage when they are grown up, though for the present they takeno interest in this so-called advantage, which they are unable tounderstand. 

Let the child do nothing because he is told; nothing is good forhim but what he recognises as good. When you are always urging himbeyond his present understanding, you think you are exercising aforesight which you really lack. To provide him with useless toolswhich he may never require, you deprive him of man's most usefultool--common-sense. You would have him docile as a child; he willbe a credulous dupe when he grows up. You are always saying, "WhatI ask is for your good, though you cannot understand it. What doesit matter to me whether you do it or not; my efforts are entirelyon your account. " All these fine speeches with which you hope tomake him good, are preparing the way, so that the visionary, thetempter, the charlatan, the rascal, and every kind of fool maycatch him in his snare or draw him into his folly. 

A man must know many things which seem useless to a child, butneed the child learn, or can he indeed learn, all that the man mustknow? Try to teach the child what is of use to a child and youwill find that it takes all his time. Why urge him to the studiesof an age he may never reach, to the neglect of those studies whichmeet his present needs? "But, " you ask, "will it not be too lateto learn what he ought to know when the time comes to use it?"I cannot tell; but this I do know, it is impossible to teach itsooner, for our real teachers are experience and emotion, and manwill never learn what befits a man except under its own conditions. A child knows he must become a man; all the ideas he may have asto man's estate are so many opportunities for his instruction, buthe should remain in complete ignorance of those ideas which arebeyond his grasp. My whole book is one continued argument in supportof this fundamental principle of education. 

As soon as we have contrived to give our pupil an idea of theword "Useful, " we have got an additional means of controlling him, for this word makes a great impression on him, provided that itsmeaning for him is a meaning relative to his own age, and providedhe clearly sees its relation to his own well-being. This word makesno impression on your scholars because you have taken no pains togive it a meaning they can understand, and because other peoplealways undertake to supply their needs so that they never requireto think for themselves, and do not know what utility is. 

"What is the use of that?" In future this is the sacred formula, the formula by which he and I test every action of our lives. Thisis the question with which I invariably answer all his questions;it serves to check the stream of foolish and tiresome questions withwhich children weary those about them. These incessant questionsproduce no result, and their object is rather to get a hold overyou than to gain any real advantage. A pupil, who has been reallytaught only to want to know what is useful, questions like Socrates;he never asks a question without a reason for it, for he knows hewill be required to give his reason before he gets an answer. 

See what a powerful instrument I have put into your hands for usewith your pupil. As he does not know the reason for anything youcan reduce him to silence almost at will; and what advantages doyour knowledge and experience give you to show him the usefulnessof what you suggest. For, make no mistake about it, when you putthis question to him, you are teaching him to put it to you, andyou must expect that whatever you suggest to him in the future hewill follow your own example and ask, "What is the use of this?"

Perhaps this is the greatest of the tutor's difficulties. If youmerely try to put the child off when he asks a question, and ifyou give him a single reason he is not able to understand, if hefinds that you reason according to your own ideas, not his, he willthink what you tell him is good for you but not for him; you willlose his confidence and all your labour is thrown away. But whatmaster will stop short and confess his faults to his pupil? Weall make it a rule never to own to the faults we really have. NowI would make it a rule to admit even the faults I have not, if Icould not make my reasons clear to him; as my conduct will alwaysbe intelligible to him, he will never doubt me and I shall gainmore credit by confessing my imaginary faults than those who concealtheir real defects. 

In the first place do not forget that it is rarely your businessto suggest what he ought to learn; it is for him to want to learn, to seek and to find it. You should put it within his reach, youshould skilfully awaken the desire and supply him with means forits satisfaction. So your questions should be few and well-chosen, and as he will always have more questions to put to you than youto him, you will always have the advantage and will be able to askall the oftener, "What is the use of that question?" Moreover, asit matters little what he learns provided he understands it andknows how to use it, as soon as you cannot give him a suitableexplanation give him none at all. Do not hesitate to say, "I haveno good answer to give you; I was wrong, let us drop the subject. "If your teaching was really ill-chosen there is no harm in droppingit altogether; if it was not, with a little care you will soon findan opportunity of making its use apparent to him. 

I do not like verbal explanations. Young people pay little heed tothem, nor do they remember them. Things! Things! I cannot repeat ittoo often. We lay too much stress upon words; we teachers babble, and our scholars follow our example. 

Suppose we are studying the course of the sun and the way to findour bearings, when all at once Emile interrupts me with the question, "What is the use of that?" what a fine lecture I might give, howmany things I might take occasion to teach him in reply to hisquestion, especially if there is any one there. I might speak of theadvantages of travel, the value of commerce, the special productsof different lands and the peculiar customs of different nations, the use of the calendar, the way to reckon the seasons for agriculture, the art of navigation, how to steer our course at sea, how to findour way without knowing exactly where we are. Politics, naturalhistory, astronomy, even morals and international law are involvedin my explanation, so as to give my pupil some idea of all thesesciences and a great wish to learn them. When I have finished Ishall have shown myself a regular pedant, I shall have made a greatdisplay of learning, and not one single idea has he understood. He is longing to ask me again, "What is the use of taking one'sbearings?" but he dare not for fear of vexing me. He finds it paysbest to pretend to listen to what he is forced to hear. This isthe practical result of our fine systems of education. 

But Emile is educated in a simpler fashion. We take so much painsto teach him a difficult idea that he will have heard nothing ofall this. At the first word he does not understand, he will runaway, he will prance about the room, and leave me to speechify bymyself. Let us seek a more commonplace explanation; my scientificlearning is of no use to him. 

We were observing the position of the forest to the north ofMontmorency when he interrupted me with the usual question, "Whatis the use of that?" "You are right, " I said. "Let us take time tothink it over, and if we find it is no use we will drop it, for weonly want useful games. " We find something else to do and geographyis put aside for the day. 

Next morning I suggest a walk before breakfast; there is nothinghe would like better; children are always ready to run about, andhe is a good walker. We climb up to the forest, we wander throughits clearings and lose ourselves; we have no idea where we are, and when we want to retrace our steps we cannot find the way. Timepasses, we are hot and hungry; hurrying vainly this way and that wefind nothing but woods, quarries, plains, not a landmark to guideus. Very hot, very tired, very hungry, we only get further astray. At last we sit down to rest and to consider our position. I assumethat Emile has been educated like an ordinary child. He does notthink, he begins to cry; he has no idea we are close to Montmorency, which is hidden from our view by a mere thicket; but this thicketis a forest to him, a man of his size is buried among bushes. Aftera few minutes' silence I begin anxiously----

JEAN JACQUES. My dear Emile, what shall we do get out?

EMILE. I am sure I do not know. I am tired, I am hungry, I amthirsty. I cannot go any further. 

JEAN JACQUES. Do you suppose I am any better off? I would cry tooif I could make my breakfast off tears. Crying is no use, we mustlook about us. Let us see your watch; what time is it?

EMILE. It is noon and I am so hungry!

JEAN JACQUES. Just so; it is noon and I am so hungry too. 

EMILE. You must be very hungry indeed. 

JEAN JACQUES. Unluckily my dinner won't come to find me. It istwelve o'clock. This time yesterday we were observing the positionof the forest from Montmorency. If only we could see the positionof Montmorency from the forest. 

EMILE. But yesterday we could see the forest, and here we cannotsee the town. 

JEAN JACQUES. That is just it. If we could only find it withoutseeing it. 

EMILE. Oh! my dear friend!

JEAN JACQUES. Did not we say the forest was... 

EMILE. North of Montmorency. 

JEAN JACQUES. Then Montmorency must lie... 

EMILE. South of the forest. 

JEAN JACQUES. We know how to find the north at midday. 

EMILE. Yes, by the direction of the shadows. 

JEAN JACQUES. But the south?

EMILE. What shall we do?

JEAN JACQUES. The south is opposite the north. 

EMILE. That is true; we need only find the opposite of the shadows. That is the south! That is the south! Montmorency must be overthere! Let us look for it there!

JEAN JACQUES. Perhaps you are right; let us follow this path throughthe wood. 

EMILE. (Clapping his hands. ) Oh, I can see Montmorency! there itis, quite plain, just in front of us! Come to luncheon, come todinner, make haste! Astronomy is some use after all. 

Be sure that he thinks this if he does not say it; no matter which, provided I do not say it myself. He will certainly never forgetthis day's lesson as long as he lives, while if I had only led himto think of all this at home, my lecture would have been forgottenthe next day. Teach by doing whenever you can, and only fall backupon words when doing is out of the question. 

The reader will not expect me to have such a poor opinion ofhim as to supply him with an example of every kind of study; but, whatever is taught, I cannot too strongly urge the tutor to adapthis instances to the capacity of his scholar; for once more I repeatthe risk is not in what he does not know, but in what he thinks heknows. 

I remember how I once tried to give a child a taste for chemistry. After showing him several metallic precipitates, I explained howink was made. I told him how its blackness was merely the result offine particles of iron separated from the vitriol and precipitatedby an alkaline solution. In the midst of my learned explanationthe little rascal pulled me up short with the question I myself hadtaught him. I was greatly puzzled. After a few moments' thoughtI decided what to do. I sent for some wine from the cellar of ourlandlord, and some very cheap wine from a wine-merchant. I took asmall [Footnote: Before giving any explanation to a child a littlebit of apparatus serves to fix his attention. ] flask of an alkalinesolution, and placing two glasses before me filled with the twosorts of wine, I said. 

Food and drink are adulterated to make them seem better thanthey really are. These adulterations deceive both the eye and thepalate, but they are unwholesome and make the adulterated articleeven worse than before in spite of its fine appearance. 

All sorts of drinks are adulterated, and wine more than others;for the fraud is more difficult to detect, and more profitable tothe fraudulent person. 

Sour wine is adulterated with litharge; litharge is a preparationof lead. Lead in combination with acids forms a sweet salt whichcorrects the harsh taste of the sour wine, but it is poisonous. Sobefore we drink wine of doubtful quality we should be able to tellif there is lead in it. This is how I should do it. 

Wine contains not merely an inflammable spirit as you have seenfrom the brandy made from it; it also contains an acid as you knowfrom the vinegar made from it. 

This acid has an affinity for metals, it combines with them andforms salts, such as iron-rust, which is only iron dissolved by theacid in air or water, or such as verdegris, which is only copperdissolved in vinegar. 

But this acid has a still greater affinity for alkalis than formetals, so that when we add alkalis to the above-mentioned salts, the acid sets free the metal with which it had combined, and combineswith the alkali. 

Then the metal, set free by the acid which held it in solution, isprecipitated and the liquid becomes opaque. 

If then there is litharge in either of these glasses of wine, theacid holds the litharge in solution. When I pour into it an alkalinesolution, the acid will be forced to set the lead free in orderto combine with the alkali. The lead, no longer held in solution, will reappear, the liquor will become thick, and after a time thelead will be deposited at the bottom of the glass. 

If there is no lead [Footnote: The wine sold by retail dealers inParis is rarely free from lead, though some of it does not containlitharge, for the counters are covered with lead and when the wineis poured into the measures and some of it spilt upon the counterand the measures left standing on the counter, some of the leadis always dissolved. It is strange that so obvious and dangerousan abuse should be tolerated by the police. But indeed well-to-dopeople, who rarely drink these wines, are not likely to be poisonedby them. ] nor other metal in the wine the alkali will slowly[Footnote: The vegetable acid is very gentle in its action. If itwere a mineral acid and less diluted, the combination would nottake place without effervescence. ] combine with the acid, all willremain clear and there will be no precipitate. 

Then I poured my alkaline solution first into one glass and theninto the other. The wine from our own house remained clear andunclouded, the other at once became turbid, and an hour later thelead might be plainly seen, precipitated at the bottom of the glass. 

"This, " said I, "is a pure natural wine and fit to drink; theother is adulterated and poisonous. You wanted to know the use ofknowing how to make ink. If you can make ink you can find out whatwines are adulterated. "

I was very well pleased with my illustration, but I found it madelittle impression on my pupil. When I had time to think about it Isaw I had been a fool, for not only was it impossible for a childof twelve to follow my explanations, but the usefulness of theexperiment did not appeal to him; he had tasted both glasses ofwine and found them both good, so he attached no meaning to the word"adulterated" which I thought I had explained so nicely. Indeed, the other words, "unwholesome" and "poison, " had no meaning whateverfor him; he was in the same condition as the boy who told the storyof Philip and his doctor. It is the condition of all children. 

The relation of causes and effects whose connection is unknownto us, good and ill of which we have no idea, the needs we havenever felt, have no existence for us. It is impossible to interestourselves in them sufficiently to make us do anything connectedwith them. At fifteen we become aware of the happiness of a goodman, as at thirty we become aware of the glory of Paradise. Ifwe had no clear idea of either we should make no effort for theirattainment; and even if we had a clear idea of them, we should makelittle or no effort unless we desired them and unless we felt wewere made for them. It is easy to convince a child that what youwish to teach him is useful, but it is useless to convince if youcannot also persuade. Pure reason may lead us to approve or censure, but it is feeling which leads to action, and how shall we careabout that which does not concern us?

Never show a child what he cannot see. Since mankind is almostunknown to him, and since you cannot make a man of him, bring theman down to the level of the child. While you are thinking whatwill be useful to him when he is older, talk to him of what heknows he can use now. Moreover, as soon as he begins to reason letthere be no comparison with other children, no rivalry, no competition, not even in running races. I would far rather he did not learnanything than have him learn it through jealousy or self-conceit. Year by year I shall just note the progress he had made, I shallcompare the results with those of the following year, I shall say, "You have grown so much; that is the ditch you jumped, the weightyou carried, the distance you flung a pebble, the race you ranwithout stopping to take breath, etc. ; let us see what you can donow. "

In this way he is stimulated to further effort without jealousy. He wants to excel himself as he ought to do; I see no reason whyhe should not emulate his own performances. 

I hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we knownothing about. Hermes, they say, engraved the elements of scienceon pillars lest a deluge should destroy them. Had he imprintedthem on men's hearts they would have been preserved by tradition. Well-trained minds are the pillars on which human knowledge is mostdeeply engraved. 

Is there no way of correlating so many lessons scattered throughso many books, no way of focussing them on some common object, easyto see, interesting to follow, and stimulating even to a child?Could we but discover a state in which all man's needs appear insuch a way as to appeal to the child's mind, a state in which theways of providing for these needs are as easily developed, thesimple and stirring portrayal of this state should form the earliesttraining of the child's imagination. 

Eager philosopher, I see your own imagination at work. Spare yourselfthe trouble; this state is already known, it is described, withdue respect to you, far better than you could describe it, at leastwith greater truth and simplicity. Since we must have books, thereis one book which, to my thinking, supplies the best treatise onan education according to nature. This is the first book Emile willread; for a long time it will form his whole library, and it willalways retain an honoured place. It will be the text to which allour talks about natural science are but the commentary. It willserve to test our progress towards a right judgment, and it willalways be read with delight, so long as our taste is unspoilt. Whatis this wonderful book? Is it Aristotle? Pliny? Buffon? No; it isRobinson Crusoe. 

Robinson Crusoe on his island, deprived of the help of hisfellow-men, without the means of carrying on the various arts, yetfinding food, preserving his life, and procuring a certain amountof comfort; this is the thing to interest people of all ages, andit can be made attractive to children in all sorts of ways. We shallthus make a reality of that desert island which formerly served asan illustration. The condition, I confess, is not that of a socialbeing, nor is it in all probability Emile's own condition, but heshould use it as a standard of comparison for all other conditions. The surest way to raise him above prejudice and to base his judgmentson the true relations of things, is to put him in the place of asolitary man, and to judge all things as they would be judged bysuch a man in relation to their own utility. 

This novel, stripped of irrelevant matter, begins with Robinson'sshipwreck on his island, and ends with the coming of the ship whichbears him from it, and it will furnish Emile with material, bothfor work and play, during the whole period we are considering. His head should be full of it, he should always be busy with hiscastle, his goats, his plantations. Let him learn in detail, notfrom books but from things, all that is necessary in such a case. Let him think he is Robinson himself; let him see himself clad inskins, wearing a tall cap, a great cutlass, all the grotesque get-upof Robinson Crusoe, even to the umbrella which he will scarcelyneed. He should anxiously consider what steps to take; will thisor that be wanting. He should examine his hero's conduct; has heomitted nothing; is there nothing he could have done better? Heshould carefully note his mistakes, so as not to fall into themhimself in similar circumstances, for you may be sure he will planout just such a settlement for himself. This is the genuine castlein the air of this happy age, when the child knows no other happinessbut food and freedom. 

What a motive will this infatuation supply in the hands of a skilfulteacher who has aroused it for the purpose of using it. The childwho wants to build a storehouse on his desert island will be moreeager to learn than the master to teach. He will want to know allsorts of useful things and nothing else; you will need the curb aswell as the spur. Make haste, therefore, to establish him on hisisland while this is all he needs to make him happy; for the day isat hand, when, if he must still live on his island, he will not becontent to live alone, when even the companionship of Man Friday, who is almost disregarded now, will not long suffice. 

The exercise of the natural arts, which may be carried on byone man alone, leads on to the industrial arts which call for thecooperation of many hands. The former may be carried on by hermits, by savages, but the others can only arise in a society, and theymake society necessary. So long as only bodily needs are recognisedman is self-sufficing; with superfluity comes the need for divisionand distribution of labour, for though one man working alone canearn a man's living, one hundred men working together can earn theliving of two hundred. As soon as some men are idle, others mustwork to make up for their idleness. 

Your main object should be to keep out of your scholar's way allidea of such social relations as he cannot understand, but whenthe development of knowledge compels you to show him the mutualdependence of mankind, instead of showing him its moral side, turnall his attention at first towards industry and the mechanical artswhich make men useful to one another. While you take him from oneworkshop to another, let him try his hand at every trade you showhim, and do not let him leave it till he has thoroughly learnt whyeverything is done, or at least everything that has attracted hisattention. With this aim you should take a share in his work andset him an example. Be yourself the apprentice that he may becomea master; you may expect him to learn more in one hour's work thanhe would retain after a whole day's explanation. 

The value set by the general public on the various arts is ininverse ratio to their real utility. They are even valued directlyaccording to their uselessness. This might be expected. The most usefularts are the worst paid, for the number of workmen is regulated bythe demand, and the work which everybody requires must necessarily bepaid at a rate which puts it within the reach of the poor. On theother hand, those great people who are called artists, not artisans, who labour only for the rich and idle, put a fancy price on theirtrifles; and as the real value of this vain labour is purelyimaginary, the price itself adds to their market value, and theyare valued according to their costliness. The rich think so muchof these things, not because they are useful, but because they arebeyond the reach of the poor. Nolo habere bona, nisi quibus populusinviderit. 

What will become of your pupils if you let them acquire this foolishprejudice, if you share it yourself? If, for instance, they see youshow more politeness in a jeweller's shop than in a locksmith's. What idea will they form of the true worth of the arts and the realvalue of things when they see, on the one hand, a fancy price and, on the other, the price of real utility, and that the more a thingcosts the less it is worth? As soon as you let them get hold ofthese ideas, you may give up all attempt at further education; inspite of you they will be like all the other scholars--you havewasted fourteen years. 

Emile, bent on furnishing his island, will look at things from anotherpoint of view. Robinson would have thought more of a toolmaker'sshop than all Saide's trifles put together. He would have reckonedthe toolmaker a very worthy man, and Saide little more than acharlatan. 

"My son will have to take the world as he finds it, he will notlive among the wise but among fools; he must therefore be acquaintedwith their follies, since they must be led by this means. A realknowledge of things may be a good thing in itself, but the knowledgeof men and their opinions is better, for in human society man isthe chief tool of man, and the wisest man is he who best knows theuse of this tool. What is the good of teaching children an imaginarysystem, just the opposite of the established order of things, amongwhich they will have to live? First teach them wisdom, then showthem the follies of mankind. "

These are the specious maxims by which fathers, who mistake them forprudence, strive to make their children the slaves of the prejudicesin which they are educated, and the puppets of the senseless crowd, which they hope to make subservient to their passions. How muchmust be known before we attain to a knowledge of man. This is thefinal study of the philosopher, and you expect to make it the firstlesson of the child! Before teaching him our sentiments, firstteach him to judge of their worth. Do you perceive folly when youmistake it for wisdom? To be wise we must discern between good andevil. How can your child know men, when he can neither judge oftheir judgments nor unravel their mistakes? It is a misfortune toknow what they think, without knowing whether their thoughts aretrue or false. First teach him things as they really are, afterwardsyou will teach him how they appear to us. He will then be able tomake a comparison between popular ideas and truth, and be able torise above the vulgar crowd; for you are unaware of the prejudicesyou adopt, and you do not lead a nation when you are like it. Butif you begin to teach the opinions of other people before you teachhow to judge of their worth, of one thing you may be sure, yourpupil will adopt those opinions whatever you may do, and you willnot succeed in uprooting them. I am therefore convinced that tomake a young man judge rightly, you must form his judgment ratherthan teach him your own. 

So far you see I have not spoken to my pupil about men; he wouldhave too much sense to listen to me. His relations to other peopleare as yet not sufficiently apparent to him to enable him to judgeothers by himself. The only person he knows is himself, and hisknowledge of himself is very imperfect. But if he forms few opinionsabout others, those opinions are correct. He knows nothing ofanother's place, but he knows his own and keeps to it. I have boundhim with the strong cord of necessity, instead of social laws, whichare beyond his knowledge. He is still little more than a body; letus treat him as such. 

Every substance in nature and every work of man must be judgedin relation to his own use, his own safety, his own preservation, his own comfort. Thus he should value iron far more than gold, andglass than diamonds; in the same way he has far more respect for ashoemaker or a mason than for a Lempereur, a Le Blanc, or all thejewellers in Europe. In his eyes a confectioner is a really greatman, and he would give the whole academy of sciences for the smallestpastrycook in Lombard Street. Goldsmiths, engravers, gilders, andembroiderers, he considers lazy people, who play at quite uselessgames. He does not even think much of a clockmaker. The happychild enjoys Time without being a slave to it; he uses it, but hedoes not know its value. The freedom from passion which makes everyday alike to him, makes any means of measuring time unnecessary. When I assumed that Emile had a watch, [Footnote: When our heartsare abandoned to the sway of passion, then it is that we needa measure of time. The wise man's watch is his equable temper andhis peaceful heart. He is always punctual, and he always knows thetime. ] just as I assumed that he cried, it was a commonplace Emilethat I chose to serve my purpose and make myself understood. Thereal Emile, a child so different from the rest, would not serve asan illustration for anything. 

There is an order no less natural and even more accurate, by whichthe arts are valued according to bonds of necessity which connectthem; the highest class consists of the most independent, thelowest of those most dependent on others. This classification, which suggests important considerations on the order of society ingeneral, is like the preceding one in that it is subject to the sameinversion in popular estimation, so that the use of raw materialis the work of the lowest and worst paid trades, while the oftenerthe material changes hands, the more the work rises in price andin honour. I do not ask whether industry is really greater and moredeserving of reward when engaged in the delicate arts which givethe final shape to these materials, than in the labour which firstgave them to man's use; but this I say, that in everything theart which is most generally useful and necessary, is undoubtedlythat which most deserves esteem, and that art which requires theleast help from others, is more worthy of honour than those whichare dependent on other arts, since it is freer and more nearlyindependent. These are the true laws of value in the arts; allothers are arbitrary and dependent on popular prejudice. 

Agriculture is the earliest and most honourable of arts; metal workI put next, then carpentry, and so on. This is the order in whichthe child will put them, if he has not been spoilt by vulgarprejudices. What valuable considerations Emile will derive fromhis Robinson in such matters. What will he think when he sees thearts only brought to perfection by sub-division, by the infinitemultiplication of tools. He will say, "All those people are assilly as they are ingenious; one would think they were afraid touse their eyes and their hands, they invent so many tools instead. To carry on one trade they become the slaves of many others; everysingle workman needs a whole town. My friend and I try to gainskill; 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 allon our island; they would have to become apprentices. "

Reader, do not stay to watch the bodily exercises and manual skillof our pupil, but consider the bent we are giving to his childishcuriosity; consider his common-sense, his inventive spirit, hisforesight; consider what a head he will have on his shoulders. Hewill want to know all about everything he sees or does, to learnthe why and the wherefore of it; from tool to tool he will go backto the first beginning, taking nothing for granted; he will declineto learn anything that requires previous knowledge which he has notacquired. If he sees a spring made he will want to know how theygot the steel from the mine; if he sees the pieces of a chest puttogether, he will want to know how the tree was out down; when atwork he will say of each tool, "If I had not got this, how couldI make one like it, or how could I get along without it?"

It is, however, difficult to avoid another error. When the masteris very fond of certain occupations, he is apt to assume thatthe child shares his tastes; beware lest you are carried away bythe interest of your work, while the child is bored by it, but isafraid to show it. The child must come first, and you must devoteyourself entirely to him. Watch him, study him constantly, withouthis knowing it; consider his feelings beforehand, and provide againstthose which are undesirable, keep him occupied in such a way thathe not only feels the usefulness of the thing, but takes a pleasurein 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 inthe exchange of money or securities. All these ideas hang together, and their foundation has already been laid in early childhoodwith the help of Robert the gardener. All we have now to do is tosubstitute general ideas for particular, and to enlarge these ideasby means of numerous examples, so as to make the child understandthe game of business itself, brought home to him by means ofparticular instances of natural history with regard to the specialproducts of each country, by particular instances of the arts andsciences which concern navigation and the difficulties of transport, greater or less in proportion to the distance between places, theposition of land, seas, rivers, etc. 

There can be no society without exchange, no exchange without acommon standard of measurement, no common standard of measurementwithout equality. Hence the first law of every society is someconventional equality either in men or things. 

Conventional equality between men, a very different thing fromnatural equality, leads to the necessity for positive law, i. E. , government and kings. A child's political knowledge should be clearand restricted; he should know nothing of government in general, beyond what concerns the rights of property, of which he has alreadysome idea. 

Conventional equality between things has led to the invention ofmoney, for money is only one term in a comparison between the valuesof different sorts of things; and in this sense money is the realbond of society; but anything may be money; in former days it wascattle; shells are used among many tribes at the present day; Spartaused iron; Sweden, leather; while we use gold and silver. 

Metals, being easier to carry, have generally been chosen as themiddle term of every exchange, and these metals have been made intocoin to save the trouble of continual weighing and measuring, forthe stamp on the coin is merely evidence that the coin is of givenweight; and the sole right of coining money is vested in the rulerbecause he alone has the right to demand the recognition of hisauthority by the whole nation. 

The stupidest person can perceive the use of money when it isexplained in this way. It is difficult to make a direct comparisonbetween various things, for instance, between cloth and corn;but when we find a common measure, in money, it is easy for themanufacturer and the farmer to estimate the value of the goodsthey wish to exchange in terms of this common measure. If a givenquantity of cloth is worth a given some of money, and a givenquantity 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 valuesof goods of various kinds. 

Be content with this, and do not touch upon the moral effects ofthis institution. In everything you must show clearly the use beforethe abuse. If you attempt to teach children how the sign has ledto the neglect of the thing signified, how money is the source ofall the false ideas of society, how countries rich in silver mustbe poor in everything else, you will be treating these childrenas philosophers, and not only as philosophers but as wise men, foryou are professing to teach them what very few philosophers havegrasped. 

What a wealth of interesting objects, towards which the curiosityof our pupil may be directed without ever quitting the realand material relations he can understand, and without permittingthe formation of a single idea beyond his grasp! The teacher'sart consists in this: To turn the child's attention from trivialdetails and to guide his thoughts continually towards relations ofimportance which he will one day need to know, that he may judgerightly of good and evil in human society. The teacher must beable to adapt the conversation with which he amuses his pupil tothe turn already given to his mind. A problem which another childwould never heed will torment Emile half a year. 

We are going to dine with wealthy people; when we get thereeverything is ready for a feast, many guests, many servants, manydishes, dainty and elegant china. There is something intoxicatingin all these preparations for pleasure and festivity when you arenot used to them. I see how they will affect my young pupil. Whiledinner is going on, while course follows course, and conversationis loud around us, I whisper in his ear, "How many hands do yousuppose the things on this table passed through before they gothere?" What a crowd of ideas is called up by these few words. Ina 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 answerand put him off to another day. He becomes impatient, he forgetsto eat and drink, he longs to get away from table and talk as hepleases. 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 ofthe globe has been ransacked, that some 2, 000, 000 men have labouredfor years, that many lives have perhaps been sacrificed, and allto furnish him with fine clothes to be worn at midday and laid byin the wardrobe at night. 

Be sure you observe what private conclusions he draws from all hisobservations. If you have watched him less carefully than I suppose, his thoughts may be tempted in another direction; he may considerhimself a person of great importance in the world, when he sees somuch labour concentrated on the preparation of his dinner. If yoususpect his thoughts will take this direction you can easily preventit, or at any rate promptly efface the false impression. As yethe can only appropriate things by personal enjoyment, he can onlyjudge of their fitness or unfitness by their outward effects. Compare a plain rustic meal, preceded by exercise, seasoned byhunger, freedom, and delight, with this magnificent but tediousrepast. This will suffice to make him realise that he has got noreal advantage from the splendour of the feast, that his stomachwas as well satisfied when he left the table of the peasant, aswhen he left the table of the banker; from neither had he gainedanything 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 youmost pleasure, which seemed the merriest, at which did you eatand drink most heartily, which was the least tedious and requiredleast change of courses? Yet note the difference--this black breadyou so enjoy is made from the peasant's own harvest; his wine isdark in colour and of a common kind, but wholesome and refreshing;it was made in his own vineyard; the cloth is made of his ownhemp, spun and woven in the winter by his wife and daughters andthe maid; no hands but theirs have touched the food. His world isbounded by the nearest mill and the next market. How far did youenjoy all that the produce of distant lands and the service ofmany people had prepared for you at the other dinner? If you didnot get a better meal, what good did this wealth do you? how muchof it was made for you? Had you been the master of the house, thetutor might say, it would have been of still less use to you; forthe anxiety of displaying your enjoyment before the eyes of otherswould have robbed you of it; the pains would be yours, the pleasuretheirs. 

This may be a very fine speech, but it would be thrown away uponEmile, as he cannot understand it, and he does not accept second-handopinions. Speak more simply to him. After these two experiences, say to him some day, "Where shall we have our dinner to-day? Wherethat mountain of silver covered three quarters of the table andthose beds of artificial flowers on looking glass were served withthe dessert, where those smart ladies treated you as a toy andpretended you said what you did not mean; or in that village twoleagues away, with those good people who were so pleased to seeus and gave us such delicious cream?" Emile will not hesitate; heis 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 arun in the country and is very fond of good fruit and vegetables, sweet cream and kindly people. [Footnote: This taste, which I assumemy pupil to have acquired, is a natural result of his education. Moreover, he has nothing foppish or affected about him, so that theladies take little notice of him and he is less petted than otherchildren; therefore he does not care for them, and is less spoiltby their company; he is not yet of an age to feel its charm. Ihave taken care not to teach him to kiss their hands, to pay themcompliments, or even to be more polite to them than to men. It ismy constant rule to ask nothing from him but what he can understand, and there is no good reason why a child should treat one sexdifferently from the other. ] On our way, the thought will occurto him, "All those people who laboured to prepare that grand feastwere either wasting their time or they have no idea how to enjoythemselves. "

My example may be right for one child and wrong for the rest. Ifyou enter into their way of looking at things you will know how tovary your instances as required; the choice depends on the studyof the individual temperament, and this study in turn depends onthe opportunities which occur to show this temperament. You willnot suppose that, in the three or four years at our disposal, eventhe most gifted child can get an idea of all the arts and sciences, sufficient to enable him to study them for himself when he isolder; but by bringing before him what he needs to know, we enablehim to develop his own tastes, his own talents, to take the firststep towards the object which appeals to his individuality and toshow us the road we must open up to aid the work of nature. 

There is another advantage of these trains of limited but exactbits of knowledge; he learns by their connection and interdependencehow to rank them in his own estimation and to be on his guardagainst those prejudices, common to most men, which draw them towardsthe gifts they themselves cultivate and away from those they haveneglected. The man who clearly sees the whole, sees where each partshould be; the man who sees one part clearly and knows it thoroughlymay be a learned man, but the former is a wise man, and you rememberit is wisdom rather than knowledge that we hope to acquire. 

However that may be, my method does not depend on my examples; itdepends on the amount of a man's powers at different ages, and thechoice of occupations adapted to those powers. I think it would beeasy to find a method which appeared to give better results, butif 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 factthat our strength was more than enough for our needs, to enable usto get outside ourselves. We have ranged the heavens and measuredthe earth; we have sought out the laws of nature; we have exploredthe whole of our island. Now let us return to ourselves, let usunconsciously approach our own dwelling. We are happy indeed if wedo not find it already occupied by the dreaded foe, who is preparingto seize it. 

What remains to be done when we have observed all that lies aroundus? We must turn to our own use all that we can get, we must increaseour comfort by means of our curiosity. Hitherto we have providedourselves with tools of all kinds, not knowing which we require. Perhaps those we do not want will be useful to others, and perhapswe may need theirs. Thus we discover the use of exchange; but forthis we must know each other's needs, what tools other people use, what they can offer in exchange. Given ten men, each of them hasten different requirements. To get what he needs for himself eachmust work at ten different trades; but considering our differenttalents, one will do better at this trade, another at that. Eachof them, fitted for one thing, will work at all, and will be badlyserved. Let us form these ten men into a society, and let eachdevote himself to the trade for which he is best adapted, and lethim work at it for himself and for the rest. Each will reap theadvantage of the others' talents, just as if they were his own; bypractice 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 notmy 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 asan isolated individual, self-sufficing and independent of others, could only be utterly wretched. He could not even continue toexist, for finding the whole earth appropriated by others while hehad only himself, how could he get the means of subsistence? Whenwe leave the state of nature we compel others to do the same; no onecan 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, wouldreally be to leave it, for self-preservation is nature's first law. 

Thus the idea of social relations is gradually developed in thechild's mind, before he can really be an active member of humansociety. Emile sees that to get tools for his own use, other peoplemust have theirs, and that he can get in exchange what he needs andthey possess. I easily bring him to feel the need of such exchangeand to take advantage of it. 

"Sir, I must live, " said a miserable writer of lampoons to theminister who reproved him for his infamous trade. "I do not see thenecessity, " replied the great man coldly. This answer, excellentfrom the minister, would have been barbarous and untrue in anyother mouth. Every man must live; this argument, which appeals toevery one with more or less force in proportion to his humanity, strikes me as unanswerable when applied to oneself. Since our dislikeof death is the strongest of those aversions nature has implantedin us, it follows that everything is permissible to the man who hasno other means of living. The principles, which teach the good manto count his life a little thing and to sacrifice it at duty'scall, are far removed from this primitive simplicity. Happyare those nations where one can be good without effort, and justwithout conscious virtue. If in this world there is any conditionso miserable that one cannot live without wrong-doing, where thecitizen 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 toteach him to preserve his life. Hitherto I have made no distinctionof condition, rank, station, or fortune; nor shall I distinguishbetween 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 ishis digestion any better; the master's arm is neither longer norstronger than the slave's; a great man is no taller than one ofthe people, and indeed the natural needs are the same to all, andthe means of satisfying them should be equally within the reach ofall. Fit a man's education to his real self, not to what is nopart of him. Do you not see that in striving to fit him merely forone station, you are unfitting him for anything else, so that somecaprice of Fortune may make your work really harmful to him? Whatcould be more absurd than a nobleman in rags, who carries with himinto his poverty the prejudices of his birth? What is more despicablethan a rich man fallen into poverty, who recalls the scorn withwhich he himself regarded the poor, and feels that he has sunk tothe lowest depth of degradation? The one may become a professionalthief, the other a cringing servant, with this fine saying, "I mustlive. "

You reckon on the present order of society, without consideringthat this order is itself subject to inscrutable changes, and thatyou can neither foresee nor provide against the revolution whichmay affect your children. The great become small, the rich poor, the king a commoner. Does fate strike so seldom that you can counton immunity from her blows? The crisis is approaching, and we areon the edge of a revolution. [Footnote: In my opinion it is impossiblethat the great kingdoms of Europe should last much longer. Each ofthem has had its period of splendour, after which it must inevitablydecline. I have my own opinions as to the special applications ofthis general statement, but this is not the place to enter intodetails, and they are only too evident to everybody. ] Who cananswer for your fate? What man has made, man may destroy. Nature'scharacters alone are ineffaceable, and nature makes neither theprince, the rich man, nor the nobleman. This satrap whom you haveeducated for greatness, what will become of him in his degradation?This farmer of the taxes who can only live on gold, what willhe 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 whenhe is stripped of all? In that day, happy will he be who can giveup the rank which is no longer his, and be still a man in Fate'sdespite. Let men praise as they will that conquered monarch wholike 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 thatis gone he is nothing. But he who loses his crown and lives withoutit, is more than a king; from the rank of a king, which may be heldby 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 daresto look her in the face; he depends on himself alone, and when hehas nothing left to show but himself he is not a nonentity, he issomebody. Better a thousandfold the king of Corinth a schoolmasterat Syracuse, than a wretched Tarquin, unable to be anything buta king, or the heir of the ruler of three kingdoms, the sport ofall who would scorn his poverty, wandering from court to court insearch of help, and finding nothing but insults, for want of knowingany trade but one which he can no longer practise. 

The man and the citizen, whoever he may be, has no property to investin society but himself, all his other goods belong to society inspite of himself, and when a man is rich, either he does not enjoyhis wealth, or the public enjoys it too; in the first case he robsothers as well as himself; in the second he gives them nothing. Thus his debt to society is still unpaid, while he only pays withhis property. "But my father was serving society while he wasacquiring 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 fairthat 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 owndebt, and no father can transmit to his son any right to be of nouse to mankind. "But, " you say, "this is just what he does when heleaves me his wealth, the reward of his labour. " The man who eatsin idleness what he has not himself earned, is a thief, and inmy eyes, the man who lives on an income paid him by the state fordoing nothing, differs little from a highwayman who lives on thosewho travel his way. Outside the pale of society, the solitary, owingnothing to any man, may live as he pleases, but in society eitherhe lives at the cost of others, or he owes them in labour the costof his keep; there is no exception to this rule. Man in society isbound 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, thenearest to a state of nature is manual labour; of all stations thatof the artisan is least dependent on Fortune. The artisan dependson his labour alone, he is a free man while the ploughman is aslave; for the latter depends on his field where the crops may bedestroyed by others. An enemy, a prince, a powerful neighbour, ora law-suit may deprive him of his field; through this field he maybe harassed in all sorts of ways. But if the artisan is ill-treatedhis goods are soon packed and he takes himself off. Yet agricultureis the earliest, the most honest of trades, and more useful thanall the rest, and therefore more honourable for those who practiseit. I do not say to Emile, "Study agriculture, " he is alreadyfamiliar with it. He is acquainted with every kind of rural labour, it was his first occupation, and he returns to it continually. SoI say to him, "Cultivate your father's lands, but if you lose thisinheritance, or if you have none to lose, what will you do? Learna trade. "

"A trade for my son! My son a working man! What are you thinkingof, sir?" Madam, my thoughts are wiser than yours; you want to makehim fit for nothing but a lord, a marquis, or a prince; and someday he may be less than nothing. I want to give him a rank whichhe cannot lose, a rank which will always do him honour; I want toraise him to the status of a man, and, whatever you may say, hewill have fewer equals in that rank than in your own. 

The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Learning a trade mattersless than overcoming the prejudices he despises. You will never bereduced to earning your livelihood; so much the worse for you. Nomatter; work for honour, not for need: stoop to the position of aworking man, to rise above your own. To conquer Fortune and everythingelse, begin by independence. To rule through public opinion, beginby ruling over it. 

Remember I demand no talent, only a trade, a genuine trade, a meremechanical art, in which the hands work harder than the head, atrade which does not lead to fortune but makes you independent ofher. In households far removed from all danger of want I have knownfathers carry prudence to such a point as to provide their childrennot only with ordinary teaching but with knowledge by means of whichthey could get a living if anything happened. These far-sightedparents thought they were doing a great thing. It is nothing, forthe resources they fancy they have secured depend on that veryfortune of which they would make their children independent; sothat unless they found themselves in circumstances fitted for thedisplay of their talents, they would die of hunger as if they hadnone. 

As soon as it is a question of influence and intrigue you may aswell use these means to keep yourself in plenty, as to acquire, in the depths of poverty, the means of returning to your formerposition. If you cultivate the arts which depend on the artist'sreputation, if you fit yourself for posts which are only obtainedby favour, how will that help you when, rightly disgusted withthe world, you scorn the steps by which you must climb. You havestudied politics and state-craft, so far so good; but how will youuse this knowledge, if you cannot gain the ear of the ministers, the favourites, or the officials? if you have not the secret ofwinning their favour, if they fail to find you a rogue to theirtaste? You are an architect or a painter; well and good; but yourtalents must be displayed. Do you suppose you can exhibit in thesalon 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 doorto door; there is the road to fame. Now you must know that thedoors of the great are guarded by porters and flunkeys, who onlyunderstand one language, and their ears are in their palms. Ifyou wish to teach what you have learned, geography, mathematics, languages, music, drawing, even to find pupils, you must have friendswho will sing your praises. Learning, remember, gains more creditthan skill, and with no trade but your own none will believe inyour skill. See how little you can depend on these fine "Resources, "and how many other resources are required before you can use whatyou have got. And what will become of you in your degradation?Misfortune will make you worse rather than better. More than everthe sport of public opinion, how will you rise above the prejudiceson which your fate depends? How will you despise the vices andthe baseness from which you get your living? You were dependent onwealth, now you are dependent on the wealthy; you are still a slaveand a poor man into the bargain. Poverty without freedom, can aman 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 yourhandiwork, there is no call for deceit, your trade is ready whenrequired. Honour and honesty will not stand in the way of yourliving. You need no longer cringe and lie to the great, nor creepand crawl before rogues, a despicable flatterer of both, a borroweror a thief, for there is little to choose between them when youare 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 theaffairs of state; in your lowly rank you can still be an honestman and yet get a living. You walk into the first workshop of yourtrade. "Master, I want work. " "Comrade, take your place and work. "Before dinner-time you have earned your dinner. If you are soberand industrious, before the week is out you will have earned yourkeep for another week; you will have lived in freedom, health, truth, industry, and righteousness. Time is not wasted when itbrings 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? Iwould not make an embroiderer, a gilder, a polisher of him, likeLocke's young gentleman. Neither would I make him a musician, anactor, or an author. [Footnote: You are an author yourself, you willreply. Yes, for my sins; and my ill deeds, which I think I havefully expiated, are no reason why others should be like me. I do notwrite to excuse my faults, but to prevent my readers from copyingthem. ] With the exception of these and others like them, let himchoose 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 hepaved streets than painted flowers on china. "But, " you will say, "policemen, spies, and hangmen are useful people. " There would beno use for them if it were not for the government. But let thatpass. I was wrong. It is not enough to choose an honest trade, it must be a trade which does not develop detestable qualities inthe mind, qualities incompatible with humanity. To return to ouroriginal expression, "Let us choose an honest trade, " but let usremember there can be no honesty without usefulness. 

A famous writer of this century, whose books are full of greatschemes and narrow views, was under a vow, like the other priestsof his communion, not to take a wife. Finding himself more scrupulousthan others with regard to his neighbour's wife, he decided, sothey say, to employ pretty servants, and so did his best to repairthe wrong done to the race by his rash promise. He thought it theduty of a citizen to breed children for the state, and he madehis children artisans. As soon as they were old enough they weretaught whatever trade they chose; only idle or useless trades wereexcluded, such as that of the wigmaker who is never necessary, andmay any day cease to be required, so long as nature does not gettired 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 himdespise useless things, and he will never be content to waste histime on vain labours; his trade must be of use to Robinson on hisisland. 

When we review with the child the productions of art and nature, when we stimulate his curiosity and follow its lead, we have greatopportunities of studying his tastes and inclinations, and perceivingthe first spark of genius, if he has any decided talent in anydirection. You must, however, be on your guard against the commonerror which mistakes the effects of environment for the ardour ofgenius, or imagines there is a decided bent towards any one of thearts, when there is nothing more than that spirit of emulation, common to men and monkeys, which impels them instinctively to dowhat they see others doing, without knowing why. The world is fullof artisans, and still fuller of artists, who have no native giftfor their calling, into which they were driven in early childhood, either through the conventional ideas of other people, or becausethose about them were deceived by an appearance of zeal, whichwould have led them to take to any other art they saw practised. Onehears a drum and fancies he is a general; another sees a buildingand wants to be an architect. Every one is drawn towards the tradehe sees before him if he thinks it is held in honour. 

I once knew a footman who watched his master drawing and paintingand took it into his head to become a designer and artist. He seizeda pencil which he only abandoned for a paint-brush, to which hestuck for the rest of his days. Without teaching or rules of arthe began to draw everything he saw. Three whole years were devotedto these daubs, from which nothing but his duties could stir him, nor was he discouraged by the small progress resulting from hisvery mediocre talents. I have seen him spend the whole of a broilingsummer in a little ante-room towards the south, a room where onewas suffocated merely passing through it; there he was, seatedor rather nailed all day to his chair, before a globe, drawing itagain and again and yet again, with invincible obstinacy till hehad reproduced the rounded surface to his own satisfaction. At lastwith his master's help and under the guidance of an artist he gotso far as to abandon his livery and live by his brush. Perseverancedoes instead of talent up to a certain point; he got so far, but no further. This honest lad's perseverance and ambition arepraiseworthy; he will always be respected for his industry andsteadfastness of purpose, but his paintings will always be third-rate. Who would not have been deceived by his zeal and taken it for realtalent! There is all the difference in the world between a likingand an aptitude. To make sure of real genius or real taste in a childcalls for more accurate observations than is generally suspected, for the child displays his wishes not his capacity, and we judge bythe former instead of considering the latter. I wish some trustworthyperson would give us a treatise on the art of child-study. Thisart is well worth studying, but neither parents nor teachers havemastered its elements. 

Perhaps we are laying too much stress on the choice of a trade; asit is a manual occupation, Emile's choice is no great matter, andhis apprenticeship is more than half accomplished already, throughthe exercises which have hitherto occupied him. What would you havehim 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 familiarwith these tools which are common to many trades. He only needsto acquire sufficient skill in the use of any one of them to rivalthe speed, the familiarity, and the diligence of good workmen, andhe will have a great advantage over them in suppleness of body andlimb, so that he can easily take any position and can continue anykind of movements without effort. Moreover his senses are acuteand well-practised, he knows the principles of the various trades;to work like a master of his craft he only needs experience, andexperience comes with practice. To which of these trades which areopen to us will he give sufficient time to make himself master ofit? That is the whole question. 

Give a man a trade befitting his sex, to a young man a trade befittinghis age. Sedentary indoor employments, which make the body tenderand effeminate, are neither pleasing nor suitable. No lad everwanted to be a tailor. It takes some art to attract a man to thiswoman's work. [Footnote: There were no tailors among the ancients;men's clothes were made at home by the women. ] The same hand cannothold the needle and the sword. If I were king I would only allowneedlework and dressmaking to be done by women and cripples who areobliged to work at such trades. If eunuchs were required I thinkthe Easterns were very foolish to make them on purpose. Why nottake those provided by nature, that crowd of base persons withoutnatural feeling? There would be enough and to spare. The weak, feeble, timid man is condemned by nature to a sedentary life, heis fit to live among women or in their fashion. Let him adopt oneof their trades if he likes; and if there must be eunuchs let themtake those men who dishonour their sex by adopting trades unworthyof 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 ordangerous one. He will exercise himself in strength and courage;such trades are for men not women, who claim no share in them, Arenot 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 accustomedto 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 handsfit to blow the bellows and strike the anvil. I said to myself, "Inthis country women should set up as steel-polishers and armourers. "Let each make and sell the weapons of his or her own sex; knowledgeis acquired through use. 

I know I have said too much for my agreeable contemporaries, butI sometimes let myself be carried away by my argument. If any oneis 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 whatis right when people poke fun at it. But let us yield to parents'prejudices so long as they do not hurt the children. To honourtrades we are not obliged to practise every one of them, so longas we do not think them beneath us. When the choice is ours andwe are under no compulsion, why not choose the pleasanter, moreattractive and more suitable trade. Metal work is useful, moreuseful, perhaps, than the rest, but unless for some special reasonEmile 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 Ihave him a mason, still less a shoemaker. All trades must be carriedon, but when the choice is ours, cleanliness should be taken intoaccount; this is not a matter of class prejudice, our senses are ourguides. In conclusion, I do not like those stupid trades in whichthe workmen mechanically perform the same action without pauseand almost without mental effort. Weaving, stocking-knitting, stone-cutting; why employ intelligent men on such work? it is merelyone 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 anduseful; it may be carried on at home; it gives enough exercise; itcalls for skill and industry, and while fashioning articles foreveryday use, there is scope for elegance and taste. If your pupil'stalents happened to take a scientific turn, I should not blame youif 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 hewill never learn anything thoroughly unless we learn it together. So we shall both serve our apprenticeship, and we do not mean tobe treated as gentlemen, but as real apprentices who are not therefor fun; why should not we actually be apprenticed? Peter the Greatwas a ship's carpenter and drummer to his own troops; was not thatprince at least your equal in birth and merit? You understand thisis 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 tradewhose apprenticeship is longer and more exacting than the rest. What shall we do? Shall we take a master to teach us the use of theplane and engage him by the hour like the dancing-master? In thatcase we should be not apprentices but students, and our ambition isnot merely to learn carpentry but to be carpenters. Once or twicea week I think we should spend the whole day at our master's; weshould 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 afterhaving had the honour of supping at his table we may if we pleasereturn to sleep upon our own hard beds. This is the way to learnseveral trades at once, to learn to do manual work without neglectingour apprenticeship to life. 

Let us do what is right without ostentation; let us not fall intovanity through our efforts to resist it. To pride ourselves onour victory over prejudice is to succumb to prejudice. It is saidthat in accordance with an old custom of the Ottomans, the sultanis obliged to work with his hands, and, as every one knows, thehandiwork of a king is a masterpiece. So he royally distributeshis masterpieces among the great lords of the Porte and the pricepaid is in accordance with the rank of the workman. It is notthis so-called abuse to which I object; on the contrary, it is anadvantage, and by compelling the lords to share with him the spoilsof the people it is so much the less necessary for the prince toplunder 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 manof his own worth. Like King Midas he sees all things turn to goldat his touch, but he does not see the ass' ears growing. Let uskeep Emile's hands from money lest he should become an ass, lethim take the work but not the wages. Never let his work be judgedby any standard but that of the work of a master. Let it be judgedas 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 heis 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 foryou. If your son knows many things, distrust his knowledge; if heis 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 manknows everything, it is the poor who are ignorant. Our capitalis full of amateurs, especially women, who do their work as M. Gillaume invents his colours. Among the men I know three strikingexceptions, among the women I know no exceptions, and I doubt ifthere are any. In a general way a man becomes an artist and a judgeof 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 wouldbecome postmasters like the councillors of Zurich. Let us have nosuch 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 makehis masterpiece, but not be hailed as master; let him be a workmannot in name but in deed. 

If I have made my meaning clear you ought to realise how bodilyexercise and manual work unconsciously arouse thought and reflexionin my pupil, and counteract the idleness which might result fromhis indifference to men's judgments, and his freedom from passion. He must work like a peasant and think like a philosopher, if he isnot to be as idle as a savage. The great secret of education is touse exercise of mind and body as relaxation one to the other. 

But beware of anticipating teaching which demands more maturity ofmind. Emile will not long be a workman before he discovers thosesocial inequalities he had not previously observed. He will wantto question me in turn on the maxims I have given him, maxims heis able to understand. When he derives everything from me, whenhe is so nearly in the position of the poor, he will want to knowwhy I am so far removed from it. All of a sudden he may put scathingquestions to me. "You are rich, you tell me, and I see you are. Arich man owes his work to the community like the rest because heis a man. What are you doing for the community?" What would a finetutor say to that? I do not know. He would perhaps be foolish enoughto talk to the child of the care he bestows upon him. The workshopwill get me out of the difficulty. "My dear Emile that is a verygood question; I will undertake to answer for myself, when you cananswer for yourself to your own satisfaction. Meanwhile I will takecare to give what I can spare to you and to the poor, and to makea table or a bench every week, so as not to be quite useless. "

We have come back to ourselves. Having entered into possession ofhimself, our child is now ready to cease to be a child. He is morethan ever conscious of the necessity which makes him dependent onthings. After exercising his body and his senses you have exercisedhis mind and his judgment. Finally we have joined together theuse of his limbs and his faculties. We have made him a worker anda thinker; we have now to make him loving and tender-hearted, toperfect reason through feeling. But before we enter on this neworder of things, let us cast an eye over the stage we are leavingbehind us, and perceive as clearly as we can how far we have got. 

At first our pupil had merely sensations, now he has ideas; hecould only feel, now he reasons. For from the comparison of manysuccessive or simultaneous sensations and the judgment arrivedat with regard to them, there springs a sort of mixed or complexsensation which I call an idea. 

The way in which ideas are formed gives a character to the humanmind. The mind which derives its ideas from real relations isthorough; the mind which relies on apparent relations is superficial. He who sees relations as they are has an exact mind; he who failsto estimate them aright has an inaccurate mind; he who concoctsimaginary relations, which have no real existence, is a madman; hewho does not perceive any relation at all is an imbecile. Clevermen are distinguished from others by their greater or less aptitudefor the comparison of ideas and the discovery of relations betweenthem. 

Simple ideas consist merely of sensations compared one with another. Simple sensations involve judgments, as do the complex sensationswhich I call simple ideas. In the sensation the judgment is purelypassive; it affirms that I feel what I feel. In the percept or ideathe judgment is active; it connects, compares, it discriminatesbetween relations not perceived by the senses. That is the wholedifference; but it is a great difference. Nature never deceivesus; we deceive ourselves. 

I see some one giving an ice-cream to an eight-year-old child; hedoes not know what it is and puts the spoon in his mouth. Struckby the cold he cries out, "Oh, it burns!" He feels a very keensensation, and the heat of the fire is the keenest sensation heknows, so he thinks that is what he feels. Yet he is mistaken; coldhurts, but it does not burn; and these two sensations are different, for persons with more experience do not confuse them. So it is notthe sensation that is wrong, but the judgment formed with regardto it. 

It is just the same with those who see a mirror or some opticalinstrument for the first time, or enter a deep cellar in the depthsof winter or at midsummer, or dip a very hot or cold hand into tepidwater, or roll a little ball between two crossed fingers. If theyare content to say what they really feel, their judgment, beingpurely passive, cannot go wrong; but when they judge according toappearances, their judgment is active; it compares and establishesby induction relations which are not really perceived. Then theseinductions may or may not be mistaken. Experience is required tocorrect or prevent error. 

Show your pupil the clouds at night passing between himself and themoon; he will think the moon is moving in the opposite directionand that the clouds are stationary. He will think this througha hasty induction, because he generally sees small objects movingand larger ones at rest, and the clouds seems larger than the moon, whose distance is beyond his reckoning. When he watches the shorefrom a moving boat he falls into the opposite mistake and thinksthe earth is moving because he does not feel the motion of theboat and considers it along with the sea or river as one motionlesswhole, of which the shore, which appears to move, forms no part. 

The first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water he thinkshe sees a broken stick; the sensation is true and would not ceaseto be true even if he knew the reason of this appearance. So ifyou ask him what he sees, he replies, "A broken stick, " for he isquite sure he is experiencing this sensation. But when deceivedby his judgment he goes further and, after saying he sees a brokenstick, he affirms that it really is broken he says what is not true. Why? Because he becomes active and judges no longer by observationbut by induction, he affirms what he does not perceive, i. E. , that the judgment he receives through one of his senses would beconfirmed by another. 

Since all our errors arise in our judgment, it is clear, that hadwe no need for judgment, we should not need to learn; we shouldnever be liable to mistakes, we should be happier in our ignorancethan we can be in our knowledge. Who can deny that a vast numberof things are known to the learned, which the unlearned will neverknow? Are the learned any nearer truth? Not so, the further they gothe further they get from truth, for their pride in their judgmentincreases faster than their progress in knowledge, so that forevery truth they acquire they draw a hundred mistaken conclusions. Every one knows that the learned societies of Europe are mere schoolsof falsehood, and there are assuredly more mistaken notions in theAcademy of Sciences than in a whole tribe of American Indians. 

The more we know, the more mistakes we make; therefore ignoranceis the only way to escape error. Form no judgments and you willnever be mistaken. This is the teaching both of nature and reason. We come into direct contact with very few things, and these are veryreadily perceived; the rest we regard with profound indifference. A savage will not turn his head to watch the working of the finestmachinery or all the wonders of electricity. "What does that matterto me?" is the common saying of the ignorant; it is the fittestphrase for the wise. 

Unluckily this phrase will no longer serve our turn. Everythingmatters to us, as we are dependent on everything, and our curiositynaturally increases with our needs. This is why I attribute muchcuriosity to the man of science and none to the savage. The latterneeds no help from anybody; the former requires every one, andadmirers most of all. 

You will tell me I am going beyond nature. I think not. Shechooses her instruments and orders them, not according to fancy, but necessity. Now a man's needs vary with his circumstances. Thereis all the difference in the world between a natural man living ina state of nature, and a natural man living in society. Emile isno savage to be banished to the desert, he is a savage who has tolive 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 ofthem. 

In the midst of so many new relations and dependent on them, hemust reason whether he wants to or no. Let us therefore teach himto reason correctly. 

The best way of learning to reason aright is that which tends tosimplify our experiences, or to enable us to dispense with themaltogether without falling into error. Hence it follows that we mustlearn to confirm the experiences of each sense by itself, withoutrecourse to any other, though we have been in the habit of verifyingthe experience of one sense by that of another. Then each of oursensations will become an idea, and this idea will always correspondto the truth. This is the sort of knowledge I have tried to accumulateduring this third phase of man's life. 

This method of procedure demands a patience and circumspectionwhich few teachers possess; without them the scholar will neverlearn to reason. For example, if you hasten to take the stick outof the water when the child is deceived by its appearance, you mayperhaps undeceive him, but what have you taught him? Nothing morethan he would soon have learnt for himself. That is not the rightthing to do. You have not got to teach him truths so much as toshow him how to set about discovering them for himself. To teachhim 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 failto answer the second of my imaginary questions in the affirmative. He will say, "That is certainly a broken stick. " I very much doubtwhether Emile will give the same reply. He sees no reason forknowing everything or pretending to know it; he is never in a hurryto draw conclusions. He only reasons from evidence and on thisoccasion he has not got the evidence. He knows how appearancesdeceive us, if only through perspective. 

Moreover, he knows by experience that there is always a reason formy slightest questions, though he may not see it at once; so he hasnot got into the habit of giving silly answers; on the contrary, he is on his guard, he considers things carefully and attentivelybefore answering. He never gives me an answer unless he is satisfiedwith it himself, and he is hard to please. Lastly we neither ofus take any pride in merely knowing a thing, but only in avoidingmistakes. We should be more ashamed to deceive ourselves with badreasoning, than to find no explanation at all. There is no phraseso 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 sillyanswer or whether he avoids it by our convenient phrase "I do notknow, " my answer is the same. "Let us examine it. "

This stick immersed half way in the water is fixed in an uprightposition. To know if it is broken, how many things must be donebefore we take it out of the water or even touch it. 

1. First we walk round it, and we see that the broken part followsus. So it is only our eye that changes it; looks do not make thingsmove. 

2. We look straight down on that end of the stick which is abovethe water, the stick is no longer bent, [Footnote: I have sincefound by more exact experiment that this is not the case. Refractionacts in a circle, and the stick appears larger at the end which isin the water, but this makes no difference to the strength of theargument, and the conclusion is correct. ] the end near our eyeexactly hides the other end. Has our eye set the stick straight?

3. We stir the surface of the water; we see the stick break intoseveral pieces, it moves in zigzags and follows the ripples of thewater. 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 stickstraightening itself as the water sinks. Is not this more thanenough to clear up the business and to discover refraction? So itis not true that our eyes deceive us, for nothing more has beenrequired to correct the mistakes attributed to it. 

Suppose the child were stupid enough not to perceive the result ofthese experiments, then you must call touch to the help of sight. Instead of taking the stick out of the water, leave it where it isand let the child pass his hand along it from end to end; he willfeel 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 anyideas at all, every judgment is a process of reasoning? So thatas soon as we compare one sensation with another, we are beginningto reason. The art of judging and the art of reasoning are one andthe same. 

Emile will never learn dioptrics unless he learns with this stick. He will not have dissected insects nor counted the spots on thesun; he will not know what you mean by a microscope or a telescope. Your learned pupils will laugh at his ignorance and rightly, I intendhim to invent these instruments before he uses them, and you willexpect that to take some time. 

This is the spirit of my whole method at this stage. If the childrolls a little ball between two crossed fingers and thinks he feelstwo balls, I shall not let him look until he is convinced there isonly one. 

This explanation will suffice, I hope, to show plainly the progressmade by my pupil hitherto and the route followed by him. But perhapsthe number of things I have brought to his notice alarms you. Ishall crush his mind beneath this weight of knowledge. Not so, I amrather teaching him to be ignorant of things than to know them. Iam showing him the path of science, easy indeed, but long, far-reachingand 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 ofothers, for there must be no submission to authority if you wouldhave no submission to convention. Most of our errors are due toothers more than ourselves. This continual exercise should developa vigour of mind like that acquired by the body through labour andweariness. Another advantage is that his progress is in proportionto his strength, neither mind nor body carries more than it canbear. When the understanding lays hold of things before they arestored 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 amemory over-burdened with undigested knowledge. 

Emile knows little, but what he knows is really his own; he has nohalf-knowledge. Among the few things he knows and knows thoroughlythis is the most valuable, that there are many things he does notknow now but may know some day, many more that other men know buthe will never know, and an infinite number which nobody will everknow. He is large-minded, not through knowledge, but throughthe power of acquiring it; he is open-minded, intelligent, readyfor anything, and, as Montaigne says, capable of learning if notlearned. I am content if he knows the "Wherefore" of his actionsand the "Why" of his beliefs. For once more my object is not tosupply him with exact knowledge, but the means of getting it whenrequired, to teach him to value it at its true worth, and to lovetruth 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 nameof history is unknown to him, along with metaphysics and morals. Heknows the essential relations between men and things, but nothingof the moral relations between man and man. He has little power ofgeneralisation, he has no skill in abstraction. He perceives thatcertain qualities are common to certain things, without reasoningabout these qualities themselves. He is acquainted with theabstract idea of space by the help of his geometrical figures; heis acquainted with the abstract idea of quantity by the help ofhis algebraical symbols. These figures and signs are the supportson which these ideas may be said to rest, the supports on which hissenses repose. He does not attempt to know the nature of things, but only to know things in so far as they affect himself. He onlyjudges what is outside himself in relation to himself, and hisjudgment is exact and certain. Caprice and prejudice have no partin it. He values most the things which are of use to himself, andas he never departs from this standard of values, he owes nothingto prejudice. 

Emile is industrious, temperate, patient, stedfast, and full ofcourage. His imagination is still asleep, so he has no exaggeratedideas of danger; the few ills he feels he knows how to endure inpatience, because he has not learnt to rebel against fate. As todeath, he knows not what it means; but accustomed as he is to submitwithout resistance to the law of necessity, he will die, if die hemust, without a groan and without a struggle; that is as much aswe can demand of nature, in that hour which we all abhor. To livein freedom, and to be independent of human affairs, is the bestway to learn how to die. 

In a word Emile is possessed of all that portion of virtue whichconcerns himself. To acquire the social virtues he only needs aknowledge of the relations which make those virtues necessary; heonly lacks knowledge which he is quite ready to receive. 

He thinks not of others but of himself, and prefers that othersshould do the same. He makes no claim upon them, and acknowledgesno debt to them. He is alone in the midst of human society, hedepends on himself alone, for he is all that a boy can be at hisage. 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. Hisbody is healthy, his limbs are supple, his mind is accurate andunprejudiced, his heart is free and untroubled by passion. Pride, the earliest and the most natural of passions, has scarcely shownitself. Without disturbing the peace of others, he has passedhis life contented, happy, and free, so far as nature allows. Doyou think that the earlier years of a child, who has reached hisfifteenth year in this condition, have been wasted?

BOOK IV

How swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is gonebefore we know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapableof enjoying life. At first we do not know how to live; and whenwe know how to live it is too late. In the interval between thesetwo 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, butbecause we are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain isthere 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 borninto life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who regard womanas an imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they have externalresemblance on their side. Up to the age of puberty children ofboth sexes have little to distinguish them to the eye, the sameface and form, the same complexion and voice, everything is thesame; girls are children and boys are children; one name is enoughfor creatures so closely resembling one another. Males whose developmentis arrested preserve this resemblance all their lives; they arealways big children; and women who never lose this resemblance seemin many respects never to be more than children. 

But, speaking generally, man is not meant to remain a child. Heleaves childhood behind him at the time ordained by nature; and thiscritical moment, short enough in itself, has far-reaching consequences. 

As the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmurof rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressedexcitement 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 voicehe used to obey; he is a lion in a fever; he distrusts his keeperand refuses to be controlled. 

With the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptiblechanges in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the stampof his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks becomesdarker and stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he loses italtogether. He is neither a child nor a man and cannot speak likeeither of them. His eyes, those organs of the soul which tillnow were dumb, find speech and meaning; a kindling fire illuminesthem, there is still a sacred innocence in their ever brighteningglance, but they have lost their first meaningless expression; heis already aware that they can say too much; he is beginning tolearn to lower his eyes and blush, he is becoming sensitive, thoughhe does not know what it is that he feels; he is uneasy withoutknowing why. All this may happen gradually and give you time enough;but if his keenness becomes impatience, his eagerness madness, ifhe 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 sourceof danger his pulse quickens and his eyes sparkle, if he trembleswhen a woman's hand touches his, if he is troubled or timid in herpresence, O Ulysses, wise Ulysses! have a care! The passages youclosed with so much pains are open; the winds are unloosed; keepyour hand upon the helm or all is lost. 

This is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man reallyenters upon life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to him. Our efforts so far have been child's play, now they are of thegreatest importance. This period when education is usually finishedis 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 todestroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this wouldbe to overcome nature, to reshape God's handiwork. If God bademan annihilate the passions he has given him, God would bid him beand not be; He would contradict himself. He has never given such afoolish commandment, there is nothing like it written on the heartof man, and what God will have a man do, He does not leave to thewords of another man. He speaks Himself; His words are written inthe secret heart. 

Now I consider those who would prevent the birth of the passionsalmost as foolish as those who would destroy them, and those whothink this has been my object hitherto are greatly mistaken. 

But should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passionsare natural to man, we inferred that all the passions we feel inourselves 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 whichwe can scarcely find a single drop of the original stream. Ournatural passions are few in number; they are the means to freedom, they tend to self-preservation. All those which enslave and destroyus have another source; nature does not bestow them on us; we seizeon 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 longas he lives, is self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive, it precedes all the rest, which are in a sense only modificationsof it. In this sense, if you like, they are all natural. But mostof these modifications are the result of external influences, without which they would never occur, and such modifications, farfrom being advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the originalpurpose and work against its end; then it is that man finds himselfoutside nature and at strife with himself. 

Self-love is always good, always in accordance with the order ofnature. The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted toeach one of us, and our first care is, and must be, to watch overour own life; and how can we continually watch over it, if we donot take the greatest interest in it?

Self-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love ourselves;we must love ourselves above everything, and it follows directlyfrom this that we love what contributes to our preservation. Everychild becomes fond of its nurse; Romulus must have loved the she-wolfwho suckled him. At first this attachment is quite unconscious; theindividual is attracted to that which contributes to his welfare andrepelled 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 helpingor hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to objectswithout feeling, which only follow the direction given them; butthose from which we expect benefit or injury from their internaldisposition, from their will, those we see acting freely for oragainst us, inspire us with like feelings to those they exhibittowards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but we lovethe person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink fromit, but we hate the person who tries to hurt us. 

The child's first sentiment is self-love, his second, which isderived from it, is love of those about him; for in his presentstate of weakness he is only aware of people through the help andattention received from them. At first his affection for his nurseand his governess is mere habit. He seeks them because he needsthem and because he is happy when they are there; it is ratherperception than kindly feeling. It takes a long time to discovernot merely that they are useful to him, but that they desire to beuseful to him, and then it is that he begins to love them. 

So a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because hesees that every one about him is inclined to help him, and fromthis experience he gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards hisspecies; but with the expansion of his relations, his needs, hisdependence, active or passive, the consciousness of his relationsto others is awakened, and leads to the sense of duties andpreferences. Then the child becomes masterful, jealous, deceitful, and vindictive. If he is not compelled to obedience, when he doesnot see the usefulness of what he is told to do, he attributes itto caprice, to an intention of tormenting him, and he rebels. Ifpeople give in to him, as soon as anything opposes him he regardsit as rebellion, as a determination to resist him; he beats the chairor table for disobeying him. Self-love, which concerns itself onlywith ourselves, is content to satisfy our own needs; but selfishness, which is always comparing self with others, is never satisfied andnever 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, whilethe hateful and angry passions spring from selfishness. So it isthe fewness of his needs, the narrow limits within which he cancompare himself with others, that makes a man really good; whatmakes him really bad is a multiplicity of needs and dependence onthe opinions of others. It is easy to see how we can apply thisprinciple and guide every passion of children and men towardsgood or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will behard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increaseof necessity as his relations with others are extended. For thisreason, above all, the dangers of social life demand that thenecessary skill and care shall be devoted to guarding the humanheart against the depravity which springs from fresh needs. 

Man's proper study is that of his relation to his environment. Solong as he only knows that environment through his physical nature, he should study himself in relation to things; this is the businessof his childhood; when he begins to be aware of his moral nature, he should study himself in relation to his fellow-men; this is thebusiness of his whole life, and we have now reached the time whenthat study should be begun. 

As soon as a man needs a companion he is no longer an isolatedcreature, his heart is no longer alone. All his relations with hisspecies, all the affections of his heart, come into being alongwith this. His first passion soon arouses the rest. 

The direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attractedby 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 donot love without reasoning or prefer without comparison. These judgmentsare none the less real, although they are formed unconsciously. True love, whatever you may say, will always be held in honourby mankind; for although its impulses lead us astray, although itdoes not bar the door of the heart to certain detestable qualities, although it even gives rise to these, yet it always presupposescertain worthy characteristics, without which we should be incapableof love. This choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason, really springs from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyesare better than ours, and he perceives relations which we cannotdiscern. All women would be alike to a man who had no idea of virtueor beauty, and the first comer would always be the most charming. Love does not spring from nature, far from it; it is the curb andlaw of her desires; it is love that makes one sex indifferent tothe 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 bemore worthy than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved. Hence we begin to look around among our fellows; we begin to compareourselves with them, there is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy. A heart full to overflowing loves to make itself known; from theneed of a mistress there soon springs the need of a friend He whofeels how sweet it is to be loved, desires to be loved by everybody;and there could be no preferences if there were not many thatfail to find satisfaction. With love and friendship there begindissensions, enmity, and hatred. I behold deference to otherpeople's opinions enthroned among all these divers passions, andfoolish mortals, enslaved by her power, base their very existencemerely on what other people think. 

Expand these ideas and you will see where we get that form ofselfishness which we call natural selfishness, and how selfishnessceases to be a simple feeling and becomes pride in great minds, vanityin little ones, and in both feeds continually at our neighbour'scost. Passions of this kind, not having any germ in the child'sheart, cannot spring up in it of themselves; it is we who sow theseeds, and they never take root unless by our fault. Not so withthe young man; they will find an entrance in spite of us. It istherefore time to change our methods. 

Let us begin with some considerations of importance with regard tothe critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood topuberty is not so clearly determined by nature but that it variesaccording to individual temperament and racial conditions. Everybodyknows the differences which have been observed with regard to thisbetween hot and cold countries, and every one sees that ardenttemperaments mature earlier than others; but we may be mistaken asto the causes, and we may often attribute to physical causes whatis really due to moral: this is one of the commonest errors inthe philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature comes slowly;man's lessons are mostly premature. In the former case, the senseskindle the imagination, in the latter the imagination kindles thesenses; it gives them a precocious activity which cannot fail toenervate the individual and, in the long run, the race. It is a moregeneral and more trustworthy fact than that of climatic influences, that puberty and sexual power is always more precocious amongeducated and civilised races, than among the ignorant and barbarous. [Footnote: "In towns, " says M. Buffon, "and among the well-to-doclasses, children accustomed to plentiful and nourishing food soonerreach this state; in the country and among the poor, children aremore backward, because of their poor and scanty food. " I admit thefact but not the explanation, for in the districts where the foodof the villagers is plentiful and good, as in the Valais and evenin some of the mountain districts of Italy, such as Friuli, theage of puberty for both sexes is quite as much later than in theheart of the towns, where, in order to gratify their vanity, peopleare often extremely parsimonious in the matter of food, and wheremost people, in the words of the proverb, have a velvet coat andan empty belly. It is astonishing to find in these mountainousregions big lads as strong as a man with shrill voices and smoothchins, and tall girls, well developed in other respects, withoutany trace of the periodic functions of their sex. This differenceis, in my opinion, solely due to the fact that in the simplicity oftheir manners the imagination remains calm and peaceful, and doesnot stir the blood till much later, and thus their temperamentis much less precocious. ] Children are preternaturally quick todiscern immoral habits under the cloak of decency with which theyare concealed. The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessonsin good behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang beforetheir eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. It is plain, from the way you set about it, that they are meant to learn whatyou profess to conceal; and of all you teach them this is mostquickly assimilated. 

Consult experience and you will find how far this foolish methodhastens the work of nature and ruins the character. This is one ofthe chief causes of physical degeneration in our towns. The youngpeople, prematurely exhausted, remain small, puny, and misshapen, they grow old instead of growing up, like a vine forced to bearfruit in spring, which fades and dies before autumn. 

To know how far a happy ignorance may prolong the innocence ofchildren, you must live among rude and simple people. It is a sightboth touching and amusing to see both sexes, left to the protectionof their own hearts, continuing the sports of childhood in theflower of youth and beauty, showing by their very familiarity thepurity of their pleasures. When at length those delightful youngpeople marry, they bestow on each other the first fruits of theirperson, and are all the dearer therefore. Swarms of strong and healthychildren are the pledges of a union which nothing can change, andthe fruit of the virtue of their early years. 

If the age at which a man becomes conscious of his sex is deferredas much by the effects of education as by the action of nature, it follows that this age may be hastened or retarded according tothe way in which the child is brought up; and if the body gainsor loses strength in proportion as its development is acceleratedor retarded, it also follows that the more we try to retard itthe stronger and more vigorous will the young man be. I am stillspeaking of purely physical consequences; you will soon see thatthis is not all. 

From these considerations I arrive at the solution of the questionso often discussed--Should we enlighten children at an early periodas to the objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put themoff with decent shams? I think we need do neither. In the firstplace, this curiosity will not arise unless we give it a chance. We must therefore take care not to give it an opportunity. In thenext place, questions one is not obliged to answer do not compel usto deceive those who ask them; it is better to bid the child holdhis tongue than to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly surprisedat this treatment if you have already accustomed him to it in mattersof 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'scuriosity than to stimulate it. 

Let your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without traceof hesitation. I need not add that they should be true. We cannotteach children the danger of telling lies to men without realising, on the man's part, the danger of telling lies to children. A singleuntruth on the part of the master will destroy the results of hiseducation. 

Complete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps thebest thing for children; but let them learn very early what it isimpossible to conceal from them permanently. Either their curiositymust never be aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age whenit becomes a source of danger. Your conduct towards your pupilin this respect depends greatly on his individual circumstances, the society in which he moves, the position in which he may findhimself, etc. Nothing must be left to chance; and if you are notsure of keeping him in ignorance of the difference between thesexes 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 aspade; they are always found out if they do. Good manners in thisrespect are always perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled byvice makes the ear over-sensitive and compels us to be constantlyrefining our expressions. Plain words do not matter; it is lasciviousideas 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 shouldchildren without this knowledge of evil have the feeling whichresults from it? To give them lessons in modesty and good conductis to teach them that there are things shameful and wicked, and togive them a secret wish to know what these things are. Sooner orlater they will find out, and the first spark which touches theimagination 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 subjectlike 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 placethe organs of secret pleasures and those of disgusting needs; sheteaches us the same precautions at different ages, sometimes by meansof 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'sinnocence, to surround him by those who respect and love him. Without this all our efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooneror later; a smile, a wink, a careless gesture tells him all wesought to hide; it is enough to teach him to perceive that thereis something we want to hide from him. The delicate phrases andexpressions employed by persons of politeness assume a knowledgewhich children ought not to possess, and they are quite out ofplace with them, but when we truly respect the child's innocence weeasily find in talking to him the simple phrases which befit him. There is a certain directness of speech which is suitable andpleasing to innocence; this is the right tone to adopt in orderto turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By speaking simply tohim about everything you do not let him suspect there is anythingleft unsaid. By connecting coarse words with the unpleasant ideaswhich belong to them, you quench the first spark of imagination;you do not forbid the child to say these words or to form theseideas; but without his knowing it you make him unwilling to recallthem. And how much confusion is spared to those who speaking fromthe heart always say the right thing, and say it as they themselveshave felt it!

"Where do little children come from?" This is an embarrassing question, which occurs very naturally to children, one which foolishly orwisely answered may decide their health and their morals for life. The quickest way for a mother to escape from it without deceivingher son is to tell him to hold his tongue. That will serve its turnif he has always been accustomed to it in matters of no importance, and if he does not suspect some mystery from this new way ofspeaking. But the mother rarely stops there. "It is the marriedpeople's secret, " she will say, "little boys should not be socurious. " That is all very well so far as the mother is concerned, but she may be sure that the little boy, piqued by her scornfulmanner, will not rest till he has found out the married people'ssecret, which will very soon be the case. 

Let me tell you a very different answer which I heard given tothe 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 childand for the cause of virtue, to cast aside the false fear of blameand the silly jests of the foolish. Not long before the child hadpassed a small stone which had torn the passage, but the troublewas over and forgotten. "Mamma, " said the eager child, "where dolittle children come from?" "My child, " replied his mother withouthesitation, "women pass them with pains that sometimes cost theirlife. " Let fools laugh and silly people be shocked; but let thewise inquire if it is possible to find a wiser answer and one whichwould better serve its purpose. 

In the first place the thought of a need of nature with whichthe child is well acquainted turns his thoughts from the ideaof a mysterious process. The accompanying ideas of pain and deathcover it with a veil of sadness which deadens the imagination andsuppresses curiosity; everything leads the mind to the results, notthe causes, of child-birth. This is the information to which thisanswer leads. If the repugnance inspired by this answer shouldpermit the child to inquire further, his thoughts are turned to theinfirmities of human nature, disgusting things, images of pain. What chance is there for any stimulation of desire in such aconversation? And yet you see there is no departure from truth, noneed to deceive the scholar in order to teach him. 

Your children read; in the course of their reading they meetwith things they would never have known without reading. Are theystudents, their imagination is stimulated and quickened in thesilence of the study. Do they move in the world of society, they heara strange jargon, they see conduct which makes a great impressionon them; they have been told so continually that they are men thatin everything men do in their presence they at once try to findhow that will suit themselves; the conduct of others must indeedserve 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 governessessay things to the four-year-old child which the most shamelesswoman would not dare to say to them at fifteen. They soon forgetwhat they said, but the child has not forgotten what he heard. Loose conversation prepares the way for licentious conduct; thechild is debauched by the cunning lacquey, and the secret of theone guarantees the secret of the other. 

The child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knowsno 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 hisspecies; men and women are alike unknown; he does not connect theirsayings and doings with himself, he neither sees nor hears, or hepays no heed to them; he is no more concerned with their talk thantheir actions; he has nothing to do with it. This is no artificialerror induced by our method, it is the ignorance of nature. Thetime is at hand when that same nature will take care to enlightenher pupil, and then only does she make him capable of profitingby the lessons without danger. This is our principle; the detailsof its rules are outside my subject; and the means I suggest withregard 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 timeto find their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlledby nature herself, not by man; your task is merely to leave itin her hands. If your pupil were alone, you would have nothing todo; but everything about him enflames his imagination. He is sweptalong on the torrent of conventional ideas; to rescue him you musturge him in the opposite direction. Imagination must be curbedby feeling and reason must silence the voice of conventionality. Sensibility is the source of all the passions, imagination determinestheir course. Every creature who is aware of his relations mustbe disturbed by changes in these relations and when he imaginesor fancies he imagines others better adapted to his nature. It isthe errors of the imagination which transmute into vices the passionsof finite beings, of angels even, if indeed they have passions; forthey must needs know the nature of every creature to realise whatrelations are best adapted to themselves. 

This is the sum of human wisdom with regard to the use ofthe passions. First, to be conscious of the true relations of manboth in the species and the individual; second, to control all theaffections in accordance with these relations. 

But is man in a position to control his affections according tosuch and such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix hisimagination 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 forhimself, as with what we can do for our pupil through our choiceof the circumstances in which he shall be placed. To show the meansby which he may be kept in the path of nature is to show plainlyenough how he might stray from that path. 

So long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is nomorality in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyondhimself that he forms first the sentiments and then the ideas ofgood and ill, which make him indeed a man, and an integral part ofhis species. To begin with we must therefore confine our observationsto this point. 

These observations are difficult to make, for we must reject theexamples before our eyes, and seek out those in which the successivedevelopments follow the order of nature. 

A child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only awaitingthe power to put into practice the precocious instruction he hasreceived, is never mistaken with regard to the time when this poweris acquired. Far from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he stirs hisblood to a premature ferment; he knows what should be the objectof his desires long before those desires are experienced. It isnot nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces the hand ofnature; she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a man; he wasa man in thought long before he was a man in reality. 

The true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little bylittle the blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the characteris formed. The wise workman who directs the process is carefulto perfect every tool before he puts it to use; the first desiresare preceded by a long period of unrest, they are deceived by aprolonged ignorance, they know not what they want. The blood fermentsand bubbles; overflowing vitality seeks to extend its sphere. Theeye grows brighter and surveys others, we begin to be interestedin those about us, we begin to feel that we are not meant to livealone; thus the heart is thrown open to human affection, and becomescapable of attachment. 

The first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable isnot love but friendship. The first work of his rising imaginationis to make known to him his fellows; the species affects him beforethe sex. Here is another advantage to be gained from prolongedinnocence; you may take advantage of his dawning sensibility to sowthe first seeds of humanity in the heart of the young adolescent. This advantage is all the greater because this is the only time inhis life when such efforts may be really successful. 

I have always observed that young men, corrupted in early youthand addicted to women and debauchery, are inhuman and cruel; theirpassionate temperament makes them impatient, vindictive, and angry;their imagination fixed on one object only, refuses all others;mercy and pity are alike unknown to them; they would have sacrificedfather, mother, the whole world, to the least of their pleasures. A young man, on the other hand, brought up in happy innocence, isdrawn by the first stirrings of nature to the tender and affectionatepassions; his warm heart is touched by the sufferings of hisfellow-creatures; he trembles with delight when he meets his comrade, his arms can embrace tenderly, his eyes can shed tears of pity; helearns to be sorry for offending others through his shame at causingannoyance. If the eager warmth of his blood makes him quick, hasty, and passionate, a moment later you see all his natural kindness ofheart in the eagerness of his repentance; he weeps, he groans overthe wound he has given; he would atone for the blood he has shedwith his own; his anger dies away, his pride abases itself beforethe consciousness of his wrong-doing. Is he the injured party, inthe height of his fury an excuse, a word, disarms him; he forgivesthe wrongs of others as whole-heartedly as he repairs his own. Adolescence is not the age of hatred or vengeance; it is the age ofpity, mercy, and generosity. Yes, I maintain, and I am not afraidof the testimony of experience, a youth of good birth, one who haspreserved his innocence up to the age of twenty, is at that agethe best, the most generous, the most loving, and the most lovableof men. You never heard such a thing; I can well believe thatphilosophers such as you, brought up among the corruption of thepublic schools, are unaware of it. 

Man's weakness makes him sociable. Our common sufferings draw ourhearts to our fellow-creatures; we should have no duties to mankindif we were not men. Every affection is a sign of insufficiency;if each of us had no need of others, we should hardly think ofassociating with them. So our frail happiness has its roots in ourweakness. A really happy man is a hermit; God only enjoys absolutehappiness; but which of us has any idea what that means? Ifany imperfect creature were self-sufficing, what would he have toenjoy? To our thinking he would be wretched and alone. I do notunderstand how one who has need of nothing could love anything, nor do I understand how he who loves nothing can be happy. 

Hence it follows that we are drawn towards our fellow-creaturesless by our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for inthem we discern more plainly a nature like our own, and a pledgeof their affection for us. If our common needs create a bondof interest our common sufferings create a bond of affection. Thesight of a happy man arouses in others envy rather than love, weare ready to accuse him of usurping a right which is not his, ofseeking happiness for himself alone, and our selfishness suffersan additional pang in the thought that this man has no need of us. But who does not pity the wretch when he beholds his sufferings?who would not deliver him from his woes if a wish could do it?Imagination puts us more readily in the place of the miserable manthan of the happy man; we feel that the one condition touches usmore nearly than the other. Pity is sweet, because, when we putourselves in the place of one who suffers, we are aware, nevertheless, of the pleasure of not suffering like him. Envy is bitter, becausethe sight of a happy man, far from putting the envious in his place, inspires him with regret that he is not there. The one seems toexempt us from the pains he suffers, the other seems to deprive usof the good things he enjoys. 

Do you desire to stimulate and nourish the first stirrings ofawakening sensibility in the heart of a young man, do you desireto incline his disposition towards kindly deed and thought, donot cause the seeds of pride, vanity, and envy to spring up in himthrough the misleading picture of the happiness of mankind; do notshow him to begin with the pomp of courts, the pride of palaces, the delights of pageants; do not take him into society and intobrilliant assemblies; do not show him the outside of society tillyou have made him capable of estimating it at its true worth. To show him the world before he is acquainted with men, is not totrain him, but to corrupt him; not to teach, but to mislead. 

By nature men are neither kings, nobles, courtiers, nor millionaires. All men are born poor and naked, all are liable to the sorrows oflife, its disappointments, its ills, its needs, its suffering ofevery kind; and all are condemned at length to die. This is whatit really means to be a man, this is what no mortal can escape. Begin then with the study of the essentials of humanity, that whichreally constitutes mankind. 

At sixteen the adolescent knows what it is to suffer, for he himselfhas suffered; but he scarcely realises that others suffer too; tosee without feeling is not knowledge, and as I have said again andagain the child who does not picture the feelings of others knowsno ills but his own; but when his imagination is kindled by thefirst beginnings of growing sensibility, he begins to perceivehimself in his fellow-creatures, to be touched by their cries, tosuffer in their sufferings. It is at this time that the sorrowfulpicture of suffering humanity should stir his heart with the firsttouch of pity he has ever known. 

If it is not easy to discover this opportunity in your scholars, whose fault is it? You taught them so soon to play at feeling, youtaught them so early its language, that speaking continually inthe same strain they turn your lessons against yourself, and giveyou no chance of discovering when they cease to lie, and begin tofeel what they say. But look at Emile; I have led him up to thisage, and he has neither felt nor pretended to feel. He has neversaid, "I love you dearly, " till he knew what it was to love; he hasnever been taught what expression to assume when he enters the roomof his father, his mother, or his sick tutor; he has not learnt theart of affecting a sorrow he does not feel. He has never pretendedto weep for the death of any one, for he does not know what it isto die. There is the same insensibility in his heart as in hismanners. Indifferent, like every child, to every one but himself, he takes no interest in any one; his only peculiarity is that hewill not pretend to take such an interest; he is less deceitfulthan others. 

Emile having thought little about creatures of feeling will be along time before he knows what is meant by pain and death. Groansand cries will begin to stir his compassion, he will turn away hiseyes at the sight of blood; the convulsions of a dying animal willcause him I know not what anguish before he knows the source ofthese impulses. If he were still stupid and barbarous he would notfeel them; if he were more learned he would recognise their source;he has compared ideas too frequently already to be insensible, butnot enough to know what he feels. 

So pity is born, the first relative sentiment which touches thehuman heart according to the order of nature. To become sensitiveand pitiful the child must know that he has fellow-creatures whosuffer as he has suffered, who feel the pains he has felt, andothers which he can form some idea of, being capable of feelingthem himself. Indeed, how can we let ourselves be stirred by pityunless we go beyond ourselves, and identify ourselves with thesuffering animal, by leaving, so to speak, our own nature and takinghis. We only suffer so far as we suppose he suffers; the sufferingis not ours but his. So no one becomes sensitive till his imaginationis aroused and begins to carry him outside himself. 

What should we do to stimulate and nourish this growing sensibility, to direct it, and to follow its natural bent? Should we not presentto the young man objects on which the expansive force of his heartmay take effect, objects which dilate it, which extend it to othercreatures, which take him outside himself? should we not carefullyremove everything that narrows, concentrates, and strengthens thepower of the human self? that is to say, in other words, we shouldarouse in him kindness, goodness, pity, and beneficence, all thegentle and attractive passions which are naturally pleasing to man;those passions prevent the growth of envy, covetousness, hatred, all the repulsive and cruel passions which make our sensibilitynot merely a cipher but a minus quantity, passions which are thecurse of those who feel them. 

I think I can sum up the whole of the preceding reflections in twoor three maxims, definite, straightforward, and easy to understand. 

FIRST MAXIM. --It is not in human nature to put ourselves in the placeof those who are happier than ourselves, but only in the place ofthose who can claim our pity. 

If you find exceptions to this rule, they are more apparent thanreal. Thus we do not put ourselves in the place of the rich or greatwhen we become fond of them; even when our affection is real, weonly appropriate to ourselves a part of their welfare. Sometimeswe love the rich man in the midst of misfortunes; but so long as heprospers he has no real friend, except the man who is not deceivedby appearances, who pities rather than envies him in spite of hisprosperity. 

The happiness belonging to certain states of life appeals to us;take, for instance, the life of a shepherd in the country. The charmof seeing these good people so happy is not poisoned by envy; weare genuinely interested in them. Why is this? Because we feel wecan descend into this state of peace and innocence and enjoy thesame happiness; it is an alternative which only calls up pleasantthoughts, so long as the wish is as good as the deed. It is alwayspleasant to examine our stores, to contemplate our own wealth, evenwhen we do not mean to spend it. 

From this we see that to incline a young man to humanity you mustnot make him admire the brilliant lot of others; you must showhim life in its sorrowful aspects and arouse his fears. Thus itbecomes clear that he must force his own way to happiness, withoutinterfering with the happiness of others. 

SECOND MAXIM. --We never pity another's woes unless we know we maysuffer in like manner ourselves. 

 "Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco. "--Virgil. 

I know nothing go fine, so full of meaning, so touching, so trueas these words. 

Why have kings no pity on their people? Because they never expectto be ordinary men. Why are the rich so hard on the poor? Becausethey have no fear of becoming poor. Why do the nobles look downupon the people? Because a nobleman will never be one of the lowerclasses. Why are the Turks generally kinder and more hospitablethan ourselves? Because, under their wholly arbitrary system ofgovernment, the rank and wealth of individuals are always uncertainand precarious, so that they do not regard poverty and degradationas conditions with which they have no concern; to-morrow, any onemay himself be in the same position as those on whom he bestowsalms to-day. This thought, which occurs again and again in easternromances, lends them a certain tenderness which is not to be foundin our pretentious and harsh morality. 

So do not train your pupil to look down from the height of his gloryupon the sufferings of the unfortunate, the labours of the wretched, and do not hope to teach him to pity them while he considers themas far removed from himself. Make him thoroughly aware of the factthat the fate of these unhappy persons may one day be his own, thathis feet are standing on the edge of the abyss, into which he maybe plunged at any moment by a thousand unexpected irresistiblemisfortunes. Teach him to put no trust in birth, health, or riches;show him all the changes of fortune; find him examples--there areonly too many of them--in which men of higher rank than himselfhave sunk below the condition of these wretched ones. Whether bytheir own fault or another's is for the present no concern of ours;does he indeed know the meaning of the word fault? Never interferewith the order in which he acquires knowledge, and teach him onlythrough the means within his reach; it needs no great learningto perceive that all the prudence of mankind cannot make certainwhether he will be alive or dead in an hour's time, whetherbefore nightfall he will not be grinding his teeth in the pangs ofnephritis, whether a month hence he will be rich or poor, whetherin a year's time he may not be rowing an Algerian galley under thelash of the slave-driver. Above all do not teach him this, likehis catechism, in cold blood; let him see and feel the calamitieswhich overtake men; surprise and startle his imagination with theperils which lurk continually about a man's path; let him see thepitfalls all about him, and when he hears you speak of them, lethim cling more closely to you for fear lest he should fall. "Youwill make him timid and cowardly, " do you say? We shall see; letus make him kindly to begin with, that is what matters most. 

THIRD MAXIM. --The pity we feel for others is proportionate, notto the amount of the evil, but to the feelings we attribute to thesufferers. 

We only pity the wretched so far as we think they feel the need ofpity. The bodily effect of our sufferings is less than one wouldsuppose; it is memory that prolongs the pain, imagination whichprojects it into the future, and makes us really to be pitied. This is, I think, one of the reasons why we are more callous tothe sufferings of animals than of men, although a fellow-feelingought to make us identify ourselves equally with either. We scarcelypity the cart-horse in his shed, for we do not suppose that whilehe is eating his hay he is thinking of the blows he has receivedand the labours in store for him. Neither do we pity the sheepgrazing in the field, though we know it is about to be slaughtered, for we believe it knows nothing of the fate in store for it. Inthis way we also become callous to the fate of our fellow-men, andthe rich console themselves for the harm done by them to the poor, by the assumption that the poor are too stupid to feel. I usuallyjudge of the value any one puts on the welfare of his fellow-creaturesby what he seems to think of them. We naturally think lightly ofthe happiness of those we despise. It need not surprise you thatpoliticians speak so scornfully of the people, and philosophersprofess to think mankind so wicked. 

The people are mankind; those who do not belong to the people areso few in number that they are not worth counting. Man is the samein every station of life; if that be so, those ranks to which mostmen belong deserve most honour. All distinctions of rank fade awaybefore the eyes of a thoughtful person; he sees the same passions, the same feelings in the noble and the guttersnipe; there is merelya slight difference in speech, and more or less artificialityof tone; and if there is indeed any essential difference betweenthem, the disadvantage is all on the side of those who are moresophisticated. The people show themselves as they are, and they arenot attractive; but the fashionable world is compelled to adopt adisguise; we should be horrified if we saw it as it really is. 

There is, so our wiseacres tell us, the same amount of happinessand sorrow in every station. This saying is as deadly in its effectsas it is incapable of proof; if all are equally happy why shouldI trouble myself about any one? Let every one stay where he is;leave the slave to be ill-treated, the sick man to suffer, andthe wretched to perish; they have nothing to gain by any change intheir condition. You enumerate the sorrows of the rich, and show thevanity of his empty pleasures; what barefaced sophistry! The richman's sufferings do not come from his position, but from himselfalone when he abuses it. He is not to be pitied were he indeedmore miserable than the poor, for his ills are of his own making, and he could be happy if he chose. But the sufferings of the poorman come from external things, from the hardships fate has imposedupon him. No amount of habit can accustom him to the bodily illsof fatigue, exhaustion, and hunger. Neither head nor heart can serveto free him from the sufferings of his condition. How is Epictetusthe better for knowing beforehand that his master will break hisleg for him; does he do it any the less? He has to endure not onlythe pain itself but the pains of anticipation. If the people wereas wise as we assume them to be stupid, how could they be otherthan they are? Observe persons of this class; you will see that, with a different way of speaking, they have as much intelligenceand more common-sense than yourself. Have respect then for yourspecies; remember that it consists essentially of the people, thatif all the kings and all the philosophers were removed they wouldscarcely be missed, and things would go on none the worse. In a word, teach your pupil to love all men, even those who fail to appreciatehim; act in such way that he is not a member of any class, buttakes his place in all alike: speak in his hearing of the humanrace with tenderness, and even with pity, but never with scorn. You are a man; do not dishonour mankind. 

It is by these ways and others like them--how different from thebeaten paths--that we must reach the heart of the young adolescentAnd stimulate in him the first impulses of nature; we must developthat heart and open its doors to his fellow-creatures, and theremust be as little self-interest as possible mixed up with theseimpulses; above all, no vanity, no emulation, no boasting, none ofthose sentiments which force us to compare ourselves with others;for such comparisons are never made without arousing some measureof hatred against those who dispute our claim to the first place, were it only in our own estimation. Then we must be either blindor angry, a bad man or a fool; let us try to avoid this dilemma. Sooner or later these dangerous passions will appear, so you tellme, in spite of us. I do not deny it. There is a time and placefor everything; I am only saying that we should not help to arousethese passions. 

This is the spirit of the method to be laid down. In this case examplesand illustrations are useless, for here we find the beginning ofthe countless differences of character, and every example I gavewould possibly apply to only one case in a hundred thousand. It isat this age that the clever teacher begins his real business, asa student and a philosopher who knows how to probe the heart andstrives to guide it aright. While the young man has not learnt topretend, while he does not even know the meaning of pretence, yousee by his look, his manner, his gestures, the impression he hasreceived from any object presented to him; you read in his countenanceevery impulse of his heart; by watching his expression you learnto protect his impulses and actually to control them. 

It has been commonly observed that blood, wounds, cries and groans, the preparations for painful operations, and everything which directsthe senses towards things connected with suffering, are usually thefirst to make an impression on all men. The idea of destruction, amore complex matter, does not have so great an effect; the thoughtof death affects us later and less forcibly, for no one knows fromhis own experience what it is to die; you must have seen corpsesto feel the agonies of the dying. But when once this idea isestablished in the mind, there is no spectacle more dreadful in oureyes, whether because of the idea of complete destruction which itarouses through our senses, or because we know that this moment mustcome for each one of us and we feel ourselves all the more keenlyaffected by a situation from which we know there is no escape. 

These various impressions differ in manner and in degree, according tothe individual character of each one of us and his former habits, but they are universal and no one is altogether free from them. There are other impressions less universal and of a later growth, impressions most suited to sensitive souls, such impressions as wereceive from moral suffering, inward grief, the sufferings of themind, depression, and sadness. There are men who can be touched bynothing but groans and tears; the suppressed sobs of a heart labouringunder sorrow would never win a sigh; the sight of a downcast visage, apale and gloomy countenance, eyes which can weep no longer, wouldnever draw a tear from them. The sufferings of the mind are asnothing to them; they weigh them, their own mind feels nothing;expect nothing from such persons but inflexible severity, harshness, cruelty. They may be just and upright, but not merciful, generous, or pitiful. They may, I say, be just, if a man can indeed be justwithout being merciful. 

But do not be in a hurry to judge young people by this standard, more especially those who have been educated rightly, who have noidea of the moral sufferings they have never had to endure; foronce again they can only pity the ills they know, and this apparentinsensibility is soon transformed into pity when they begin to feelthat there are in human life a thousand ills of which they knownothing. As for Emile, if in childhood he was distinguished bysimplicity and good sense, in his youth he will show a warm andtender heart; for the reality of the feelings depends to a greatextent on the accuracy of the ideas. 

But why call him hither? More than one reader will reproach meno doubt for departing from my first intention and forgetting thelasting happiness I promised my pupil. The sorrowful, the dying, such sights of pain and woe, what happiness, what delight is thisfor a young heart on the threshold of life? His gloomy tutor, whoproposed to give him such a pleasant education, only introduces himto life that he may suffer. This is what they will say, but whatcare I? I promised to make him happy, not to make him seem happy. Am I to blame if, deceived as usual by the outward appearances, you take them for the reality?

Let us take two young men at the close of their early education, and let them enter the world by opposite doors. The one mounts atonce to Olympus, and moves in the smartest society; he is takento court, he is presented in the houses of the great, of the rich, of the pretty women. I assume that he is everywhere made much of, and I do not regard too closely the effect of this reception on hisreason; I assume it can stand it. Pleasures fly before him, everyday provides him with fresh amusements; he flings himself intoeverything with an eagerness which carries you away. You find himbusy, eager, and curious; his first wonder makes a great impressionon you; you think him happy; but behold the state of his heart;you think he is rejoicing, I think he suffers. 

What does he see when first he opens his eyes? all sorts of so-calledpleasures, hitherto unknown. Most of these pleasures are only fora moment within his reach, and seem to show themselves only toinspire regret for their loss. Does he wander through a palace;you see by his uneasy curiosity that he is asking why his father'shouse is not like it. Every question shows you that he is comparinghimself all the time with the owner of this grand place. And allthe mortification arising from this comparison at once revolts andstimulates his vanity. If he meets a young man better dressed thanhimself, I find him secretly complaining of his parents' meanness. If he is better dressed than another, he suffers because the latteris his superior in birth or in intellect, and all his gold lace isput to shame by a plain cloth coat. Does he shine unrivalled insome assembly, does he stand on tiptoe that they may see him better, who is there who does not secretly desire to humble the pride andvanity of the young fop? Everybody is in league against him; thedisquieting glances of a solemn man, the biting phrases of somesatirical person, do not fail to reach him, and if it were onlyone man who despised him, the scorn of that one would poison in amoment the applause of the rest. 

Let us grant him everything, let us not grudge him charm and worth;let him be well-made, witty, and attractive; the women will runafter him; but by pursuing him before he is in love with them, they will inspire rage rather than love; he will have successes, but neither rapture nor passion to enjoy them. As his desires arealways anticipated; they never have time to spring up among hispleasures, so he only feels the tedium of restraint. Even beforehe knows it he is disgusted and satiated with the sex formed tobe the delight of his own; if he continues its pursuit it is onlythrough vanity, and even should he really be devoted to women, hewill not be the only brilliant, the only attractive young man, norwill he always find his mistresses prodigies of fidelity. 

I say nothing of the vexation, the deceit, the crimes, and theremorse of all kinds, inseparable from such a life. We know thatexperience of the world disgusts us with it; I am speaking only ofthe drawbacks belonging to youthful illusions. 

Hitherto the young man has lived in the bosom of his family and hisfriends, and has been the sole object of their care; what a changeto enter all at once into a region where he counts for so little; tofind himself plunged into another sphere, he who has been so longthe centre of his own. What insults, what humiliation, must he endure, before he loses among strangers the ideas of his own importancewhich have been formed and nourished among his own people! Asa child everything gave way to him, everybody flocked to him; asa young man he must give place to every one, or if he preservesever so little of his former airs, what harsh lessons will bringhim to himself! Accustomed to get everything he wants without anydifficulty, his wants are many, and he feels continual privations. He is tempted by everything that flatters him; what others have, he must have too; he covets everything, he envies every one, hewould always be master. He is devoured by vanity, his young heartis enflamed by unbridled passions, jealousy and hatred among therest; all these violent passions burst out at once; their stingrankles in him in the busy world, they return with him at night, hecomes back dissatisfied with himself, with others; he falls asleepamong a thousand foolish schemes disturbed by a thousand fancies, and his pride shows him even in his dreams those fancied pleasures;he is tormented by a desire which will never be satisfied. So muchfor your pupil; let us turn to mine. 

If the first thing to make an impression on him is somethingsorrowful his first return to himself is a feeling of pleasure. When he sees how many ills he has escaped he thinks he is happierthan he fancied. He shares the suffering of his fellow-creatures, but he shares it of his own free will and finds pleasure in it. He enjoys at once the pity he feels for their woes and the joy ofbeing exempt from them; he feels in himself that state of vigourwhich projects us beyond ourselves, and bids us carry elsewherethe superfluous activity of our well-being. To pity another's woeswe must indeed know them, but we need not feel them. When we havesuffered, when we are in fear of suffering, we pity those whosuffer; but when we suffer ourselves, we pity none but ourselves. But if all of us, being subject ourselves to the ills of life, onlybestow upon others the sensibility we do not actually require forourselves, it follows that pity must be a very pleasant feeling, since it speaks on our behalf; and, on the other hand, a hard-heartedman is always unhappy, since the state of his heart leaves him nosuperfluous sensibility to bestow on the sufferings of others. 

We are too apt to judge of happiness by appearances; we suppose itis to be found in the most unlikely places, we seek for it whereit cannot possibly be; mirth is a very doubtful indication of itspresence. A merry man is often a wretch who is trying to deceiveothers and distract himself. The men who are jovial, friendly, and contented at their club are almost always gloomy grumblers athome, and their servants have to pay for the amusement they giveamong their friends. True contentment is neither merry nor noisy;we are jealous of so sweet a sentiment, when we enjoy it we thinkabout it, we delight in it for fear it should escape us. A reallyhappy man says little and laughs little; he hugs his happiness, soto speak, to his heart. Noisy games, violent delight, conceal thedisappointment of satiety. But melancholy is the friend of pleasure;tears and pity attend our sweetest enjoyment, and great joys callfor tears rather than laughter. 

If at first the number and variety of our amusements seem tocontribute to our happiness, if at first the even tenor of a quietlife seems tedious, when we look at it more closely we discoverthat the pleasantest habit of mind consists in a moderate enjoymentwhich leaves little scope for desire and aversion. The unrest ofpassion causes curiosity and fickleness; the emptiness of noisypleasures causes weariness. We never weary of our state when weknow none more delightful. Savages suffer less than other men fromcuriosity and from tedium; everything is the same to them--themselves, not their possessions--and they are never weary. 

The man of the world almost always wears a mask. He is scarcelyever himself and is almost a stranger to himself; he is ill at easewhen he is forced into his own company. Not what he is, but whathe seems, is all he cares for. 

I cannot help picturing in the countenance of the young manI have just spoken of an indefinable but unpleasant impertinence, smoothness, and affectation, which is repulsive to a plain man, and in the countenance of my own pupil a simple and interestingexpression which indicates the real contentment and the calmof his mind; an expression which inspires respect and confidence, and seems only to await the establishment of friendly relationsto bestow his own confidence in return. It is thought that theexpression is merely the development of certain features designedby nature. For my own part I think that over and above thisdevelopment a man's face is shaped, all unconsciously, by thefrequent and habitual influence of certain affections of the heart. These affections are shown on the face, there is nothing morecertain; and when they become habitual, they must surely leave lastingtraces. This is why I think the expression shows the character, andthat we can sometimes read one another without seeking mysteriousexplanations in powers we do not possess. 

A child has only two distinct feelings, joy and sorrow; he laughsor he cries; he knows no middle course, and he is constantly passingfrom one extreme to the other. On account of these perpetual changesthere is no lasting impression on the face, and no expression; butwhen the child is older and more sensitive, his feelings are keeneror more permanent, and these deeper impressions leave traces moredifficult to erase; and the habitual state of the feelings has aneffect on the features which in course of time becomes ineffaceable. Still it is not uncommon to meet with men whose expression varieswith their age. I have met with several, and I have always foundthat those whom I could observe and follow had also changed theirhabitual temper. This one observation thoroughly confirmed wouldseem to me decisive, and it is not out of place in a treatise oneducation, where it is a matter of importance, that we should learnto judge the feelings of the heart by external signs. 

I do not know whether my young man will be any the less amiablefor not having learnt to copy conventional manners and to feignsentiments which are not his own; that does not concern me atpresent, I only know he will be more affectionate; and I find itdifficult to believe that he, who cares for nobody but himself, can so far disguise his true feelings as to please as readily as hewho finds fresh happiness for himself in his affection for others. But with regard to this feeling of happiness, I think I have saidenough already for the guidance of any sensible reader, and to showthat I have not contradicted myself. 

I return to my system, and I say, when the critical age approaches, present to young people spectacles which restrain rather thanexcite them; put off their dawning imagination with objects which, far from inflaming their senses, put a check to their activity. Remove them from great cities, where the flaunting attire and theboldness of the women hasten and anticipate the teaching of nature, where everything presents to their view pleasures of which theyshould know nothing till they are of an age to choose for themselves. Bring them back to their early home, where rural simplicity allowsthe passions of their age to develop more slowly; or if their tastefor the arts keeps them in town, guard them by means of this verytaste from a dangerous idleness. Choose carefully their company, their occupations, and their pleasures; show them nothing butmodest and pathetic pictures which are touching but not seductive, and nourish their sensibility without stimulating their senses. Remember also, that the danger of excess is not confined to any oneplace, and that immoderate passions always do irreparable damage. You need not make your pupil a sick-nurse or a Brother of Pity; youneed not distress him by the perpetual sight of pain and suffering;you need not take him from one hospital to another, from the gallowsto the prison. He must be softened, not hardened, by the sight ofhuman misery. When we have seen a sight it ceases to impress us, use is second nature, what is always before our eyes no longerappeals to the imagination, and it is only through the imaginationthat we can feel the sorrows of others; this is why priests anddoctors who are always beholding death and suffering become sohardened. Let your pupil therefore know something of the lot ofman and the woes of his fellow-creatures, but let him not see themtoo often. A single thing, carefully selected and shown at the righttime, will fill him with pity and set him thinking for a month. Hisopinion about anything depends not so much on what he sees, but onhow it reacts on himself; and his lasting impression of any objectdepends less on the object itself than on the point of view fromwhich he regards it. Thus by a sparing use of examples, lessons, and pictures, you may blunt the sting of sense and delay naturewhile following her own lead. 

As he acquires knowledge, choose what ideas he shall attach to it;as his passions awake, select scenes calculated to repress them. A veteran, as distinguished for his character as for his courage, once told me that in early youth his father, a sensible man butextremely pious, observed that through his growing sensibility hewas attracted by women, and spared no pains to restrain him; but atlast when, in spite of all his care, his son was about to escapefrom his control, he decided to take him to a hospital, and, without telling him what to expect, he introduced him into a roomwhere a number of wretched creatures were expiating, under a terribletreatment, the vices which had brought them into this plight. Thishideous and revolting spectacle sickened the young man. "Miserablelibertine, " said his father vehemently, "begone; follow your viletastes; you will soon be only too glad to be admitted to this ward, and a victim to the most shameful sufferings, you will compel yourfather to thank God when you are dead. "

These few words, together with the striking spectacle he beheld, made an impression on the young man which could never be effaced. Compelled by his profession to pass his youth in garrison, he preferred to face all the jests of his comrades rather than toshare their evil ways. "I have been a man, " he said to me, "I havehad my weaknesses, but even to the present day the sight of a harlotinspires me with horror. " Say little to your pupil, but choosetime, place, and people; then rely on concrete examples for yourteaching, and be sure it will take effect. 

The way childhood is spent is no great matter; the evil which mayfind its way is not irremediable, and the good which may springup might come later. But it is not so in those early years whena youth really begins to live. This time is never long enough forwhat there is to be done, and its importance demands unceasingattention; this is why I lay so much stress on the art of prolongingit. One of the best rules of good farming is to keep things back asmuch as possible. Let your progress also be slow and sure; preventthe youth from becoming a man all at once. While the body is growingthe spirits destined to give vigour to the blood and strength tothe muscles are in process of formation and elaboration. If you turnthem into another channel, and permit that strength which shouldhave gone to the perfecting of one person to go to the making ofanother, both remain in a state of weakness and the work of natureis unfinished. The workings of the mind, in their turn, are affectedby this change, and the mind, as sickly as the body, functionslanguidly and feebly. Length and strength of limb are not the samething as courage or genius, and I grant that strength of mind doesnot always accompany strength of body, when the means of connectionbetween the two are otherwise faulty. But however well plannedthey may be, they will always work feebly if for motive power theydepend upon an exhausted, impoverished supply of blood, deprivedof the substance which gives strength and elasticity to all thesprings of the machinery. There is generally more vigour of mindto be found among men whose early years have been preserved fromprecocious vice, than among those whose evil living has begun at theearliest opportunity; and this is no doubt the reason why nationswhose morals are pure are generally superior in sense and courageto those whose morals are bad. The latter shine only through Iknow not what small and trifling qualities, which they call wit, sagacity, cunning; but those great and noble features of goodnessand reason, by which a man is distinguished and honoured throughgood deeds, virtues, really useful efforts, are scarcely to befound except among the nations whose morals are pure. 

Teachers complain that the energy of this age makes their pupilsunruly; I see that it is so, but are not they themselves to blame?When once they have let this energy flow through the channel of thesenses, do they not know that they cannot change its course? Willthe long and dreary sermons of the pedant efface from the mind ofhis scholar the thoughts of pleasure when once they have found anentrance; will they banish from his heart the desires by which itis tormented; will they chill the heat of a passion whose meaningthe scholar realises? Will not the pupil be roused to anger by theobstacles opposed to the only kind of happiness of which he hasany notion? And in the harsh law imposed upon him before he canunderstand it, what will he see but the caprice and hatred of aman who is trying to torment him? Is it strange that he rebels andhates you too?

I know very well that if one is easy-going one may be tolerated, and one may keep up a show of authority. But I fail to see the useof an authority over the pupil which is only maintained by fomentingthe vices it ought to repress; it is like attempting to soothe afiery steed by making it leap over a precipice. 

Far from being a hindrance to education, this enthusiasm ofadolescence is its crown and coping-stone; this it is that givesyou a hold on the youth's heart when he is no longer weaker thanyou. His first affections are the reins by which you control hismovements; he was free, and now I behold him in your power. So longas he loved nothing, he was independent of everything but himselfand his own necessities; as soon as he loves, he is dependent onhis affections. Thus the first ties which unite him to his speciesare already formed. When you direct his increasing sensibility inthis direction, do not expect that it will at once include all men, and that the word "mankind" will have any meaning for him. Not so;this sensibility will at first confine itself to those like himself, and these will not be strangers to him, but those he knows, thosewhom habit has made dear to him or necessary to him, those who areevidently thinking and feeling as he does, those whom he perceivesto be exposed to the pains he has endured, those who enjoy thepleasures he has enjoyed; in a word, those who are so like himselfthat he is the more disposed to self-love. It is only after longtraining, after much consideration as to his own feelings and thefeelings he observes in others, that he will be able to generalisehis individual notions under the abstract idea of humanity, andadd to his individual affections those which may identify him withthe race. 

When he becomes capable of affection, he becomes aware of theaffection of others, [Footnote: Affection may be unrequited; notso friendship. Friendship is a bargain, a contract like any other;though a bargain more sacred than the rest. The word "friend" hasno other correlation. Any man who is not the friend of his friendis undoubtedly a rascal; for one can only obtain friendship bygiving it, or pretending to give it. ] and he is on the lookout forthe signs of that affection. Do you not see how you will acquire afresh hold on him? What bands have you bound about his heart whilehe was yet unaware of them! What will he feel, when he beholdshimself and sees what you have done for him; when he can comparehimself with other youths, and other tutors with you! I say, "Whenhe sees it, " but beware lest you tell him of it; if you tell himhe will not perceive it. If you claim his obedience in return forthe care bestowed upon him, he will think you have over-reached him;he will see that while you profess to have cared for him withoutreward, you meant to saddle him with a debt and to bind him toa bargain which he never made. In vain you will add that what youdemand is for his own good; you demand it, and you demand it invirtue of what you have done without his consent. When a man downon his luck accepts the shilling which the sergeant professes togive him, and finds he has enlisted without knowing what he wasabout, you protest against the injustice; is it not still more unjustto demand from your pupil the price of care which he has not evenaccepted!

Ingratitude would be rarer if kindness were less often the investmentof a usurer. We love those who have done us a kindness; what anatural feeling! Ingratitude is not to be found in the heart of man, but self-interest is there; those who are ungrateful for benefitsreceived are fewer than those who do a kindness for their own ends. If you sell me your gifts, I will haggle over the price; but ifyou pretend to give, in order to sell later on at your own price, you are guilty of fraud; it is the free gift which is beyond price. The heart is a law to itself; if you try to bind it, you lose it;give it its liberty, and you make it your own. 

When the fisherman baits his line, the fish come round him withoutsuspicion; but when they are caught on the hook concealed in thebait, they feel the line tighten and they try to escape. Is thefisherman a benefactor? Is the fish ungrateful? Do we find a manforgotten by his benefactor, unmindful of that benefactor? On thecontrary, he delights to speak of him, he cannot think of him withoutemotion; if he gets a chance of showing him, by some unexpectedservice, that he remembers what he did for him, how delightedhe is to satisfy his gratitude; what a pleasure it is to earn thegratitude of his benefactor. How delightful to say, "It is my turnnow. " This is indeed the teaching of nature; a good deed nevercaused ingratitude. 

If therefore gratitude is a natural feeling, and you do not destroyits effects by your blunders, be sure your pupil, as he begins tounderstand the value of your care for him, will be grateful forit, provided you have not put a price upon it; and this will giveyou an authority over his heart which nothing can overthrow. Butbeware of losing this advantage before it is really yours, bewareof insisting on your own importance. Boast of your services andthey become intolerable; forget them and they will not be forgotten. Until the time comes to treat him as a man let there be no questionof his duty to you, but his duty to himself. Let him have hisfreedom if you would make him docile; hide yourself so that he mayseek you; raise his heart to the noble sentiment of gratitude byonly speaking of his own interest. Until he was able to understandI would not have him told that what was done was for his good; hewould only have understood such words to mean that you were dependenton him and he would merely have made you his servant. But now thathe is beginning to feel what love is, he also knows what a tenderaffection may bind a man to what he loves; and in the zeal whichkeeps you busy on his account, he now sees not the bonds of a slave, but the affection of a friend. Now there is nothing which carriesso much weight with the human heart as the voice of friendshiprecognised as such, for we know that it never speaks but for ourgood. We may think our friend is mistaken, but we never believehe is deceiving us. We may reject his advice now and then, but wenever scorn it. 

We have reached the moral order at last; we have just taken thesecond step towards manhood. If this were the place for it, I wouldtry to show how the first impulses of the heart give rise to thefirst stirrings of conscience, and how from the feelings of loveand hatred spring the first notions of good and evil. I would showthat justice and kindness are no mere abstract terms, no mere moralconceptions framed by the understanding, but true affections of theheart enlightened by reason, the natural outcome of our primitiveaffections; that by reason alone, unaided by conscience, we cannotestablish any natural law, and that all natural right is a vaindream if it does not rest upon some instinctive need of the humanheart. [Footnote: The precept "Do unto others as you would havethem do unto you" has no true foundation but that of conscienceand feeling; for what valid reason is there why I, being myself, should do what I would do if I were some one else, especially whenI am morally certain I never shall find myself in exactly the samecase; and who will answer for it that if I faithfully follow outthis maxim, I shall get others to follow it with regard to me? Thewicked takes advantage both of the uprightness of the just and ofhis own injustice; he will gladly have everybody just but himself. This bargain, whatever you may say, is not greatly to the advantageof the just. But if the enthusiasm of an overflowing heart identifiesme with my fellow-creature, if I feel, so to speak, that I will notlet him suffer lest I should suffer too, I care for him because Icare for myself, and the reason of the precept is found in natureherself, which inspires me with the desire for my own welfarewherever I may be. From this I conclude that it is false to say thatthe precepts of natural law are based on reason only; they have afirmer and more solid foundation. The love of others springing fromself-love, is the source of human justice. The whole of morality issummed up in the gospel in this summary of the law. ] But I do notthink it is my business at present to prepare treatises on metaphysicsand morals, nor courses of study of any kind whatsoever; it isenough if I indicate the order and development of our feelings andour knowledge in relation to our growth. Others will perhaps workout what I have here merely indicated. 

Hitherto my Emile has thought only of himself, so his first glanceat his equals leads him to compare himself with them; and the firstfeeling excited by this comparison is the desire to be first. Itis here that self-love is transformed into selfishness, and this isthe starting point of all the passions which spring from selfishness. But to determine whether the passions by which his life will begoverned shall be humane and gentle or harsh and cruel, whetherthey shall be the passions of benevolence and pity or those of envyand covetousness, we must know what he believes his place among mento be, and what sort of obstacles he expects to have to overcomein order to attain to the position he seeks. 

To guide him in this inquiry, after we have shown him men by meansof the accidents common to the species, we must now show him themby means of their differences. This is the time for estimatinginequality natural and civil, and for the scheme of the whole socialorder. 

Society must be studied in the individual and the individual insociety; those who desire to treat politics and morals apart fromone another will never understand either. By confining ourselvesat first to the primitive relations, we see how men should beinfluenced by them and what passions should spring from them; wesee that it is in proportion to the development of these passionsthat a man's relations with others expand or contract. It is not somuch strength of arm as moderation of spirit which makes men freeand independent. The man whose wants are few is dependent on butfew people, but those who constantly confound our vain desireswith our bodily needs, those who have made these needs the basisof human society, are continually mistaking effects for causes, and they have only confused themselves by their own reasoning. 

Since it is impossible in the state of nature that the differencebetween man and man should be great enough to make one dependenton another, there is in fact in this state of nature an actual andindestructible equality. In the civil state there is a vain andchimerical equality of right; the means intended for its maintenance, themselves serve to destroy it; and the power of the community, added to the power of the strongest for the oppression of theweak, disturbs the sort of equilibrium which nature has establishedbetween them. [Footnote: The universal spirit of the laws of everycountry is always to take the part of the strong against the weak, and the part of him who has against him who has not; this defectis inevitable, and there is no exception to it. ] From this firstcontradiction spring all the other contradictions between the realand the apparent, which are to be found in the civil order. The manywill always be sacrificed to the few, the common weal to privateinterest; those specious words--justice and subordination--willalways serve as the tools of violence and the weapons of injustice;hence it follows that the higher classes which claim to be usefulto the rest are really only seeking their own welfare at the expenseof others; from this we may judge how much consideration is due tothem according to right and justice. It remains to be seen if therank to which they have attained is more favourable to their ownhappiness to know what opinion each one of us should form with regardto his own lot. This is the study with which we are now concerned;but to do it thoroughly we must begin with a knowledge of the humanheart. 

If it were only a question of showing young people man in his mask, there would be no need to point him out, and he would always bebefore their eyes; but since the mask is not the man, and sincethey must not be led away by its specious appearance, when you paintmen for your scholar, paint them as they are, not that he may hatethem, but that he may pity them and have no wish to be like them. In my opinion that is the most reasonable view a man can hold withregard to his fellow-men. 

With this object in view we must take the opposite way from thathitherto followed, and instruct the youth rather through the experienceof others than through his own. If men deceive him he will hatethem; but, if, while they treat him with respect, he sees themdeceiving each other, he will pity them. "The spectacle of theworld, " said Pythagoras, "is like the Olympic games; some are buyingand selling and think only of their gains; others take an activepart and strive for glory; others, and these not the worst, arecontent to be lookers-on. "

I would have you so choose the company of a youth that he shouldthink well of those among whom he lives, and I would have you soteach him to know the world that he should think ill of all thattakes place in it. Let him know that man is by nature good, lethim feel it, let him judge his neighbour by himself; but let himsee how men are depraved and perverted by society; let him find thesource of all their vices in their preconceived opinions; let himbe disposed to respect the individual, but to despise the multitude;let him see that all men wear almost the same mask, but let himalso know that some faces are fairer than the mask that concealsthem. 

It must be admitted that this method has its drawbacks, and it isnot easy to carry it out; for if he becomes too soon engrossed inwatching other people, if you train him to mark too closely theactions of others, you will make him spiteful and satirical, quickand decided in his judgments of others; he will find a hatefulpleasure in seeking bad motives, and will fail to see the good evenin that which is really good. He will, at least, get used to thesight of vice, he will behold the wicked without horror, just as weget used to seeing the wretched without pity. Soon the perversityof mankind will be not so much a warning as an excuse; he will say, "Man is made so, " and he will have no wish to be different fromthe rest. 

But if you wish to teach him theoretically to make him acquainted, not only with the heart of man, but also with the application ofthe external causes which turn our inclinations into vices; whenyou thus transport him all at once from the objects of sense to theobjects of reason, you employ a system of metaphysics which he isnot in a position to understand; you fall back into the error, socarefully avoided hitherto, of giving him lessons which are likelessons, of substituting in his mind the experience and the authorityof the master for his own experience and the development of hisown reason. 

To remove these two obstacles at once, and to bring the human heartwithin his reach without risk of spoiling his own, I would showhim men from afar, in other times or in other places, so that hemay behold the scene but cannot take part in it. This is the timefor history; with its help he will read the hearts of men withoutany lessons in philosophy; with its help he will view them as amere spectator, dispassionate and without prejudice; he will viewthem as their judge, not as their accomplice or their accuser. 

To know men you must behold their actions. In society we hear themtalk; they show their words and hide their deeds; but in historythe veil is drawn aside, and they are judged by their deeds. Theirsayings even help us to understand them; for comparing what theysay and what they do, we see not only what they are but what theywould appear; the more they disguise themselves the more thoroughlythey stand revealed. 

Unluckily this study has its dangers, its drawbacks of severalkinds. It is difficult to adopt a point of view which will enableone to judge one's fellow-creatures fairly. It is one of the chiefdefects of history to paint men's evil deeds rather than theirgood ones; it is revolutions and catastrophes that make historyinteresting; so long as a nation grows and prospers quietly inthe tranquillity of a peaceful government, history says nothing;she only begins to speak of nations when, no longer able to beself-sufficing, they interfere with their neighbours' business, orallow their neighbours to interfere with their own; history onlymakes them famous when they are on the downward path; all ourhistories begin where they ought to end. We have very accurateaccounts of declining nations; what we lack is the history of thosenations which are multiplying; they are so happy and so good thathistory has nothing to tell us of them; and we see indeed in ourown times that the most successful governments are least talkedof. We only hear what is bad; the good is scarcely mentioned. Onlythe wicked become famous, the good are forgotten or laughed toscorn, and thus history, like philosophy, is for ever slanderingmankind. 

Moreover, it is inevitable that the facts described in historyshould not give an exact picture of what really happened; they aretransformed in the brain of the historian, they are moulded by hisinterests and coloured by his prejudices. Who can place the readerprecisely in a position to see the event as it really happened?Ignorance or partiality disguises everything. What a differentimpression may be given merely by expanding or contracting thecircumstances of the case without altering a single historicalincident. The same object may be seen from several points of view, and it will hardly seem the same thing, yet there has been nochange except in the eye that beholds it. Do you indeed do honourto truth when what you tell me is a genuine fact, but you make itappear something quite different? A tree more or less, a rock tothe right or to the left, a cloud of dust raised by the wind, howoften have these decided the result of a battle without any oneknowing it? Does that prevent history from telling you the causeof defeat or victory with as much assurance as if she had beenon the spot? But what are the facts to me, while I am ignorant oftheir causes, and what lessons can I draw from an event, whose truecause is unknown to me? The historian indeed gives me a reason, buthe invents it; and criticism itself, of which we hear so much, isonly the art of guessing, the art of choosing from among severallies, the lie that is most like truth. 

Have you ever read Cleopatra or Cassandra or any books of the kind?The author selects some well-known event, he then adapts it to hispurpose, adorns it with details of his own invention, with peoplewho never existed, with imaginary portraits; thus he piles fictionon fiction to lend a charm to his story. I see little differencebetween such romances and your histories, unless it is that thenovelist draws more on his own imagination, while the historianslavishly copies what another has imagined; I will also admit, ifyou please, that the novelist has some moral purpose good or bad, about which the historian scarcely concerns himself. 

You will tell me that accuracy in history is of less interest thana true picture of men and manners; provided the human heart istruly portrayed, it matters little that events should be accuratelyrecorded; for after all you say, what does it matter to us whathappened two thousand years ago? You are right if the portraits areindeed truly given according to nature; but if the model is to befound for the most part in the historian's imagination, are you notfalling into the very error you intended to avoid, and surrenderingto the authority of the historian what you would not yield tothe authority of the teacher? If my pupil is merely to see fancypictures, I would rather draw them myself; they will, at least, bebetter suited to him. 

The worst historians for a youth are those who give their opinions. Facts! Facts! and let him decide for himself; this is how he willlearn to know mankind. If he is always directed by the opinion ofthe author, he is only seeing through the eyes of another person, and when those ayes are no longer at his disposal he can see nothing. 

I leave modern history on one side, not only because it has nocharacter and all our people are alike, but because our historians, wholly taken up with effect, think of nothing but highly colouredportraits, which often represent nothing. [Footnote: Take, forinstance, Guicciardini, Streda, Solis, Machiavelli, and sometimeseven De Thou himself. Vertot is almost the only one who knowshow to describe without giving fancy portraits. ] The old historiansgenerally give fewer portraits and bring more intelligenceand common-sense to their judgments; but even among them there isplenty of scope for choice, and you must not begin with the wisestbut with the simplest. I would not put Polybius or Sallust intothe hands of a youth; Tacitus is the author of the old, young mencannot understand him; you must learn to see in human actions thesimplest features of the heart of man before you try to sound itsdepths. You must be able to read facts clearly before you beginto study maxims. Philosophy in the form of maxims is only fit forthe experienced. Youth should never deal with the general, allits teaching should deal with individual instances. 

To my mind Thucydides is the true model of historians. He relatesfacts without giving his opinion; but he omits no circumstanceadapted to make us judge for ourselves. He puts everything that herelates before his reader; far from interposing between the factsand the readers, he conceals himself; we seem not to read but tosee. Unfortunately he speaks of nothing but war, and in his storieswe only see the least instructive part of the world, that is tosay the battles. The virtues and defects of the Retreat of the TenThousand and the Commentaries of Caesar are almost the same. Thekindly Herodotus, without portraits, without maxims, yet flowing, simple, full of details calculated to delight and interest in thehighest degree, would be perhaps the best historian if these verydetails did not often degenerate into childish folly, better adaptedto spoil the taste of youth than to form it; we need discretionbefore we can read him. I say nothing of Livy, his turn will come;but he is a statesman, a rhetorician, he is everything which isunsuitable for a youth. 

History in general is lacking because it only takes note of strikingand clearly marked facts which may be fixed by names, places, and dates; but the slow evolution of these facts, which cannot bedefinitely noted in this way, still remains unknown. We often findin some battle, lost or won, the ostensible cause of a revolutionwhich was inevitable before this battle took place. War only makesmanifest events already determined by moral causes, which fewhistorians can perceive. 

The philosophic spirit has turned the thoughts of many of thehistorians of our times in this direction; but I doubt whethertruth has profited by their labours. The rage for systems has gotpossession of all alike, no one seeks to see things as they are, but only as they agree with his system. 

Add to all these considerations the fact that history shows usactions rather than men, because she only seizes men at certainchosen times in full dress; she only portrays the statesman whenhe is prepared to be seen; she does not follow him to his home, tohis study, among his family and his friends; she only shows him instate; it is his clothes rather than himself that she describes. 

I would prefer to begin the study of the human heart with readingthe lives of individuals; for then the man hides himself in vain, the historian follows him everywhere; he never gives him a moment'sgrace nor any corner where he can escape the piercing eye of thespectator; and when he thinks he is concealing himself, then it isthat the writer shows him up most plainly. 

"Those who write lives, " says Montaigne, "in so far as they delightmore in ideas than in events, more in that which comes from withinthan in that which comes from without, these are the writers Iprefer; for this reason Plutarch is in every way the man for me. "

It is true that the genius of men in groups or nations is verydifferent from the character of the individual man, and that wehave a very imperfect knowledge of the human heart if we do notalso examine it in crowds; but it is none the less true that tojudge of men we must study the individual man, and that he who hada perfect knowledge of the inclinations of each individual mightforesee all their combined effects in the body of the nation. 

We must go back again to the ancients, for the reasons alreadystated, and also because all the details common and familiar, buttrue and characteristic, are banished by modern stylists, so thatmen are as much tricked out by our modern authors in their privatelife as in public. Propriety, no less strict in literature thanin life, no longer permits us to say anything in public which wemight not do in public; and as we may only show the man dressed upfor his part, we never see a man in our books any more than we doon the stage. The lives of kings may be written a hundred times, but to no purpose; we shall never have another Suetonius. 

The excellence of Plutarch consists in these very details whichwe are no longer permitted to describe. With inimitable grace hepaints the great man in little things; and he is so happy in thechoice of his instances that a word, a smile, a gesture, will oftensuffice to indicate the nature of his hero. With a jest Hannibalcheers his frightened soldiers, and leads them laughing to thebattle which will lay Italy at his feet; Agesilaus riding on astick makes me love the conqueror of the great king; Caesar passingthrough a poor village and chatting with his friends unconsciouslybetrays the traitor who professed that he only wished to be Pompey'sequal. Alexander swallows a draught without a word--it is thefinest moment in his life; Aristides writes his own name on theshell and so justifies his title; Philopoemen, his mantle laid aside, chops firewood in the kitchen of his host. This is the true art ofportraiture. Our disposition does not show itself in our features, nor our character in our great deeds; it is trifles that show whatwe really are. What is done in public is either too commonplaceor too artificial, and our modern authors are almost too grand totell us anything else. 

M. De Turenne was undoubtedly one of the greatest men of the lastcentury. They have had the courage to make his life interesting bythe little details which make us know and love him; but how manydetails have they felt obliged to omit which might have made usknow and love him better still? I will only quote one which I haveon good authority, one which Plutarch would never have omitted, andone which Ramsai would never have inserted had he been acquaintedwith it. 

On a hot summer's day Viscount Turenne in a little white vest andnightcap was standing at the window of his antechamber; one ofhis men came up and, misled by the dress, took him for one of thekitchen lads whom he knew. He crept up behind him and smacked himwith no light hand. The man he struck turned round hastily. The valetsaw it was his master and trembled at the sight of his face. Hefell on his knees in desperation. "Sir, I thought it was George. ""Well, even if it was George, " exclaimed Turenne rubbing the injuredpart, "you need not have struck so hard. " You do not dare to saythis, you miserable writers! Remain for ever without humanity andwithout feeling; steel your hard hearts in your vile propriety, makeyourselves contemptible through your high-mightiness. But as foryou, dear youth, when you read this anecdote, when you are touchedby all the kindliness displayed even on the impulse of the moment, read also the littleness of this great man when it was a questionof his name and birth. Remember it was this very Turenne who alwaysprofessed to yield precedence to his nephew, so that all men mightsee that this child was the head of a royal house. Look on thispicture and on that, love nature, despise popular prejudice, andknow the man as he was. 

There are few people able to realise what an effect such reading, carefully directed, will have upon the unspoilt mind of a youth. Weighed down by books from our earliest childhood, accustomed toread without thinking, what we read strikes us even less, becausewe already bear in ourselves the passions and prejudices with whichhistory and the lives of men are filled; all that they do strikesus as only natural, for we ourselves are unnatural and we judgeothers by ourselves. But imagine my Emile, who has been carefullyguarded for eighteen years with the sole object of preserving aright judgment and a healthy heart, imagine him when the curtaingoes up casting his eyes for the first time upon the world's stage;or rather picture him behind the scenes watching the actors dontheir costumes, and counting the cords and pulleys which deceivewith their feigned shows the eyes of the spectators. His firstsurprise will soon give place to feelings of shame and scorn of hisfellow-man; he will be indignant at the sight of the whole humanrace deceiving itself and stooping to this childish folly; he willgrieve to see his brothers tearing each other limb from limb fora mere dream, and transforming themselves into wild beasts becausethey could not be content to be men. 

Given the natural disposition of the pupil, there is no doubt thatif the master exercises any sort of prudence or discretion inhis choice of reading, however little he may put him in the wayof reflecting on the subject-matter, this exercise will serve asa course in practical philosophy, a philosophy better understoodand more thoroughly mastered than all the empty speculations withwhich the brains of lads are muddled in our schools. After followingthe romantic schemes of Pyrrhus, Cineas asks him what real good hewould gain by the conquest of the world, which he can never enjoywithout such great sufferings; this only arouses in us a passinginterest as a smart saying; but Emile will think it a very wisethought, one which had already occurred to himself, and one whichhe will never forget, because there is no hostile prejudice inhis mind to prevent it sinking in. When he reads more of the lifeof this madman, he will find that all his great plans resulted inhis death at the hands of a woman, and instead of admiring thispinchbeck heroism, what will he see in the exploits of this greatcaptain and the schemes of this great statesman but so many stepstowards that unlucky tile which was to bring life and schemes aliketo a shameful death?

All conquerors have not been killed; all usurpers have not failedin their plans; to minds imbued with vulgar prejudices many of themwill seem happy, but he who looks below the surface and reckonsmen's happiness by the condition of their hearts will perceivetheir wretchedness even in the midst of their successes; he willsee them panting after advancement and never attaining their prize, he will find them like those inexperienced travellers among theAlps, who think that every height they see is the last, who reachits summit only to find to their disappointment there are loftierpeaks beyond. 

Augustus, when he had subdued his fellow-citizens and destroyedhis rivals, reigned for forty years over the greatest empire thatever existed; but all this vast power could not hinder him frombeating his head against the walls, and filling his palace with hisgroans as he cried to Varus to restore his slaughtered legions. Ifhe had conquered all his foes what good would his empty triumphshave done him, when troubles of every kind beset his path, whenhis life was threatened by his dearest friends, and when he had tomourn the disgrace or death of all near and dear to him? The wretchedman desired to rule the world and failed to rule his own household. What was the result of this neglect? He beheld his nephew, hisadopted child, his son-in-law, perish in the flower of youth, hisgrandson reduced to eat the stuffing of his mattress to prolonghis wretched existence for a few hours; his daughter and hisgranddaughter, after they had covered him with infamy, died, theone of hunger and want on a desert island, the other in prison bythe hand of a common archer. He himself, the last survivor of hisunhappy house, found himself compelled by his own wife to acknowledgea monster as his heir. Such was the fate of the master of the world, so famous for his glory and his good fortune. I cannot believe thatany one of those who admire his glory and fortune would accept themat the same price. 

I have taken ambition as my example, but the play of every humanpassion offers similar lessons to any one who will study historyto make himself wise and good at the expense of those who wentbefore. The time is drawing near when the teaching of the lifeof Anthony will appeal more forcibly to the youth than the lifeof Augustus. Emile will scarcely know where he is among the manystrange sights in his new studies; but he will know beforehand howto avoid the illusion of passions before they arise, and seeing howin all ages they have blinded men's eyes, he will be forewarned ofthe way in which they may one day blind his own should he abandonhimself to them. [Footnote: It is always prejudice which stirsup passion in our heart. He who only sees what really exists andonly values what he knows, rarely becomes angry. The errors ofour judgment produce the warmth of our desires. ] These lessons, Iknow, are unsuited to him, perhaps at need they may prove scantyand ill-timed; but remember they are not the lessons I wished todraw from this study. To begin with, I had quite another end inview; and indeed, if this purpose is unfulfilled, the teacher willbe to blame. 

Remember that, as soon as selfishness has developed, the selfin its relations to others is always with us, and the youth neverobserves others without coming back to himself and comparing himselfwith them. From the way young men are taught to study history Isee that they are transformed, so to speak, into the people theybehold, that you strive to make a Cicero, a Trajan, or an Alexanderof them, to discourage them when they are themselves again, tomake every one regret that he is merely himself. There are certainadvantages in this plan which I do not deny; but, so far as Emileis concerned, should it happen at any time when he is making thesecomparisons that he wishes to be any one but himself--were itSocrates or Cato--I have failed entirely; he who begins to regardhimself as a stranger will soon forget himself altogether. 

It is not philosophers who know most about men; they only view themthrough the preconceived ideas of philosophy, and I know no one soprejudiced as philosophers. A savage would judge us more sanely. The philosopher is aware of his own vices, he is indignant at ours, and he says to himself, "We are all bad alike;" the savage beholdsus unmoved and says, "You are mad. " He is right, for no one doesevil for evil's sake. My pupil is that savage, with this difference:Emile has thought more, he has compared ideas, seen our errors atclose quarters, he is more on his guard against himself, and onlyjudges of what he knows. 

It is our own passions that excite us against the passions ofothers; it is our self-interest which makes us hate the wicked;if they did us no harm we should pity rather than hate them. Weshould readily forgive their vices if we could perceive how theirown heart punishes those vices. We are aware of the offence, but wedo not see the punishment; the advantages are plain, the penalty ishidden. The man who thinks he is enjoying the fruits of his vicesis no less tormented by them than if they had not been successful; theobject is different, the anxiety is the same; in vain he displayshis good fortune and hides his heart; in spite of himself hisconduct betrays him; but to discern this, our own heart must beutterly unlike his. 

We are led astray by those passions which we share; we are disgustedby those that militate against our own interests; and with a wantof logic due to these very passions, we blame in others what we fainwould imitate. Aversion and self-deception are inevitable when weare forced to endure at another's hands what we ourselves would doin his place. 

What then is required for the proper study of men? A great wishto know men, great impartiality of judgment, a heart sufficientlysensitive to understand every human passion, and calm enough tobe free from passion. If there is any time in our life when thisstudy is likely to be appreciated, it is this that I have chosenfor Emile; before this time men would have been strangers to him;later on he would have been like them. Convention, the effects ofwhich he already perceives, has not yet made him its slave, thepassions, whose consequences he realises, have not yet stirred hisheart. He is a man; he takes an interest in his brethren; he isa just man and he judges his peers. Now it is certain that if hejudges them rightly he will not want to change places with any oneof them, for the goal of all their anxious efforts is the resultof prejudices which he does not share, and that goal seems to hima mere dream. For his own part, he has all he wants within hisreach. How should he be dependent on any one when he is self-sufficingand free from prejudice? Strong arms, good health, [Footnote: Ithink I may fairly reckon health and strength among the advantageshe has obtained by his education, or rather among the gifts ofnature which his education has preserved for him. ] moderation, fewneeds, together with the means to satisfy those needs, are his. He has been brought up in complete liberty and servitude is thegreatest ill he understands. He pities these miserable kings, theslaves of all who obey them; he pities these false prophets fetteredby their empty fame; he pities these rich fools, martyrs to theirown pomp; he pities these ostentatious voluptuaries, who spend theirlife in deadly dullness that they may seem to enjoy its pleasures. He would pity the very foe who harmed him, for he would discern hiswretchedness beneath his cloak of spite. He would say to himself, "This man has yielded to his desire to hurt me, and this need ofhis places him at my mercy. "

One step more and our goal is attained. Selfishness is a dangeroustool though a useful one; it often wounds the hand that uses it, and it rarely does good unmixed with evil. When Emile considers hisplace among men, when he finds himself so fortunately situated, hewill be tempted to give credit to his own reason for the work ofyours, and to attribute to his own deserts what is really the resultof his good fortune. He will say to himself, "I am wise and othermen are fools. " He will pity and despise them and will congratulatehimself all the more heartily; and as he knows he is happier thanthey, he will think his deserts are greater. This is the fault wehave most to fear, for it is the most difficult to eradicate. Ifhe remained in this state of mind, he would have profited littleby all our care; and if I had to choose, I hardly know whether Iwould not rather choose the illusions of prejudice than those ofpride. 

Great men are under no illusion with respect to their superiority;they see it and know it, but they are none the less modest. Themore they have, the better they know what they lack. They are lessvain of their superiority over us than ashamed by the consciousnessof their weakness, and among the good things they really possess, they are too wise to pride themselves on a gift which is none oftheir getting. The good man may be proud of his virtue for it ishis own, but what cause for pride has the man of intellect? Whathas Racine done that he is not Pradon, and Boileau that he is notCotin?

The circumstances with which we are concerned are quite different. Let us keep to the common level. I assumed that my pupil had neithersurpassing genius nor a defective understanding. I chose him of anordinary mind to show what education could do for man. Exceptionsdefy all rules. If, therefore, as a result of my care, Emileprefers his way of living, seeing, and feeling to that of others, he is right; but if he thinks because of this that he is noblerand better born than they, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself;he must be undeceived, or rather let us prevent the mistake, lestit be too late to correct it. 

Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of any folly but vanity;there is no cure for this but experience, if indeed there is anycure for it at all; when it first appears we can at least preventits further growth. But do not on this account waste your breathon empty arguments to prove to the youth that he is like other menand subject to the same weaknesses. Make him feel it or he willnever know it. This is another instance of an exception to my ownrules; I must voluntarily expose my pupil to every accident whichmay convince him that he is no wiser than we. The adventure withthe conjurer will be repeated again and again in different ways; Ishall let flatterers take advantage of him; if rash comrades drawhim into some perilous adventure, I will let him run the risk;if he falls into the hands of sharpers at the card-table, I willabandon him to them as their dupe. [Footnote: Moreover our pupilwill be little tempted by this snare; he has so many amusementsabout him, he has never been bored in his life, and he scarcely knowsthe use of money. As children have been led by these two motives, self-interest and vanity, rogues and courtesans use the same meansto get hold of them later. When you see their greediness encouragedby prizes and rewards, when you find their public performancesat ten years old applauded at school or college, you see too howat twenty they will be induced to leave their purse in a gamblinghell and their health in a worse place. You may safely wager thatthe sharpest boy in the class will become the greatest gambler anddebauchee. Now the means which have not been employed in childhoodhave not the same effect in youth. But we must bear in mindmy constant plan and take the thing at its worst. First I try toprevent the vice; then I assume its existence in order to correctit. ] I will let them flatter him, pluck him, and rob him; and whenhaving sucked him dry they turn and mock him, I will even thankthem to his face for the lessons they have been good enough to givehim. The only snares from which I will guard him with my utmostcare are the wiles of wanton women. The only precaution I shall takewill be to share all the dangers I let him run, and all the insultsI let him receive. I will bear everything in silence, without amurmur or reproach, without a word to him, and be sure that if thiswise conduct is faithfully adhered to, what he sees me endure onhis account will make more impression on his heart than what hehimself suffers. 

I cannot refrain at this point from drawing attention to the shamdignity of tutors, who foolishly pretend to be wise, who discouragetheir pupils by always professing to treat them as children, andby emphasising the difference between themselves and their scholarsin everything they do. Far from damping their youthful spirits inthis fashion, spare no effort to stimulate their courage; that theymay become your equals, treat them as such already, and if theycannot rise to your level, do not scruple to come down to theirswithout being ashamed of it. Remember that your honour is no longerin your own keeping but in your pupil's. Share his faults thatyou may correct them, bear his disgrace that you may wipe it out;follow the example of that brave Roman who, unable to rally hisfleeing soldiers, placed himself at their head, exclaiming, "Theydo not flee, they follow their captain!" Did this dishonour him?Not so; by sacrificing his glory he increased it. The power ofduty, the beauty of virtue, compel our respect in spite of all ourfoolish prejudices. If I received a blow in the course of my dutiesto Emile, far from avenging it I would boast of it; and I doubtwhether there is in the whole world a man so vile as to respect meany the less on this account. 

I do not intend the pupil to suppose his master to be as ignorant, or as liable to be led astray, as he is himself. This idea isall very well for a child who can neither see nor compare things, who thinks everything is within his reach, and only bestows hisconfidence on those who know how to come down to his level. But ayouth of Emile's age and sense is no longer so foolish as to makethis mistake, and it would not be desirable that he should. Theconfidence he ought to have in his tutor is of another kind; itshould rest on the authority of reason, and on superior knowledge, advantages which the young man is capable of appreciating whilehe perceives how useful they are to himself. Long experience hasconvinced him that his tutor loves him, that he is a wise and goodman who desires his happiness and knows how to procure it. He oughtto know that it is to his own advantage to listen to his advice. But if the master lets himself be taken in like the disciple, hewill lose his right to expect deference from him, and to give himinstruction. Still less should the pupil suppose that his masteris purposely letting him fall into snares or preparing pitfalls forhis inexperience. How can we avoid these two difficulties? Choosethe best and most natural means; be frank and straightforward likehimself; warn him of the dangers to which he is exposed, point themout plainly and sensibly, without exaggeration, without temper, without pedantic display, and above all without giving your opinionsin the form of orders, until they have become such, and until thisimperious tone is absolutely necessary. Should he still be obstinate ashe often will be, leave him free to follow his own choice, followhim, copy his example, and that cheerfully and frankly; if possiblefling yourself into things, amuse yourself as much as he does. Ifthe consequences become too serious, you are at hand to preventthem; and yet when this young man has beheld your foresight and yourkindliness, will he not be at once struck by the one and touchedby the other? All his faults are but so many hands with whichhe himself provides you to restrain him at need. Now under thesecircumstances the great art of the master consists in controllingevents and directing his exhortations so that he may know beforehandwhen the youth will give in, and when he will refuse to do so, so that all around him he may encompass him with the lessons ofexperience, and yet never let him run too great a risk. 

Warn him of his faults before he commits them; do not blame himwhen once they are committed; you would only stir his self-love tomutiny. We learn nothing from a lesson we detest. I know nothingmore foolish than the phrase, "I told you so. " The best way to makehim remember what you told him is to seem to have forgotten it. Gofurther than this, and when you find him ashamed of having refusedto believe you, gently smooth away the shame with kindly words. Hewill indeed hold you dear when he sees how you forget yourself onhis account, and how you console him instead of reproaching him. But if you increase his annoyance by your reproaches he will hateyou, and will make it a rule never to heed you, as if to show youthat he does not agree with you as to the value of your opinion. 

The turn you give to your consolation may itself be a lessonto him, and all the more because he does not suspect it. When youtell him, for example, that many other people have made the samemistakes, this is not what he was expecting; you are administeringcorrection under the guise of pity; for when one thinks oneselfbetter than other people it is a very mortifying excuse to consoleoneself by their example; it means that we must realise that themost we can say is that they are no better than we. 

The time of faults is the time for fables. When we blame the guiltyunder the cover of a story we instruct without offending him; andhe then understands that the story is not untrue by means of thetruth he finds in its application to himself. The child who hasnever been deceived by flattery understands nothing of the fable Irecently examined; but the rash youth who has just become the dupeof a flatterer perceives only too readily that the crow was a fool. Thus he acquires a maxim from the fact, and the experience he wouldsoon have forgotten is engraved on his mind by means of the fable. There is no knowledge of morals which cannot be acquired through ourown experience or that of others. When there is danger, instead ofletting him try the experiment himself, we have recourse to history. When the risk is comparatively slight, it is just as well thatthe youth should be exposed to it; then by means of the apologuethe special cases with which the young man is now acquainted aretransformed into maxims. 

It is not, however, my intention that these maxims should beexplained, nor even formulated. Nothing is so foolish and unwiseas the moral at the end of most of the fables; as if the moralwas not, or ought not to be so clear in the fable itself that thereader cannot fail to perceive it. Why then add the moral at the end, and go deprive him of the pleasure of discovering it for himself. The art of teaching consists in making the pupil wish to learn. But if the pupil is to wish to learn, his mind must not remain insuch a passive state with regard to what you tell him that thereis really nothing for him to do but listen to you. The master'svanity must always give way to the scholars; he must be ableto say, I understand, I see it, I am getting at it, I am learningsomething. One of the things which makes the Pantaloon in theItalian comedies so wearisome is the pains taken by him to explainto the audience the platitudes they understand only too well already. We must always be intelligible, but we need not say all there isto be said. If you talk much you will say little, for at last noone will listen to you. What is the sense of the four lines at theend of La Fontaine's fable of the frog who puffed herself up. Ishe afraid we should not understand it? Does this great painter needto write the names beneath the things he has painted? His morals, far from generalising, restrict the lesson to some extent to theexamples given, and prevent our applying them to others. Before Iput the fables of this inimitable author into the hands of a youth, I should like to cut out all the conclusions with which he strivesto explain what he has just said so clearly and pleasantly. Ifyour pupil does not understand the fable without the explanation, he will not understand it with it. 

Moreover, the fables would require to be arranged in a more didacticorder, one more in agreement with the feelings and knowledge ofthe young adolescent. Can you imagine anything so foolish as tofollow the mere numerical order of the book without regard to ourrequirements or our opportunities. First the grasshopper, then thecrow, then the frog, then the two mules, etc. I am sick of thesetwo mules; I remember seeing a child who was being educated forfinance; they never let him alone, but were always insisting on theprofession he was to follow; they made him read this fable, learnit, say it, repeat it again and again without finding in it theslightest argument against his future calling. Not only have Inever found children make any real use of the fables they learn, but I have never found anybody who took the trouble to see thatthey made such a use of them. The study claims to be instructionin morals; but the real aim of mother and child is nothing but toset a whole party watching the child while he recites his fables;when he is too old to recite them and old enough to make use ofthem, they are altogether forgotten. Only men, I repeat, can learnfrom fables, and Emile is now old enough to begin. 

I do not mean to tell you everything, so I only indicate the pathswhich diverge from the right way, so that you may know how to avoidthem. If you follow the road I have marked out for you, I thinkyour pupil will buy his knowledge of mankind and his knowledge ofhimself in the cheapest market; you will enable him to behold thetricks of fortune without envying the lot of her favourites, andto be content with himself without thinking himself better thanothers. You have begun by making him an actor that he may learn tobe one of the audience; you must continue your task, for from thetheatre things are what they seem, from the stage they seem whatthey are. For the general effect we must get a distant view, forthe details we must observe more closely. But how can a young mantake part in the business of life? What right has he to be initiatedinto its dark secrets? His interests are confined within the limitsof his own pleasures, he has no power over others, it is much thesame as if he had no power at all. Man is the cheapest commodityon the market, and among all our important rights of property, therights of the individual are always considered last of all. 

When I see the studies of young men at the period of their greatestactivity confined to purely speculative matters, while later onthey are suddenly plunged, without any sort of experience, intothe world of men and affairs, it strikes me as contrary alike toreason and to nature, and I cease to be surprised that so few menknow what to do. How strange a choice to teach us so many uselessthings, while the art of doing is never touched upon! They professto fit us for society, and we are taught as if each of us wereto live a life of contemplation in a solitary cell, or to discusstheories with persons whom they did not concern. You think youare teaching your scholars how to live, and you teach them certainbodily contortions and certain forms of words without meaning. I, too, have taught Emile how to live; for I have taught him toenjoy his own society and, more than that, to earn his own bread. But this is not enough. To live in the world he must know how toget on with other people, he must know what forces move them, hemust calculate the action and re-action of self-interest in civilsociety, he must estimate the results so accurately that he willrarely fail in his undertakings, or he will at least have triedin the best possible way. The law does not allow young people tomanage their own affairs nor to dispose of their own property; butwhat would be the use of these precautions if they never gained anyexperience until they were of age. They would have gained nothingby the delay, and would have no more experience at five-and-twentythan at fifteen. No doubt we must take precautions, so that a youth, blinded by ignorance or misled by passion, may not hurt himself;but at any age there are opportunities when deeds of kindness andof care for the weak may be performed under the direction of a wiseman, on behalf of the unfortunate who need help. 

Mothers and nurses grow fond of children because of the care theylavish on them; the practice of social virtues touches the veryheart with the love of humanity; by doing good we become good; andI know no surer way to this end. Keep your pupil busy with the gooddeeds that are within his power, let the cause of the poor be hisown, let him help them not merely with his money, but with hisservice; let him work for them, protect them, let his person andhis time be at their disposal; let him be their agent; he willnever all his life long have a more honourable office. How many ofthe oppressed, who have never got a hearing, will obtain justicewhen he demands it for them with that courage and firmness whichthe practice of virtue inspires; when he makes his way into thepresence of the rich and great, when he goes, if need be, to thefootstool of the king himself, to plead the cause of the wretched, the cause of those who find all doors closed to them by their poverty, those who are so afraid of being punished for their misfortunesthat they do not dare to complain?

But shall we make of Emile a knight-errant, a redresser of wrongs, a paladin? Shall he thrust himself into public life, play the sageand the defender of the laws before the great, before the magistrates, before the king? Shall he lay petitions before the judges and pleadin the law courts? That I cannot say. The nature of things is notchanged by terms of mockery and scorn. He will do all that he knowsto be useful and good. He will do nothing more, and he knows thatnothing is useful and good for him which is unbefitting his age. He knows that his first duty is to himself; that young men shoulddistrust themselves; that they should act circumspectly; that theyshould show respect to those older than themselves, reticence anddiscretion in talking without cause, modesty in things indifferent, butcourage in well doing, and boldness to speak the truth. Such werethose illustrious Romans who, having been admitted into public life, spent their days in bringing criminals to justice and in protectingthe innocent, without any motives beyond those of learning, and ofthe furtherance of justice and of the protection of right conduct. 

Emile is not fond of noise or quarrelling, not only among men, butamong animals. [Footnote: "But what will he do if any one seeks aquarrel with him?" My answer is that no one will ever quarrel withhim, he will never lend himself to such a thing. But, indeed, youcontinue, who can be safe from a blow, or an insult from a bully, a drunkard, a bravo, who for the joy of killing his man begins bydishonouring him? That is another matter. The life and honour ofthe citizens should not be at the mercy of a bully, a drunkard, ora bravo, and one can no more insure oneself against such an accidentthan against a falling tile. A blow given, or a lie in the teeth, if he submit to them, have social consequences which no wisdomcan prevent and no tribunal can avenge. The weakness of the laws, therefore, so far restores a man's independence; he is the solemagistrate and judge between the offender and himself, the soleinterpreter and administrator of natural law. Justice is his due, and he alone can obtain it, and in such a case there is no governmenton earth so foolish as to punish him for so doing. I do not say hemust fight; that is absurd; I say justice is his due, and he alonecan dispense it. If I were king, I promise you that in my kingdomno one would ever strike a man or call him a liar, and yet I woulddo without all those useless laws against duels; the means aresimple and require no law courts. However that may be, Emile knowswhat is due to himself in such a case, and the example due fromhim to the safety of men of honour. The strongest of men cannotprevent insult, but he can take good care that his adversary hasno opportunity to boast of that insult. ] He will never set two dogsto fight, he will never set a dog to chase a cat. This peacefulspirit is one of the results of his education, which has neverstimulated self-love or a high opinion of himself, and so hasnot encouraged him to seek his pleasure in domination and in thesufferings of others. The sight of suffering makes him suffer too;this is a natural feeling. It is one of the after effects of vanitythat hardens a young man and makes him take a delight in seeing thetorments of a living and feeling creature; it makes him considerhimself beyond the reach of similar sufferings through his superiorwisdom or virtue. He who is beyond the reach of vanity cannot fallinto the vice which results from vanity. So Emile loves peace. He is delighted at the sight of happiness, and if he can help tobring it about, this is an additional reason for sharing it. I donot assume that when he sees the unhappy he will merely feel forthem that barren and cruel pity which is content to pity the illsit can heal. His kindness is active and teaches him much he wouldhave learnt far more slowly, or he would never have learnt at all, if his heart had been harder. If he finds his comrades at strife, he tries to reconcile them; if he sees the afflicted, he inquiresas to the cause of their sufferings; if he meets two men who hateeach other, he wants to know the reason of their enmity; if he findsone who is down-trodden groaning under the oppression of the richand powerful, he tries to discover by what means he can counteractthis oppression, and in the interest he takes with regard to allthese unhappy persons, the means of removing their sufferings arenever out of his sight. What use shall we make of this dispositionso that it may re-act in a way suited to his age? Let us directhis efforts and his knowledge, and use his zeal to increase them. 

I am never weary of repeating: let all the lessons of young peopletake the form of doing rather than talking; let them learn nothingfrom books which they can learn from experience. How absurd toattempt to give them practice in speaking when they have nothingto say, to expect to make them feel, at their school desks, thevigour of the language of passion and all the force of the artsof persuasion when they have nothing and nobody to persuade! Allthe rules of rhetoric are mere waste of words to those who do notknow how to use them for their own purposes. How does it concerna schoolboy to know how Hannibal encouraged his soldiers to crossthe Alps? If instead of these grand speeches you showed him how toinduce his prefect to give him a holiday, you may be sure he wouldpay more attention to your rules. 

If I wanted to teach rhetoric to a youth whose passions were asyet undeveloped, I would draw his attention continually to thingsthat would stir his passions, and I would discuss with him howhe should talk to people so as to get them to regard his wishesfavourably. But Emile is not in a condition so favourable to theart of oratory. Concerned mainly with his physical well-being, he has less need of others than they of him; and having nothing toask of others on his own account, what he wants to persuade themto do does not affect him sufficiently to awake any very strongfeeling. From this it follows that his language will be on thewhole simple and literal. He usually speaks to the point and onlyto make himself understood. He is not sententious, for he hasnot learnt to generalise; he does not speak in figures, for he israrely impassioned. 

Yet this is not because he is altogether cold and phlegmatic, neither his age, his character, nor his tastes permit of this. Inthe fire of adolescence the life-giving spirits, retained in theblood and distilled again and again, inspire his young heart witha warmth which glows in his eye, a warmth which is felt in hiswords and perceived in his actions. The lofty feeling with whichhe is inspired gives him strength and nobility; imbued with tenderlove for mankind his words betray the thoughts of his heart;I know not how it is, but there is more charm in his open-heartedgenerosity than in the artificial eloquence of others; or ratherthis eloquence of his is the only true eloquence, for he has onlyto show what he feels to make others share his feelings. 

The more I think of it the more convinced I am that by thustranslating our kindly impulses into action, by drawing from ourgood or ill success conclusions as to their cause, we shall findthat there is little useful knowledge that cannot be imparted to ayouth; and that together with such true learning as may be got atcollege he will learn a science of more importance than all the resttogether, the application of what he has learned to the purposesof life. Taking such an interest in his fellow-creatures, it isimpossible that he should fail to learn very quickly how to noteand weigh their actions, their tastes, their pleasures, and toestimate generally at their true value what may increase or diminishthe happiness of men; he should do this better than those who carefor nobody and never do anything for any one. The feelings of thosewho are always occupied with their own concerns are too keenlyaffected for them to judge wisely of things. They consider everythingas it affects themselves, they form their ideas of good and illsolely on their own experience, their minds are filled with allsorts of absurd prejudices, and anything which affects their ownadvantage ever so little, seems an upheaval of the universe. 

Extend self-love to others and it is transformed into virtue, a virtue which has its root in the heart of every one of us. Theless the object of our care is directly dependent on ourselves, theless we have to fear from the illusion of self-interest; the moregeneral this interest becomes, the juster it is; and the love ofthe human race is nothing but the love of justice within us. Iftherefore we desire Emile to be a lover of truth, if we desire thathe should indeed perceive it, let us keep him far from self-interestin all his business. The more care he bestows upon the happiness ofothers the wiser and better he is, and the fewer mistakes he willmake between good and evil; but never allow him any blind preferencefounded merely on personal predilection or unfair prejudice. Whyshould he harm one person to serve another? What does it matter tohim who has the greater share of happiness, providing he promotesthe happiness of all? Apart from self-interest this care for thegeneral well-being is the first concern of the wise man, for eachof us forms part of the human race and not part of any individualmember of that race. 

To prevent pity degenerating into weakness we must generalise itand extend it to mankind. Then we only yield to it when it is inaccordance with justice, since justice is of all the virtues thatwhich contributes most to the common good. Reason and self-lovecompel us to love mankind even more than our neighbour, and to pitythe wicked is to be very cruel to other men. 

Moreover, you must bear in mind that all these means employed toproject my pupil beyond himself have also a distinct relation tohimself; since they not only cause him inward delight, but I amalso endeavouring to instruct him, while I am making him kindlydisposed towards others. 

First I showed the means employed, now I will show the result. Whatwide prospects do I perceive unfolding themselves before his mind!What noble feelings stifle the lesser passions in his heart! Whatclearness of judgment, what accuracy in reasoning, do I see developingfrom the inclinations we have cultivated, from the experience whichconcentrates the desires of a great heart within the narrow boundsof possibility, so that a man superior to others can come down totheir level if he cannot raise them to his own! True principlesof justice, true types of beauty, all moral relations between manand man, all ideas of order, these are engraved on his understanding;he sees the right place for everything and the causes which driveit from that place; he sees what may do good, and what hinders it. Without having felt the passions of mankind, he knows the illusionsthey produce and their mode of action. 

I proceed along the path which the force of circumstances compelsme to tread, but I do not insist that my readers shall follow me. Long ago they have made up their minds that I am wandering in theland of chimeras, while for my part I think they are dwelling inthe country of prejudice. When I wander so far from popular beliefsI do not cease to bear them in mind; I examine them, I considerthem, not that I may follow them or shun them, but that I may weighthem in the balance of reason. Whenever reason compels me to abandonthese popular beliefs, I know by experience that my readers willnot follow my example; I know that they will persist in refusingto go beyond what they can see, and that they will take the youthI am describing for the creation of my fanciful imagination, merelybecause he is unlike the youths with whom they compare him; theyforget that he must needs be different, because he has been broughtup in a totally different fashion; he has been influenced by whollydifferent feelings, instructed in a wholly different manner, sothat it would be far stranger if he were like your pupils than ifhe were what I have supposed. He is a man of nature's making, notman's. No wonder men find him strange. 

When I began this work I took for granted nothing but what could beobserved as readily by others as by myself; for our starting-point, the birth of man, is the same for all; but the further we go, whileI am seeking to cultivate nature and you are seeking to depraveit, the further apart we find ourselves. At six years old my pupilwas not so very unlike yours, whom you had not yet had time todisfigure; now there is nothing in common between them; and whenthey reach the age of manhood, which is now approaching, they willshow themselves utterly different from each other, unless all my painshave been thrown away. There may not be so very great a differencein the amount of knowledge they possess, but there is all thedifference in the world in the kind of knowledge. You are amazedto find that the one has noble sentiments of which the others havenot the smallest germ, but remember that the latter are alreadyphilosophers and theologians while Emile does not even know whatis meant by a philosopher and has scarcely heard the name of God. 

But if you come and tell me, "There are no such young men, youngpeople are not made that way; they have this passion or that, theydo this or that, " it is as if you denied that a pear tree couldever be a tall tree because the pear trees in our gardens are alldwarfs. 

I beg these critics who are so ready with their blame to considerthat I am as well acquainted as they are with everything they say, that I have probably given more thought to it, and that, as I haveno private end to serve in getting them to agree with me, I havea right to demand that they should at least take time to find outwhere I am mistaken. Let them thoroughly examine the nature ofman, let them follow the earliest growth of the heart in any givencircumstances, so as to see what a difference education may make inthe individual; then let them compare my method of education withthe results I ascribe to it; and let them tell me where my reasoningis unsound, and I shall have no answer to give them. 

It is this that makes me speak so strongly, and as I think withgood excuse: I have not pledged myself to any system, I depend aslittle as possible on arguments, and I trust to what I myself haveobserved. I do not base my ideas on what I have imagined, but onwhat I have seen. It is true that I have not confined my observationswithin the walls of any one town, nor to a single class of people;but having compared men of every class and every nation whichI have been able to observe in the course of a life spent in thispursuit, I have discarded as artificial what belonged to one nationand not to another, to one rank and not to another; and I haveregarded as proper to mankind what was common to all, at any age, in any station, and in any nation whatsoever. 

Now if in accordance with this method you follow from infancy thecourse of a youth who has not been shaped to any special mould, onewho depends as little as possible on authority and the opinions ofothers, which will he most resemble, my pupil or yours? It seemsto me that this is the question you must answer if you would knowif I am mistaken. 

It is not easy for a man to begin to think; but when once he hasbegun he will never leave off. Once a thinker, always a thinker, and the understanding once practised in reflection will never rest. You may therefore think that I do too much or too little; thatthe human mind is not by nature so quick to unfold; and that afterhaving given it opportunities it has not got, I keep it too longconfined within a circle of ideas which it ought to have outgrown. 

But remember, in the first place, that when I want to traina natural man, I do not want to make him a savage and to send himback to the woods, but that living in the whirl of social lifeit is enough that he should not let himself be carried away bythe passions and prejudices of men; let him see with his eyes andfeel with his heart, let him own no sway but that of reason. Underthese conditions it is plain that many things will strike him;the oft-recurring feelings which affect him, the different ways ofsatisfying his real needs, must give him many ideas he would nototherwise have acquired or would only have acquired much later. The natural progress of the mind is quickened but not reversed. The same man who would remain stupid in the forests should becomewise and reasonable in towns, if he were merely a spectator inthem. Nothing is better fitted to make one wise than the sight offollies we do not share, and even if we share them, we still learn, provided we are not the dupe of our follies and provided we do notbring to them the same mistakes as the others. 

Consider also that while our faculties are confined to the things ofsense, we offer scarcely any hold to the abstractions of philosophyor to purely intellectual ideas. To attain to these we requireeither to free ourselves from the body to which we are so stronglybound, or to proceed step by step in a slow and gradual course, or else to leap across the intervening space with a gigantic boundof which no child is capable, one for which grown men even requiremany steps hewn on purpose for them; but I find it very difficultto see how you propose to construct such steps. 

The Incomprehensible embraces all, he gives its motion to theearth, and shapes the system of all creatures, but our eyes cannotsee him nor can our hands search him out, he evades the effortsof our senses; we behold the work, but the workman is hidden fromour eyes. It is no small matter to know that he exists, and whenwe have got so far, and when we ask. What is he? Where is he? ourmind is overwhelmed, we lose ourselves, we know not what to think. 

Locke would have us begin with the study of spirits and go on tothat of bodies. This is the method of superstition, prejudice, anderror; it is not the method of nature, nor even that of well-orderedreason; it is to learn to see by shutting our eyes. We must havestudied bodies long enough before we can form any true idea ofspirits, or even suspect that there are such beings. The contrarypractice merely puts materialism on a firmer footing. 

Since our senses are the first instruments to our learning, corporealand sensible bodies are the only bodies we directly apprehend. Theword "spirit" has no meaning for any one who has not philosophised. To the unlearned and to the child a spirit is merely a body. Dothey not fancy that spirits groan, speak, fight, and make noises?Now you must own that spirits with arms and voices are very likebodies. This is why every nation on the face of the earth, not evenexcepting the Jews, have made to themselves idols. We, ourselves, with our words, Spirit, Trinity, Persons, are for the most part quiteanthropomorphic. I admit that we are taught that God is everywhere;but we also believe that there is air everywhere, at least in ouratmosphere; and the word Spirit meant originally nothing more thanbreath and wind. Once you teach people to say what they do notunderstand, it is easy enough to get them to say anything you like. 

The perception of our action upon other bodies must have firstinduced us to suppose that their action upon us was effected inlike manner. Thus man began by thinking that all things whose actionaffected him were alive. He did not recognise the limits of theirpowers, and he therefore supposed that they were boundless; assoon as he had supplied them with bodies they became his gods. Inthe earliest times men went in terror of everything and everythingin nature seemed alive. The idea of matter was developed as slowlyas that of spirit, for the former is itself an abstraction. 

Thus the universe was peopled with gods like themselves. The stars, the winds and the mountains, rivers, trees, and towns, their verydwellings, each had its soul, its god, its life. The teraphim ofLaban, the manitos of savages, the fetishes of the negroes, everywork of nature and of man, were the first gods of mortals; polytheismwas their first religion and idolatry their earliest form of worship. The idea of one God was beyond their grasp, till little by littlethey formed general ideas, and they rose to the idea of a firstcause and gave meaning to the word "substance, " which is at bottomthe greatest of abstractions. So every child who believes in Godis of necessity an idolater or at least he regards the Deity as aman, and when once the imagination has perceived God, it is veryseldom that the understanding conceives him. Locke's order leadsus into this same mistake. 

Having arrived, I know not how, at the idea of substance, it isclear that to allow of a single substance it must be assumed thatthis substance is endowed with incompatible and mutually exclusiveproperties, such as thought and size, one of which is by its naturedivisible and the other wholly incapable of division. Moreover itis assumed that thought or, if you prefer it, feeling is a primitivequality inseparable from the substance to which it belongs, thatits relation to the substance is like the relation between substanceand size. Hence it is inferred that beings who lose one of theseattributes lose the substance to which it belongs, and that deathis, therefore, but a separation of substances, and that thosebeings in whom the two attributes are found are composed of thetwo substances to which those two qualities belong. 

But consider what a gulf there still is between the idea of twosubstances and that of the divine nature, between the incomprehensibleidea of the influence of our soul upon our body and the idea of theinfluence of God upon every living creature. The ideas of creation, destruction, ubiquity, eternity, almighty power, those of the divineattributes--these are all ideas so confused and obscure that fewmen succeed in grasping them; yet there is nothing obscure aboutthem to the common people, because they do not understand them inthe least; how then should they present themselves in full force, that is to say in all their obscurity, to the young mind which isstill occupied with the first working of the senses, and fails torealise anything but what it handles? In vain do the abysses ofthe Infinite open around us, a child does not know the meaning offear; his weak eyes cannot gauge their depths. To children everythingis infinite, they cannot assign limits to anything; not that theirmeasure is so large, but because their understanding is so small. I have even noticed that they place the infinite rather below thanabove the dimensions known to them. They judge a distance to beimmense rather by their feet than by their eyes; infinity is boundedfor them, not so much by what they can see, but how far they cango. If you talk to them of the power of God, they will think heis nearly as strong as their father. As their own knowledge is ineverything the standard by which they judge of what is possible, they always picture what is described to them as rather smallerthan what they know. Such are the natural reasonings of an ignorantand feeble mind. Ajax was afraid to measure his strength againstAchilles, yet he challenged Jupiter to combat, for he knew Achillesand did not know Jupiter. A Swiss peasant thought himself therichest man alive; when they tried to explain to him what a kingwas, he asked with pride, "Has the king got a hundred cows on thehigh pastures?"

I am aware that many of my readers will be surprised to find metracing the course of my scholar through his early years withoutspeaking to him of religion. At fifteen he will not even know thathe has a soul, at eighteen even he may not be ready to learn aboutit. For if he learns about it too soon, there is the risk of hisnever really knowing anything about it. 

If I had to depict the most heart-breaking stupidity, I would painta pedant teaching children the catechism; if I wanted to drivea child crazy I would set him to explain what he learned in hiscatechism. You will reply that as most of the Christian doctrinesare mysteries, you must wait, not merely till the child is a man, but till the man is dead, before the human mind will understandthose doctrines. To that I reply, that there are mysteries whichthe heart of man can neither conceive nor believe, and I see nouse in teaching them to children, unless you want to make liars ofthem. Moreover, I assert that to admit that there are mysteries, you must at least realise that they are incomprehensible, andchildren are not even capable of this conception! At an age wheneverything is mysterious, there are no mysteries properly so-called. 

"We must believe in God if we would be saved. " This doctrine wronglyunderstood is the root of bloodthirsty intolerance and the cause ofall the futile teaching which strikes a deadly blow at human reasonby training it to cheat itself with mere words. No doubt there isnot a moment to be lost if we would deserve eternal salvation; butif the repetition of certain words suffices to obtain it, I do notsee why we should not people heaven with starlings and magpies aswell as with children. 

The obligation of faith assumes the possibility of belief. The philosopher who does not believe is wrong, for he misuses thereason he has cultivated, and he is able to understand the truthshe rejects. But the child who professes the Christian faith--whatdoes he believe? Just what he understands; and he understands solittle of what he is made to repeat that if you tell him to sayjust the opposite he will be quite ready to do it. The faith ofchildren and the faith of many men is a matter of geography. Willthey be rewarded for having been born in Rome rather than in Mecca?One is told that Mahomet is the prophet of God and he says, "Mahometis the prophet of God. " The other is told that Mahomet is a rogueand he says, "Mahomet is a rogue. " Either of them would have saidjust the opposite had he stood in the other's shoes. When they areso much alike to begin with, can the one be consigned to Paradiseand the other to Hell? When a child says he believes in God, it isnot God he believes in, but Peter or James who told him that thereis something called God, and he believes it after the fashion ofEuripides--

"O Jupiter, of whom I know nothing but thy name. "

[Footnote: Plutarch. It is thus that the tragedy of Menalippusoriginally began, but the clamour of the Athenians compelledEuripides to change these opening lines. ]

We hold that no child who dies before the age of reason will bedeprived of everlasting happiness; the Catholics believe the sameof all children who have been baptised, even though they have neverheard of God. There are, therefore, circumstances in which one canbe saved without belief in God, and these circumstances occur inthe case of children or madmen when the human mind is incapable ofthe operations necessary to perceive the Godhead. The only differenceI see between you and me is that you profess that children of sevenyears old are able to do this and I do not think them ready for itat fifteen. Whether I am right or wrong depends, not on an articleof the creed, but on a simple observation in natural history. 

From the same principle it is plain that any man having reachedold age without faith in God will not, therefore, be deprived ofGod's presence in another life if his blindness was not wilful;and I maintain that it is not always wilful. You admit that it isso in the case of lunatics deprived by disease of their spiritualfaculties, but not of their manhood, and therefore still entitledto the goodness of their Creator. Why then should we not admit itin the case of those brought up from infancy in seclusion, thosewho have led the life of a savage and are without the knowledge thatcomes from intercourse with other men. [Footnote: For the naturalcondition of the human mind and its slow development, cf. The firstpart of the Discours sur Inegalite. ] For it is clearly impossiblethat such a savage could ever raise his thoughts to the knowledgeof the true God. Reason tells that man should only be punishedfor his wilful faults, and that invincible ignorance can neverbe imputed to him as a crime. Hence it follows that in the sightof the Eternal Justice every man who would believe if he had thenecessary knowledge is counted a believer, and that there will beno unbelievers to be punished except those who have closed theirhearts against the truth. 

Let us beware of proclaiming the truth to those who cannot as yetcomprehend it, for to do so is to try to inculcate error. It wouldbe better to have no idea at all of the Divinity than to havemean, grotesque, harmful, and unworthy ideas; to fail to perceivethe Divine is a lesser evil than to insult it. The worthy Plutarchsays, "I would rather men said, 'There is no such person as Plutarch, 'than that they should say, 'Plutarch is unjust, envious, jealous, and such a tyrant that he demands more than can be performed. '"

The chief harm which results from the monstrous ideas of God whichare instilled into the minds of children is that they last all theirlife long, and as men they understand no more of God than they didas children. In Switzerland I once saw a good and pious mother whowas so convinced of the truth of this maxim that she refused toteach her son religion when he was a little child for fear lest heshould be satisfied with this crude teaching and neglect a betterteaching when he reached the age of reason. This child never heardthe name of God pronounced except with reverence and devotion, and as soon as he attempted to say the word he was told to holdhis tongue, as if the subject were too sublime and great for him. This reticence aroused his curiosity and his self-love; he lookedforward to the time when he would know this mystery so carefullyhidden from him. The less they spoke of God to him, the less he washimself permitted to speak of God, the more he thought about Him;this child beheld God everywhere. What I should most dread as theresult of this unwise affectation of mystery is this: by over-stimulatingthe youth's imagination you may turn his head, and make him at thebest a fanatic rather than a believer. 

But we need fear nothing of the sort for Emile, who always declinesto pay attention to what is beyond his reach, and listens withprofound indifference to things he does not understand. There areso many things of which he is accustomed to say, "That is no concernof mine, " that one more or less makes little difference to him;and when he does begin to perplex himself with these great matters, it is because the natural growth of his knowledge is turning histhoughts that way. 

We have seen the road by which the cultivated human mind approachesthese mysteries, and I am ready to admit that it would not attainto them naturally, even in the bosom of society, till a much laterage. But as there are in this same society inevitable causes whichhasten the development of the passions, if we did not also hastenthe development of the knowledge which controls these passionswe should indeed depart from the path of nature and disturb herequilibrium. When we can no longer restrain a precocious developmentin one direction we must promote a corresponding development inanother direction, so that the order of nature may not be inverted, and so that things should progress together, not separately, sothat the man, complete at every moment of his life, may never findhimself at one stage in one of his faculties and at another stagein another faculty. 

What a difficulty do I see before me! A difficulty all the greaterbecause it depends less on actual facts than on the cowardice ofthose who dare not look the difficulty in the face. Let us at leastventure to state our problem. A child should always be brought upin his father's religion; he is always given plain proofs that thisreligion, whatever it may be, is the only true religion, that allothers are ridiculous and absurd. The force of the argument dependsentirely on the country in which it is put forward. Let a Turk, who thinks Christianity so absurd at Constantinople, come to Parisand see what they think of Mahomet. It is in matters of religionmore than in anything else that prejudice is triumphant. But whenwe who profess to shake off its yoke entirely, we who refuse to yieldany homage to authority, decline to teach Emile anything which hecould not learn for himself in any country, what religion shallwe give him, to what sect shall this child of nature belong? Theanswer strikes me as quite easy. We will not attach him to any sect, but we will give him the means to choose for himself according tothe right use of his own reason. 

 Incedo per ignes Suppositos cineri doloso. --Horace, lib. Ii. Ode I. 

No matter! Thus far zeal and prudence have taken the place ofcaution. I hope that these guardians will not fail me now. Reader, do not fear lest I should take precautions unworthy of a lover oftruth; I shall never forget my motto, but I distrust my own judgmentall too easily. Instead of telling you what I think myself, I willtell you the thoughts of one whose opinions carry more weight thanmine. I guarantee the truth of the facts I am about to relate;they actually happened to the author whose writings I am about totranscribe; it is for you to judge whether we can draw from themany considerations bearing on the matter in hand. I do not offeryou my own idea or another's as your rule; I merely present themfor your examination. 

Thirty years ago there was a young man in an Italian town; he wasan exile from his native land and found himself reduced to the depthsof poverty. He had been born a Calvinist, but the consequences ofhis own folly had made him a fugitive in a strange land; he hadno money and he changed his religion for a morsel of bread. Therewas a hostel for proselytes in that town to which he gained admission. The study of controversy inspired doubts he had never felt before, and he made acquaintance with evil hitherto unsuspected by him; heheard strange doctrines and he met with morals still stranger tohim; he beheld this evil conduct and nearly fell a victim to it. He longed to escape, but he was locked up; he complained, but hiscomplaints were unheeded; at the mercy of his tyrants, he foundhimself treated as a criminal because he would not share theircrimes. The anger kindled in a young and untried heart by the firstexperience of violence and injustice may be realised by those whohave themselves experienced it. Tears of anger flowed from hiseyes, he was wild with rage; he prayed to heaven and to man, andhis prayers were unheard; he spoke to every one and no one listenedto him. He saw no one but the vilest servants under the controlof the wretch who insulted him, or accomplices in the same crimewho laughed at his resistance and encouraged him to follow theirexample. He would have been ruined had not a worthy priest visitedthe hostel on some matter of business. He found an opportunityof consulting him secretly. The priest was poor and in need ofhelp himself, but the victim had more need of his assistance, andhe did not hesitate to help him to escape at the risk of making adangerous enemy. 

Having escaped from vice to return to poverty, the youngman struggled vainly against fate: for a moment he thought he hadgained the victory. At the first gleam of good fortune his woes andhis protector were alike forgotten. He was soon punished for thisingratitude; all his hopes vanished; youth indeed was on his side, but his romantic ideas spoiled everything. He had neither talentnor skill to make his way easily, he could neither be commonplacenor wicked, he expected so much that he got nothing. When he hadsunk to his former poverty, when he was without food or shelterand ready to die of hunger, he remembered his benefactor. 

He went back to him, found him, and was kindly welcomed; the sight ofhim reminded the priest of a good deed he had done; such a memoryalways rejoices the heart. This man was by nature humane andpitiful; he felt the sufferings of others through his own, and hisheart had not been hardened by prosperity; in a word, the lessonsof wisdom and an enlightened virtue had reinforced his naturalkindness of heart. He welcomed the young man, found him a lodging, and recommended him; he shared with him his living which was barelyenough for two. He did more, he instructed him, consoled him, andtaught him the difficult art of bearing adversity in patience. Youprejudiced people, would you have expected to find all this in apriest and in Italy?

This worthy priest was a poor Savoyard clergyman who had offendedhis bishop by some youthful fault; he had crossed the Alps to finda position which he could not obtain in his own country. He lackedneither wit nor learning, and with his interesting countenancehe had met with patrons who found him a place in the household ofone of the ministers, as tutor to his son. He preferred poverty todependence, and he did not know how to get on with the great. Hedid not stay long with this minister, and when he departed he tookwith him his good opinion; and as he lived a good life and gainedthe hearts of everybody, he was glad to be forgiven by his bishopand to obtain from him a small parish among the mountains, where hemight pass the rest of his life. This was the limit of his ambition. 

He was attracted by the young fugitive and he questioned him closely. He saw that ill-fortune had already seared his heart, that scornand disgrace had overthrown his courage, and that his pride, transformed into bitterness and spite, led him to see nothing inthe harshness and injustice of men but their evil disposition andthe vanity of all virtue. He had seen that religion was but a maskfor selfishness, and its holy services but a screen for hypocrisy;he had found in the subtleties of empty disputations heaven andhell awarded as prizes for mere words; he had seen the sublime andprimitive idea of Divinity disfigured by the vain fancies of men;and when, as he thought, faith in God required him to renouncethe reason God himself had given him, he held in equal scorn ourfoolish imaginings and the object with which they are concerned. With no knowledge of things as they are, without any idea of theirorigins, he was immersed in his stubborn ignorance and utterlydespised those who thought they knew more than himself. 

The neglect of all religion soon leads to the neglect of a man'sduties. The heart of this young libertine was already far on thisroad. Yet his was not a bad nature, though incredulity and miserywere gradually stifling his natural disposition and dragging himdown to ruin; they were leading him into the conduct of a rascaland the morals of an atheist. 

The almost inevitable evil was not actually consummated. The youngman was not ignorant, his education had not been neglected. He wasat that happy age when the pulse beats strongly and the heart iswarm, but is not yet enslaved by the madness of the senses. His hearthad not lost its elasticity. A native modesty, a timid dispositionrestrained him, and prolonged for him that period during whichyou watch your pupil so carefully. The hateful example of brutaldepravity, of vice without any charm, had not merely failed toquicken his imagination, it had deadened it. For a long time disgustrather than virtue preserved his innocence, which would only succumbto more seductive charms. 

The priest saw the danger and the way of escape. He was not discouragedby difficulties, he took a pleasure in his task; he determined tocomplete it and to restore to virtue the victim he had snatchedfrom vice. He set about it cautiously; the beauty of the motivegave him courage and inspired him with means worthy of his zeal. Whatever might be the result, his pains would not be wasted. Weare always successful when our sole aim is to do good. 

He began to win the confidence of the proselyte by not asking anyprice for his kindness, by not intruding himself upon him, by notpreaching at him, by always coming down to his level, and treatinghim as an equal. It was, so I think, a touching sight to see aserious person becoming the comrade of a young scamp, and virtueputting up with the speech of licence in order to triumph over itmore completely. When the young fool came to him with his sillyconfidences and opened his heart to him, the priest listened andset him at his ease; without giving his approval to what was bad, he took an interest in everything; no tactless reproof checked hischatter or closed his heart; the pleasure which he thought was givenby his conversation increased his pleasure in telling everything;thus he made his general confession without knowing he was confessinganything. 

After he had made a thorough study of his feelings and disposition, the priest saw plainly that, although he was not ignorant for hisage, he had forgotten everything that he most needed to know, andthat the disgrace which fortune had brought upon him had stifled inhim all real sense of good and evil. There is a stage of degradationwhich robs the soul of its life; and the inner voice cannot beheard by one whose whole mind is bent on getting food. To protectthe unlucky youth from the moral death which threatened him, hebegan to revive his self-love and his good opinion of himself. Heshowed him a happier future in the right use of his talents; herevived the generous warmth of his heart by stories of the nobledeeds of others; by rousing his admiration for the doers of thesedeeds he revived his desire to do like deeds himself. To draw himgradually from his idle and wandering life, he made him copy outextracts from well-chosen books; he pretended to want these extracts, and so nourished in him the noble feeling of gratitude. He taughthim indirectly through these books, and thus he made him sufficientlyregain his good opinion of himself so that he would no longer thinkhimself good for nothing, and would not make himself despicable inhis own eyes. 

A trifling incident will show how this kindly man tried, unknownto him, to raise the heart of his disciple out of its degradation, without seeming to think of teaching. The priest was so well knownfor his uprightness and his discretion, that many people preferredto entrust their alms to him, rather than to the wealthy clergy ofthe town. One day some one had given him some money to distributeamong the poor, and the young man was mean enough to ask for someof it on the score of poverty. "No, " said he, "we are brothers, you belong to me and I must not touch the money entrusted to me. "Then he gave him the sum he had asked for out of his own pocket. Lessons of this sort seldom fail to make an impression on the heartof young people who are not wholly corrupt. 

I am weary of speaking in the third person, and the precaution isunnecessary; for you are well aware, my dear friend, that I myselfwas this unhappy fugitive; I think I am so far removed from thedisorders of my youth that I may venture to confess them, and thehand which rescued me well deserves that I should at least do honourto its goodness at the cost of some slight shame. 

What struck me most was to see in the private life of my worthymaster, virtue without hypocrisy, humanity without weakness, speechalways plain and straightforward, and conduct in accordance withthis speech. I never saw him trouble himself whether those whom heassisted went to vespers or confession, whether they fasted at theappointed seasons and went without meat; nor did he impose upon themany other like conditions, without which you might die of hungerbefore you could hope for any help from the devout. 

Far from displaying before him the zeal of a new convert, I wasencouraged by these observations and I made no secret of my way ofthinking, nor did he seem to be shocked by it. Sometimes I wouldsay to myself, he overlooks my indifference to the religion I haveadopted because he sees I am equally indifferent to the religionin which I was brought up; he knows that my scorn for religion isnot confined to one sect. But what could I think when I sometimesheard him give his approval to doctrines contrary to those of theRoman Catholic Church, and apparently having but a poor opinion ofits ceremonies. I should have thought him a Protestant in disguiseif I had not beheld him so faithful to those very customs which heseemed to value so lightly; but I knew he fulfilled his priestlyduties as carefully in private as in public, and I knew not whatto think of these apparent contradictions. Except for the faultwhich had formerly brought about his disgrace, a fault which hehad only partially overcome, his life was exemplary, his conductbeyond reproach, his conversation honest and discreet. While I livedon very friendly terms with him, I learnt day by day to respecthim more; and when he had completely won my heart by such greatkindness, I awaited with eager curiosity the time when I shouldlearn what was the principle on which the uniformity of this strangelife was based. 

This opportunity was a long time coming. Before taking his discipleinto his confidence, he tried to get the seeds of reason and kindnesswhich he had sown in my heart to germinate. The most difficultfault to overcome in me was a certain haughty misanthropy, a certainbitterness against the rich and successful, as if their wealthand happiness had been gained at my own expense, and as if theirsupposed happiness had been unjustly taken from my own. The foolishvanity of youth, which kicks against the pricks of humiliation, made me only too much inclined to this angry temper; and theself-respect, which my mentor strove to revive, led to pride, whichmade men still more vile in my eyes, and only added scorn to myhatred. 

Without directly attacking this pride, he prevented it fromdeveloping into hardness of heart; and without depriving me of myself-esteem, he made me less scornful of my neighbours. By continuallydrawing my attention from the empty show, and directing it to thegenuine sufferings concealed by it, he taught me to deplore thefaults of my fellows and feel for their sufferings, to pity ratherthan envy them. Touched with compassion towards human weaknessesthrough the profound conviction of his own failings, he viewedall men as the victims of their own vices and those of others; hebeheld the poor groaning under the tyranny of the rich, and therich under the tyranny of their own prejudices. "Believe me, " saidhe, "our illusions, far from concealing our woes, only increase themby giving value to what is in itself valueless, in making us awareof all sorts of fancied privations which we should not otherwisefeel. Peace of heart consists in despising everything that mightdisturb that peace; the man who clings most closely to life is theman who can least enjoy it; and the man who most eagerly desireshappiness is always most miserable. "

"What gloomy ideas!" I exclaimed bitterly. "If we must deny ourselveseverything, we might as well never have been born; and if we mustdespise even happiness itself who can be happy?" "I am, " repliedthe priest one day, in a tone which made a great impression on me. "You happy! So little favoured by fortune, so poor, an exile andpersecuted, you are happy! How have you contrived to be happy?""My child, " he answered, "I will gladly tell you. "

Thereupon he explained that, having heard my confessions, he wouldconfess to me. "I will open my whole heart to yours, " he said, embracing me. "You will see me, if not as I am, at least as Iseem to myself. When you have heard my whole confession of faith, when you really know the condition of my heart, you will know whyI think myself happy, and if you think as I do, you will know howto be happy too. But these explanations are not the affair of amoment, it will take time to show you all my ideas about the lotof man and the true value of life; let us choose a fitting time anda place where we may continue this conversation without interruption. "

I showed him how eager I was to hear him. The meeting was fixedfor the very next morning. It was summer time; we rose at daybreak. He took me out of the town on to a high hill above the river Po, whose course we beheld as it flowed between its fertile banks; inthe distance the landscape was crowned by the vast chain of theAlps; the beams of the rising sun already touched the plains andcast across the fields long shadows of trees, hillocks, and houses, and enriched with a thousand gleams of light the fairest picturewhich the human eye can see. You would have thought that naturewas displaying all her splendour before our eyes to furnish a textfor our conversation. After contemplating this scene for a spacein silence, the man of peace spoke to me. 

THE CREED OF A SAVOYARD PRIEST

My child, do not look to me for learned speeches or profoundarguments. I am no great philosopher, nor do I desire to be one. I have, however, a certain amount of common-sense and a constantdevotion to truth. I have no wish to argue with you nor even toconvince you; it is enough for me to show you, in all simplicity ofheart, what I really think. Consult your own heart while I speak;that is all I ask. If I am mistaken, I am honestly mistaken, andtherefore my error will not be counted to me as a crime; if you, too, are honestly mistaken, there is no great harm done. If I amright, we are both endowed with reason, we have both the same motivefor listening to the voice of reason. Why should not you think asI do?

By birth I was a peasant and poor; to till the ground was my portion;but my parents thought it a finer thing that I should learn to getmy living as a priest and they found means to send me to college. I am quite sure that neither my parents nor I had any idea ofseeking after what was good, useful, or true; we only sought whatwas wanted to get me ordained. I learned what was taught me, Isaid what I was told to say, I promised all that was required, andI became a priest. But I soon discovered that when I promised notto be a man, I had promised more than I could perform. 

Conscience, they tell us, is the creature of prejudice, but I knowfrom experience that conscience persists in following the orderof nature in spite of all the laws of man. In vain is this or thatforbidden; remorse makes her voice heard but feebly when what wedo is permitted by well-ordered nature, and still more when we aredoing her bidding. My good youth, nature has not yet appealed toyour senses; may you long remain in this happy state when her voiceis the voice of innocence. Remember that to anticipate her teachingis to offend more deeply against her than to resist her teaching;you must first learn to resist, that you may know when to yieldwithout wrong-doing. 

From my youth up I had reverenced the married state as the firstand most sacred institution of nature. Having renounced the rightto marry, I was resolved not to profane the sanctity of marriage;for in spite of my education and reading I had always led a simpleand regular life, and my mind had preserved the innocence of itsnatural instincts; these instincts had not been obscured by worldlywisdom, while my poverty kept me remote from the temptations dictatedby the sophistry of vice. 

This very resolution proved my ruin. My respect for marriage ledto the discovery of my misconduct. The scandal must be expiated;I was arrested, suspended, and dismissed; I was the victim ofmy scruples rather than of my incontinence, and I had reason tobelieve, from the reproaches which accompanied my disgrace, thatone can often escape punishment by being guilty of a worse fault. 

A thoughtful mind soon learns from such experiences. I found myformer ideas of justice, honesty, and every duty of man overturnedby these painful events, and day by day I was losing my hold onone or another of the opinions I had accepted. What was left wasnot enough to form a body of ideas which could stand alone, andI felt that the evidence on which my principles rested was beingweakened; at last I knew not what to think, and I came to the sameconclusion as yourself, but with this difference: My lack of faithwas the slow growth of manhood, attained with great difficulty, and all the harder to uproot. 

I was in that state of doubt and uncertainty which Descartesconsiders essential to the search for truth. It is a state whichcannot continue, it is disquieting and painful; only vicioustendencies and an idle heart can keep us in that state. My heartwas not so corrupt as to delight in it, and there is nothing whichso maintains the habit of thinking as being better pleased withoneself than with one's lot. 

I pondered, therefore, on the sad fate of mortals, adrift upon thissea of human opinions, without compass or rudder, and abandonedto their stormy passions with no guide but an inexperienced pilotwho does not know whence he comes or whither he is going. I saidto myself, "I love truth, I seek her, and cannot find her. Showme truth and I will hold her fast; why does she hide her face fromthe eager heart that would fain worship her?"

Although I have often experienced worse sufferings, I have neverled a life so uniformly distressing as this period of unrest andanxiety, when I wandered incessantly from one doubt to another, gaining nothing from my prolonged meditations but uncertainty, darkness, and contradiction with regard to the source of my beingand the rule of my duties. 

I cannot understand how any one can be a sceptic sincerely and onprinciple. Either such philosophers do not exist or they are themost miserable of men. Doubt with regard to what we ought to knowis a condition too violent for the human mind; it cannot long beendured; in spite of itself the mind decides one way or another, and it prefers to be deceived rather than to believe nothing. 

My perplexity was increased by the fact that I had been broughtup in a church which decides everything and permits no doubts, sothat having rejected one article of faith I was forced to rejectthe rest; as I could not accept absurd decisions, I was deprived ofthose which were not absurd. When I was told to believe everything, I could believe nothing, and I knew not where to stop. 

I consulted the philosophers, I searched their books and examinedtheir various theories; I found them all alike proud, assertive, dogmatic, professing, even in their so-called scepticism, to knoweverything, proving nothing, scoffing at each other. This lasttrait, which was common to all of them, struck me as the only pointin which they were right. Braggarts in attack, they are weaklingsin defence. Weigh their arguments, they are all destructive; counttheir voices, every one speaks for himself; they are only agreed inarguing with each other. I could find no way out of my uncertaintyby listening to them. 

I suppose this prodigious diversity of opinion is caused, in thefirst place, by the weakness of the human intellect; and, in thesecond, by pride. We have no means of measuring this vast machine, we are unable to calculate its workings; we know neither its guidingprinciples nor its final purpose; we do not know ourselves, we knowneither our nature nor the spirit that moves us; we scarcely knowwhether man is one or many; we are surrounded by impenetrablemysteries. These mysteries are beyond the region of sense, we thinkwe can penetrate them by the light of reason, but we fall back onour imagination. Through this imagined world each forces a way forhimself which he holds to be right; none can tell whether his pathwill lead him to the goal. Yet we long to know and understand itall. The one thing we do not know is the limit of the knowable. Weprefer to trust to chance and to believe what is not true, ratherthan to own that not one of us can see what really is. A fragmentof some vast whole whose bounds are beyond our gaze, a fragmentabandoned by its Creator to our foolish quarrels, we are vainenough to want to determine the nature of that whole and our ownrelations with regard to it. 

If the philosophers were in a position to declare the truth, whichof them would care to do so? Every one of them knows that his ownsystem rests on no surer foundations than the rest, but he maintainsit because it is his own. There is not one of them who, if he chancedto discover the difference between truth and falsehood, would notprefer his own lie to the truth which another had discovered. Whereis the philosopher who would not deceive the whole world for hisown glory? If he can rise above the crowd, if he can excel hisrivals, what more does he want? Among believers he is an atheist;among atheists he would be a believer. 

The first thing I learned from these considerations was to restrictmy inquiries to what directly concerned myself, to rest in profoundignorance of everything else, and not even to trouble myself todoubt anything beyond what I required to know. 

I also realised that the philosophers, far from ridding me of myvain doubts, only multiplied the doubts that tormented me and failedto remove any one of them. So I chose another guide and said, "Letme follow the Inner Light; it will not lead me so far astray asothers have done, or if it does it will be my own fault, and I shallnot go so far wrong if I follow my own illusions as if I trustedto their deceits. "

I then went over in my mind the various opinions which I had heldin the course of my life, and I saw that although no one of them wasplain enough to gain immediate belief, some were more probable thanothers, and my inward consent was given or withheld in proportionto this improbability. Having discovered this, I made an unprejudicedcomparison of all these different ideas, and I perceived that thefirst and most general of them was also the simplest and the mostreasonable, and that it would have been accepted by every one if onlyit had been last instead of first. Imagine all your philosophers, ancient and modern, having exhausted their strange systems of force, chance, fate, necessity, atoms, a living world, animated matter, and every variety of materialism. Then comes the illustrious Clarkewho gives light to the world and proclaims the Being of beingsand the Giver of things. What universal admiration, what unanimousapplause would have greeted this new system--a system so great, soilluminating, and so simple. Other systems are full of absurdities;this system seems to me to contain fewer things which are beyondthe understanding of the human mind. I said to myself, "Everysystem has its insoluble problems, for the finite mind of man istoo small to deal with them; these difficulties are therefore nofinal arguments, against any system. But what a difference thereis between the direct evidence on which these systems are based!Should we not prefer that theory which alone explains all the facts, when it is no more difficult than the rest?"

Bearing thus within my heart the love of truth as my only philosophy, and as my only method a clear and simple rule which dispensed withthe need for vain and subtle arguments, I returned with the helpof this rule to the examination of such knowledge as concernedmyself; I was resolved to admit as self-evident all that I couldnot honestly refuse to believe, and to admit as true all that seemedto follow directly from this; all the rest I determined to leaveundecided, neither accepting nor rejecting it, nor yet troublingmyself to clear up difficulties which did not lead to any practicalends. 

But who am I? What right have I to decide? What is it that determinesmy judgments? If they are inevitable, if they are the results of theimpressions I receive, I am wasting my strength in such inquiries;they would be made or not without any interference of mine. I musttherefore first turn my eyes upon myself to acquaint myself with theinstrument I desire to use, and to discover how far it is reliable. 

I exist, and I have senses through which I receive impressions. This is the first truth that strikes me and I am forced to acceptit. Have I any independent knowledge of my existence, or am I onlyaware of it through my sensations? This is my first difficulty, andso far I cannot solve it. For I continually experience sensations, either directly or indirectly through memory, so how can I know ifthe feeling of self is something beyond these sensations or if itcan exist independently of them?

My sensations take place in myself, for they make me aware of myown existence; but their cause is outside me, for they affect mewhether I have any reason for them or not, and they are producedor destroyed independently of me. So I clearly perceive that mysensation, which is within me, and its cause or its object, whichis outside me, are different things. 

Thus, not only do I exist, but other entities exist also, that isto say, the objects of my sensations; and even if these objectsare merely ideas, still these ideas are not me. 

But everything outside myself, everything which acts upon my senses, I call matter, and all the particles of matter which I suppose to beunited into separate entities I call bodies. Thus all the disputesof the idealists and the realists have no meaning for me; theirdistinctions between the appearance and the reality of bodies arewholly fanciful. 

I am now as convinced of the existence of the universe as ofmy own. I next consider the objects of my sensations, and I findthat I have the power of comparing them, so I perceive that I amendowed with an active force of which I was not previously aware. 

To perceive is to feel; to compare is to judge; to judge and to feelare not the same. Through sensation objects present themselves tome separately and singly as they are in nature; by comparing themI rearrange them, I shift them so to speak, I place one upon anotherto decide whether they are alike or different, or more generallyto find out their relations. To my mind, the distinctive faculty ofan active or intelligent being is the power of understanding thisword "is. " I seek in vain in the merely sensitive entity thatintelligent force which compares and judges; I can find no trace ofit in its nature. This passive entity will be aware of each objectseparately, it will even be aware of the whole formed by the twotogether, but having no power to place them side by side it cannever compare them, it can never form a judgment with regard tothem. 

To see two things at once is not to see their relations nor to judgeof their differences; to perceive several objects, one beyond theother, is not to relate them. I may have at the same moment an ideaof a big stick and a little stick without comparing them, withoutjudging that one is less than the other, just as I can see my wholehand without counting my fingers. [Footnote: M. De le Cordamines'narratives tell of a people who only know how to count up to three. Yet the men of this nation, having hands, have often seen theirfingers without learning to count up to five. ] These comparativeideas, 'greater', 'smaller', together with number ideas of 'one', 'two', etc. Are certainly not sensations, although my mind onlyproduces them when my sensations occur. 

We are told that a sensitive being distinguishes sensations from eachother by the inherent differences in the sensations; this requiresexplanation. When the sensations are different, the sensitivebeing distinguishes them by their differences; when they are alike, he distinguishes them because he is aware of them one beyond theother. Otherwise, how could he distinguish between two equal objectssimultaneously experienced? He would necessarily confound the twoobjects and take them for one object, especially under a systemwhich professed that the representative sensations of space haveno extension. 

When we become aware of the two sensations to be compared, theirimpression is made, each object is perceived, both are perceived, but for all that their relation is not perceived. If the judgmentof this relation were merely a sensation, and came to me solelyfrom the object itself, my judgments would never be mistaken, forit is never untrue that I feel what I feel. 

Why then am I mistaken as to the relation between these two sticks, especially when they are not parallel? Why, for example, do I saythe small stick is a third of the large, when it is only a quarter?Why is the picture, which is the sensation, unlike its model whichis the object? It is because I am active when I judge, becausethe operation of comparison is at fault; because my understanding, which judges of relations, mingles its errors with the truth ofsensations, which only reveal to me things. 

Add to this a consideration which will, I feel sure, appeal toyou when you have thought about it: it is this--If we were purelypassive in the use of our senses, there would be no communicationbetween them; it would be impossible to know that the body we aretouching and the thing we are looking at is the same. Either weshould never perceive anything outside ourselves, or there wouldbe for us five substances perceptible by the senses, whose identitywe should have no means of perceiving. 

This power of my mind which brings my sensations together andcompares them may be called by any name; let it be called attention, meditation, reflection, or what you will; it is still true thatit is in me and not in things, that it is I alone who produce it, though I only produce it when I receive an impression from things. Though I am compelled to feel or not to feel, I am free to examinemore or less what I feel. 

Being now, so to speak, sure of myself, I begin to look at thingsoutside myself, and I behold myself with a sort of shudder flungat random into this vast universe, plunged as it were into the vastnumber of entities, knowing nothing of what they are in themselvesor in relation to me. I study them, I observe them; and the firstobject which suggests itself for comparison with them is myself. 

All that I perceive through the senses is matter, and I deduceall the essential properties of matter from the sensible qualitieswhich make me perceive it, qualities which are inseparable from it. I see it sometimes in motion, sometimes at rest, [Footnote: Thisrepose is, if you prefer it, merely relative; but as we perceivemore or less of motion, we may plainly conceive one of two extremes, which is rest; and we conceive it so clearly that we are evendisposed to take for absolute rest what is only relative. But itis not true that motion is of the essence of matter, if matter maybe conceived of as at rest. ] hence I infer that neither motion norrest is essential to it, but motion, being an action, is the resultof a cause of which rest is only the absence. When, therefore, there is nothing acting upon matter it does not move, and for thevery reason that rest and motion are indifferent to it, its naturalstate is a state of rest. 

I perceive two sorts of motions of bodies, acquired motion andspontaneous or voluntary motion. In the first the cause is externalto the body moved, in the second it is within. I shall not concludefrom that that the motion, say of a watch, is spontaneous, for if noexternal cause operated upon the spring it would run down and thewatch would cease to go. For the same reason I should not admitthat the movements of fluids are spontaneous, neither should Iattribute spontaneous motion to fire which causes their fluidity. [Footnote: Chemists regard phlogiston or the element of fire asdiffused, motionless, and stagnant in the compounds of which itforms part, until external forces set it free, collect it and setit in motion, and change it into fire. ]

You ask me if the movements of animals are spontaneous; my answeris, "I cannot tell, " but analogy points that way. You ask me again, how do I know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, "Iknow it because I feel them. " I want to move my arm and I move itwithout any other immediate cause of the movement but my own will. In vain would any one try to argue me out of this feeling, it isstronger than any proofs; you might as well try to convince me thatI do not exist. 

If there were no spontaneity in men's actions, nor in anythingthat happens on this earth, it would be all the more difficult toimagine a first cause for all motion. For my own part, I feel myselfso thoroughly convinced that the natural state of matter is a stateof rest, and that it has no power of action in itself, that whenI see a body in motion I at once assume that it is either a livingbody or that this motion has been imparted to it. My mind declinesto accept in any way the idea of inorganic matter moving of itsown accord, or giving rise to any action. 

Yet this visible universe consists of matter, matter diffused anddead, [Footnote: I have tried hard to grasp the idea of a livingmolecule, but in vain. The idea of matter feeling without any sensesseems to me unintelligible and self-contradictory. To accept orreject this idea one must first understand it, and I confess thatso far I have not succeeded. ] matter which has none of the cohesion, the organisation, the common feeling of the parts of a living body, for it is certain that we who are parts have no consciousness ofthe whole. This same universe is in motion, and in its movements, ordered, uniform, and subject to fixed laws, it has none of thatfreedom which appears in the spontaneous movements of men andanimals. So the world is not some huge animal which moves of itsown accord; its movements are therefore due to some external cause, a cause which I cannot perceive, but the inner voice makes thiscause so apparent to me that I cannot watch the course of thesun without imagining a force which drives it, and when the earthrevolves I think I see the hand that sets it in motion. 

If I must accept general laws whose essential relation to matteris unperceived by me, how much further have I got? These laws, notbeing real things, not being substances, have therefore some otherbasis unknown to me. Experiment and observation have acquainted uswith the laws of motion; these laws determine the results withoutshowing their causes; they are quite inadequate to explain thesystem of the world and the course of the universe. With the helpof dice Descartes made heaven and earth; but he could not set hisdice in motion, nor start the action of his centrifugal force withoutthe help of rotation. Newton discovered the law of gravitation; butgravitation alone would soon reduce the universe to a motionlessmass; he was compelled to add a projectile force to account forthe elliptical course of the celestial bodies; let Newton show usthe hand that launched the planets in the tangent of their orbits. 

The first causes of motion are not to be found in matter; matterreceives and transmits motion, but does not produce it. The moreI observe the action and reaction of the forces of nature playingon one another, the more I see that we must always go back from oneeffect to another, till we arrive at a first cause in some will;for to assume an infinite succession of causes is to assume thatthere is no first cause. In a word, no motion which is not causedby another motion can take place, except by a spontaneous, voluntaryaction; inanimate bodies have no action but motion, and there isno real action without will. This is my first principle. I believe, therefore, that there is a will which sets the universe in motionand gives life to nature. This is my first dogma, or the firstarticle of my creed. 

How does a will produce a physical and corporeal action? I cannottell, but I perceive that it does so in myself; I will to dosomething and I do it; I will to move my body and it moves, butif an inanimate body, when at rest, should begin to move itself, the thing is incomprehensible and without precedent. The will isknown to me in its action, not in its nature. I know this will asa cause of motion, but to conceive of matter as producing motionis clearly to conceive of an effect without a cause, which is notto conceive at all. 

It is no more possible for me to conceive how my will moves my bodythan to conceive how my sensations affect my mind. I do not evenknow why one of these mysteries has seemed less inexplicable than theother. For my own part, whether I am active or passive, the meansof union of the two substances seem to me absolutely incomprehensible. It is very strange that people make this very incomprehensibility astep towards the compounding of the two substances, as if operationsso different in kind were more easily explained in one case thanin two. 

The doctrine I have just laid down is indeed obscure; but at leastit suggests a meaning and there is nothing in it repugnant to reasonor experience; can we say as much of materialism? Is it not plainthat if motion is essential to matter it would be inseparable fromit, it would always be present in it in the same degree, alwayspresent in every particle of matter, always the same in eachparticle of matter, it would not be capable of transmission, itcould neither increase nor diminish, nor could we ever conceive ofmatter at rest. When you tell me that motion is not essential tomatter but necessary to it, you try to cheat me with words whichwould be easier to refute if there was a little more sense in them. For either the motion of matter arises from the matter itself andis therefore essential to it; or it arises from an external causeand is not necessary to the matter, because the motive cause actsupon it; we have got back to our original difficulty. 

The chief source of human error is to be found in general and abstractideas; the jargon of metaphysics has never led to the discovery ofany single truth, and it has filled philosophy with absurdities ofwhich we are ashamed as soon as we strip them of their long words. Tell me, my friend, when they talk to you of a blind force diffusedthroughout nature, do they present any real idea to your mind? Theythink they are saying something by these vague expressions--universalforce, essential motion--but they are saying nothing at all. The ideaof motion is nothing more than the idea of transference from placeto place; there is no motion without direction; for no individualcan move all ways at once. In what direction then does matter moveof necessity? Has the whole body of matter a uniform motion, orhas each atom its own motion? According to the first idea the wholeuniverse must form a solid and indivisible mass; according to thesecond it can only form a diffused and incoherent fluid, whichwould make the union of any two atoms impossible. What directionshall be taken by this motion common to all matter? Shall it bein a straight line, in a circle, or from above downwards, to theright or to the left? If each molecule has its own direction, whatare the causes of all these directions and all these differences?If every molecule or atom only revolved on its own axis, nothingwould ever leave its place and there would be no transmitted motion, and even then this circular movement would require to follow somedirection. To set matter in motion by an abstraction is to utterwords without meaning, and to attribute to matter a given directionis to assume a determining cause. The more examples I take, themore causes I have to explain, without ever finding a common agentwhich controls them. Far from being able to picture to myself anentire absence of order in the fortuitous concurrence of elements, I cannot even imagine such a strife, and the chaos of the universeis less conceivable to me than its harmony. I can understand thatthe mechanism of the universe may not be intelligible to the humanmind, but when a man sets to work to explain it, he must say whatmen can understand. 

If matter in motion points me to a will, matter in motion accordingto fixed laws points me to an intelligence; that is the second articleof my creed. To act, to compare, to choose, are the operations ofan active, thinking being; so this being exists. Where do you findhim existing, you will say? Not merely in the revolving heavens, nor in the sun which gives us light, not in myself alone, but inthe sheep that grazes, the bird that flies, the stone that falls, and the leaf blown by the wind. 

I judge of the order of the world, although I know nothing of itspurpose, for to judge of this order it is enough for me to comparethe parts one with another, to study their co-operation, theirrelations, and to observe their united action. I know not why theuniverse exists, but I see continually how it is changed; I neverfail to perceive the close connection by which the entities ofwhich it consists lend their aid one to another. I am like a manwho sees the works of a watch for the first time; he is never wearyof admiring the mechanism, though he does not know the use of theinstrument and has never seen its face. I do not know what this isfor, says he, but I see that each part of it is fitted to the rest, I admire the workman in the details of his work, and I am quitecertain that all these wheels only work together in this fashionfor some common end which I cannot perceive. 

Let us compare the special ends, the means, the ordered relationsof every kind, then let us listen to the inner voice of feeling;what healthy mind can reject its evidence? Unless the eyes areblinded by prejudices, can they fail to see that the visible orderof the universe proclaims a supreme intelligence? What sophismsmust be brought together before we fail to understand the harmonyof existence and the wonderful co-operation of every part for themaintenance of the rest? Say what you will of combinations andprobabilities; what do you gain by reducing me to silence if youcannot gain my consent? And how can you rob me of the spontaneousfeeling which, in spite of myself, continually gives you the lie?If organised bodies had come together fortuitously in all sorts ofways before assuming settled forms, if stomachs are made withoutmouths, feet without heads, hands without arms, imperfect organs ofevery kind which died because they could not preserve their life, why do none of these imperfect attempts now meet our eyes; why hasnature at length prescribed laws to herself which she did not atfirst recognise? I must not be surprised if that which is possibleshould happen, and if the improbability of the event is compensatedfor by the number of the attempts. I grant this; yet if any onetold me that printed characters scattered broadcast had producedthe Aeneid all complete, I would not condescend to take a singlestep to verify this falsehood. You will tell me I am forgetting themultitude of attempts. But how many such attempts must I assume tobring the combination within the bounds of probability? For my ownpart the only possible assumption is that the chances are infinityto one that the product is not the work of chance. In addition tothis, chance combinations yield nothing but products of the samenature as the elements combined, so that life and organisation willnot be produced by a flow of atoms, and a chemist when making hiscompounds will never give them thought and feeling in his crucible. [Footnote: Could one believe, if one had not seen it, that humanabsurdity could go so far? Amatus Lusitanus asserts that he saw alittle man an inch long enclosed in a glass, which Julius Camillus, like a second Prometheus, had made by alchemy. Paracelsis (Denatura rerum) teaches the method of making these tiny men, and hemaintains that the pygmies, fauns, satyrs, and nymphs have been madeby chemistry. Indeed I cannot see that there is anything more tobe done, to establish the possibility of these facts, unless itis to assert that organic matter resists the heat of fire and thatits molecules can preserve their life in the hottest furnace. ]

I was surprised and almost shocked when I read Neuwentit. Howcould this man desire to make a book out of the wonders of nature, wonders which show the wisdom of the author of nature? His book wouldhave been as large as the world itself before he had exhausted hissubject, and as soon as we attempt to give details, that greatestwonder of all, the concord and harmony of the whole, escapes us. The mere generation of living organic bodies is the despair of thehuman mind; the insurmountable barrier raised by nature between thevarious species, so that they should not mix with one another, isthe clearest proof of her intention. She is not content to haveestablished order, she has taken adequate measures to prevent thedisturbance of that order. 

There is not a being in the universe which may not be regarded asin some respects the common centre of all, around which they aregrouped, so that they are all reciprocally end and means in relationto each other. The mind is confused and lost amid these innumerablerelations, not one of which is itself confused or lost in thecrowd. What absurd assumptions are required to deduce all thisharmony from the blind mechanism of matter set in motion by chance!In vain do those who deny the unity of intention manifested in therelations of all the parts of this great whole, in vain do theyconceal their nonsense under abstractions, co-ordinations, generalprinciples, symbolic expressions; whatever they do I find itimpossible to conceive of a system of entities so firmly orderedunless I believe in an intelligence that orders them. It is not inmy power to believe that passive and dead matter can have broughtforth living and feeling beings, that blind chance has broughtforth intelligent beings, that that which does not think has broughtforth thinking beings. 

I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise andpowerful will; I see it or rather I feel it, and it is a greatthing to know this. But has this same world always existed, or hasit been created? Is there one source of all things? Are there twoor many? What is their nature? I know not; and what concern is itof mine? When these things become of importance to me I will tryto learn them; till then I abjure these idle speculations, which maytrouble my peace, but cannot affect my conduct nor be comprehendedby my reason. 

Recollect that I am not preaching my own opinion but explainingit. Whether matter is eternal or created, whether its origin ispassive or not, it is still certain that the whole is one, and thatit proclaims a single intelligence; for I see nothing that is notpart of the same ordered system, nothing which does not co-operateto the same end, namely, the conservation of all within theestablished order. This being who wills and can perform his will, this being active through his own power, this being, whoever he maybe, who moves the universe and orders all things, is what I callGod. To this name I add the ideas of intelligence, power, will, which I have brought together, and that of kindness which is theirnecessary consequence; but for all this I know no more of the beingto which I ascribe them. He hides himself alike from my sensesand my understanding; the more I think of him, the more perplexedI am; I know full well that he exists, and that he exists of himselfalone; I know that my existence depends on his, and that everythingI know depends upon him also. I see God everywhere in his works;I feel him within myself; I behold him all around me; but if I tryto ponder him himself, if I try to find out where he is, what heis, what is his substance, he escapes me and my troubled spiritfinds nothing. 

Convinced of my unfitness, I shall never argue about the nature ofGod unless I am driven to it by the feeling of his relations withmyself. Such reasonings are always rash; a wise man should ventureon them with trembling, he should be certain that he can neversound their abysses; for the most insolent attitude towards God isnot to abstain from thinking of him, but to think evil of him. 

After the discovery of such of his attributes as enable me to conceiveof his existence, I return to myself, and I try to discover what ismy place in the order of things which he governs, and I can myselfexamine. At once, and beyond possibility of doubt, I discover myspecies; for by my own will and the instruments I can control tocarry out my will, I have more power to act upon all bodies aboutme, either to make use of or to avoid their action at my pleasure, than any of them has power to act upon me against my will by merephysical impulsion; and through my intelligence I am the only onewho can examine all the rest. What being here below, except man, can observe others, measure, calculate, forecast their motions, their effects, and unite, so to speak, the feeling of a commonexistence with that of his individual existence? What is there soabsurd in the thought that all things are made for me, when I alonecan relate all things to myself?

It is true, therefore, that man is lord of the earth on which hedwells; for not only does he tame all the beasts, not only does hecontrol its elements through his industry; but he alone knows howto control it; by contemplation he takes possession of the starswhich he cannot approach. Show me any other creature on earth whocan make a fire and who can behold with admiration the sun. What!can I observe and know all creatures and their relations; canI feel what is meant by order, beauty, and virtue; can I considerthe universe and raise myself towards the hand that guides it; canI love good and perform it; and should I then liken myself to thebeasts? Wretched soul, it is your gloomy philosophy which makesyou like the beasts; or rather in vain do you seek to degradeyourself; your genius belies your principles, your kindly heartbelies your doctrines, and even the abuse of your powers provestheir excellence in your own despite. 

For myself, I am not pledged to the support of any system. I am aplain and honest man, one who is not carried away by party spirit, one who has no ambition to be head of a sect; I am content withthe place where God has set me; I see nothing, next to God himself, which is better than my species; and if I had to choose my place inthe order of creation, what more could I choose than to be a man!

I am not puffed up by this thought, I am deeply moved by it; forthis state was no choice of mine, it was not due to the desertsof a creature who as yet did not exist. Can I behold myself thusdistinguished without congratulating myself on this post of honour, without blessing the hand which bestowed it? The first return toself has given birth to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulnessto the author of my species, and this feeling calls forth my firsthomage to the beneficent Godhead. I worship his Almighty power andmy heart acknowledges his mercies. Is it not a natural consequenceof our self-love to honour our protector and to love our benefactor?

But when, in my desire to discover my own place within my species, I consider its different ranks and the men who fill them, where amI now? What a sight meets my eyes! Where is now the order I perceived?Nature showed me a scene of harmony and proportion; the human raceshows me nothing but confusion and disorder. The elements agreetogether; men are in a state of chaos. The beasts are happy; theirking alone is wretched. O Wisdom, where are thy laws? O Providence, is this thy rule over the world? Merciful God, where is thy Power?I behold the earth, and there is evil upon it. 

Would you believe it, dear friend, from these gloomy thoughts andapparent contradictions, there was shaped in my mind the sublimeidea of the soul, which all my seeking had hitherto failed todiscover? While I meditated upon man's nature, I seemed to discovertwo distinct principles in it; one of them raised him to the studyof the eternal truths, to the love of justice, and of true morality, to the regions of the world of thought, which the wise delight tocontemplate; the other led him downwards to himself, made him theslave of his senses, of the passions which are their instruments, and thus opposed everything suggested to him by the former principle. When I felt myself carried away, distracted by these conflictingmotives, I said, No; man is not one; I will and I will not; I feelmyself at once a slave and a free man; I perceive what is right, Ilove it, and I do what is wrong; I am active when I listen to thevoice of reason; I am passive when I am carried away by my passions;and when I yield, my worst suffering is the knowledge that I mighthave resisted. 

Young man, hear me with confidence. I will always be honest withyou. If conscience is the creature of prejudice, I am certainlywrong, and there is no such thing as a proof of morality; but ifto put oneself first is an inclination natural to man, and if thefirst sentiment of justice is moreover inborn in the human heart, let those who say man is a simple creature remove these contradictionsand I will grant that there is but one substance. 

You will note that by this term 'substance' I understand generallythe being endowed with some primitive quality, apart from all specialand secondary modifications. If then all the primitive qualitieswhich are known to us can be united in one and the same being, weshould only acknowledge one substance; but if there are qualitieswhich are mutually exclusive, there are as many different substancesas there are such exclusions. You will think this over; for myown part, whatever Locke may say, it is enough for me to recognisematter as having merely extension and divisibility to convincemyself that it cannot think, and if a philosopher tells me thattrees feel and rocks think [Footnote: It seems to me that modernphilosophy, far from saying that rocks think, has discovered thatmen do not think. It perceives nothing more in nature than sensitivebeings; and the only difference it finds between a man and a stoneis that a man is a sensitive being which experiences sensations, anda stone is a sensitive being which does not experience sensations. But if it is true that all matter feels, where shall I find thesensitive unit, the individual ego? Shall it be in each molecule ofmatter or in bodies as aggregates of molecules? Shall I place thisunity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements? Youtell me nature consists of individuals. But what are these individuals?Is that stone an individual or an aggregate of individuals? Isit a single sensitive being, or are there as many beings in it asthere are grains of sand? If every elementary atom is a sensitivebeing, how shall I conceive of that intimate communication by whichone feels within the other, so that their two egos are blended inone? Attraction may be a law of nature whose mystery is unknown tous; but at least we conceive that there is nothing in attractionacting in proportion to mass which is contrary to extension anddivisibility. Can you conceive of sensation in the same way? Thesensitive parts have extension, but the sensitive being is one andindivisible; he cannot be cut in two, he is a whole or he is nothing;therefore the sensitive being is not a material body. I know nothow our materialists understand it, but it seems to me that thesame difficulties which have led them to reject thought, shouldhave made them also reject feeling; and I see no reason why, whenthe first step has been taken, they should not take the secondtoo; what more would it cost them? Since they are certain they donot think, why do they dare to affirm that they feel?] in vain willhe perplex me with his cunning arguments; I merely regard him asa dishonest sophist, who prefers to say that stones have feelingrather than that men have souls. 

Suppose a deaf man denies the existence of sounds because he hasnever heard them. I put before his eyes a stringed instrument andcause it to sound in unison by means of another instrument concealedfrom him; the deaf man sees the chord vibrate. I tell him, "Thesound makes it do that. " "Not at all, " says he, "the string itselfis the cause of the vibration; to vibrate in that way is a qualitycommon to all bodies. " "Then show me this vibration in otherbodies, " I answer, "or at least show me its cause in this string. ""I cannot, " replies the deaf man; "but because I do not understandhow that string vibrates why should I try to explain it by means ofyour sounds, of which I have not the least idea? It is explainingone obscure fact by means of a cause still more obscure. Make meperceive your sounds; or I say there are no such things. "

The more I consider thought and the nature of the human mind, themore likeness I find between the arguments of the materialists andthose of the deaf man. Indeed, they are deaf to the inner voicewhich cries aloud to them, in a tone which can hardly be mistaken. A machine does not think, there is neither movement nor form whichcan produce reflection; something within thee tries to break thebands which confine it; space is not thy measure, the whole universedoes not suffice to contain thee; thy sentiments, thy desires, thyanxiety, thy pride itself, have another origin than this small bodyin which thou art imprisoned. 

No material creature is in itself active, and I am active. In vaindo you argue this point with me; I feel it, and it is this feelingwhich speaks to me more forcibly than the reason which disputes it. I have a body which is acted upon by other bodies, and it acts inturn upon them; there is no doubt about this reciprocal action;but my will is independent of my senses; I consent or I resist;I yield or I win the victory, and I know very well in myself whenI have done what I wanted and when I have merely given way tomy passions. I have always the power to will, but not always thestrength to do what I will. When I yield to temptation I surrendermyself to the action of external objects. When I blame myself forthis weakness, I listen to my own will alone; I am a slave in myvices, a free man in my remorse; the feeling of freedom is nevereffaced in me but when I myself do wrong, and when I at lengthprevent the voice of the soul from protesting against the authorityof the body. 

I am only aware of will through the consciousness of my own will, and intelligence is no better known to me. When you ask me whatis the cause which determines my will, it is my turn to ask whatcause determines my judgment; for it is plain that these two causesare but one; and if you understand clearly that man is active inhis judgments, that his intelligence is only the power to compareand judge, you will see that his freedom is only a similar poweror one derived from this; he chooses between good and evil as hejudges between truth and falsehood; if his judgment is at fault, hechooses amiss. What then is the cause that determines his will? Itis his judgment. And what is the cause that determines his judgment?It is his intelligence, his power of judging; the determining causeis in himself. Beyond that, I understand nothing. 

No doubt I am not free not to desire my own welfare, I am not freeto desire my own hurt; but my freedom consists in this very thing, that I can will what is for my own good, or what I esteem as such, without any external compulsion. Does it follow that I am not myown master because I cannot be other than myself?

The motive power of all action is in the will of a free creature; wecan go no farther. It is not the word freedom that is meaningless, butthe word necessity. To suppose some action which is not the effectof an active motive power is indeed to suppose effects withoutcause, to reason in a vicious circle. Either there is no originalimpulse, or every original impulse has no antecedent cause, andthere is no will properly so-called without freedom. Man is thereforefree to act, and as such he is animated by an immaterial substance;that is the third article of my creed. From these three you willeasily deduce the rest, so that I need not enumerate them. 

If man is at once active and free, he acts of his own accord; whathe does freely is no part of the system marked out by Providenceand it cannot be imputed to Providence. Providence does not willthe evil that man does when he misuses the freedom given to him;neither does Providence prevent him doing it, either because thewrong done by so feeble a creature is as nothing in its eyes, orbecause it could not prevent it without doing a greater wrong anddegrading his nature. Providence has made him free that he maychoose the good and refuse the evil. It has made him capable of thischoice if he uses rightly the faculties bestowed upon him, but ithas so strictly limited his powers that the misuse of his freedomcannot disturb the general order. The evil that man does reactsupon himself without affecting the system of the world, withoutpreventing the preservation of the human species in spite ofitself. To complain that God does not prevent us from doing wrongis to complain because he has made man of so excellent a nature, that he has endowed his actions with that morality by which theyare ennobled, that he has made virtue man's birthright. Supremehappiness consists in self-content; that we may gain this self-contentwe are placed upon this earth and endowed with freedom, we aretempted by our passions and restrained by conscience. What morecould divine power itself have done on our behalf? Could it have madeour nature a contradiction, and have given the prize of well-doingto one who was incapable of evil? To prevent a man from wickedness, should Providence have restricted him to instinct and made hima fool? Not so, O God of my soul, I will never reproach thee thatthou hast created me in thine own image, that I may be free andgood and happy like my Maker!

It is the abuse of our powers that makes us unhappy and wicked. Our cares, our sorrows, our sufferings are of our own making. Moralills are undoubtedly the work of man, and physical ills would benothing but for our vices which have made us liable to them. Hasnot nature made us feel our needs as a means to our preservation!Is not bodily suffering a sign that the machine is out of orderand needs attention? Death.... Do not the wicked poison their ownlife and ours? Who would wish to live for ever? Death is the curefor the evils you bring upon yourself; nature would not have yousuffer perpetually. How few sufferings are felt by man living ina state of primitive simplicity! His life is almost entirely freefrom suffering and from passion; he neither fears nor feels death;if he feels it, his sufferings make him desire it; henceforth itis no evil in his eyes. If we were but content to be ourselves weshould have no cause to complain of our lot; but in the search foran imaginary good we find a thousand real ills. He who cannot beara little pain must expect to suffer greatly. If a man injures hisconstitution by dissipation, you try to cure him with medicine;the ill he fears is added to the ill he feels; the thought ofdeath makes it horrible and hastens its approach; the more we seekto escape from it, the more we are aware of it; and we go throughlife in the fear of death, blaming nature for the evils we haveinflicted on ourselves by our neglect of her laws. 

O Man! seek no further for the author of evil; thou art he. Thereis no evil but the evil you do or the evil you suffer, and bothcome from yourself. Evil in general can only spring from disorder, and in the order of the world I find a never failing system. Evilin particular cases exists only in the mind of those who experienceit; and this feeling is not the gift of nature, but the work ofman himself. Pain has little power over those who, having thoughtlittle, look neither before nor after. Take away our fatal progress, take away our faults and our vices, take away man's handiwork, andall is well. 

Where all is well, there is no such thing as injustice. Justice andgoodness are inseparable; now goodness is the necessary result ofboundless power and of that self-love which is innate in all sentientbeings. The omnipotent projects himself, so to speak, into the beingof his creatures. Creation and preservation are the everlastingwork of power; it does not act on that which has no existence; Godis not the God of the dead; he could not harm and destroy withoutinjury to himself. The omnipotent can only will what is good. [Footnote: The ancients were right when they called the supremeGod Optimus Maximus, but it would have been better to say MaximusOptimus, for his goodness springs from his power, he is goodbecause he is great. ] Therefore he who is supremely good, becausehe is supremely powerful, must also be supremely just, otherwisehe would contradict himself; for that love of order which createsorder we call goodness and that love of order which preserves orderwe call justice. 

Men say God owes nothing to his creatures. I think he owes themall he promised when he gave them their being. Now to give themthe idea of something good and to make them feel the need of it, is to promise it to them. The more closely I study myself, the morecarefully I consider, the more plainly do I read these words, "Bejust and you will be happy. " It is not so, however, in the presentcondition of things, the wicked prospers and the oppression of therighteous continues. Observe how angry we are when this expectationis disappointed. Conscience revolts and murmurs against her Creator;she exclaims with cries and groans, "Thou hast deceived me. "

"I have deceived thee, rash soul! Who told thee this? Is thy souldestroyed? Hast thou ceased to exist? O Brutus! O my son! let therebe no stain upon the close of thy noble life; do not abandon thyhope and thy glory with thy corpse upon the plains of Philippi. Why dost thou say, 'Virtue is naught, ' when thou art about to enjoythe reward of virtue? Thou art about to die! Nay, thou shalt live, and thus my promise is fulfilled. "

One might judge from the complaints of impatient men that God owesthem the reward before they have deserved it, that he is bound topay for virtue in advance. Oh! let us first be good and then weshall be happy. Let us not claim the prize before we have won it, nor demand our wages before we have finished our work. "It is notin the lists that we crown the victors in the sacred games, " saysPlutarch, "it is when they have finished their course. "

If the soul is immaterial, it may survive the body; and ifit so survives, Providence is justified. Had I no other proof ofthe immaterial nature of the soul, the triumph of the wicked andthe oppression of the righteous in this world would be enough toconvince me. I should seek to resolve so appalling a discord in theuniversal harmony. I should say to myself, "All is not over withlife, everything finds its place at death. " I should still have toanswer the question, "What becomes of man when all we know of himthrough our senses has vanished?" This question no longer presentsany difficulty to me when I admit the two substances. It is easyto understand that what is imperceptible to those senses escapesme, during my bodily life, when I perceive through my senses only. When the union of soul and body is destroyed, I think one may bedissolved and the other may be preserved. Why should the destructionof the one imply the destruction of the other? On the contrary, sounlike in their nature, they were during their union in a highlyunstable condition, and when this union comes to an end they bothreturn to their natural state; the active vital substance regainsall the force which it expended to set in motion the passive deadsubstance. Alas! my vices make me only too well aware that man isbut half alive during this life; the life of the soul only beginswith the death of the body. 

But what is that life? Is the soul of man in its nature immortal?I know not. My finite understanding cannot hold the infinite; whatis called eternity eludes my grasp. What can I assert or deny, howcan I reason with regard to what I cannot conceive? I believe thatthe soul survives the body for the maintenance of order; who knowsif this is enough to make it eternal? However, I know that thebody is worn out and destroyed by the division of its parts, butI cannot conceive a similar destruction of the conscious nature, and as I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume that it does notdie. As this assumption is consoling and in itself not unreasonable, why should I fear to accept it?

I am aware of my soul; it is known to me in feeling and in thought;I know what it is without knowing its essence; I cannot reasonabout ideas which are unknown to me. What I do know is this, thatmy personal identity depends upon memory, and that to be indeedthe same self I must remember that I have existed. Now after deathI could not recall what I was when alive unless I also rememberedwhat I felt and therefore what I did; and I have no doubt thatthis remembrance will one day form the happiness of the good andthe torment of the bad. In this world our inner consciousness isabsorbed by the crowd of eager passions which cheat remorse. Thehumiliation and disgrace involved in the practice of virtue do notpermit us to realise its charm. But when, freed from the illusionsof the bodily senses, we behold with joy the supreme Being andthe eternal truths which flow from him; when all the powers of oursoul are alive to the beauty of order and we are wholly occupied incomparing what we have done with what we ought to have done, thenit is that the voice of conscience will regain its strength and sway;then it is that the pure delight which springs from self-content, and the sharp regret for our own degradation of that self, willdecide by means of overpowering feeling what shall be the fatewhich each has prepared for himself. My good friend, do not ask mewhether there are other sources of happiness or suffering; I cannottell; that which my fancy pictures is enough to console me in thislife and to bid me look for a life to come. I do not say the goodwill be rewarded, for what greater good can a truly good being expectthan to exist in accordance with his nature? But I do assert thatthe good will be happy, because their maker, the author of alljustice, who has made them capable of feeling, has not made themthat they may suffer; moreover, they have not abused their freedomupon earth and they have not changed their fate through any faultof their own; yet they have suffered in this life and it will be madeup to them in the life to come. This feeling relies not so much onman's deserts as on the idea of good which seems to me inseparablefrom the divine essence. I only assume that the laws of order areconstant and that God is true to himself. 

Do not ask me whether the torments of the wicked will endure forever, whether the goodness of their creator can condemn them tothe eternal suffering; again, I cannot tell, and I have no emptycuriosity for the investigation of useless problems. How does thefate of the wicked concern me? I take little interest in it. Allthe same I find it hard to believe that they will be condemned toeverlasting torments. If the supreme justice calls for vengeance, it claims it in this life. The nations of the world with their errorsare its ministers. Justice uses self-inflicted ills to punish thecrimes which have deserved them. It is in your own insatiable souls, devoured by envy, greed, and ambition, it is in the midst of yourfalse prosperity, that the avenging passions find the due rewardof your crimes. What need to seek a hell in the future life? It ishere in the breast of the wicked. 

When our fleeting needs are over, and our mad desires are at rest, there should also be an end of our passions and our crimes. Canpure spirits be capable of any perversity? Having need of nothing, why should they be wicked? If they are free from our gross senses, if their happiness consists in the contemplation of other beings, they can only desire what is good; and he who ceases to be bad cannever be miserable. This is what I am inclined to think though Ihave not been at the pains to come to any decision. O God, mercifuland good, whatever thy decrees may be I adore them; if thou shouldstcommit the wicked to everlasting punishment, I abandon my feeblereason to thy justice; but if the remorse of these wretched beingsshould in the course of time be extinguished, if their sufferingsshould come to an end, and if the same peace shall one day be thelot of all mankind, I give thanks to thee for this. Is not thewicked my brother? How often have I been tempted to be like him?Let him be delivered from his misery and freed from the spirit ofhatred that accompanied it; let him be as happy as I myself; hishappiness, far from arousing my jealousy, will only increase myown. 

Thus it is that, in the contemplation of God in his works, and inthe study of such of his attributes as it concerned me to know, I have slowly grasped and developed the idea, at first partialand imperfect, which I have formed of this Infinite Being. But ifthis idea has become nobler and greater it is also more suited tothe human reason. As I approach in spirit the eternal light, I amconfused and dazzled by its glory, and compelled to abandon allthe earthly notions which helped me to picture it to myself. Godis no longer corporeal and sensible; the supreme mind which rulesthe world is no longer the world itself; in vain do I strive tograsp his inconceivable essence. When I think that it is he thatgives life and movement to the living and moving substance whichcontrols all living bodies; when I hear it said that my soul isspiritual and that God is a spirit, I revolt against this abasementof the divine essence; as if God and my soul were of one and thesame nature! As if God were not the one and only absolute being, the only really active, feeling, thinking, willing being, from whomwe derive our thought, feeling, motion, will, our freedom and ourvery existence! We are free because he wills our freedom, and hisinexplicable substance is to our souls what our souls are to ourbodies. I know not whether he has created matter, body, soul, theworld itself. The idea of creation confounds me and eludes my grasp;so far as I can conceive of it I believe it; but I know that he hasformed the universe and all that is, that he has made and orderedall things. No doubt God is eternal; but can my mind grasp the ideaof eternity? Why should I cheat myself with meaningless words?This is what I do understand; before things were--God was; he willbe when they are no more, and if all things come to an end he willstill endure. That a being beyond my comprehension should give lifeto other beings, this is merely difficult and beyond my understanding;but that Being and Nothing should be convertible terms, this isindeed a palpable contradiction, an evident absurdity. 

God is intelligent, but how? Man is intelligent when he reasons, butthe Supreme Intelligence does not need to reason; there is neitherpremise nor conclusion for him, there is not even a proposition. The Supreme Intelligence is wholly intuitive, it sees what is andwhat shall be; all truths are one for it, as all places are but onepoint and all time but one moment. Man's power makes use of means, the divine power is self-active. God can because he wills; hiswill is his power. God is good; this is certain; but man finds hishappiness in the welfare of his kind. God's happiness consists inthe love of order; for it is through order that he maintains whatis, and unites each part in the whole. God is just; of this I amsure, it is a consequence of his goodness; man's injustice is notGod's work, but his own; that moral justice which seems to thephilosophers a presumption against Providence, is to me a proof ofits existence. But man's justice consists in giving to each hisdue; God's justice consists in demanding from each of us an accountof that which he has given us. 

If I have succeeded in discerning these attributes of which I haveno absolute idea, it is in the form of unavoidable deductions, andby the right use of my reason; but I affirm them without understandingthem, and at bottom that is no affirmation at all. In vain do Isay, God is thus, I feel it, I experience it, none the more do Iunderstand how God can be thus. 

In a word: the more I strive to envisage his infinite essence theless do I comprehend it; but it is, and that is enough for me; theless I understand, the more I adore. I abase myself, saying, "Beingof beings, I am because thou art; to fix my thoughts on thee isto ascend to the source of my being. The best use I can make of myreason is to resign it before thee; my mind delights, my weaknessrejoices, to feel myself overwhelmed by thy greatness. "

Having thus deduced from the perception of objects of sense andfrom my inner consciousness, which leads me to judge of causes bymy native reason, the principal truths which I require to know, Imust now seek such principles of conduct as I can draw from them, and such rules as I must lay down for my guidance in the fulfilmentof my destiny in this world, according to the purpose of my Maker. Still following the same method, I do not derive these rules fromthe principles of the higher philosophy, I find them in the depthsof my heart, traced by nature in characters which nothing can efface. I need only consult myself with regard to what I wish to do; whatI feel to be right is right, what I feel to be wrong is wrong;conscience is the best casuist; and it is only when we haggle withconscience that we have recourse to the subtleties of argument. Our first duty is towards ourself; yet how often does the voice ofothers tell us that in seeking our good at the expense of otherswe are doing ill? We think we are following the guidance of nature, and we are resisting it; we listen to what she says to our senses, and we neglect what she says to our heart; the active being obeys, the passive commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, thepassions are the voice of the body. It is strange that these voicesoften contradict each other? And then to which should we give heed?Too often does reason deceive us; we have only too good a right todoubt her; but conscience never deceives us; she is the true guideof man; it is to the soul what instinct is to the body, [Footnote:Modern philosophy, which only admits what it can understand, iscareful not to admit this obscure power called instinct which seemsto guide the animals to some end without any acquired experience. Instinct, according to some of our wise philosophers, is only asecret habit of reflection, acquired by reflection; and from theway in which they explain this development one ought to supposethat children reflect more than grown-up people: a paradox strangeenough to be worth examining. Without entering upon this discussion Imust ask what name I shall give to the eagerness with which my dogmakes war on the moles he does not eat, or to the patience withwhich he sometimes watches them for hours and the skill with whichhe seizes them, throws them to a distance from their earth as soonas they emerge, and then kills them and leaves them. Yet no onehas trained him to this sport, nor even told him there were suchthings as moles. Again, I ask, and this is a more important question, why, when I threatened this same dog for the first time, why didhe throw himself on the ground with his paws folded, in such asuppliant attitude ..... Calculated to touch me, a position whichhe would have maintained if, without being touched by it, I hadcontinued to beat him in that position? What! Had my dog, littlemore than a puppy, acquired moral ideas? Did he know the meaningof mercy and generosity? By what acquired knowledge did he seekto appease my wrath by yielding to my discretion? Every dog in theworld does almost the same thing in similar circumstances, and Iam asserting nothing but what any one can verify for himself. Willthe philosophers, who so scornfully reject instinct, kindly explainthis fact by the mere play of sensations and experience which theyassume we have acquired? Let them give an account of it which willsatisfy any sensible man; in that case I have nothing further tourge, and I will say no more of instinct. ] he who obeys his conscienceis following nature and he need not fear that he will go astray. This is a matter of great importance, continued my benefactor, seeing that I was about to interrupt him; let me stop awhile toexplain it more fully. 

The morality of our actions consists entirely in the judgments weourselves form with regard to them. If good is good, it must begood in the depth of our heart as well as in our actions; and thefirst reward of justice is the consciousness that we are actingjustly. If moral goodness is in accordance with our nature, man canonly be healthy in mind and body when he is good. If it is not so, and if man is by nature evil, he cannot cease to be evil withoutcorrupting his nature, and goodness in him is a crime againstnature. If he is made to do harm to his fellow-creatures, as thewolf is made to devour his prey, a humane man would be as depraveda creature as a pitiful wolf; and virtue alone would cause remorse. 

My young friend, let us look within, let us set aside all personalprejudices and see whither our inclinations lead us. Do we takemore pleasure in the sight of the sufferings of others or theirjoys? Is it pleasanter to do a kind action or an unkind action, and which leaves the more delightful memory behind it? Why do youenjoy the theatre? Do you delight in the crimes you behold? Do youweep over the punishment which overtakes the criminal? They saywe are indifferent to everything but self-interest; yet we findour consolation in our sufferings in the charms of friendship andhumanity, and even in our pleasures we should be too lonely andmiserable if we had no one to share them with us. If there is nosuch thing as morality in man's heart, what is the source of hisrapturous admiration of noble deeds, his passionate devotion togreat men? What connection is there between self-interest and thisenthusiasm for virtue? Why should I choose to be Cato dying by hisown hand, rather than Caesar in his triumphs? Take from our heartsthis love of what is noble and you rob us of the joy of life. Themean-spirited man in whom these delicious feelings have been stifledamong vile passions, who by thinking of no one but himself comesat last to love no one but himself, this man feels no raptures, hiscold heart no longer throbs with joy, and his eyes no longer fillwith the sweet tears of sympathy, he delights in nothing; the wretchhas neither life nor feeling, he is already dead. 

There are many bad men in this world, but there are few of thesedead souls, alive only to self-interest, and insensible to all thatis right and good. We only delight in injustice so long as it isto our own advantage; in every other case we wish the innocent tobe protected. If we see some act of violence or injustice in townor country, our hearts are at once stirred to their depths by aninstinctive anger and wrath, which bids us go to the help of theoppressed; but we are restrained by a stronger duty, and the lawdeprives us of our right to protect the innocent. On the other hand, if some deed of mercy or generosity meets our eye, what reverenceand love does it inspire! Do we not say to ourselves, "I shouldlike to have done that myself"? What does it matter to us that twothousand years ago a man was just or unjust? and yet we take thesame interest in ancient history as if it happened yesterday. Whatare the crimes of Cataline to me? I shall not be his victim. Whythen have I the same horror of his crimes as if he were livingnow? We do not hate the wicked merely because of the harm they doto ourselves, but because they are wicked. Not only do we wish tobe happy ourselves, we wish others to be happy too, and if thishappiness does not interfere with our own happiness, it increasesit. In conclusion, whether we will or not, we pity the unfortunate;when we see their suffering we suffer too. Even the most depravedare not wholly without this instinct, and it often leads them toself-contradiction. The highwayman who robs the traveller, clothesthe nakedness of the poor; the fiercest murderer supports a faintingman. 

Men speak of the voice of remorse, the secret punishment of hiddencrimes, by which such are often brought to light. Alas! who doesnot know its unwelcome voice? We speak from experience, and wewould gladly stifle this imperious feeling which causes us suchagony. Let us obey the call of nature; we shall see that her yokeis easy and that when we give heed to her voice we find a joy inthe answer of a good conscience. The wicked fears and flees fromher; he delights to escape from himself; his anxious eyes lookaround him for some object of diversion; without bitter satire andrude mockery he would always be sorrowful; the scornful laugh ishis one pleasure. Not so the just man, who finds his peace withinhimself; there is joy not malice in his laughter, a joy whichsprings from his own heart; he is as cheerful alone as in company, his satisfaction does not depend on those who approach him; itincludes them. 

Cast your eyes over every nation of the world; peruse every volumeof its history; in the midst of all these strange and cruel formsof worship, among this amazing variety of manners and customs, youwill everywhere find the same ideas of right and justice; everywherethe same principles of morality, the same ideas of good and evil. The old paganism gave birth to abominable gods who would have beenpunished as scoundrels here below, gods who merely offered, as apicture of supreme happiness, crimes to be committed and lust tobe gratified. But in vain did vice descend from the abode of thegods armed with their sacred authority; the moral instinct refused toadmit it into the heart of man. While the debaucheries of Jupiterwere celebrated, the continence of Xenocrates was revered; thechaste Lucrece adored the shameless Venus; the bold Roman offeredsacrifices to Fear; he invoked the god who mutilated his father, and he died without a murmur at the hand of his own father. Themost unworthy gods were worshipped by the noblest men. The sacredvoice of nature was stronger than the voice of the gods, and wonreverence upon earth; it seemed to relegate guilt and the guiltyalike to heaven. 

There is therefore at the bottom of our hearts an innate principleof justice and virtue, by which, in spite of our maxims, we judgeour own actions or those of others to be good or evil; and it isthis principle that I call conscience. 

But at this word I hear the murmurs of all the wise men so-called. Childish errors, prejudices of our upbringing, they exclaim inconcert! There is nothing in the human mind but what it has gainedby experience; and we judge everything solely by means of the ideaswe have acquired. They go further; they even venture to reject theclear and universal agreement of all peoples, and to set againstthis striking unanimity in the judgment of mankind, they seek outsome obscure exception known to themselves alone; as if the wholetrend of nature were rendered null by the depravity of a singlenation, and as if the existence of monstrosities made an endof species. But to what purpose does the sceptic Montaigne strivehimself to unearth in some obscure corner of the world a customwhich is contrary to the ideas of justice? To what purpose doeshe credit the most untrustworthy travellers, while he refuses tobelieve the greatest writers? A few strange and doubtful customs, based on local causes, unknown to us; shall these destroy a generalinference based on the agreement of all the nations of the earth, differing from each other in all else, but agreed in this? OMontaigne, you pride yourself on your truth and honesty; be sincereand truthful, if a philosopher can be so, and tell me if there isany country upon earth where it is a crime to keep one's plightedword, to be merciful, helpful, and generous, where the good man isscorned, and the traitor is held in honour. 

Self-interest, so they say, induces each of us to agree for thecommon good. But bow is it that the good man consents to this tohis own hurt? Does a man go to death from self-interest? No doubteach man acts for his own good, but if there is no such thing asmoral good to be taken into consideration, self-interest will onlyenable you to account for the deeds of the wicked; possibly youwill not attempt to do more. A philosophy which could find no placefor good deeds would be too detestable; you would find yourselfcompelled either to find some mean purpose, some wicked motive, orto abuse Socrates and slander Regulus. If such doctrines ever tookroot among us, the voice of nature, together with the voice ofreason, would constantly protest against them, till no adherent ofsuch teaching could plead an honest excuse for his partisanship. 

It is no part of my scheme to enter at present into metaphysicaldiscussions which neither you nor I can understand, discussionswhich really lead nowhere. I have told you already that I do notwish to philosophise with you, but to help you to consult your ownheart. If all the philosophers in the world should prove that I amwrong, and you feel that I am right, that is all I ask. 

For this purpose it is enough to lead you to distinguish betweenour acquired ideas and our natural feelings; for feeling precedesknowledge; and since we do not learn to seek what is good for usand avoid what is bad for us, but get this desire from nature, inthe same way the love of good and the hatred of evil are as naturalto us as our self-love. The decrees of conscience are not judgmentsbut feelings. Although all our ideas come from without, the feelingsby which they are weighed are within us, and it is by these feelingsalone that we perceive fitness or unfitness of things in relationto ourselves, which leads us to seek or shun these things. 

To exist is to feel; our feeling is undoubtedly earlier than ourintelligence, and we had feelings before we had ideas. [Footnote:In some respects ideas are feelings and feelings are ideas. Bothterms are appropriate to any perception with which we are concerned, appropriate both to the object of that perception and to ourselveswho are affected by it; it is merely the order in which we areaffected which decides the appropriate term. When we are chieflyconcerned with the object and only think of ourselves as it were byreflection, that is an idea; when, on the other hand, the impressionreceived excites our chief attention and we only think in the secondplace of the object which caused it, it is a feeling. ] Whatever maybe the cause of our being, it has provided for our preservation bygiving us feelings suited to our nature; and no one can deny thatthese at least are innate. These feelings, so far as the individualis concerned, are self-love, fear, pain, the dread of death, thedesire for comfort. Again, if, as it is impossible to doubt, manis by nature sociable, or at least fitted to become sociable, hecan only be so by means of other innate feelings, relative to hiskind; for if only physical well-being were considered, men wouldcertainly be scattered rather than brought together. But the motivepower of conscience is derived from the moral system formed throughthis twofold relation to himself and to his fellow-men. To knowgood is not to love it; this knowledge is not innate in man; but assoon as his reason leads him to perceive it, his conscience impelshim to love it; it is this feeling which is innate. 

So I do not think, my young friend, that it is impossible to explainthe immediate force of conscience as a result of our own nature, independent of reason itself. And even should it be impossible, it is unnecessary; for those who deny this principle, admitted andreceived by everybody else in the world, do not prove that thereis no such thing; they are content to affirm, and when we affirmits existence we have quite as good grounds as they, while we havemoreover the witness within us, the voice of conscience, whichspeaks on its own behalf. If the first beams of judgment dazzleus and confuse the objects we behold, let us wait till our feeblesight grows clear and strong, and in the light of reason we shallsoon behold these very objects as nature has already showed themto us. Or rather let us be simpler and less pretentious; let us becontent with the first feelings we experience in ourselves, sincescience always brings us back to these, unless it has led us astray. 

Conscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice fromheaven; sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yetintelligent and free; infallible judge of good and evil, makingman like to God! In thee consists the excellence of man's natureand the morality of his actions; apart from thee, I find nothing inmyself to raise me above the beasts--nothing but the sad privilegeof wandering from one error to another, by the help of an unbridledunderstanding and a reason which knows no principle. 

Thank heaven we have now got rid of all that alarming show ofphilosophy; we may be men without being scholars; now that we neednot spend our life in the study of morality, we have found a lesscostly and surer guide through this vast labyrinth of human thought. But it is not enough to be aware that there is such a guide;we must know her and follow her. If she speaks to all hearts, howis it that so few give heed to her voice? She speaks to us in thelanguage of nature, and everything leads us to forget that tongue. Conscience is timid, she loves peace and retirement; she is startledby noise and numbers; the prejudices from which she is said to ariseare her worst enemies. She flees before them or she is silent; theirnoisy voices drown her words, so that she cannot get a hearing;fanaticism dares to counterfeit her voice and to inspire crimesin her name. She is discouraged by ill-treatment; she no longerspeaks to us, no longer answers to our call; when she has beenscorned so long, it is as hard to recall her as it was to banishher. 

How often in the course of my inquiries have I grown weary of myown coldness of heart! How often have grief and weariness pouredtheir poison into my first meditations and made them hateful to me!My barren heart yielded nothing but a feeble zeal and a lukewarmlove of truth. I said to myself: Why should I strive to find whatdoes not exist? Moral good is a dream, the pleasures of senseare the only real good. When once we have lost the taste for thepleasures of the soul, how hard it is to recover it! How much moredifficult to acquire it if we have never possessed it! If therewere any man so wretched as never to have done anything all his lifelong which he could remember with pleasure, and which would make himglad to have lived, that man would be incapable of self-knowledge, and for want of knowledge of goodness, of which his nature iscapable, he would be constrained to remain in his wickedness andwould be for ever miserable. But do you think there is any one manupon earth so depraved that he has never yielded to the temptationof well-doing? This temptation is so natural, so pleasant, that itis impossible always to resist it; and the thought of the pleasureit has once afforded is enough to recall it constantly to ourmemory. Unluckily it is hard at first to find satisfaction for it;we have any number of reasons for refusing to follow the inclinationsof our heart; prudence, so called, restricts the heart within thelimits of the self; a thousand efforts are needed to break thesebonds. The joy of well-doing is the prize of having done well, and we must deserve the prize before we win it. There is nothingsweeter than virtue; but we do not know this till we have tried it. Like Proteus in the fable, she first assumes a thousand terribleshapes when we would embrace her, and only shows her true self tothose who refuse to let her go. 

Ever at strife between my natural feelings, which spoke of thecommon weal, and my reason, which spoke of self, I should havedrifted through life in perpetual uncertainty, hating evil, lovinggood, and always at war with myself, if my heart had not receivedfurther light, if that truth which determined my opinions had notalso settled my conduct, and set me at peace with myself. Reasonalone is not a sufficient foundation for virtue; what solid groundcan be found? Virtue we are told is love of order. But can thislove prevail over my love for my own well-being, and ought it soto prevail? Let them give me clear and sufficient reason for thispreference. Their so-called principle is in truth a mere playingwith words; for I also say that vice is love of order, differentlyunderstood. Wherever there is feeling and intelligence, thereis some sort of moral order. The difference is this: the good manorders his life with regard to all men; the wicked orders it forself alone. The latter centres all things round himself; the othermeasures his radius and remains on the circumference. Thus hisplace depends on the common centre, which is God, and on all theconcentric circles which are His creatures. If there is no God, the wicked is right and the good man is nothing but a fool. 

My child! May you one day feel what a burden is removed when, havingfathomed the vanity of human thoughts and tasted the bitterness ofpassion, you find at length near at hand the path of wisdom, theprize of this life's labours, the source of that happiness whichyou despaired of. Every duty of natural law, which man's injusticehad almost effaced from my heart, is engraven there, for the secondtime in the name of that eternal justice which lays these dutiesupon me and beholds my fulfilment of them. I feel myself merely theinstrument of the Omnipotent, who wills what is good, who performsit, who will bring about my own good through the co-operation of mywill with his own, and by the right use of my liberty. I acquiescein the order he establishes, certain that one day I shall enjoythat order and find my happiness in it; for what sweeter joy isthere than this, to feel oneself a part of a system where all isgood? A prey to pain, I bear it in patience, remembering that itwill soon be over, and that it results from a body which is notmine. If I do a good deed in secret, I know that it is seen, andmy conduct in this life is a pledge of the life to come. When Isuffer injustice, I say to myself, the Almighty who does all thingswell will reward me: my bodily needs, my poverty, make the ideaof death less intolerable. There will be all the fewer bonds to bebroken when my hour comes. 

Why is my soul subjected to my senses, and imprisoned in this bodyby which it is enslaved and thwarted? I know not; have I enteredinto the counsels of the Almighty? But I may, without rashness, venture on a modest conjecture. I say to myself: If man's soulhad remained in a state of freedom and innocence, what merit wouldthere have been in loving and obeying the order he found established, an order which it would not have been to his advantage to disturb?He would be happy, no doubt, but his happiness would not attain tothe highest point, the pride of virtue, and the witness of a goodconscience within him; he would be but as the angels are, andno doubt the good man will be more than they. Bound to a mortalbody, by bonds as strange as they are powerful, his care for thepreservation of this body tempts the soul to think only of self, and gives it an interest opposed to the general order of things, which it is still capable of knowing and loving; then it is thatthe right use of his freedom becomes at once the merit and thereward; then it is that it prepares for itself unending happiness, byresisting its earthly passions and following its original direction. 

If even in the lowly position in which we are placed during our presentlife our first impulses are always good, if all our vices are ofour own making, why should we complain that they are our masters?Why should we blame the Creator for the ills we have ourselvescreated, and the enemies we ourselves have armed against us? Oh, let us leave man unspoilt; he will always find it easy to be goodand he will always be happy without remorse. The guilty, who assertthat they are driven to crime, are liars as well as evil-doers; howis it that they fail to perceive that the weakness they bewail isof their own making; that their earliest depravity was the resultof their own will; that by dint of wishing to yield to temptations, they at length yield to them whether they will or no and make themirresistible? No doubt they can no longer avoid being weak andwicked, but they need not have become weak and wicked. Oh, how easywould it be to preserve control of ourselves and of our passions, even in this life, if with habits still unformed, with a mindbeginning to expand, we were able to keep to such things as we oughtto know, in order to value rightly what is unknown; if we reallywished to learn, not that we might shine before the eyes of others, but that we might be wise and good in accordance with our nature, that we might be happy in the performance of our duty. This studyseems tedious and painful to us, for we do not attempt it till weare already corrupted by vice and enslaved by our passions. Ourjudgments and our standards of worth are determined before we havethe knowledge of good and evil; and then we measure all things bythis false standard, and give nothing its true worth. 

There is an age when the heart is still free, but eager, unquiet, greedy of a happiness which is still unknown, a happiness which itseeks in curiosity and doubt; deceived by the senses it settles atlength upon the empty show of happiness and thinks it has found itwhere it is not. In my own case these illusions endured for a longtime. Alas! too late did I become aware of them, and I have notsucceeded in overcoming them altogether; they will last as long asthis mortal body from which they arise. If they lead me astray, Iam at least no longer deceived by them; I know them for what theyare, and even when I give way to them, I despise myself; far fromregarding them as the goal of my happiness, I behold in them anobstacle to it. I long for the time when, freed from the fettersof the body, I shall be myself, at one with myself, no longer tornin two, when I myself shall suffice for my own happiness. MeanwhileI am happy even in this life, for I make small account of all itsevils, in which I regard myself as having little or no part, whileall the real good that I can get out of this life depends on myselfalone. 

To raise myself so far as may be even now to this state of happiness, strength, and freedom, I exercise myself in lofty contemplation. Iconsider the order of the universe, not to explain it by any futilesystem, but to revere it without ceasing, to adore the wise Authorwho reveals himself in it. I hold intercourse with him; I immerseall my powers in his divine essence; I am overwhelmed by his kindness, I bless him and his gifts, but I do not pray to him. What should Iask of him--to change the order of nature, to work miracles on mybehalf? Should I, who am bound to love above all things the orderwhich he has established in his wisdom and maintained by hisprovidence, should I desire the disturbance of that order on my ownaccount? No, that rash prayer would deserve to be punished ratherthan to be granted. Neither do I ask of him the power to do right;why should I ask what he has given me already? Has he not givenme conscience that I may love the right, reason that I may perceiveit, and freedom that I may choose it? If I do evil, I have noexcuse; I do it of my own free will; to ask him to change my willis to ask him to do what he asks of me; it is to want him to dothe work while I get the wages; to be dissatisfied with my lot isto wish to be no longer a man, to wish to be other than what I am, to wish for disorder and evil. Thou source of justice and truth, merciful and gracious God, in thee do I trust, and the desire ofmy heart is--Thy will be done. When I unite my will with thine, Ido what thou doest; I have a share in thy goodness; I believe thatI enjoy beforehand the supreme happiness which is the reward ofgoodness. 

In my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God, or rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I goastray, if that error is dangerous to me. To be honest I need notthink myself infallible; my opinions, which seem to me true, maybe so many lies; for what man is there who does not cling to hisown beliefs; and how many men are agreed in everything? The illusionwhich deceives me may indeed have its source in myself, but itis God alone who can remove it. I have done all I can to attainto truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if mystrength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to drawnear to me. 

The good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcomewith emotion. It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divineOrpheus when he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worshipof the gods. I saw any number of objections which might be raised;yet I raised none, for I perceived that they were more perplexingthan serious, and that my inclination took his part. When he spoketo me according to his conscience, my own seemed to confirm whathe said. 

"The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me, " saidI, "strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do notknow, than because of what you say you believe. They seem to be verylike that theism or natural religion, which Christians profess toconfound with atheism or irreligion which is their exact opposite. But in the present state of my faith I should have to ascendrather than descend to accept your views, and I find it difficultto remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you. That Imay be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself. By your own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you haveyourself told me that when it has long been silenced it cannot berecalled in a moment. I take what you have said to heart, and I mustconsider it. If after I have thought things out, I am as convincedas you are, you will be my final teacher, and I will be your discipletill death. Continue your teaching however; you have only told mehalf what I must know. Speak to me of revelation, of the Scriptures, of those difficult doctrines among which I have strayed ever sinceI was a child, incapable either of understanding or believing them, unable to adopt or reject them. "

"Yes, my child, " said he, embracing me, "I will tell you all Ithink; I will not open my heart to you by halves; but the desireyou express was necessary before I could cast aside all reserve. Sofar I have told you nothing but what I thought would be of serviceto you, nothing but what I was quite convinced of. The inquirywhich remains to be made is very difficult. It seems to me fullof perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to it only doubtand distrust. I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you mydoubts rather than my convictions. If your own opinions were moresettled I should hesitate to show you mine; but in your presentcondition, to think like me would be gain. [Footnote: I think theworthy clergyman might say this at the present time to the generalpublic. ] Moreover, give to my words only the authority of reason;I know not whether I am mistaken. It is difficult in discussionto avoid assuming sometimes a dogmatic tone; but remember in thisrespect that all my assertions are but reasons to doubt me. Seektruth for yourself, for my own part I only promise you sincerity. 

"In my exposition you find nothing but natural religion; strangethat we should need more! How shall I become aware of this need?What guilt can be mine so long as I serve God according to theknowledge he has given to my mind, and the feelings he has putinto my heart? What purity of morals, what dogma useful to man andworthy of its author, can I derive from a positive doctrine whichcannot be derived without the aid of this doctrine by the rightuse of my faculties? Show me what you can add to the duties of thenatural law, for the glory of God, for the good of mankind, and formy own welfare; and what virtue you will get from the new form ofreligion which does not result from mine. The grandest ideas ofthe Divine nature come to us from reason only. Behold the spectacleof nature; listen to the inner voice. Has not God spoken it all toour eyes, to our conscience, to our reason? What more can man tellus? Their revelations do but degrade God, by investing him withpassions like our own. Far from throwing light upon the ideas ofthe Supreme Being, special doctrines seem to me to confuse theseideas; far from ennobling them, they degrade them; to the inconceivablemysteries which surround the Almighty, they add absurd contradictions, they make man proud, intolerant, and cruel; instead of bringingpeace upon earth, they bring fire and sword. I ask myself whatis the use of it all, and I find no answer. I see nothing but thecrimes of men and the misery of mankind. 

"They tell me a revelation was required to teach men how God wouldbe served; as a proof of this they point to the many strange riteswhich men have instituted, and they do not perceive that this verydiversity springs from the fanciful nature of the revelations. Assoon as the nations took to making God speak, every one made himspeak in his own fashion, and made him say what he himself wanted. Had they listened only to what God says in the heart of man, therewould have been but one religion upon earth. 

"One form of worship was required; just so, but was this a matterof such importance as to require all the power of the Godhead toestablish it? Do not let us confuse the outward forms of religionwith religion itself. The service God requires is of the heart; andwhen the heart is sincere that is ever the same. It is a strangesort of conceit which fancies that God takes such an interest inthe shape of the priest's vestments, the form of words he utters, the gestures he makes before the altar and all his genuflections. Oh, my friend, stand upright, you will still be too near the earth. God desires to be worshipped in spirit and in truth; this dutybelongs to every religion, every country, every individual. As tothe form of worship, if order demands uniformity, that is only amatter of discipline and needs no revelation. 

"These thoughts did not come to me to begin with. Carried away bythe prejudices of my education, and by that dangerous vanity whichalways strives to lift man out of his proper sphere, when I couldnot raise my feeble thoughts up to the great Being, I tried tobring him down to my own level. I tried to reduce the distance hehas placed between his nature and mine. I desired more immediaterelations, more individual instruction; not content to make Godin the image of man that I might be favoured above my fellows, I desired supernatural knowledge; I required a special form ofworship; I wanted God to tell me what he had not told others, orwhat others had not understood like myself. 

"Considering the point I had now reached as the common centre fromwhich all believers set out on the quest for a more enlightenedform of religion, I merely found in natural religion the elementsof all religion. I beheld the multitude of diverse sects which holdsway upon earth, each of which accuses the other of falsehood anderror; which of these, I asked, is the right? Every one replied, 'My own;' every one said, 'I alone and those who agree with methink rightly, all the others are mistaken. ' And how do you knowthat your sect is in the right? Because God said so. And how doyou know God said so? [Footnote: "All men, " said a wise and goodpriest, "maintain that they hold and believe their religion (andall use the same jargon), not of man, nor of any creature, but ofGod. But to speak truly, without pretence or flattery, none of themdo so; whatever they may say, religions are taught by human handsand means; take, for example, the way in which religions have beenreceived by the world, the way in which they are still receivedevery day by individuals; the nation, the country, the localitygives the religion; we belong to the religion of the place wherewe are born and brought up; we are baptised or circumcised, we areChristians, Jews, Mohametans before we know that we are men; wedo not pick and choose our religion for see how ill the life andconduct agree with the religion, see for what slight and humancauses men go against the teaching of their religion. "--Charron, De la Sagesse. --It seems clear that the honest creed of the holytheologian of Condom would not have differed greatly from that ofthe Savoyard priest. ] And who told you that God said it? My pastor, who knows all about it. My pastor tells me what to believe and Ibelieve it; he assures me that any one who says anything else ismistaken, and I give not heed to them. 

"What! thought I, is not truth one; can that which is true for mebe false for you? If those who follow the right path and those whogo astray have the same method, what merit or what blame can beassigned to one more than to the other? Their choice is the resultof chance; it is unjust to hold them responsible for it, to rewardor punish them for being born in one country or another. To dare tosay that God judges us in this manner is an outrage on his justice. 

"Either all religions are good and pleasing to God, or if thereis one which he prescribes for men, if they will be punished fordespising it, he will have distinguished it by plain and certainsigns by which it can be known as the only true religion; thesesigns are alike in every time and place, equally plain to all men, great or small, learned or unlearned, Europeans, Indians, Africans, savages. If there were but one religion upon earth, and if allbeyond its pale were condemned to eternal punishment, and if therewere in any corner of the world one single honest man who was notconvinced by this evidence, the God of that religion would be themost unjust and cruel of tyrants. 

"Let us therefore seek honestly after truth; let us yield nothingto the claims of birth, to the authority of parents and pastors, but let us summon to the bar of conscience and of reason all thatthey have taught us from our childhood. In vain do they exclaim, 'Submit your reason;' a deceiver might say as much; I must havereasons for submitting my reason. 

"All the theology I can get for myself by observation of the universeand by the use of my faculties is contained in what I have alreadytold you. To know more one must have recourse to strange means. These means cannot be the authority of men, for every man is ofthe same species as myself, and all that a man knows by nature I amcapable of knowing, and another may be deceived as much as I; whenI believe what he says, it is not because he says it but becausehe proves its truth. The witness of man is therefore nothing morethan the witness of my own reason, and it adds nothing to thenatural means which God has given me for the knowledge of truth. 

"Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am not thesole judge? God himself has spoken; give heed to his revelation. That is another matter. God has spoken, these are indeed words whichdemand attention. To whom has he spoken? He has spoken to men. Whythen have I heard nothing? He has instructed others to make knownhis words to you. I understand; it is men who come and tell me whatGod has said. I would rather have heard the words of God himself;it would have been as easy for him and I should have been securefrom fraud. He protects you from fraud by showing that his envoyscome from him. How does he show this? By miracles. Where are thesemiracles? In the books. And who wrote the books? Men. And whosaw the miracles? The men who bear witness to them. What! Nothingbut human testimony! Nothing but men who tell me what others toldthem! How many men between God and me! Let us see, however, letus examine, compare, and verify. Oh! if God had but deigned to freeme from all this labour, I would have served him with all my heart. 

"Consider, my friend, the terrible controversy in which I am nowengaged; what vast learning is required to go back to the remotestantiquity, to examine, weigh, confront prophecies, revelations, facts, all the monuments of faith set forth throughout the world, to assign their date, place, authorship, and occasion. What exactnessof critical judgment is needed to distinguish genuine documents fromforgeries, to compare objections with their answers, translationswith their originals; to decide as to the impartiality of witnesses, their common-sense, their knowledge; to make sure that nothinghas been omitted, nothing added, nothing transposed, altered, orfalsified; to point out any remaining contradictions, to determinewhat weight should be given to the silence of our adversarieswith regard to the charges brought against them; how far were theyaware of those charges; did they think them sufficiently seriousto require an answer; were books sufficiently well known for ourbooks to reach them; have we been honest enough to allow theirbooks to circulate among ourselves and to leave their strongestobjections unaltered?

"When the authenticity of all these documents is accepted, we mustnow pass to the evidence of their authors' mission; we must know thelaws of chance, and probability, to decide which prophecy cannotbe fulfilled without a miracle; we must know the spirit of theoriginal languages, to distinguish between prophecy and figures ofspeech; we must know what facts are in accordance with nature andwhat facts are not, so that we may say how far a clever man maydeceive the eyes of the simple and may even astonish the learned;we must discover what are the characteristics of a prodigy and howits authenticity may be established, not only so far as to gaincredence, but so that doubt may be deserving of punishment; we mustcompare the evidence for true and false miracles, and find suretests to distinguish between them; lastly we must say why God choseas a witness to his words means which themselves require so muchevidence on their behalf, as if he were playing with human credulity, and avoiding of set purpose the true means of persuasion. 

"Assuming that the divine majesty condescends so far as to make aman the channel of his sacred will, is it reasonable, is it fair, to demand that the whole of mankind should obey the voice of thisminister without making him known as such? Is it just to give himas his sole credentials certain private signs, performed in thepresence of a few obscure persons, signs which everybody else canonly know by hearsay? If one were to believe all the miracles thatthe uneducated and credulous profess to have seen in every countryupon earth, every sect would be in the right; there would be moremiracles than ordinary events; and it would be the greatest miracleif there were no miracles wherever there were persecuted fanatics. The unchangeable order of nature is the chief witness to the wisehand that guides it; if there were many exceptions, I should hardlyknow what to think; for my own part I have too great a faith in Godto believe in so many miracles which are so little worthy of him. 

"Let a man come and say to us: Mortals, I proclaim to you the willof the Most Highest; accept my words as those of him who has sentme; I bid the sun to change his course, the stars to range themselvesin a fresh order, the high places to become smooth, the floods torise up, the earth to change her face. By these miracles who willnot recognise the master of nature? She does not obey impostors, their miracles are wrought in holes and corners, in deserts, withinclosed doors, where they find easy dupes among a small companyof spectators already disposed to believe them. Who will ventureto tell me how many eye-witnesses are required to make a miraclecredible! What use are your miracles, performed if proof of yourdoctrine, if they themselves require so much proof! You might aswell have let them alone. 

"There still remains the most important inquiry of all with regardto the doctrine proclaimed; for since those who tell us God worksmiracles in this world, profess that the devil sometimes imitatesthem, when we have found the best attested miracles we have gotvery little further; and since the magicians of Pharaoh dared inthe presence of Moses to counterfeit the very signs he wrought atGod's command, why should they not, behind his back, claim a likeauthority? So when we have proved our doctrine by means of miracles, we must prove our miracles by means of doctrine, [Footnote: Thisis expressly stated in many passages of Scripture, among others inDeuteronomy xiii. , where it is said that when a prophet preachingstrange gods confirms his words by means of miracles and what heforetells comes to pass, far from giving heed to him, this prophetmust be put to death. If then the heathen put the apostles todeath when they preached a strange god and confirmed their words bymiracles which came to pass I cannot see what grounds we have forcomplaint which they could not at once turn against us. Now, whatshould be done in such a case? There is only one course; to returnto argument and let the miracles alone. It would have been betternot to have had recourse to them at all. That is plain common-sensewhich can only be obscured by great subtlety of distinction. Subtletiesin Christianity! So Jesus Christ was mistaken when he promised thekingdom of heaven to the simple, he was mistaken when he began hisfinest discourse with the praise of the poor in spirit, if so muchwit is needed to understand his teaching and to get others to believein him. When you have convinced me that submission is my duty, allwill be well; but to convince me of this, come down to my level;adapt your arguments to a lowly mind, or I shall not recognise youas a true disciple of your master, and it is not his doctrine thatyou are teaching me. ] for fear lest we should take the devil'sdoings for the handiwork of God. What think you of this dilemma?

"This doctrine, if it comes from God, should bear the sacred stampof the godhead; not only should it illumine the troubled thoughtswhich reason imprints on our minds, but it should also offer usa form of worship, a morality, and rules of conduct in accordancewith the attributes by means of which we alone conceive of God'sessence. If then it teaches us what is absurd and unreasonable, ifit inspires us with feelings of aversion for our fellows and terrorfor ourselves, if it paints us a God, angry, jealous, revengeful, partial, hating men, a God of war and battles, ever ready to strikeand to destroy, ever speaking of punishment and torment, boastingeven of the punishment of the innocent, my heart would not be drawntowards this terrible God, I would take good care not to quit therealm of natural religion to embrace such a religion as that; foryou see plainly I must choose between them. Your God is not ours. He who begins by selecting a chosen people, and proscribing the restof mankind, is not our common father; he who consigns to eternalpunishment the greater part of his creatures, is not the mercifuland gracious God revealed to me by my reason. 

"Reason tells me that dogmas should be plain, clear, and strikingin their simplicity. If there is something lacking in naturalreligion, it is with respect to the obscurity in which it leavesthe great truths it teaches; revelation should teach us these truthsin a way which the mind of man can understand; it should bring themwithin his reach, make him comprehend them, so that he may believethem. Faith is confirmed and strengthened by understanding; thebest religion is of necessity the simplest. He who hides beneathmysteries and contradictions the religion that he preaches to me, teaches me at the same time to distrust that religion. The God whomI adore is not the God of darkness, he has not given me understandingin order to forbid me to use it; to tell me to submit my reasonis to insult the giver of reason. The minister of truth does nottyrannise over my reason, he enlightens it. 

"We have set aside all human authority, and without it I do not seehow any man can convince another by preaching a doctrine contraryto reason. Let them fight it out, and let us see what they have tosay with that harshness of speech which is common to both. 

"INSPIRATION: Reason tells you that the whole is greater than thepart; but I tell you, in God's name, that the part is greater thanthe whole. 

"REASON: And who are you to dare to tell me that God contradictshimself? And which shall I choose to believe. God who teaches me, through my reason, the eternal truth, or you who, in his name, proclaim an absurdity?

"INSPIRATION: Believe me, for my teaching is more positive; and Iwill prove to you beyond all manner of doubt that he has sent me. 

"REASON: What! you will convince me that God has sent you to bearwitness against himself? What sort of proofs will you adduce toconvince me that God speaks more surely by your mouth than throughthe understanding he has given me?

"INSPIRATION: The understanding he has given you! Petty, conceitedcreature! As if you were the first impious person who had been ledastray through his reason corrupted by sin. 

"REASON: Man of God, you would not be the first scoundrel whoasserts his arrogance as a proof of his mission. 

"INSPIRATION: What! do even philosophers call names?

"REASON: Sometimes, when the saints set them the example. 

"INSPIRATION: Oh, but I have a right to do it, for I am speakingon God's behalf. 

"REASON: You would do well to show your credentials before you makeuse of your privileges. 

"INSPIRATION: My credentials are authentic, earth and heaven willbear witness on my behalf. Follow my arguments carefully, if youplease. 

"REASON: Your arguments! You forget what you are saying. When youteach me that my reason misleads me, do you not refute what it mighthave said on your behalf? He who denies the right of reason, mustconvince me without recourse to her aid. For suppose you haveconvinced me by reason, how am I to know that it is not my reason, corrupted by sin, which makes me accept what you say? besides, what proof, what demonstration, can you advance, more self-evidentthan the axiom it is to destroy? It is more credible that a goodsyllogism is a lie, than that the part is greater than the whole. 

"INSPIRATION: What a difference! There is no answer to my evidence;it is of a supernatural kind. 

"REASON: Supernatural! What do you mean by the word? I do notunderstand it. 

"INSPIRATION: I mean changes in the order of nature, prophecies, signs, and wonders of every kind. 

"REASON: Signs and wonders! I have never seen anything of the kind. 

"INSPIRATION: Others have seen them for you. Clouds of witnesses--thewitness of whole nations.... 

"REASON: Is the witness of nations supernatural?

"INSPIRATION: No; but when it is unanimous, it is incontestable. 

"REASON: There is nothing so incontestable as the principles ofreason, and one cannot accept an absurdity on human evidence. Oncemore, let us see your supernatural evidence, for the consent ofmankind is not supernatural. 

"INSPIRATION: Oh, hardened heart, grace does not speak to you. 

"REASON: That is not my fault; for by your own showing, one musthave already received grace before one is able to ask for it. Beginby speaking to me in its stead. 

"INSPIRATION: But that is just what I am doing, and you will notlisten. But what do you say to prophecy?

"REASON: In the first place, I say I have no more heard a prophetthan I have seen a miracle. In the next, I say that no prophetcould claim authority over me. 

"INSPIRATION: Follower of the devil! Why should not the words ofthe prophets have authority over you?

"REASON: Because three things are required, three things which willnever happen: firstly, I must have heard the prophecy; secondly, I must have seen its fulfilment; and thirdly, it must be clearlyproved that the fulfilment of the prophecy could not by any possibilityhave been a mere coincidence; for even if it was as precise, asplain, and clear as an axiom of geometry, since the clearness ofa chance prediction does not make its fulfilment impossible, thisfulfilment when it does take place does not, strictly speaking, prove what was foretold. 

"See what your so-called supernatural proofs, your miracles, yourprophecies come to: believe all this upon the word of another, Submit to the authority of men the authority of God which speaks tomy reason. If the eternal truths which my mind conceives of couldsuffer any shock, there would be no sort of certainty for me; andfar from being sure that you speak to me on God's behalf, I shouldnot even be sure that there is a God. 

"My child, here are difficulties enough, but these are not all. Among so many religions, mutually excluding and proscribing eachother, one only is true, if indeed any one of them is true. Torecognise the true religion we must inquire into, not one, but all;and in any question whatsoever we have no right to condemn unheard. [Footnote: On the other hand, Plutarch relates that the Stoicsmaintained, among other strange paradoxes, that it was no use hearingboth sides; for, said they, the first either proves his point orhe does not prove it; if he has proved it, there is an end of it, and the other should be condemned: if he has not proved it, hehimself is in the wrong and judgment should be given against him. I consider the method of those who accept an exclusive revelationvery much like that of these Stoics. When each of them claims tobe the sole guardian of truth, we must hear them all before we canchoose between them without injustice. ] The objections must becompared with the evidence; we must know what accusation each bringsagainst the other, and what answers they receive. The plainer anyfeeling appears to us, the more we must try to discover why so manyother people refuse to accept it. We should be simple, indeed, ifwe thought it enough to hear the doctors on our own side, in orderto acquaint ourselves with the arguments of the other. Where canyou find theologians who pride themselves on their honesty? Whereare those who, to refute the arguments of their opponents, donot begin by making out that they are of little importance? A manmay make a good show among his own friends, and be very proud ofhis arguments, who would cut a very poor figure with those samearguments among those who are on the other side. Would you findout for yourself from books? What learning you will need! Whatlanguages you must learn; what libraries you must ransack; what anamount of reading must be got through! Who will guide me in sucha choice? It will be hard to find the best books on the oppositeside in any one country, and all the harder to find those on allsides; when found they would be easily answered. The absent arealways in the wrong, and bad arguments boldly asserted easily effacegood arguments put forward with scorn. Besides books are often verymisleading, and scarcely express the opinions of their authors. If you think you can judge the Catholic faith from the writingsof Bossuet, you will find yourself greatly mistaken when you havelived among us. You will see that the doctrines with which Protestantsare answered are quite different from those of the pulpit. Tojudge a religion rightly, you must not study it in the books of itspartisans, you must learn it in their lives; this is quite anothermatter. Each religion has its own traditions, meaning, customs, prejudices, which form the spirit of its creed, and must be takenin connection with it. 

"How many great nations neither print books of their own nor readours! How shall they judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? Welaugh at them, they despise us; and if our travellers turn theminto ridicule, they need only travel among us to pay us back inour own coin. Are there not, in every country, men of common-sense, honesty, and good faith, lovers of truth, who only seek to knowwhat truth is that they may profess it? Yet every one finds truthin his own religion, and thinks the religion of other nationsabsurd; so all these foreign religions are not so absurd as theyseem to us, or else the reason we find for our own proves nothing. 

"We have three principal forms of religion in Europe. One acceptsone revelation, another two, and another three. Each hates theothers, showers curses on them, accuses them of blindness, obstinacy, hardness of heart, and falsehood. What fair-minded man will dareto decide between them without first carefully weighing theirevidence, without listening attentively to their arguments? Thatwhich accepts only one revelation is the oldest and seems the bestestablished; that which accepts three is the newest and seems themost consistent; that which accepts two revelations and rejects thethird may perhaps be the best, but prejudice is certainly againstit; its inconsistency is glaring. 

"In all three revelations the sacred books are written in languagesunknown to the people who believe in them. The Jews no longerunderstand Hebrew, the Christians understand neither Hebrew norGreek; the Turks and Persians do not understand Arabic, and theArabs of our time do not speak the language of Mahomet. Is notit a very foolish way of teaching, to teach people in an unknowntongue? These books are translated, you say. What an answer! Howam I to know that the translations are correct, or how am I tomake sure that such a thing as a correct translation is possible?If God has gone so far as to speak to men, why should he requirean interpreter?

"I can never believe that every man is obliged to know what iscontained in books, and that he who is out of reach of these books, and of those who understand them, will be punished for an ignorancewhich is no fault of his. Books upon books! What madness! Asall Europe is full of books, Europeans regard them as necessary, forgetting that they are unknown throughout three-quarters of theglobe. Were not all these books written by men? Why then should aman need them to teach him his duty, and how did he learn his dutybefore these books were in existence? Either he must have learnthis duties for himself, or his ignorance must have been excused. 

"Our Catholics talk loudly of the authority of the Church; but whatis the use of it all, if they also need just as great an array ofproofs to establish that authority as the other seeks to establishtheir doctrine? The Church decides that the Church has a right todecide. What a well-founded authority! Go beyond it, and you areback again in our discussions. 

"Do you know many Christians who have taken the trouble to inquirewhat the Jews allege against them? If any one knows anything atall about it, it is from the writings of Christians. What a way ofascertaining the arguments of our adversaries! But what is to bedone? If any one dared to publish in our day books which were openlyin favour of the Jewish religion, we should punish the author, publisher, and bookseller. This regulation is a sure and certainplan for always being in the right. It is easy to refute those whodare not venture to speak. 

"Those among us who have the opportunity of talking with Jews arelittle better off. These unhappy people feel that they are in ourpower; the tyranny they have suffered makes them timid; they knowthat Christian charity thinks nothing of injustice and cruelty;will they dare to run the risk of an outcry against blasphemy? Ourgreed inspires us with zeal, and they are so rich that they mustbe in the wrong. The more learned, the more enlightened they are, the more cautious. You may convert some poor wretch whom you havepaid to slander his religion; you get some wretched old-clothes-manto speak, and he says what you want; you may triumph over theirignorance and cowardice, while all the time their men of learningare laughing at your stupidity. But do you think you would getoff so easily in any place where they knew they were safe! At theSorbonne it is plain that the Messianic prophecies refer to JesusChrist. Among the rabbis of Amsterdam it is just as clear that theyhave nothing to do with him. I do not think I have ever heard thearguments of the Jews as to why they should not have a free state, schools and universities, where they can speak and argue withoutdanger. Then alone can we know what they have to say. 

"At Constantinople the Turks state their arguments, but we dare notgive ours; then it is our turn to cringe. Can we blame the Turksif they require us to show the same respect for Mahomet, in whomwe do not believe, as we demand from the Jews with regard to JesusChrist in whom they do not believe? Are we right? On what groundsof justice can we answer this question?

"Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Mahometans, nor Christians;and how many millions of men have never heard the name of Moses, Jesus Christ, or Mahomet? They deny it; they maintain that ourmissionaries go everywhere. That is easily said. But do they go intothe heart of Africa, still undiscovered, where as yet no Europeanhas ever ventured? Do they go to Eastern Tartary to follow onhorseback the wandering tribes, whom no stranger approaches, whonot only know nothing of the pope, but have scarcely heard tellof the Grand Lama! Do they penetrate into the vast continentsof America, where there are still whole nations unaware that thepeople of another world have set foot on their shores? Do theygo to Japan, where their intrigues have led to their perpetualbanishment, where their predecessors are only known to the risinggeneration as skilful plotters who came with feigned zeal to takepossession in secret of the empire? Do they reach the harems of theAsiatic princes to preach the gospel to those thousands of poorslaves? What have the women of those countries done that no missionarymay preach the faith to them? Will they all go to hell because oftheir seclusion?

"If it were true that the gospel is preached throughout the world, what advantage would there be? The day before the first missionaryset foot in any country, no doubt somebody died who could not hearhim. Now tell me what we shall do with him? If there were a singlesoul in the whole world, to whom Jesus Christ had never beenpreached, this objection would be as strong for that man as for aquarter of the human race. 

"If the ministers of the gospel have made themselves heard amongfar-off nations, what have they told them which might reasonably beaccepted on their word, without further and more exact verification?You preach to me God, born and dying, two thousand years ago, atthe other end of the world, in some small town I know not where;and you tell me that all who have not believed this mystery aredamned. These are strange things to be believed so quickly on theauthority of an unknown person. Why did your God make these thingshappen so far off, if he would compel me to know about them? Isit a crime to be unaware of what is happening half a world away?Could I guess that in another hemisphere there was a Hebrew nationand a town called Jerusalem? You might as well expect me to knowwhat was happening in the moon. You say you have come to teach me;but why did you not come and teach my father, or why do you consignthat good old man to damnation because he knew nothing of allthis? Must he be punished everlastingly for your laziness, he whowas so kind and helpful, he who sought only for truth? Be honest;put yourself in my place; see if I ought to believe, on your wordalone, all these incredible things which you have told me, andreconcile all this injustice with the just God you proclaim tome. At least allow me to go and see this distant land where suchwonders, unheard of in my own country, took place; let me go andsee why the inhabitants of Jerusalem put their God to death as arobber. You tell me they did not know he was God. What then shallI do, I who have only heard of him from you? You say they have beenpunished, dispersed, oppressed, enslaved; that none of them dareapproach that town. Indeed they richly deserved it; but what do itspresent inhabitants say of their crime in slaying their God! Theydeny him; they too refuse to recognise God as God. They are nobetter than the children of the original inhabitants. 

"What! In the very town where God was put to death, neither theformer nor the latter inhabitants knew him, and you expect that Ishould know him, I who was born two thousand years after his time, and two thousand leagues away? Do you not see that before I canbelieve this book which you call sacred, but which I do not in theleast understand, I must know from others than yourself when and bywhom it was written, how it has been preserved, how it came intoyour possession, what they say about it in those lands where it isrejected, and what are their reasons for rejecting it, though theyknow as well as you what you are telling me? You perceive I mustgo to Europe, Asia, Palestine, to examine these things for myself;it would be madness to listen to you before that. 

"Not only does this seem reasonable to me, but I maintain that itis what every wise man ought to say in similar circumstances; thathe ought to banish to a great distance the missionary who wantsto instruct and baptise him all of a sudden before the evidence isverified. Now I maintain that there is no revelation against whichthese or similar objections cannot be made, and with more forcethan against Christianity. Hence it follows that if there is butone true religion and if every man is bound to follow it under painof damnation, he must spend his whole life in studying, testing, comparing all these religions, in travelling through the countriesin which they are established. No man is free from a man's firstduty; no one has a right to depend on another's judgment. Theartisan who earns his bread by his daily toil, the ploughboy whocannot read, the delicate and timid maiden, the invalid who canscarcely leave his bed, all without exception must study, consider, argue, travel over the whole world; there will be no more fixedand settled nations; the whole earth will swarm with pilgrims ontheir way, at great cost of time and trouble, to verify, compare, and examine for themselves the various religions to be found. Thenfarewell to the trades, the arts, the sciences of mankind, farewellto all peaceful occupations; there can be no study but thatof religion, even the strongest, the most industrious, the mostintelligent, the oldest, will hardly be able in his last years toknow where he is; and it will be a wonder if he manages to findout what religion he ought to live by, before the hour of his death. 

"Hard pressed by these arguments, some prefer to make God unjustand to punish the innocent for the sins of their fathers, ratherthan to renounce their barbarous dogmas. Others get out of thedifficulty by kindly sending an angel to instruct all those whoin invincible ignorance have lived a righteous life. A good idea, that angel! Not content to be the slaves of their own inventionsthey expect God to make use of them also!

"Behold, my son, the absurdities to which pride and intolerancebring us, when everybody wants others to think as he does, andeverybody fancies that he has an exclusive claim upon the rest ofmankind. I call to witness the God of Peace whom I adore, and whomI proclaim to you, that my inquiries were honestly made; but whenI discovered that they were and always would be unsuccessful, andthat I was embarked upon a boundless ocean, I turned back, andrestricted my faith within the limits of my primitive ideas. Icould never convince myself that God would require such learningof me under pain of hell. So I closed all my books. There is onebook which is open to every one--the book of nature. In this goodand great volume I learn to serve and adore its Author. Thereis no excuse for not reading this book, for it speaks to all in alanguage they can understand. Suppose I had been born in a desertisland, suppose I had never seen any man but myself, suppose I hadnever heard what took place in olden days in a remote corner ofthe world; yet if I use my reason, if I cultivate it, if I employrightly the innate faculties which God bestows upon me, I shalllearn by myself to know and love him, to love his works, to willwhat he wills, and to fulfil all my duties upon earth, that I maydo his pleasure. What more can all human learning teach me?

"With regard to revelation, if I were a more accomplished disputant, or a more learned person, perhaps I should feel its truth, itsusefulness for those who are happy enough to perceive it; but if Ifind evidence for it which I cannot combat, I also find objectionsagainst it which I cannot overcome. There are so many weightyreasons for and against that I do not know what to decide, so thatI neither accept nor reject it. I only reject all obligation to beconvinced of its truth; for this so-called obligation is incompatiblewith God's justice, and far from removing objections in this wayit would multiply them, and would make them insurmountable for thegreater part of mankind. In this respect I maintain an attitude ofreverent doubt. I do not presume to think myself infallible; othermen may have been able to make up their minds though the matterseems doubtful to myself; I am speaking for myself, not for them;I neither blame them nor follow in their steps; their judgment maybe superior to mine, but it is no fault of mine that my judgmentdoes not agree with it. 

"I own also that the holiness of the gospel speaks to my heart, and that this is an argument which I should be sorry to refute. Consider the books of the philosophers with all their outward show;how petty they are in comparison! Can a book at once so grand andso simple be the work of men? Is it possible that he whose historyis contained in this book is no more than man? Is the tone of thisbook, the tone of the enthusiast or the ambitious sectary? Whatgentleness and purity in his actions, what a touching grace in histeaching, how lofty are his sayings, how profoundly wise are hissermons, how ready, how discriminating, and how just are his answers!What man, what sage, can live, suffer, and die without weaknessor ostentation? When Plato describes his imaginary good man, overwhelmed with the disgrace of crime, and deserving of all therewards of virtue, every feature of the portrait is that of Christ;the resemblance is so striking that it has been noticed by allthe Fathers, and there can be no doubt about it. What prejudicesand blindness must there be before we dare to compare the son ofSophronisca with the son of Mary. How far apart they are! Socratesdies a painless death, he is not put to open shame, and he playshis part easily to the last; and if this easy death had not donehonour to his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with allhis intellect, was more than a mere sophist. He invented morality, so they say; others before him had practised it; he only saidwhat they had done, and made use of their example in his teaching. Aristides was just before Socrates defined justice; Leonidas diedfor his country before Socrates declared that patriotism was avirtue; Sparta was sober before Socrates extolled sobriety; therewere plenty of virtuous men in Greece before he defined virtue. But among the men of his own time where did Jesus find that pureand lofty morality of which he is both the teacher and pattern?[Footnote: Cf. In the Sermon on the Mount the parallel he himselfdraws between the teaching of Moses and his own. --Matt. V. ] Thevoice of loftiest wisdom arose among the fiercest fanaticism, thesimplicity of the most heroic virtues did honour to the most degradedof nations One could wish no easier death than that of Socrates, calmly discussing philosophy with his friends; one could fear nothingworse than that of Jesus, dying in torment, among the insults, the mockery, the curses of the whole nation. In the midst of theseterrible sufferings, Jesus prays for his cruel murderers. Yes, if the life and death of Socrates are those of a philosopher, thelife and death of Christ are those of a God. Shall we say that thegospel story is the work of the imagination? My friend, such thingsare not imagined; and the doings of Socrates, which no one doubts, are less well attested than those of Jesus Christ. At best, youonly put the difficulty from you; it would be still more incrediblethat several persons should have agreed together to invent such abook, than that there was one man who supplied its subject matter. The tone and morality of this story are not those of any Jewishauthors, and the gospel indeed contains characters so great, sostriking, so entirely inimitable, that their invention would bemore astonishing than their hero. With all this the same gospelis full of incredible things, things repugnant to reason, thingswhich no natural man can understand or accept. What can you doamong so many contradictions? You can be modest and wary, my child;respect in silence what you can neither reject nor understand, andhumble yourself in the sight of the Divine Being who alone knowsthe truth. 

"This is the unwilling scepticism in which I rest; but this scepticismis in no way painful to me, for it does not extend to matters ofpractice, and I am well assured as to the principles underlying allmy duties. I serve God in the simplicity of my heart; I only seekto know what affects my conduct. As to those dogmas which haveno effect upon action or morality, dogmas about which so many mentorment themselves, I give no heed to them. I regard all individualreligions as so many wholesome institutions which prescribe auniform method by which each country may do honour to God in publicworship; institutions which may each have its reason in the country, the government, the genius of the people, or in other local causeswhich make one preferable to another in a given time or place. Ithink them all good alike, when God is served in a fitting manner. True worship is of the heart. God rejects no homage, however offered, provided it is sincere. Called to the service of the Church inmy own religion, I fulfil as scrupulously as I can all the dutiesprescribed to me, and my conscience would reproach me if I wereknowingly wanting with regard to any point. You are aware that afterbeing suspended for a long time, I have, through the influence ofM. Mellarede, obtained permission to resume my priestly duties, as a means of livelihood. I used to say Mass with the levity thatcomes from long experience even of the most serious matters whenthey are too familiar to us; with my new principles I now celebrateit with more reverence; I dwell upon the majesty of the SupremeBeing, his presence, the insufficiency of the human mind, whichso little realises what concerns its Creator. When I consider howI present before him the prayers of all the people in a form laiddown for me, I carry out the whole ritual exactly; I give heedto what I say, I am careful not to omit the least word, the leastceremony; when the moment of the consecration approaches, I collect mypowers, that I may do all things as required by the Church and bythe greatness of this sacrament; I strive to annihilate my own reasonbefore the Supreme Mind; I say to myself, Who art thou to measureinfinite power? I reverently pronounce the sacramental words, andI give to their effect all the faith I can bestow. Whatever maybe this mystery which passes understanding, I am not afraid thatat the day of judgment I shall be punished for having profaned itin my heart. "

Honoured with the sacred ministry, though in its lowest ranks, Iwill never do or say anything which may make me unworthy to fulfilthese sublime duties. I will always preach virtue and exhort mento well-doing; and so far as I can I will set them a good example. It will be my business to make religion attractive; it will be mybusiness to strengthen their faith in those doctrines which arereally useful, those which every man must believe; but, please God, I shall never teach them to hate their neighbour, to say to othermen, You will be damned; to say, No salvation outside the Church. [Footnote: The duty of following and loving the religion of ourcountry does not go so far as to require us to accept doctrinescontrary to good morals, such as intolerance. This horribledoctrine sets men in arms against their fellow-men, and makes themall enemies of mankind. The distinction between civil tolerationand theological toleration is vain and childish. These two kindsof toleration are inseparable, and we cannot accept one without theother. Even the angels could not live at peace with men whom theyregarded as the enemies of God. ] If I were in a more conspicuousposition, this reticence might get me into trouble; but I am tooobscure to have much to fear, and I could hardly sink lower than Iam. Come what may, I will never blaspheme the justice of God, norlie against the Holy Ghost. 

"I have long desired to have a parish of my own; it is stillmy ambition, but I no longer hope to attain it. My dear friend, Ithink there is nothing so delightful as to be a parish priest. Agood clergyman is a minister of mercy, as a good magistrate is aminister of justice. A clergyman is never called upon to do evil;if he cannot always do good himself, it is never out of place forhim to beg for others, and he often gets what he asks if he knowshow to gain respect. Oh! if I should ever have some poor mountainparish where I might minister to kindly folk, I should be happyindeed; for it seems to me that I should make my parishioners happy. I should not bring them riches, but I should share their poverty;I should remove from them the scorn and opprobrium which are harderto bear than poverty. I should make them love peace and equality, which often remove poverty, and always make it tolerable. When theysaw that I was in no way better off than themselves, and that yetI was content with my lot, they would learn to put up with theirfate and to be content like me. In my sermons I would lay more stresson the spirit of the gospel than on the spirit of the church; itsteaching is simple, its morality sublime; there is little in itabout the practices of religion, but much about works of charity. Before I teach them what they ought to do, I would try to practiseit myself, that they might see that at least I think what I say. If there were Protestants in the neighbourhood or in my parish, Iwould make no difference between them and my own congregation sofar as concerns Christian charity; I would get them to love oneanother, to consider themselves brethren, to respect all religions, and each to live peaceably in his own religion. To ask any one toabandon the religion in which he was born is, I consider, to askhim to do wrong, and therefore to do wrong oneself. While we awaitfurther knowledge, let us respect public order; in every countrylet us respect the laws, let us not disturb the form of worshipprescribed by law; let us not lead its citizens into disobedience;for we have no certain knowledge that it is good for them to abandontheir own opinions for others, and on the other hand we are quitecertain that it is a bad thing to disobey the law. 

"My young friend, I have now repeated to you my creed as God readsit in my heart; you are the first to whom I have told it; perhapsyou will be the last. As long as there is any true faith left amongmen, we must not trouble quiet souls, nor scare the faith of theignorant with problems they cannot solve, with difficulties whichcause them uneasiness, but do not give them any guidance. Butwhen once everything is shaken, the trunk must be preserved at thecost of the branches. Consciences, restless, uncertain, and almostquenched like yours, require to be strengthened and aroused; toset the feet again upon the foundation of eternal truth, we mustremove the trembling supports on which they think they rest. 

"You are at that critical age when the mind is open to conviction, when the heart receives its form and character, when we decide ourown fate for life, either for good or evil. At a later date, thematerial has hardened and fresh impressions leave no trace. Youngman, take the stamp of truth upon your heart which is not yethardened, if I were more certain of myself, I should have adopteda more decided and dogmatic tone; but I am a man ignorant and. Liable to error; what could I do? I have opened my heart fully toyou; and I have told what I myself hold for certain and sure; Ihave told you my doubts as doubts, my opinions as opinions; I havegiven you my reasons both for faith and doubt. It is now your turnto judge; you have asked for time; that is a wise precaution andit makes me think well of you. Begin by bringing your conscienceinto that state in which it desires to see clearly; be honest withyourself. Take to yourself such of my opinions as convince you, reject the rest. You are not yet so depraved by vice as to run therisk of choosing amiss. I would offer to argue with you, but assoon as men dispute they lose their temper; pride and obstinacycome in, and there is an end of honesty. My friend, never argue;for by arguing we gain no light for ourselves or for others. So faras I myself am concerned, I have only made up my mind after manyyears of meditation; here I rest, my conscience is at peace, myheart is satisfied. If I wanted to begin afresh the examination ofmy feelings, I should not bring to the task a purer love of truth;and my mind, which is already less active, would be less able toperceive the truth. Here I shall rest, lest the love of contemplation, developing step by step into an idle passion, should make melukewarm in the performance of my duties, lest I should fall intomy former scepticism without strength to struggle out of it. Morethan half my life is spent; I have barely time to make good use ofwhat is left, to blot out my faults by my virtues. If I am mistaken, it is against my will. He who reads my inmost heart knows thatI have no love for my blindness. As my own knowledge is powerlessto free me from this blindness, my only way out of it is by a goodlife; and if God from the very stones can raise up children toAbraham, every man has a right to hope that he may be taught thetruth, if he makes himself worthy of it. 

"If my reflections lead you to think as I do, if you share myfeelings, if we have the same creed, I give you this advice: Donot continue to expose your life to the temptations of poverty anddespair, nor waste it in degradation and at the mercy of strangers;no longer eat the shameful bread of charity. Return to your owncountry, go back to the religion of your fathers, and follow it insincerity of heart, and never forsake it; it is very simple and veryholy; I think there is no other religion upon earth whose moralityis purer, no other more satisfying to the reason. Do not troubleabout the cost of the journey, that will be provided for you. Neither do you fear the false shame of a humiliating return; weshould blush to commit a fault, not to repair it. You are still atan age when all is forgiven, but when we cannot go on sinning withimpunity. If you desire to listen to your conscience, a thousandempty objections will disappear at her voice. You will feel that, inour present state of uncertainty, it is an inexcusable presumptionto profess any faith but that we were born into, while it istreachery not to practise honestly the faith we profess. If we goastray, we deprive ourselves of a great excuse before the tribunalof the sovereign judge. Will he not pardon the errors in which wewere brought up, rather than those of our own choosing?

"My son, keep your soul in such a state that you always desirethat there should be a God and you will never doubt it. Moreover, whatever decision you come to, remember that the real duties ofreligion are independent of human institutions; that a righteousheart is the true temple of the Godhead; that in every land, inevery sect, to love God above all things and to love our neighbouras ourself is the whole law; remember there is no religion whichabsolves us from our moral duties; that these alone are reallyessential, that the service of the heart is the first of these duties, and that without faith there is no such thing as true virtue. 

"Shun those who, under the pretence of explaining nature, sowdestructive doctrines in the heart of men, those whose apparentscepticism is a hundredfold more self-assertive and dogmatic thanthe firm tone of their opponents. Under the arrogant claim, thatthey alone are enlightened, true, honest, they subject us imperiouslyto their far-reaching decisions, and profess to give us, as thetrue principles of all things, the unintelligible systems framed bytheir imagination. Moreover, they overthrow, destroy, and trampleunder foot all that men reverence; they rob the afflicted oftheir last consolation in their misery; they deprive the rich andpowerful of the sole bridle of their passions; they tear from thevery depths of man's heart all remorse for crime, and all hope ofvirtue; and they boast, moreover, that they are the benefactors ofthe human race. Truth, they say, can never do a man harm. I thinkso too, and to my mind that is strong evidence that what theyteach is not true. [Footnote: The rival parties attack each otherwith so many sophistries that it would be a rash and overwhelmingenterprise to attempt to deal with all of them; it is difficultenough to note some of them as they occur. One of the commonesterrors among the partisans of philosophy is to contrast a nationof good philosophers with a nation of bad Christians; as if it wereeasier to make a nation of good philosophers than a nation of goodChristians. I know not whether in individual cases it is easier todiscover one rather than the other; but I am quite certain that, as far as nations are concerned, we must assume that there willbe those who misuse their philosophy without religion, just as ourpeople misuse their religion without philosophy, and that seemsto put quite a different face upon the matter. ]--Bayle has provedvery satisfactorily that fanaticism is more harmful than atheism, and that cannot be denied; but what he has not taken the trouble tosay, though it is none the less true, is this: Fanaticism, thoughcruel and bloodthirsty, is still a great and powerful passion, which stirs the heart of man, teaching him to despise death, andgiving him an enormous motive power, which only needs to be guidedrightly to produce the noblest virtues; while irreligion, and theargumentative philosophic spirit generally, on the other hand, assaults the life and enfeebles it, degrades the soul, concentratesall the passions in the basest self-interest, in the meanness ofthe human self; thus it saps unnoticed the very foundations of allsociety, for what is common to all these private interests is sosmall that it will never outweigh their opposing interests. --Ifatheism does not lead to bloodshed, it is less from love of peacethan from indifference to what is good; as if it mattered littlewhat happened to others, provided the sage remained undisturbed inhis study. His principles do not kill men, but they prevent theirbirth, by destroying the morals by which they were multiplied, bydetaching them from their fellows, by reducing all their affectionsto a secret selfishness, as fatal to population as to virtue. Theindifference of the philosopher is like the peace in a despotic state;it is the repose of death; war itself is not more destructive. --Thusfanaticism though its immediate results are more fatal than thoseof what is now called the philosophic mind, is much less fatal inits after effects. Moreover, it is an easy matter to exhibit finemaxims in books; but the real question is--Are they really inaccordance with your teaching, are they the necessary consequencesof it? and this has not been clearly proved so far. It remainsto be seen whether philosophy, safely enthroned, could controlsuccessfully man's petty vanity, his self-interest, his ambition, all the lesser passions of mankind, and whether it would practisethat sweet humanity which it boasts of, pen in hand. --In theory, there is no good which philosophy can bring about which is not equallysecured by religion, while religion secures much that philosophycannot secure. --In practice, it is another matter; but still wemust put it to the proof. No man follows his religion in all things, even if his religion is true; most people have hardly any religion, and they do not in the least follow what they have; that is stillmore true; but still there are some people who have a religionand follow it, at least to some extent; and beyond doubt religiousmotives do prevent them from wrong-doing, and win from them virtues, praiseworthy actions, which would not have existed but for thesemotives. --A monk denies that money was entrusted to him; what ofthat? It only proves that the man who entrusted the money to himwas a fool. If Pascal had done the same, that would have proved thatPascal was a hypocrite. But a monk! Are those who make a trade ofreligion religious people? All the crimes committed by the clergy, as by other men, do not prove that religion is useless, but thatvery few people are religious. --Most certainly our modern governmentsowe to Christianity their more stable authority, their less frequentrevolutions; it has made those governments less bloodthirsty; thiscan be shown by comparing them with the governments of former times. Apart from fanaticism, the best known religion has given greatergentleness to Christian conduct. This change is not the result oflearning; for wherever learning has been most illustrious humanityhas been no more respected on that account; the cruelties of theAthenians, the Egyptians, the Roman emperors, the Chinese bearwitness to this. What works of mercy spring from the gospel! Howmany acts of restitution, reparation, confession does the gospellead to among Catholics! Among ourselves, as the times of communiondraw near, do they not lead us to reconciliation and to alms-giving?Did not the Hebrew Jubilee make the grasping less greedy, did itnot prevent much poverty? The brotherhood of the Law made the nationone; no beggar was found among them. Neither are there beggarsamong the Turks, where there are countless pious institutions;from motives of religion they even show hospitality to the foes oftheir religion. --"The Mahometans say, according to Chardin, thatafter the interrogation which will follow the general resurrection, all bodies will traverse a bridge called Poul-Serrho, which isthrown across the eternal fires, a bridge which may be called thethird and last test of the great Judgment, because it is there thatthe good and bad will be separated, etc. --"The Persians, continuesChardin, make a great point of this bridge; and when any one suffersa wrong which he can never hope to wipe out by any means or at anytime, he finds his last consolation in these words: 'By the livingGod, you will pay me double at the last day; you will never getacross the Poul-Serrho if you do not first do me justice; I willhold the hem of your garment, I will cling about your knees. ' Ihave seen many eminent men, of every profession, who for fear lestthis hue and cry should be raised against them as they cross thatfearful bridge, beg pardon of those who complained against them;it has happened to me myself on many occasions. Men of rank, whohad compelled me by their importunity to do what I did not wishto do, have come to me when they thought my anger had had time tocool, and have said to me; I pray you "Halal becon antchisra, " thatis, "Make this matter lawful and right. " Some of them have evensent gifts and done me service, so that I might forgive them andsay I did it willingly; the cause of this is nothing else but thisbelief that they will not be able to get across the bridge of helluntil they have paid the uttermost farthing to the oppressed. "--MustI think that the idea of this bridge where so many iniquities aremade good is of no avail? If the Persians were deprived of thisidea, if they were persuaded that there was no Poul-Serrho, noranything of the kind, where the oppressed were avenged of theirtyrants after death, is it not clear that they would be very muchat their ease, and they would be freed from the care of appeasingthe wretched? But it is false to say that this doctrine is hurtful;yet it would not be true. --O Philosopher, your moral laws are allvery fine; but kindly show me their sanction. Cease to shirk thequestion, and tell me plainly what you would put in the place ofPoul-Serrho. 

"My good youth, be honest and humble; learn how to be ignorant, thenyou will never deceive yourself or others. If ever your talents areso far cultivated as to enable you to speak to other men, alwaysspeak according to your conscience, without oaring for theirapplause. The abuse of knowledge causes incredulity. The learnedalways despise the opinions of the crowd; each of them must have hisown opinion. A haughty philosophy leads to atheism just as blinddevotion leads to fanaticism. Avoid these extremes; keep steadfastlyto the path of truth, or what seems to you truth, in simplicity ofheart, and never let yourself be turned aside by pride or weakness. Dare to confess God before the philosophers; dare to preach humanityto the intolerant. It may be you will stand alone, but you willbear within you a witness which will make the witness of men of noaccount with you. Let them love or hate, let them read your writingsor despise them; no matter. Speak the truth and do the right; theone thing that really matters is to do one's duty in this world;and when we forget ourselves we are really working for ourselves. My child, self-interest misleads us; the hope of the just is theonly sure guide. "

I have transcribed this document not as a rule for the sentimentswe should adopt in matters of religion, but as an example of the wayin which we may reason with our pupil without forsaking the methodI have tried to establish. So long as we yield nothing to humanauthority, nor to the prejudices of our native land, the light ofreason alone, in a state of nature, can lead us no further than tonatural religion; and this is as far as I should go with Emile. Ifhe must have any other religion, I have no right to be his guide;he must choose for himself. 

We are working in agreement with nature, and while she is shapingthe physical man, we are striving to shape his moral being, butwe do not make the same progress. The body is already strong andvigorous, the soul is still frail and delicate, and whatever can bedone by human art, the body is always ahead of the mind. Hithertoall our care has been devoted to restrain the one and stimulatethe other, so that the man might be as far as possible at one withhimself. By developing his individuality, we have kept his growingsusceptibilities in check; we have controlled it by cultivatinghis reason. Objects of thought moderate the influence of objectsof sense. By going back to the causes of things, we have withdrawnhim from the sway of the senses; it is an easy thing to raise himfrom the study of nature to the search for the author of nature. 

When we have reached this point, what a fresh hold we have got overour pupil; what fresh ways of speaking to his heart! Then alonedoes he find a real motive for being good, for doing right when heis far from every human eye, and when he is not driven to it bylaw. To be just in his own eyes and in the sight of God, to do hisduty, even at the cost of life itself, and to bear in his heartvirtue, not only for the love of order which we all subordinateto the love of self, but for the love of the Author of his being, a love which mingles with that self-love, so that he may at lengthenjoy the lasting happiness which the peace of a good conscienceand the contemplation of that supreme being promise him in anotherlife, after he has used this life aright. Go beyond this, and I seenothing but injustice, hypocrisy, and falsehood among men; privateinterest, which in competition necessarily prevails over everythingelse, teaches all things to adorn vice with the outward show ofvirtue. Let all men do what is good for me at the cost of what isgood for themselves; let everything depend on me alone; let thewhole human race perish, if needs be, in suffering and want, tospare me a moment's pain or hunger. Yes, I shall always maintainthat whoso says in his heart, "There is no God, " while he takesthe name of God upon his lips, is either a liar or a madman. 

Reader, it is all in vain; I perceive that you and I shall neversee Emile with the same eyes; you will always fancy him like yourown young people, hasty, impetuous, flighty, wandering from fete tofete, from amusement to amusement, never able to settle to anything. You smile when I expect to make a thinker, a philosopher, a youngtheologian, of an ardent, lively, eager, and fiery young man, at the most impulsive period of youth. This dreamer, you say, isalways in pursuit of his fancy; when he gives us a pupil of hisown making, he does not merely form him, he creates him, he makeshim up out of his own head; and while he thinks he is treading inthe steps of nature, he is getting further and further from her. As for me, when I compare my pupil with yours, I can scarcely findanything in common between them. So differently brought up, it isalmost a miracle if they are alike in any respect. As his childhoodwas passed in the freedom they assume in youth, in his youth hebegins to bear the yoke they bore as children; this yoke becomeshateful to them, they are sick of it, and they see in it nothingbut their masters' tyranny; when they escape from childhood, theythink they must shake off all control, they make up for the prolongedrestraint imposed upon them, as a prisoner, freed from his fetters, moves and stretches and shakes his limbs. [Footnote: There is noone who looks down upon childhood with such lofty scorn as thosewho are barely grown-up; just as there is no country where rank ismore strictly regarded than that where there is little real inequality;everybody is afraid of being confounded with his inferiors. ] Emile, however, is proud to be a man, and to submit to the yoke of hisgrowing reason; his body, already well grown, no longer needs somuch action, and begins to control itself, while his half-fledgedmind tries its wings on every occasion. Thus the age of reasonbecomes for the one the age of licence; for the other, the age ofreasoning. 

Would you know which of the two is nearer to the order of nature!Consider the differences between those who are more or less removedfrom a state of nature. Observe young villagers and see if theyare as undisciplined as your scholars. The Sieur de Beau says thatsavages in childhood are always active, and ever busy with sportsthat keep the body in motion; but scarcely do they reach adolescencethan they become quiet and dreamy; they no longer devote themselvesto games of skill or chance. Emile, who has been brought up in fullfreedom like young peasants and savages, should behave like themand change as he grows up. The whole difference is in this, thatinstead of merely being active in sport or for food, he has, in thecourse of his sports, learned to think. Having reached this stage, and by this road, he is quite ready to enter upon the next stage towhich I introduce him; the subjects I suggest for his considerationrouse his curiosity, because they are fine in themselves, becausethey are quite new to him, and because he is able to understandthem. Your young people, on the other hand, are weary and overdonewith your stupid lessons, your long sermons, and your tediouscatechisms; why should they not refuse to devote their minds towhat has made them sad, to the burdensome precepts which have beencontinually piled upon them, to the thought of the Author of theirbeing, who has been represented as the enemy of their pleasures?All this has only inspired in them aversion, disgust, and weariness;constraint has set them against it; why then should they devotethemselves to it when they are beginning to choose for themselves?They require novelty, you must not repeat what they learnedas children. Just so with my own pupil, when he is a man I speakto him as a man, and only tell him what is new to him; it is justbecause they are tedious to your pupils that he will find them tohis taste. 

This is how I doubly gain time for him by retarding nature to theadvantage of reason. But have I indeed retarded the progress ofnature? No, I have only prevented the imagination from hasteningit; I have employed another sort of teaching to counterbalancethe precocious instruction which the young man receives from othersources. When he is carried away by the flood of existing customsand I draw him in the opposite direction by means of other customs, this is not to remove him from his place, but to keep him in it. 

Nature's due time comes at length, as come it must. Since man mustdie, he must reproduce himself, so that the species may endure andthe order of the world continue. When by the signs I have spoken ofyou perceive that the critical moment is at hand, at once abandonfor ever your former tone. He is still your disciple, but not yourscholar. He is a man and your friend; henceforth you must treathim as such. 

What! Must I abdicate my authority when most I need it? Must Iabandon the adult to himself just when he least knows how to controlhimself, when he may fall into the gravest errors! Must I renouncemy rights when it matters most that I should use them on his behalf?Who bids you renounce them; he is only just becoming conscious ofthem. Hitherto all you have gained has been won by force or guile;authority, the law of duty, were unknown to him, you had to constrainor deceive him to gain his obedience. But see what fresh chainsyou have bound about his heart. Reason, friendship, affection, gratitude, a thousand bonds of affection, speak to him in a voicehe cannot fail to hear. His ears are not yet dulled by vice, heis still sensitive only to the passions of nature. Self-love, thefirst of these, delivers him into your hands; habit confirms this. If a passing transport tears him from you, regret restores him toyou without delay; the sentiment which attaches him to you is theonly lasting sentiment, all the rest are fleeting and self-effacing. Do not let him become corrupt, and he will always be docile; hewill not begin to rebel till he is already perverted. 

I grant you, indeed, that if you directly oppose his growing desiresand foolishly treat as crimes the fresh needs which are beginningto make themselves felt in him, he will not listen to you forlong; but as soon as you abandon my method I cannot be answerablefor the consequences. Remember that you are nature's minister; youwill never be her foe. 

But what shall we decide to do? You see no alternative but eitherto favour his inclinations or to resist them; to tyrannise or towink at his misconduct; and both of these may lead to such dangerousresults that one must indeed hesitate between them. 

The first way out of the difficulty is a very early marriage; thisis undoubtedly the safest and most natural plan. I doubt, however, whether it is the best or the most useful. I will give my reasonslater; meanwhile I admit that young men should marry when they reacha marriageable age. But this age comes too soon; we have made themprecocious; marriage should be postponed to maturity. 

If it were merely a case of listening to their wishes and followingtheir lead it would be an easy matter; but there are so manycontradictions between the rights of nature and the laws of societythat to conciliate them we must continually contradict ourselves. Much art is required to prevent man in society from being altogetherartificial. 

For the reasons just stated, I consider that by the means I haveindicated and others like them the young man's desires may be keptin ignorance and his senses pure up to the age of twenty. This isso true that among the Germans a young man who lost his virginitybefore that age was considered dishonoured; and the writers justlyattribute the vigour of constitution and the number of childrenamong the Germans to the continence of these nations during youth. 

This period may be prolonged still further, and a few centuriesago nothing was more common even in France. Among other well-knownexamples, Montaigne's father, a man no less scrupulously truthfulthan strong and healthy, swore that his was a virgin marriage atthree and thirty, and he had served for a long time in the Italianwars. We may see in the writings of his son what strength andspirit were shown by the father when he was over sixty. Certainlythe contrary opinion depends rather on our own morals and our ownprejudices than on the experience of the race as a whole. 

I may, therefore, leave on one side the experience of our youngpeople; it proves nothing for those who have been educated inanother fashion. Considering that nature has fixed no exact limitswhich cannot be advanced or postponed, I think I may, without goingbeyond the law of nature, assume that under my care Emil has so farremained in his first innocence, but I see that this happy periodis drawing to a close. Surrounded by ever-increasing perils, hewill escape me at the first opportunity in spite of all my efforts, and this opportunity will not long be delayed; he will follow theblind instinct of his senses; the chances are a thousand to one onhis ruin. I have considered the morals of mankind too profoundlynot to be aware of the irrevocable influence of this first momenton all the rest of his life. If I dissimulate and pretend to seenothing, he will take advantage of my weakness; if he thinks hecan deceive me, he will despise me, and I become an accomplice inhis destruction. If I try to recall him, the time is past, he nolonger heeds me, he finds me tiresome, hateful, intolerable; itwill not be long before he is rid of me. There is therefore onlyone reasonable course open to me; I must make him accountable forhis own actions, I must at least preserve him from being takenunawares, and I must show him plainly the dangers which beset hispath. I have restrained him so far through his ignorance; henceforwardhis restraint must be his own knowledge. 

This new teaching is of great importance, and we will take up ourstory where we left it. This is the time to present my accounts, to show him how his time and mine have been spent, to make knownto him what he is and what I am; what I have done, and what he hasdone; what we owe to each other; all his moral relations, all theundertakings to which he is pledged, all those to which othershave pledged themselves in respect to him; the stage he has reachedin the development of his faculties, the road that remains to betravelled, the difficulties he will meet, and the way to overcomethem; how I can still help him and how he must henceforward helphimself; in a word, the critical time which he has reached, thenew dangers round about him, and all the valid reasons which shouldinduce him to keep a close watch upon himself before giving heedto his growing desires. 

Remember that to guide a grown man you must reverse all that youdid to guide the child. Do not hesitate to speak to him of thosedangerous mysteries which you have so carefully concealed from himhitherto. Since he must become aware of them, let him not learnthem from another, nor from himself, but from you alone; since hemust henceforth fight against them, let him know his enemy, thathe may not be taken unawares. 

Young people who are found to be aware of these matters, withoutour knowing how they obtained their knowledge, have not obtained itwith impunity. This unwise teaching, which can have no honourableobject, stains the imagination of those who receive it if it doesnothing worse, and it inclines them to the vices of their instructors. This is not all; servants, by this means, ingratiate themselveswith a child, gain his confidence, make him regard his tutor as agloomy and tiresome person; and one of the favourite subjects oftheir secret colloquies is to slander him. When the pupil has gotso far, the master may abandon his task; he can do no good. 

But why does the child choose special confidants? Because of thetyranny of those who control him. Why should he hide himself fromthem if he were not driven to it? Why should he complain if he hadnothing to complain of? Naturally those who control him are hisfirst confidants; you can see from his eagerness to tell them whathe thinks that he feels he has only half thought till he has toldhis thoughts to them. You may be sure that when the child knows youwill neither preach nor scold, he will always tell you everything, and that no one will dare to tell him anything he must conceal fromyou, for they will know very well that he will tell you everything. 

What makes me most confident in my method is this: when I followit out as closely as possible, I find no situation in the life ofmy scholar which does not leave me some pleasing memory of him. Even when he is carried away by his ardent temperament or when herevolts against the hand that guides him, when he struggles and ison the point of escaping from me, I still find his first simplicityin his agitation and his anger; his heart as pure as his body, hehas no more knowledge of pretence than of vice; reproach and scornhave not made a coward of him; base fears have never taught himthe art of concealment. He has all the indiscretion of innocence;he is absolutely out-spoken; he does not even know the use ofdeceit. Every impulse of his heart is betrayed either by word orlook, and I often know what he is feeling before he is aware of ithimself. 

So long as his heart is thus freely opened to me, so long as hedelights to tell me what he feels, I have nothing to fear; the dangeris not yet at hand; but if he becomes more timid, more reserved, if I perceive in his conversation the first signs of confusion andshame, his instincts are beginning to develop, he is beginning toconnect the idea of evil with these instincts, there is not a momentto lose, and if I do not hasten to instruct him, he will learn inspite of me. 

Some of my readers, even of those who agree with me, will thinkthat it is only a question of a conversation with the young man atany time. Oh, this is not the way to control the human heart. Whatwe say has no meaning unless the opportunity has been carefullychosen. Before we sow we must till the ground; the seed of virtueis hard to grow; and a long period of preparation is required beforeit will take root. One reason why sermons have so little effect isthat they are offered to everybody alike, without discriminationor choice. How can any one imagine that the same sermon could besuitable for so many hearers, with their different dispositions, so unlike in mind, temper, age, sex, station, and opinion. Perhapsthere are not two among those to whom what is addressed to all isreally suitable; and all our affections are so transitory that perhapsthere are not even two occasions in the life of any man when thesame speech would have the same effect on him. Judge for yourselfwhether the time when the eager senses disturb the understandingand tyrannise over the will, is the time to listen to the solemnlessons of wisdom. Therefore never reason with young men, evenwhen they have reached the age of reason, unless you have firstprepared the way. Most lectures miss their mark more through themaster's fault than the disciple's. The pedant and the teacher saymuch the same; but the former says it at random, and the latteronly when he is sure of its effect. 

As a somnambulist, wandering in his sleep, walks along the edgeof a precipice, over which he would fall if he were awake, so myEmile, in the sleep of ignorance, escapes the perils which he doesnot see; were I to wake him with a start, he might fall. Let usfirst try to withdraw him from the edge of the precipice, and thenwe will awake him to show him it from a distance. 

Reading, solitude, idleness, a soft and sedentary life, intercoursewith women and young people, these are perilous paths for a youngman, and these lead him constantly into danger. I divert his sensesby other objects of sense; I trace another course for his spiritsby which I distract them from the course they would have taken; itis by bodily exercise and hard work that I check the activity ofthe imagination, which was leading him astray. When the arms arehard at work, the imagination is quiet; when the body is very weary, the passions are not easily inflamed. The quickest and easiestprecaution is to remove him from immediate danger. At once I takehim away from towns, away from things which might lead him intotemptation. But that is not enough; in what desert, in what wilds, shall he escape from the thoughts which pursue him? It is notenough to remove dangerous objects; if I fail to remove the memoryof them, if I fail to find a way to detach him from everything, if I fail to distract him from himself, I might as well have lefthim where he was. 

Emile has learned a trade, but we do not have recourse to it; heis fond of farming and understands it, but farming is not enough;the occupations he is acquainted with degenerate into routine; whenhe is engaged in them he is not really occupied; he is thinking ofother things; head and hand are at work on different subjects. Hemust have some fresh occupation which has the interest of novelty--anoccupation which keeps him busy, diligent, and hard at work, anoccupation which he may become passionately fond of, one to whichhe will devote himself entirely. Now the only one which seems topossess all these characteristics is the chase. If hunting is everan innocent pleasure, if it is ever worthy of a man, now is thetime to betake ourselves to it. Emile is well-fitted to succeed init. He is strong, skilful, patient, unwearied. He is sure to takea fancy to this sport; he will bring to it all the ardour of youth;in it he will lose, at least for a time, the dangerous inclinationswhich spring from softness. The chase hardens the heart a well asthe body; we get used to the sight of blood and cruelty. Diana isrepresented as the enemy of love; and the allegory is true to life;the languors of love are born of soft repose, and tender feelingsare stifled by violent exercise. In the woods and fields, the loverand the sportsman are so diversely affected that they receive verydifferent impressions. The fresh shade, the arbours, the pleasantresting-places of the one, to the other are but feeding grounds, orplaces where the quarry will hide or turn to bay. Where the loverhears the flute and the nightingale, the hunter hears the hornand the hounds; one pictures to himself the nymphs and dryads, theother sees the horses, the huntsman, and the pack. Take a countrywalk with one or other of these men; their different conversationwill soon show you that they behold the earth with other eyes, and that the direction of their thoughts is as different as theirfavourite pursuit. 

I understand how these tastes may be combined, and that at last menfind time for both. But the passions of youth cannot be divided inthis way. Give the youth a single occupation which he loves, andthe rest will soon be forgotten. Varied desires come with variedknowledge, and the first pleasures we know are the only ones wedesire for long enough. I would not have the whole of Emile's youthspent in killing creatures, and I do not even profess to justifythis cruel passion; it is enough for me that it serves to delay amore dangerous passion, so that he may listen to me calmly when Ispeak of it, and give me time to describe it without stimulatingit. 

There are moments in human life which can never be forgotten. Suchis the time when Emile receives the instruction of which I havespoken; its influence should endure all his life through. Let ustry to engrave it on his memory so that it may never fade away. Itis one of the faults of our age to rely too much on cold reason, as if men were all mind. By neglecting the language of expressionwe have lost the most forcible mode of speech. The spoken word isalways weak, and we speak to the heart rather through the eyes thanthe ears. In our attempt to appeal to reason only, we have reducedour precepts to words, we have not embodied them in deed. Merereason is not active; occasionally she restrains, more rarely shestimulates, but she never does any great thing. Small minds have amania for reasoning. Strong souls speak a very different language, and it is by this language that men are persuaded and driven toaction. 

I observe that in modern times men only get a hold over others byforce or self-interest, while the ancients did more by persuasion, by the affections of the heart; because they did not neglect thelanguage; of symbolic expression. All agreements were drawn upsolemnly, so that they might be more inviolable; before the reignof force, the gods were the judges of mankind; in their presence, individuals made their treaties and alliances, and pledged themselvesto perform their promises; the face of the earth was the book inwhich the archives were preserved. The leaves of this book wererocks, trees, piles of stones, made sacred by these transactions, and regarded with reverence by barbarous men; and these pages werealways open before their eyes. The well of the oath, the well ofthe living and seeing one; the ancient oak of Mamre, the stones ofwitness, such were the simple but stately monuments of the sanctityof contracts; none dared to lay a sacrilegious hand on thesemonuments, and man's faith was more secure under the warrant ofthese dumb witnesses than it is to-day upon all the rigour of thelaw. 

In government the people were over-awed by the pomp and splendourof royal power. The symbols of greatness, a throne, a sceptre, apurple robe, a crown, a fillet, these were sacred in their sight. These symbols, and the respect which they inspired, led them toreverence the venerable man whom they beheld adorned with them;without soldiers and without threats, he spoke and was obeyed. [Footnote: The Roman Catholic clergy have very wisely retainedthese symbols, and certain republics, such as Venice, have followedtheir example. Thus the Venetian government, despite the fallencondition of the state, still enjoys, under the trappings ofits former greatness, all the affection, all the reverence of thepeople; and next to the pope in his triple crown, there is perhapsno king, no potentate, no person in the world so much respectedas the Doge of Venice; he has no power, no authority, but he isrendered sacred by his pomp, and he wears beneath his ducal coroneta woman's flowing locks. That ceremony of the Bucentaurius, whichstirs the laughter of fools, stirs the Venetian populace to shedits life-blood for the maintenance of this tyrannical government. ]In our own day men profess to do away with these symbols. What arethe consequences of this contempt? The kingly majesty makes noimpression on all hearts, kings can only gain obedience by the helpof troops, and the respect of their subjects is based only on thefear of punishment. Kings are spared the trouble of wearing theircrowns, and our nobles escape from the outward signs of theirstation, but they must have a hundred thousand men at their commandif their orders are to be obeyed. Though this may seem a finerthing, it is easy to see that in the long run they will gain nothing. 

It is amazing what the ancients accomplished with the aid ofeloquence; but this eloquence did not merely consist in fine speechescarefully prepared; and it was most effective when the orator saidleast. The most startling speeches were expressed not in words butin signs; they were not uttered but shown. A thing beheld by theeyes kindles the imagination, stirs the curiosity, and keeps themind on the alert for what we are about to say, and often enoughthe thing tells the whole story. Thrasybulus and Tarquin cuttingoff the heads of the poppies, Alexander placing his seal on thelips of his favourite, Diogenes marching before Zeno, do not thesespeak more plainly than if they had uttered long orations? Whatflow of words could have expressed the ideas as clearly? Darius, in the course of the Scythian war, received from the king of theScythians a bird, a frog, a mouse, and five arrows. The ambassadordeposited this gift and retired without a word. In our days he wouldhave been taken for a madman. This terrible speech was understood, and Darius withdrew to his own country with what speed he could. Substitute a letter for these symbols and the more threatening itwas the less terror it would inspire; it would have been merely apiece of bluff, to which Darius would have paid no attention. 

What heed the Romans gave to the language of signs! Different agesand different ranks had their appropriate garments, toga, tunic, patrician robes, fringes and borders, seats of honour, lictors, rods and axes, crowns of gold, crowns of leaves, crowns of flowers, ovations, triumphs, everything had its pomp, its observances, its ceremonial, and all these spoke to the heart of the citizens. The state regarded it as a matter of importance that the populaceshould assemble in one place rather than another, that they shouldor should not behold the Capitol, that they should or should notturn towards the Senate, that this day or that should be chosen fortheir deliberations. The accused wore a special dress, so did thecandidates for election; warriors did not boast of their exploits, they showed their scars. I can fancy one of our orators at thedeath of Caesar exhausting all the commonplaces of rhetoric to givea pathetic description of his wounds, his blood, his dead body;Anthony was an orator, but he said none of this; he showed themurdered Caesar. What rhetoric was this!

But this digression, like many others, is drawing me unawares awayfrom my subject; and my digressions are too frequent to be bornewith patience. I therefore return to the point. 

Do not reason coldly with youth. Clothe your reason with a body, if you would make it felt. Let the mind speak the language of theheart, that it may be understood. I say again our opinions, not ouractions, may be influenced by cold argument; they set us thinking, not doing; they show us what we ought to think, not what we oughtto do. If this is true of men, it is all the truer of young peoplewho are still enwrapped in their senses and cannot think otherwisethan they imagine. 

Even after the preparations of which I have spoken, I shall takegood care not to go all of a sudden to Emile's room and preach along and heavy sermon on the subject in which he is to be instructed. I shall begin by rousing his imagination; I shall choose the time, place, and surroundings most favourable to the impression I wishto make; I shall, so to speak, summon all nature as witness to ourconversations; I shall call upon the eternal God, the Creator ofnature, to bear witness to the truth of what I say. He shall judgebetween Emile and myself; I will make the rocks, the woods, themountains round about us, the monuments of his promises and mine;eyes, voice, and gesture shall show the enthusiasm I desire toinspire. Then I will speak and he will listen, and his emotion willbe stirred by my own. The more impressed I am by the sanctity ofmy duties, the more sacred he will regard his own. I will enforcethe voice of reason with images and figures, I will not give himlong-winded speeches or cold precepts, but my overflowing feelingswill break their bounds; my reason shall be grave and serious, butmy heart cannot speak too warmly. Then when I have shown him allthat I have done for him, I will show him how he is made for me;he will see in my tender affection the cause of all my care. Howgreatly shall I surprise and disturb him when I change my tone. Instead of shrivelling up his soul by always talking of his owninterests, I shall henceforth speak of my own; he will be moredeeply touched by this. I will kindle in his young heart all thesentiments of affection, generosity, and gratitude which I havealready called into being, and it will indeed be sweet to watchtheir growth. I will press him to my bosom, and weep over him inmy emotion; I will say to him: "You are my wealth, my child, myhandiwork; my happiness is bound up in yours; if you frustrate myhopes, you rob me of twenty years of my life, and you bring my greyhairs with sorrow to the grave. " This is the way to gain a hearingand to impress what is said upon the heart and memory of the youngman. 

Hitherto I have tried to give examples of the way in which a tutorshould instruct his pupil in cases of difficulty. I have tried todo so in this instance; but after many attempts I have abandonedthe task, convinced that the French language is too artificialto permit in print the plainness of speech required for the firstlessons in certain subjects. 

They say French is more chaste than other languages; for my ownpart I think it more obscene; for it seems to me that the purityof a language does not consist in avoiding coarse expressions butin having none. Indeed, if we are to avoid them, they must be inour thoughts, and there is no language in which it is so difficultto speak with purity on every subject than French. The reader isalways quicker to detect than the author to avoid a gross meaning, and he is shocked and startled by everything. How can what is heardby impure ears avoid coarseness? On the other hand, a nation whosemorals are pure has fit terms for everything, and these terms arealways right because they are rightly used. One could not imaginemore modest language than that of the Bible, just because of itsplainness of speech. The same things translated into French wouldbecome immodest. What I ought to say to Emile will sound pure andhonourable to him; but to make the same impression in print woulddemand a like purity of heart in the reader. 

I should even think that reflections on true purity of speechand the sham delicacy of vice might find a useful place in theconversations as to morality to which this subject brings us; forwhen he learns the language of plain-spoken goodness, he must alsolearn the language of decency, and he must know why the two areso different. However this may be, I maintain that if instead ofthe empty precepts which are prematurely dinned into the ears ofchildren, only to be scoffed at when the time comes when they mightprove useful, if instead of this we bide our time, if we preparethe way for a hearing, if we then show him the laws of nature inall their truth, if we show him the sanction of these laws in thephysical and moral evils which overtake those who neglect them, if while we speak to him of this great mystery of generation, wejoin to the idea of the pleasure which the Author of nature hasgiven to this act the idea of the exclusive affection which makesit delightful, the idea of the duties of faithfulness and modestywhich surround it, and redouble its charm while fulfilling itspurpose; if we paint to him marriage, not only as the sweetest formof society, but also as the most sacred and inviolable of contracts, if we tell him plainly all the reasons which lead men to respectthis sacred bond, and to pour hatred and curses upon him who daresto dishonour it; if we give him a true and terrible picture of thehorrors of debauch, of its stupid brutality, of the downward roadby which a first act of misconduct leads from bad to worse, and atlast drags the sinner to his ruin; if, I say, we give him proofsthat on a desire for chastity depends health, strength, courage, virtue, love itself, and all that is truly good for man--I maintainthat this chastity will be so dear and so desirable in his eyes, that his mind will be ready to receive our teaching as to the wayto preserve it; for so long as we are chaste we respect chastity;it is only when we have lost this virtue that we scorn it. 

It is not true that the inclination to evil is beyond our control, and that we cannot overcome it until we have acquired the habit ofyielding to it. Aurelius Victor says that many men were mad enoughto purchase a night with Cleopatra at the price of their life, and this is not incredible in the madness of passion. But let ussuppose the maddest of men, the man who has his senses least undercontrol; let him see the preparations for his death, let him realisethat he will certainly die in torment a quarter of an hour later;not only would that man, from that time forward, become ableto resist temptation, he would even find it easy to do so; theterrible picture with which they are associated will soon distracthis attention from these temptations, and when they are continuallyput aside they will cease to recur. The sole cause of our weaknessis the feebleness of our will, and we have always strength toperform what we strongly desire. "Volenti nihil difficile!" Oh! ifonly we hated vice as much as we love life, we should abstain aseasily from a pleasant sin as from a deadly poison in a deliciousdish. 

How is it that you fail to perceive that if all the lessons givento a young man on this subject have no effect, it is because theyare not adapted to his age, and that at every age reason must bepresented in a shape which will win his affection? Speak seriouslyto him if required, but let what you say to him always have a charmwhich will compel him to listen. Do not coldly oppose his wishes;do not stifle his imagination, but direct it lest it should bringforth monsters. Speak to him of love, of women, of pleasure; lethim find in your conversation a charm which delights his youthfulheart; spare no pains to make yourself his confidant; under thisname alone will you really be his master. Then you need not fearhe will find your conversation tedious; he will make you talk morethan you desire. 

If I have managed to take all the requisite precautions in accordancewith these maxims, and have said the right things to Emile at theage he has now reached, I am quite convinced that he will come ofhis own accord to the point to which I would lead him, and willeagerly confide himself to my care. When he sees the dangers bywhich he is surrounded, he will say to me with all the warmth ofyouth, "Oh, my friend, my protector, my master! resume the authorityyou desire to lay aside at the very time when I most need it;hitherto my weakness has given you this power. I now place it inyour hands of my own free-will, and it will be all the more sacredin my eyes. Protect me from all the foes which are attacking me, and above all from the traitors within the citadel; watch overyour work, that it may still be worthy of you. I mean to obey yourlaws, I shall ever do so, that is my steadfast purpose; if I everdisobey you, it will be against my will; make me free by guardingme against the passions which do me violence; do not let me becometheir slave; compel me to be my own master and to obey, not mysenses, but my reason. "

When you have led your pupil so far (and it will be your own faultif you fail to do so), beware of taking him too readily at his word, lest your rule should seem too strict to him, and lest he shouldthink he has a right to escape from it, by accusing you of takinghim by surprise. This is the time for reserve and seriousness; andthis attitude will have all the more effect upon him seeing thatit is the first time you have adopted it towards him. 

You will say to him therefore: "Young man, you readily make promiseswhich are hard to keep; you must understand what they mean beforeyou have a right to make them; you do not know how your fellowsare drawn by their passions into the whirlpool of vice masqueradingas pleasure. You are honourable, I know; you will never break yourword, but how often will you repent of having given it? How oftenwill you curse your friend, when, in order to guard you from theills which threaten you, he finds himself compelled to do violenceto your heart. Like Ulysses who, hearing the song of the Sirens, cried aloud to his rowers to unbind him, you will break yourchains at the call of pleasure; you will importune me with yourlamentations, you will reproach me as a tyrant when I have yourwelfare most at heart; when I am trying to make you happy, I shallincur your hatred. Oh, Emile, I can never bear to be hateful inyour eyes; this is too heavy a price to pay even for your happiness. My dear young man, do you not see that when you undertake to obeyme, you compel me to promise to be your guide, to forget myselfin my devotion to you, to refuse to listen to your murmurs andcomplaints, to wage unceasing war against your wishes and my own. Before we either of us undertake such a task, let us count ourresources; take your time, give me time to consider, and be surethat the slower we are to promise, the more faithfully will ourpromises be kept. "

You may be sure that the more difficulty he finds in getting yourpromise, the easier you will find it to carry it out. The youngman must learn that he is promising a great deal, and that youare promising still more. When the time is come, when he has, soto say, signed the contract, then change your tone, and make yourrule as gentle as you said it would be severe. Say to him, "Myyoung friend, it is experience that you lack; but I have taken carethat you do not lack reason. You are ready to see the motives ofmy conduct in every respect; to do this you need only wait tillyou are free from excitement. Always obey me first, and then askthe reasons for my commands; I am always ready to give my reasonsso soon as you are ready to listen to them, and I shall never beafraid to make you the judge between us. You promise to follow myteaching, and I promise only to use your obedience to make you thehappiest of men. For proof of this I have the life you have livedhitherto. Show me any one of your age who has led as happy a lifeas yours, and I promise you nothing more. "

When my authority is firmly established, my first care will be toavoid the necessity of using it. I shall spare no pains to becomemore and more firmly established in his confidence, to make myselfthe confidant of his heart and the arbiter of his pleasures. Farfrom combating his youthful tastes, I shall consult them that Imay be their master; I will look at things from his point of viewthat I may be his guide; I will not seek a remote distant good atthe cost of his present happiness. I would always have him happyalways if that may be. 

Those who desire to guide young people rightly and to preserve themfrom the snares of sense give them a disgust for love, and wouldwillingly make the very thought of it a crime, as if love werefor the old. All these mistaken lessons have no effect; the heartgives the lie to them. The young man, guided by a surer instinct, laughs to himself over the gloomy maxims which he pretends toaccept, and only awaits the chance of disregarding them. All thatis contrary to nature. By following the opposite course I reachthe same end more safely. I am not afraid to encourage in him thetender feeling for which he is so eager, I shall paint it as thesupreme joy of life, as indeed it is; when I picture it to him, Idesire that he shall give himself up to it; by making him feel thecharm which the union of hearts adds to the delights of sense, Ishall inspire him with a disgust for debauchery; I shall make hima lover and a good man. 

How narrow-minded to see nothing in the rising desires of a youngheart but obstacles to the teaching of reason. In my eyes, theseare the right means to make him obedient to that very teaching. Only through passion can we gain the mastery over passions; theirtyranny must be controlled by their legitimate power, and natureherself must furnish us with the means to control her. 

Emile is not made to live alone, he is a member of society, and mustfulfil his duties as such. He is made to live among his fellow-menand he must get to know them. He knows mankind in general; he hasstill to learn to know individual men. He knows what goes on in theworld; he has now to learn how men live in the world. It is timeto show him the front of that vast stage, of which he alreadyknows the hidden workings. It will not arouse in him the foolishadmiration of a giddy youth, but the discrimination of an exactand upright spirit. He may no doubt be deceived by his passions;who is there who yields to his passions without being led astrayby them? At least he will not be deceived by the passions of otherpeople. If he sees them, he will regard them with the eye of thewise, and will neither be led away by their example nor seduced bytheir prejudices. 

As there is a fitting age for the study of the sciences, so thereis a fitting age for the study of the ways of the world. Those wholearn these too soon, follow them throughout life, without choiceor consideration, and although they follow them fairly well theynever really know what they are about. But he who studies the waysof the world and sees the reason for them, follows them with moreinsight, and therefore more exactly and gracefully. Give me a childof twelve who knows nothing at all; at fifteen I will restore himto you knowing as much as those who have been under instructionfrom infancy; with this difference, that your scholars only knowthings by heart, while mine knows how to use his knowledge. Inthe same way plunge a young man of twenty into society; under goodguidance, in a year's time, he will be more charming and more trulypolite than one brought up in society from childhood. For the formeris able to perceive the reasons for all the proceedings relatingto age, position, and sex, on which the customs of society depend, and can reduce them to general principles, and apply them tounforeseen emergencies; while the latter, who is guided solely byhabit, is at a loss when habit fails him. 

Young French ladies are all brought up in convents till they aremarried. Do they seem to find any difficulty in acquiring the wayswhich are so new to them, and is it possible to accuse the ladiesof Paris of awkward and embarrassed manners or of ignorance of theways of society, because they have not acquired them in infancy!This is the prejudice of men of the world, who know nothing of moreimportance than this trifling science, and wrongly imagine thatyou cannot begin to acquire it too soon. 

On the other hand, it is quite true that we must not wait too long. Any one who has spent the whole of his youth far from the greatworld is all his life long awkward, constrained, out of place; hismanners will be heavy and clumsy, no amount of practice will getrid of this, and he will only make himself more ridiculous by tryingto do so. There is a time for every kind of teaching and we oughtto recognise it, and each has its own dangers to be avoided. At thisage there are more dangers than at any other; but I do not exposemy pupil to them without safeguards. 

When my method succeeds completely in attaining one object, andwhen in avoiding one difficulty it also provides against another, I then consider that it is a good method, and that I am on theright track. This seems to be the case with regard to the expedientsuggested by me in the present case. If I desire to be stern andcold towards my pupil, I shall lose his confidence, and he will soonconceal himself from me. If I wish to be easy and complaisant, toshut my eyes, what good does it do him to be under my care? I onlygive my authority to his excesses, and relieve his conscience atthe expense of my own. If I introduce him into society with noobject but to teach him, he will learn more than I want. If I keephim apart from society, what will he have learnt from me? Everythingperhaps, except the one art absolutely necessary to a civilisedman, the art of living among his fellow-men. If I try to attend tothis at a distance, it will be of no avail; he is only concernedwith the present. If I am content to supply him with amusement, hewill acquire habits of luxury and will learn nothing. 

We will have none of this. My plan provides for everything. Yourheart, I say to the young man, requires a companion; let us goin search of a fitting one; perhaps we shall not easily find sucha one, true worth is always rare, but we will be in no hurry, norwill we be easily discouraged. No doubt there is such a one, andwe shall find her at last, or at least we shall find some one likeher. With an end so attractive to himself, I introduce him intosociety. What more need I say? Have I not achieved my purpose?

By describing to him his future mistress, you may imagine whetherI shall gain a hearing, whether I shall succeed in making thequalities he ought to love pleasing and dear to him, whether I shallsway his feelings to seek or shun what is good or bad for him. Ishall be the stupidest of men if I fail to make him in love with heknows not whom. No matter that the person I describe is imaginary, it is enough to disgust him with those who might have attractedhim; it is enough if it is continually suggesting comparisons whichmake him prefer his fancy to the real people he sees; and is notlove itself a fancy, a falsehood, an illusion? We are far more inlove with our own fancy than with the object of it. If we saw theobject of our affections as it is, there would be no such thing aslove. When we cease to love, the person we used to love remainsunchanged, but we no longer see with the same eyes; the magic veilis drawn aside, and love disappears. But when I supply the objectof imagination, I have control over comparisons, and I am ableeasily to prevent illusion with regard to realities. 

For all that I would not mislead a young man by describing a modelof perfection which could never exist; but I would so choose thefaults of his mistress that they will suit him, that he will bepleased by them, and they may serve to correct his own. Neitherwould I lie to him and affirm that there really is such a person;let him delight in the portrait, he will soon desire to find theoriginal. From desire to belief the transition is easy; it is amatter of a little skilful description, which under more perceptiblefeatures will give to this imaginary object an air of greater reality. I would go so far as to give her a name; I would say, smiling. Letus call your future mistress Sophy; Sophy is a name of good omen;if it is not the name of the lady of your choice at least she willbe worthy of the name; we may honour her with it meanwhile. Ifafter all these details, without affirming or denying, we excuseourselves from giving an answer, his suspicions will become certainty;he will think that his destined bride is purposely concealed fromhim, and that he will see her in good time. If once he has arrivedat this conclusion and if the characteristics to be shown to himhave been well chosen, the rest is easy; there will be little riskin exposing him to the world; protect him from his senses, and hisheart is safe. 

But whether or no he personifies the model I have contrived tomake so attractive to him, this model, if well done, will attachhim none the less to everything that resembles itself, and willgive him as great a distaste for all that is unlike it as if Sophyreally existed. What a means to preserve his heart from the dangersto which his appearance would expose him, to repress his sensesby means of his imagination, to rescue him from the hands of thosewomen who profess to educate young men, and make them pay so dearfor their teaching, and only teach a young man manners by makinghim utterly shameless. Sophy is so modest? What would she think oftheir advances! Sophy is so simple! How would she like their airs?They are too far from his thoughts and his observations to bedangerous. 

Every one who deals with the control of children follows the sameprejudices and the same maxima, for their observation is at fault, and their reflection still more so. A young man is led astray inthe first place neither by temperament nor by the senses, but bypopular opinion. If we were concerned with boys brought up in boardingschools or girls in convents, I would show that this applies evento them; for the first lessons they learn from each other, the onlylessons that bear fruit, are those of vice; and it is not naturethat corrupts them but example. But let us leave the boarders inschools and convents to their bad morals; there is no cure for them. I am dealing only with home training. Take a young man carefullyeducated in his father's country house, and examine him when hereaches Paris and makes his entrance into society; you will findhim thinking clearly about honest matters, and you will find hiswill as wholesome as his reason. You will find scorn of vice anddisgust for debauchery; his face will betray his innocent horror atthe very mention of a prostitute. I maintain that no young man couldmake up his mind to enter the gloomy abodes of these unfortunatesby himself, if indeed he were aware of their purpose and felt theirnecessity. 

See the same young man six months later, you will not know him;from his bold conversation, his fashionable maxims, his easy air, you would take him for another man, if his jests over his formersimplicity and his shame when any one recalls it did not show thatit is he indeed and that he is ashamed of himself. How greatly hashe changed in so short a time! What has brought about so sudden andcomplete a change? His physical development? Would not that havetaken place in his father's house, and certainly he would not haveacquired these maxims and this tone at home? The first charms ofsense? On the contrary; those who are beginning to abandon themselvesto these pleasures are timid and anxious, they shun the light andnoise. The first pleasures are always mysterious, modesty givesthem their savour, and modesty conceals them; the first mistressdoes not make a man bold but timid. Wholly absorbed in a situationso novel to him, the young man retires into himself to enjoy it, and trembles for fear it should escape him. If he is noisy he knowsneither passion nor love; however he may boast, he has not enjoyed. 

These changes are merely the result of changed ideas. His heart isthe same, but his opinions have altered. His feelings, which changemore slowly, will at length yield to his opinions and it is thenthat he is indeed corrupted. He has scarcely made his entranceinto society before he receives a second education quite unlike thefirst, which teaches him to despise what he esteemed, and esteemwhat he despised; he learns to consider the teaching of his parentsand masters as the jargon of pedants, and the duties they haveinstilled into him as a childish morality, to be scorned now thathe is grown up. He thinks he is bound in honour to change hisconduct; he becomes forward without desire, and he talks foolishlyfrom false shame. He rails against morality before he has any tastefor vice, and prides himself on debauchery without knowing how toset about it. I shall never forget the confession of a young officerin the Swiss Guards, who was utterly sick of the noisy pleasuresof his comrades, but dared not refuse to take part in them lest heshould be laughed at. "I am getting used to it, " he said, "as I amgetting used to taking snuff; the taste will come with practice;it will not do to be a child for ever. "

So a young man when he enters society must be preserved from vanityrather than from sensibility; he succumbs rather to the tastesof others than to his own, and self-love is responsible for morelibertines than love. 

This being granted, I ask you. Is there any one on earth betterarmed than my pupil against all that may attack his morals, hissentiments, his principles; is there any one more able to resist theflood? What seduction is there against which he is not forearmed?If his desires attract him towards women, he fails to find whathe seeks, and his heart, already occupied, holds him back. If heis disturbed and urged onward by his senses, where will he findsatisfaction? His horror of adultery and debauch keeps him at adistance from prostitutes and married women, and the disorders ofyouth may always be traced to one or other of these. A maiden maybe a coquette, but she will not be shameless, she will not flingherself at the head of a young man who may marry her if he believesin her virtue; besides she is always under supervision. Emile, too, will not be left entirely to himself; both of them will be underthe guardianship of fear and shame, the constant companions ofa first passion; they will not proceed at once to misconduct, andthey will not have time to come to it gradually without hindrance. If he behaves otherwise, he must have taken lessons from his comrades, he must have learned from them to despise his self-control, and toimitate their boldness. But there is no one in the whole world solittle given to imitation as Emile. What man is there who is solittle influenced by mockery as one who has no prejudices himselfand yields nothing to the prejudices of others. I have labouredtwenty years to arm him against mockery; they will not make himtheir dupe in a day; for in his eyes ridicule is the argument offools, and nothing makes one less susceptible to raillery than tobe beyond the influence of prejudice. Instead of jests he must havearguments, and while he is in this frame of mind, I am not afraidthat he will be carried away by young fools; conscience and truthare on my side. If prejudice is to enter into the matter at all, an affection of twenty years' standing counts for something; no onewill ever convince him that I have wearied him with vain lessons;and in a heart so upright and so sensitive the voice of a tried andtrusted friend will soon efface the shouts of twenty libertines. As it is therefore merely a question of showing him that he isdeceived, that while they pretend to treat him as a man they arereally treating him as a child, I shall choose to be always simplebut serious and plain in my arguments, so that he may feel that Ido indeed treat him as a man. I will say to him, You will see thatyour welfare, in which my own is bound up, compels me to speak; Ican do nothing else. But why do these young men want to persuadeyou? Because they desire to seduce you; they do not care for you, they take no real interest in you; their only motive is a secretspite because they see you are better than they; they want todrag you down to their own level, and they only reproach you withsubmitting to control that they may themselves control you. Do youthink you have anything to gain by this? Are they so much wiserthan I, is the affection of a day stronger than mine? To give anyweight to their jests they must give weight to their authority; andby what experience do they support their maxima above ours? Theyhave only followed the example of other giddy youths, as they wouldhave you follow theirs. To escape from the so-called prejudicesof their fathers, they yield to those of their comrades. I cannotsee that they are any the better off; but I see that they lose twothings of value--the affection of their parents, whose advice isthat of tenderness and truth, and the wisdom of experience whichteaches us to judge by what we know; for their fathers have oncebeen young, but the young men have never been fathers. 

But you think they are at least sincere in their foolish precepts. Not so, dear Emile; they deceive themselves in order to deceive you;they are not in agreement with themselves; their heart continuallyrevolts, and their very words often contradict themselves. This manwho mocks at everything good would be in despair if his wife heldthe same views. Another extends his indifference to good morals evento his future wife, or he sinks to such depths of infamy as to beindifferent to his wife's conduct; but go a step further; speak tohim of his mother; is he willing to be treated as the child of anadulteress and the son of a woman of bad character, is he readyto assume the name of a family, to steal the patrimony of the trueheir, in a word will he bear being treated as a bastard? Which ofthem will permit his daughter to be dishonoured as he dishonoursthe daughter of another? There is not one of them who would not killyou if you adopted in your conduct towards him all the principleshe tries to teach you. Thus they prove their inconsistency, andwe know they do not believe what they say. Here are reasons, dearEmile; weigh their arguments if they have any, and compare themwith mine. If I wished to have recourse like them to scorn andmockery, you would see that they lend themselves to ridicule asmuch or more than myself. But I am not afraid of serious inquiry. The triumph of mockers is soon over; truth endures, and theirfoolish laughter dies away. 

You do not think that Emile, at twenty, can possibly be docile. Howdifferently we think! I cannot understand how he could be docileat ten, for what hold have I on him at that age? It took me fifteenyears of careful preparation to secure that hold. I was not educatinghim, but preparing him for education. He is now sufficiently educatedto be docile; he recognises the voice of friendship and he knowshow to obey reason. It is true I allow him a show of freedom, buthe was never more completely under control, because he obeys ofhis own free will. So long as I could not get the mastery over hiswill, I retained my control over his person; I never left him fora moment. Now I sometimes leave him to himself because I controlhim continually. When I leave him I embrace him and I say withconfidence: Emile, I trust you to my friend, I leave you to hishonour; he will answer for you. 

To corrupt healthy affections which have not been previouslydepraved, to efface principles which are directly derived from ourown reasoning, is not the work of a moment. If any change takesplace during my absence, that absence will not be long, he willnever be able to conceal himself from me, so that I shall perceivethe danger before any harm comes of it, and I shall be in time toprovide a remedy. As we do not become depraved all at once, neitherdo we learn to deceive all at once; and if ever there was a manunskilled in the art of deception it is Emile, who has never hadany occasion for deceit. 

By means of these precautions and others like them, I expect toguard him so completely against strange sights and vulgar preceptsthat I would rather see him in the worst company in Paris than alonein his room or in a park left to all the restlessness of his age. Whatever we may do, a young man's worst enemy is himself, andthis is an enemy we cannot avoid. Yet this is an enemy of our ownmaking, for, as I have said again and again, it is the imaginationwhich stirs the senses. Desire is not a physical need; it is nottrue that it is a need at all. If no lascivious object had met oureye, if no unclean thought had entered our mind, this so-calledneed might never have made itself felt, and we should have remainedchaste, without temptation, effort, or merit. We do not know howthe blood of youth is stirred by certain situations and certainsights, while the youth himself does not understand the cause ofhis uneasiness-an uneasiness difficult to subdue and certain torecur. For my own part, the more I consider this serious crisisand its causes, immediate and remote, the more convinced I am thata solitary brought up in some desert, apart from books, teaching, and women, would die a virgin, however long he lived. 

But we are not concerned with a savage of this sort. When weeducate a man among his fellow-men and for social life, we cannot, and indeed we ought not to, bring him up in this wholesome ignorance, and half knowledge is worse than none. The memory of things we haveobserved, the ideas we have acquired, follow us into retirementand people it, against our will, with images more seductive thanthe things themselves, and these make solitude as fatal to thosewho bring such ideas with them as it is wholesome for those whohave never left it. 

Therefore, watch carefully over the young man; he can protecthimself from all other foes, but it is for you to protect himagainst himself. Never leave him night or day, or at least sharehis room; never let him go to bed till he is sleepy, and let himrise as soon as he wakes. Distrust instinct as soon as you ceaseto rely altogether upon it. Instinct was good while he acted underits guidance only; now that he is in the midst of human institutions, instinct is not to be trusted; it must not be destroyed, it mustbe controlled, which is perhaps a more difficult matter. It wouldbe a dangerous matter if instinct taught your pupil to abuse hissenses; if once he acquires this dangerous habit he is ruined. Fromthat time forward, body and soul will be enervated; he will carryto the grave the sad effects of this habit, the most fatal habitwhich a young man can acquire. If you cannot attain to the masteryof your passions, dear Emile, I pity you; but I shall not hesitatefor a moment, I will not permit the purposes of nature to be evaded. If you must be a slave, I prefer to surrender you to a tyrant fromwhom I may deliver you; whatever happens, I can free you more easilyfrom the slavery of women than from yourself. 

Up to the age of twenty, the body is still growing and requiresall its strength; till that age continence is the law of nature, and this law is rarely violated without injury to the constitution. After twenty, continence is a moral duty; it is an importantduty, for it teaches us to control ourselves, to be masters of ourown appetites. But moral duties have their modifications, theirexceptions, their rules. When human weakness makes an alternativeinevitable, of two evils choose the least; in any case it is betterto commit a misdeed than to contract a vicious habit. 

Remember, I am not talking of my pupil now, but of yours. Hispassions, to which you have given way, are your master; yield tothem openly and without concealing his victory. If you are ableto show him it in its true light, he will be ashamed rather thanproud of it, and you will secure the right to guide him in hiswanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices. The disciple mustdo nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge and consent of hismaster; it is a hundredfold better that the tutor should approveof a misdeed than that he should deceive himself or be deceived byhis pupil, and the wrong should be done without his knowledge. Hewho thinks he must shut his eyes to one thing, must soon shut themaltogether; the first abuse which is permitted leads to others, andthis chain of consequences only ends in the complete overthrow ofall order and contempt for every law. 

There is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistakecontinually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affectthe dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciplesas perfect. This method is just the contrary of what should bedone. How is it that they fail to perceive that when they try tostrengthen their authority they are really destroying it; that togain a hearing one must put oneself in the place of our hearers, and that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All theseperfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say, "Itis easy for them to fight against passions they do not feel. " Showyour pupil your own weaknesses if you want to cure his; let himsee in you struggles like his own; let him learn by your exampleto master himself and let him not say like other young men, "Theseold people, who are vexed because they are no longer young, want totreat all young people as if they were old; and they make a crimeof our passions because their own passions are dead. "

Montaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often, in his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king'sservice. I would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young manhow often he has entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil's sake. How often? I am wrong. If the first time has not cured the younglibertine of all desire to go there again, if he does not returnpenitent and ashamed, if he does not shed torrents of tears uponyour bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a monster or youare a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have donewith these last expedients, which are as distressing as they aredangerous; our kind of education has no need of them. 

What precautions we must take with a young man of good birth beforeexposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautionsare painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin ofall our young men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses, and it is these excesses which make men what they are. Old and basein their vices, their hearts are shrivelled, because their worn-outbodies were corrupted at an early age; they have scarcely strengthto stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a mind lacking insubstance; they are incapable of any great or noble feeling, theyhave neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject and meanlywicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false; they havenot even courage enough to be distinguished criminals. Such arethe despicable men produced by early debauchery; if there were butone among them who knew how to be sober and temperate, to guard hisheart, his body, his morals from the contagion of bad example, atthe age of thirty he would crush all these insects, and would becometheir master with far less trouble than it cost him to become masterof himself. 

However little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be thisman if he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescendto make them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst, as heenters into society, not to claim the first place, but to acquainthimself with it and to seek a helpmeet worthy of himself. 

Whatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which heis introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple andunaffected; God grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine insociety; the qualities which make a good impression at the firstglance are not his, he neither possesses them, nor desires topossess them. He cares too little for the opinions of other peopleto value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether peopleesteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither shy norconceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of constraintor concealment, and he is just the same among a group of peopleas he is when he is alone. Will this make him rude, scornful, andcareless of others? On the contrary; if he were not heedless ofothers when he lived alone, why should he be heedless of them nowthat he is living among them? He does not prefer them to himselfin his manners, because he does not prefer them to himself in hisheart, but neither does he show them an indifference which he is farfrom feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms of politeness, he is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated by humanity. He cannot bear to see any one suffer; he will not give up his placeto another from mere external politeness, but he will willinglyyield it to him out of kindness if he sees that he is being neglectedand that this neglect hurts him; for it will be less disagreeableto Emile to remain standing of his own accord than to see anothercompelled to stand. 

Although Emile has no very high opinion of people in general, hedoes not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and is sorryfor them. As he cannot give them a taste for what is truly good, heleaves them the imaginary good with which they are satisfied, lestby robbing them of this he should leave them worse off than before. So he neither argues nor contradicts; neither does he flatter noragree; he states his opinion without arguing with others, becausehe loves liberty above all things, and freedom is one of the fairestgifts of liberty. 

He says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for thesame reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce himto speak otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box. A great flow of words comes either from a pretentious spirit, ofwhich I shall speak presently, or from the value laid upon trifleswhich we foolishly think to be as important in the eyes of othersas in our own. He who knows enough of things to value them attheir true worth never says too much; for he can also judge of theattention bestowed on him and the interest aroused by what he says. People who know little are usually great talkers, while men whoknow much say little. It is plain that an ignorant person thinkseverything he does know important, and he tells it to everybody. But a well-educated man is not so ready to display his learning;he would have too much to say, and he sees that there is much moreto be said, so he holds his peace. 

Far from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms tothem readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about them, nor yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the contraryfor fear lest he should attract attention, and in order to passunnoticed; he is most at his ease when no one pays any attentionto him. 

Although when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothingof its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps inthe background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because, if you want to see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubleshimself at all about what people think of him, and he is not theleast afraid of ridicule. Hence he is always quiet and self-possessedand is not troubled with shyness. All he has to do is done as wellas he knows how to do it, whether people are looking at him ornot; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people, heacquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of otherpeople's opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways of societyjust because he cares so little about them. 

But do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to becompared with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed, notconceited; his manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent look isthe mark of a slave, there is nothing affected in independence. Inever saw a man of lofty soul who showed it in his bearing; thisaffectation is more suited to vile and frivolous souls, who haveno other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere that aforeigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous Marcel, who asked him what country he came from. "I am an Englishman, "replied the stranger. "You are an Englishman!" replied the dancer, "You come from that island where the citizens have a share in thegovernment, and form part of the sovereign power? [Footnote: As ifthere were citizens who were not part of the city and had not, assuch, a share in sovereign power! But the French, who have thoughtfit to usurp the honourable name of citizen which was formerly theright of the members of the Gallic cities, have degraded the ideatill it has no longer any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrotea number of silly criticisms on the "Nouvelle Heloise" added tohis signature the title "Citizen of Paimboeuf, " and he thought ita capital joke. ] No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance, that hesitating manner, proclaim only a slave adorned with thetitle of an elector. "

I cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the truerelation between a man's character and his appearance. I have notthe honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought justthe opposite. I should have said, "This Englishman is no courtier;I never heard that courtiers have a timid bearing and a hesitatingmanner. A man whose appearance is timid in the presence of a dancermight not be timid in the House of Commons. " Surely this M. Marcelmust take his fellow-countrymen for so many Romans. 

He who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows anddesires to please them. Even more does he wish to please the women;his age, his character, the object he has in view, all increasethis desire. I say his character, for this has a great effect; menof good character are those who really adore women. They have notthe mocking jargon of gallantry like the rest, but their eagernessis more genuinely tender, because it comes from the heart. In thepresence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of characterand self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines. Considerwhat Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth and somany reasons for resistance! For in the presence of womenI think he will sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness willcertainly not be displeasing, and the least foolish of them willonly too often find a way to enjoy it and augment it. Moreover, hiseagerness will take a different shape according to those he has todo with. He will be more modest and respectful to married women, more eager and tender towards young girls. He never loses sight ofhis purpose, and it is always those who most recall it to him whoreceive the greater share of his attentions. 

No one could be more attentive to every consideration based uponthe laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but theformer are always preferred before the latter, and Emile will showmore respect to an elderly person in private life than to a youngmagistrate of his own age. As he is generally one of the youngestin the company, he will always be one of the most modest, not fromthe vanity which apes humility, but from a natural feeling foundedupon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the young fop, who speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in order toamuse the company. He will never give any cause for the reply givento Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether he preferredthis century or the last: "Sire, I spent my youth in reverencetowards the old; I find myself compelled to spend my old age inreverence towards the young. "

His heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for theweight of popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure toothers; so he will care little to be thought a person of importance. Hence he will be affectionate rather than polite, he will never bepompous or affected, and he will be always more touched by a caressthan by much praise. For the same reasons he will never be carelessof his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be rather particularabout his dress, not that he may show himself a man of taste, butto make his appearance more pleasing; he will never require a giltframe, and he will never spoil his style by a display of wealth. 

All this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it isall the result of his early education. People make a great mysteryof the ways of society, as if, at the age when these ways areacquired, we did not take to them quite naturally, and as if thefirst laws of politeness were not to be found in a kindly heart. True politeness consists in showing our goodwill towards men; itshows its presence without any difficulty; those only who lack thisgoodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs of it to an art. 

"The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teachesus how to dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our educationteaches us kindness and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shallhave no need of politeness. 

"If we have not those qualities which display themselves gracefullywe shall have those which proclaim the honest man and the citizen;we shall have no need for falsehood. 

"Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will sufficethat we are kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of othersby falsehood, it will suffice to tolerate them. 

"Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up norcorrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful and willbe informed by it. " [Footnote: Considerations sur les moeurs de cesiecle, par M. Duclos. ]

It seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce thesort of politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage, it isthe education I have already described. 

Yet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be justlike everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a fate! Butwhere he is unlike other people, he will neither cause annoyancenor will he be absurd; the difference will be perceptible but notunpleasant. Emile will be, if you like, an agreeable foreigner. Atfirst his peculiarities will be excused with the phrase, "He willlearn. " After a time people will get used to his ways, and seeingthat he does not change they will still make excuses for him andsay, "He is made that way. "

He will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like himwithout knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but everyone will be ready to make him the judge between men of intellect;his own intelligence will be clear and limited, his mind will beaccurate, and his judgment sane. As he never runs after new ideas, he cannot pride himself on his wit. I have convinced him that allwholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to mankind, wereamong the earliest known, that in all times they have formed thetrue bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for ambitiousminds but to seek distinction for themselves by means of ideas whichare injurious and fatal to mankind. This way of winning admirationscarcely appeals to him; he knows how he ought to seek hisown happiness in life, and how he can contribute to the happinessof others. The sphere of his knowledge is restricted to what isprofitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined; as he has notemptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd; he will neitherdistinguish himself nor will he lose his way. Emile is a manof common sense and he has no desire to be anything more; you maytry in vain to insult him by applying this phrase to him; he willalways consider it a title of honour. 

Although from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferentto the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far ashe himself is directly concerned, without troubling himself aboutarbitrary values, which are subject to no law but that of fashionor conventionality. He will have pride enough to wish to do wellin everything that he undertakes, and even to wish to do it betterthan others; he will want to be the swiftest runner, the strongestwrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in games of skill;but he will not seek advantages which are not in themselves cleargain, but need to be supported by the opinion of others, such asto be thought wittier than another, a better speaker, more learned, etc. ; still less will he trouble himself with those which havenothing to do with the man himself, such as higher birth, a greaterreputation for wealth, credit, or public estimation, or the impressioncreated by a showy exterior. 

As he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he willprefer him who is most like himself, because he will feel that heis good; and as he will judge of this resemblance by similarity oftaste in morals, in all that belongs to a good character, he willbe delighted to win approval. He will not say to himself in somany words, "I am delighted to gain approval, " but "I am delightedbecause they say I have done right; I am delighted because the menwho honour me are worthy of honour; while they judge so wisely, itis a fine thing to win their respect. "

As he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerlystudied them through their passions in history, he will often haveoccasion to consider what it is that pleases or offends the humanheart. He is now busy with the philosophy of the principles oftaste, and this is the most suitable subject for his present study. 

The further we seek our definitions of taste, the further wego astray; taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasingor displeasing to most people. Go beyond this, and you cannot saywhat taste is. It does not follow that the men of taste are in themajority; for though the majority judges wisely with regard to eachindividual thing, there are few men who follow the judgment of themajority in everything; and though the most general agreement intaste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste justas there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists in thesum of the most usual features. 

It must be observed that we are not here concerned with what welike because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful to us. Taste deals only with things that are indifferent to us, or whichaffect at most our amusements, not those which relate to our needs;taste is not required to judge of these, appetite only is sufficient. It is this which makes mere decisions of taste so difficult and asit seems so arbitrary; for beyond the instinct they follow thereappears to be no reason whatever for them. We must also make adistinction between the laws of good taste in morals and its lawsin physical matters. In the latter the laws of taste appear tobe absolutely inexplicable. But it must be observed that there isa moral element in everything which involves imitation. [Footnote:This is demonstrated in an "Essay on the Origin of Languages"which will be found in my collected works. ] This is the explanationof beauties which seem to be physical, but are not so in reality. I may add that taste has local rules which make it dependent inmany respects on the country we are in, its manners, government, institutions; it has other rules which depend upon age, sex, andcharacter, and it is in this sense that we must not dispute overmatters of taste. 

Taste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the samedegree, it is not developed to the same extent in every one; andin every one it is liable to be modified by a variety of causes. Such taste as we may possess depends on our native sensibility;its cultivation and its form depend upon the society in which wehave lived. In the first place we must live in societies of manydifferent kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place, theremust be societies for amusement and idleness, for in businessrelations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there mustbe societies in which people are fairly equal, where the tyranny ofpublic opinion may be moderate, where pleasure rather than vanityis queen; where this is not so, fashion stifles taste, and we seekwhat gives distinction rather than delight. 

In the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the tasteof the majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different. Then the crowd has no longer any opinion of its own, it only followsthe judgment of those who are supposed to know more about it; itsapproval is bestowed not on what is good, but on what they havealready approved. At any time let every man have his own opinion, and what is most pleasing in itself will always secure most votes. 

Every beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated. All the true models of taste are to be found in nature. The furtherwe get from the master, the worse are our pictures. Then it isthat we find our models in what we ourselves like, and the beautyof fancy, subject to caprice and to authority, is nothing but whatis pleasing to our leaders. 

Those leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, andthey themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Someto display their wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerlyfor new ways of spending it. This is how luxury acquires its powerand makes us love what is rare and costly; this so-called beautyconsists, not in following nature, but in disobeying her. Henceluxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste is lavish, itis bad. 

Taste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercoursebetween the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessaryconsequence of this form of society. But when enjoyment is easilyobtained, and the desire to please becomes lukewarm, taste mustdegenerate; and this is, in my opinion, one of the best reasonswhy good taste implies good morals. 

Consult the women's opinions in bodily matters, in all that concernsthe senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all thatconcerns the understanding. When women are what they ought to be, they will keep to what they can understand, and their judgmentwill be right; but since they have set themselves up as judges ofliterature, since they have begun to criticise books and to make themwith might and main, they are altogether astray. Authors who takethe advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-advised; gallants whoconsult them about their clothes will always be absurdly dressed. I shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of the realtalents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these talents, and the matters in regard to which their decisions should receiveattention. 

These are the elementary considerations which I shall lay downas principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is byno means indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whomshould it be a matter of indifference? To know what people mayfind pleasant or unpleasant is not only necessary to any one whorequires their help, it is still more necessary to any one who wouldhelp them; you must please them if you would do them service; andthe art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is used to make menhear the truth. 

If in order to cultivate my pupil's taste, I were compelled to choosebetween a country where this form of culture has not yet arisenand those in which it has already degenerated, I would progressbackwards; I would begin his survey with the latter and end with theformer. My reason for this choice is, that taste becomes corruptedthrough excessive delicacy, which makes it sensitive to thingswhich most men do not perceive; this delicacy leads to a spiritof discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination of thingsthe more things there are for us. This subtlety increases thedelicacy and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there are asmany tastes as there are people. In disputes as to our preferences, philosophy and knowledge are enlarged, and thus we learn to think. It is only men accustomed to plenty of society who are capable ofvery delicate observations, for these observations do not occur tous till the last, and people who are unused to all sorts of societyexhaust their attention in the consideration of the more conspicuousfeatures. There is perhaps no civilised place upon earth where thecommon taste is so bad as in Paris. Yet it is in this capital thatgood taste is cultivated, and it seems that few books make anyimpression in Europe whose authors have not studied in Paris. Thosewho think it is enough to read our books are mistaken; there ismore to be learnt from the conversation of authors than from theirbooks; and it is not from the authors that we learn most. It is thespirit of social life which develops a thinking mind, and carriesthe eye as far as it can reach. If you have a spark of genius, goand spend a year in Paris; you will soon be all that you are capableof becoming, or you will never be good for anything at all. 

One may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme;but we must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is verydifficult to avoid this if we spend much time among them. We mustuse their efforts to perfect the machinery of judgment, but wemust be careful not to make the same use of it. I shall take carenot to polish Emile's judgment so far as to transform it, and whenhe has acquired discernment enough to feel and compare the variedtastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste upon simplermatters. 

I will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome. In the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for usefulconversation with him; and while these conversations are alwaysabout things in which he takes a delight, I shall take care to makethem as amusing as they are instructive. Now is the time to readpleasant books; now is the time to teach him to analyse speech andto appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and diction. It is asmall matter to learn languages, they are less useful than peoplethink; but the study of languages leads us on to that of grammar ingeneral. We must learn Latin if we would have a thorough knowledgeof French; these two languages must be studied and compared if wewould understand the rules of the art of speaking. 

There is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straightto the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics. Inoratory, poetry, and every kind of literature, Emile will find theclassical authors as he found them in history, full of matter andsober in their judgment. The authors of our own time, on the contrary, say little and talk much. To take their judgment as our constantlaw is not the way to form our own judgment. These differences oftaste make themselves felt in all that is left of classical timesand even on their tombs. Our monuments are covered with praises, theirs recorded facts. 

 "Sta, viator; heroem calcas. "

If I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should atonce have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so commonamong us as heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Insteadof saying a man was a hero, they would have said what he had doneto gain that name. With the epitaph of this hero compare that ofthe effeminate Sardanapalus--

 "Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead. "

Which do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is onlyfit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients showed menas they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed. Xenophondid honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain bytreason during the retreat of the Ten Thousand. "They died, " saidhe, "without stain in war and in love. " That is all, but think howfull was the heart of the author of this short and simple elegy. Woe to him who fails to perceive its charm. The following wordswere engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae--

"Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience to herlaws. "

It is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy ofInscriptions. 

If I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so smallvalue upon words, will be directed in the first place to thesedifferences, and they will affect his choice in his reading. Hewill be carried away by the manly eloquence of Demosthenes, andwill say, "This is an orator;" but when he reads Cicero, he willsay, "This is a lawyer. "

Speaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of theancients than for our own, just because they were the first, andtherefore the ancients are nearer to nature and their genius ismore distinct. Whatever La Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may say, there is no real advance in human reason, for what we gain in onedirection we lose in another; for all minds start from the samepoint, and as the time spent in learning what others have thoughtis so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves, we havemore acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds like ourarms are accustomed to use tools for everything, and to do nothingfor themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all these disputes asto the ancients and the moderns came to this--Were the trees informer times taller than they are now. If agriculture had changed, it would be worth our while to ask this question. 

After I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I willalso show him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers;journals, translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance atthem all, and then leave them for ever. To amuse him he shall hearthe chatter of the academies; I will draw his attention to the fastthat every member of them is worth more by himself than he is asa member of the society; he will then draw his own conclusions asto the utility of these fine institutions. 

I take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in thetheatre above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Layaside precepts and morality, I should say; this is not the placeto study them. The stage is not made for truth; its object is toflatter and amuse: there is no place where one can learn so completelythe art of pleasing and of interesting the human heart. The studyof plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the same endin view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for poetry, howeagerly will he study the languages of the poets, Greek, Latin, and Italian! These studies will afford him unlimited amusement andwill be none the less valuable; they will be a delight to him atan age and in circumstances when the heart finds so great a charmin every kind of beauty which affects it. Picture to yourself onthe one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal from college, reading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus, or the Banquetof Plato: what a difference between them! What stirs the heart ofEmile to its depths, makes not the least impression on the other!Oh, good youth, stay, make a pause in your reading, you are toodeeply moved; I would have you find pleasure in the language oflove, but I would not have you carried away by it; be a wise man, butbe a good man too. If you are only one of these, you are nothing. After this let him win fame or not in dead languages, in literature, in poetry, I care little. He will be none the worse if he knowsnothing of them, and his education is not concerned with these merewords. 

My main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of everykind is to fix his affections and his taste on these, to preventthe corruption of his natural appetites, lest he should have toseek some day in the midst of his wealth for the means of happinesswhich should be found close at hand. I have said elsewhere thattaste is only the art of being a connoisseur in matters of littleimportance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of lifedepends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, suchefforts are no small thing; through their means we learn how tofill our life with the good things within our reach, with as muchtruth as they may hold for us. I do not refer to the morally goodwhich depends on a good disposition of the heart, but only to thatwhich depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the prejudicesof public opinion. 

The better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile, whose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others, and to seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited tothe reader and more in accordance with his own manners. 

There are professions which seem to change a man's nature, torecast, either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A cowardbecomes a brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not only inthe army that esprit de corps is acquired, and its effects are notalways for good. I have thought again and again with terror thatif I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I am thinking of ina certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be a tyrant, an extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to my king, anda professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and every kind ofvirtue. 

In the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that isrequired to gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded, sensitive and feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless toall besides, a scornful spectator of the sufferings of the lowerclasses; for that is what I should call the poor, to make peopleforget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should make my fortunea means to my own pleasures with which I should be wholly occupied;and so far I should be just like other people. 

But in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensualand voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myselfup to the luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation. I should even be somewhat ashamed to make too great a show ofmy wealth, and if I overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I shouldalways fancy I heard him saying, "Here is a rascal who is greatlyafraid lest we should take him for anything but what he is. "

In the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should seekwhat I like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself. 

To this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be topurchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health, if itwere to be purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance, and as there is no real pleasure without health, I should betemperate from sensual motives. 

I should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify thesenses given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the greaterher share in my pleasures, the more real I shall find them. Inthe choice of models for imitation I shall always choose natureas my pattern; in my appetites I will give her the preference; inmy tastes she shall always be consulted; in my food I will alwayschoose what most owes its charm to her, and what has passed throughthe fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will be on my guardagainst fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet pleasure. No cookshall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness; he shall notpoison me with fish which cost its weight in gold, my table shallnot be decked with fetid splendour or putrid flesh from far-offlands. I will take any amount of trouble to gratify my sensibility, since this trouble has a pleasure of its own, a pleasure more thanwe expect. If I wished to taste a food from the ends of the earth, I would go, like Apicius, in search of it, rather than send forit; for the daintiest dishes always lack a charm which cannot bebrought along with them, a flavour which no cook can give them--theair of the country where they are produced. 

For the same reason I would not follow the example of those who arenever well off where they are, but are always setting the seasonsat nought, and confusing countries and their seasons; those whoseek winter in summer and summer in winter, and go to Italy to becold and to the north to be warm, do not consider that when theythink they are escaping from the severity of the seasons, theyare going to meet that severity in places where people are notprepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or I shall adopt justthe opposite course; I should like to get all possible enjoymentout of one season to discover what is peculiar to any given country. I would have a variety of pleasures, and habits quite unlike oneanother, but each according to nature; I would spend the summer atNaples and the winter in St. Petersburg; sometimes I would breathethe soft zephyr lying in the cool grottoes of Tarentum, and againI would enjoy the illuminations of an ice palace, breathless andwearied with the pleasures of the dance. 

In the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I wouldimitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons, anddraw from each its charm without anticipating its successor. Thereis no taste but only difficulty to be found in thus disturbing theorder of nature; to snatch from her unwilling gifts, which sheyields regretfully, with her curse upon them; gifts which haveneither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the bodynor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced fruits. A wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses, onlysucceeds in getting all the year round poor fruit and poor vegetablesfor his table at a very high price. If I had cherries in frost, and golden melons in the depths of winter, what pleasure should Ifind in them when my palate did not need moisture or refreshment. Would the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the heat of thedog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the stove, ratherthan the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing fruits whichthe earth takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece covered inJanuary with forced vegetation, with pale and scentless flowers, is not winter adorned, but spring robbed of its beauty; we depriveourselves of the pleasure of seeking the first violet in the woods, of noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a rapture of delight, "Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature is living still. "

To be well served I would have few servants; this has been saidbefore, but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more realservice from his one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen roundabout him. It has often struck me when I am sitting at table withmy glass beside me that I can drink whenever I please; whereas, ifI were dining in state, twenty men would have to call for "Wine"before I could quench my thirst. You may be sure that whatever isdone for you by other people is ill done. I would not send to theshops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants shouldnot make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get a betterchoice and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of pleasantexercise and to get a glimpse of what was going on out of doors;this is amusing and sometimes instructive; lastly I would go forthe sake of the walk; there is always something in that. A sedentarylife is the source of tedium; when we walk a good deal we are neverdull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters, I should neverwish to have such people between the world and myself, nor wouldI travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if I were afraid peoplewould speak to me. Shanks' mare is always ready; if she is tiredor ill, her owner is the first to know it; he need not be afraidof being kept at home while his coachman is on the spree; on theroad he will not have to submit to all sorts of delays, nor willhe be consumed with impatience, nor compelled to stay in one placea moment longer than he chooses. Lastly, since no one serves us sowell as we serve ourselves, had we the power of Alexander and thewealth of Croesus we should accept no services from others, exceptthose we cannot perform for ourselves. 

I would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should onlyoccupy one room; every room which is common property belongs tonobody, and the rooms of each of my servants would be as strangeto me as my neighbour's. The Orientals, although very voluptuous, are lodged in plain and simply furnished dwellings. They considerlife as a journey, and their house as an inn. This reason scarcelyappeals to us rich people who propose to live for ever; but I shouldfind another reason which would have the same effect. It would seemto me that if I settled myself in one place in the midst of suchsplendour, I should banish myself from every other place, andimprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world is a palacefair enough for any one; and is not everything at the disposal ofthe rich man when he seeks enjoyment? "Ubi bene, ibi patria, " thatis his motto; his home is anywhere where money will carry him, his country is anywhere where there is room for his strong-box, as Philip considered as his own any place where a mule laden withsilver could enter. [Footnote: A stranger, splendidly clad, was askedin Athens what country he belonged to. "I am one of the rich, " washis answer; and a very good answer in my opinion. ] Why then shouldwe shut ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never meantto leave them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from oneplace, I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Whyshould I build a mansion for myself when the world is already at mydisposal? Why should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring fromafar delights which I can find on the spot? It is impossible tomake a pleasant life for oneself when one is always at war withoneself. Thus Empedocles reproached the men of Agrigentum withheaping up pleasures as if they had but one day to live, and buildingas if they would live for ever. 

And what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few peopleto live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture wouldbe as simple as my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallerynor library, especially if I was fond of reading and knew somethingabout pictures. I should then know that such collections are nevercomplete, and that the lack of that which is wanting causes moreannoyance than if one had nothing at all. In this respect abundanceis the cause of want, as every collector knows to his cost. If youare an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to useyour cabinets, you will not have any to show. 

Gambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of thosewho have nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures thatI shall have no time to waste. I am poor and lonely and I neverplay, unless it is a game of chess now and then, and that is morethan enough. If I were rich I would play even less, and for verylow stakes, so that I should not be disappointed myself, nor seethe disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no motive forplay, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passionfor gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is alwaysmore keenly aware of his losses than his gains, and as in gameswhere the stakes are not high the winnings are generally exhaustedin the long run, he will usually lose more than he gains, so thatif we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a great fancy to gameswhere the odds are against us. He who flatters his vanity so faras to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in moreexciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown when thestakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play, the resultof greed and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts and heads;and I think I should have enough feeling and knowledge to dispensewith its help. Thinkers are seldom gamblers; gambling interruptsthe habit of thought and turns it towards barren combinations;thus one good result, perhaps the only good result of the tastefor science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar passion;people will prefer to try to discover the uses of play ratherthan to devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblersagainst gambling, and I should find more delight in scoffing attheir losses than in winning their money. 

I should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse. I should wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and neverto make people conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress isinconvenient in many ways. To preserve as much freedom as possibleamong other men, I should like to be dressed in such a way thatI should not seem out of place among all classes, and should notattract attention in any; so that without affectation or change Imight mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the nobility at thePalais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my own master, and should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts and conditionsof men. There are women, so they say, whose doors are closed toembroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests who wear laceruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though if these womenwere young and pretty I might sometimes put on lace ruffles tospend an evening or so in their company. 

Mutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character;these are the only bonds between my companions and myself; amongthem I would be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of theirsociety should never be embittered by self-seeking. If my wealthhad not robbed me of all humanity, I would scatter my benefits andmy services broadcast, but I should want companions about me, notcourtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my friends to regardme as their host, not their patron. Independence and equality wouldleave to my relations with my friends the sincerity of goodwill;while duty and self-seeking would have no place among us, and weshould know no law but that of pleasure and friendship. 

Neither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be gotfor money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not onlynot for sale; money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were he indeedthe most lovable of men, the mere fact of payment would preventany lasting affection. He will soon be paying for some one else, or rather some one else will get his money; and in this doubleconnection based on self-seeking and debauchery, without love, honour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping, faithless, andunhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives hermoney as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she hasno love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards onewe love, if that did not make a bargain of love. I know only oneway of gratifying this desire with the woman one loves withoutembittering love; it is to bestow our all upon her and to live ather expense. It remains to be seen whether there is any woman withregard to whom such conduct would not be unwise. 

He who said, "Lais is mine, but I am not hers, " was talking nonsense. Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all; at most it isthe possession of the sex not of the individual. But where thereis no morality in love, why make such ado about the rest? Nothingis so easy to find. A muleteer is in this respect as near tohappiness as a millionaire. 

Oh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, howoften should we find that, when it has attained its object, itdiscovers it is not what it seemed! Why is there this cruel hasteto corrupt innocence, to make, a victim of a young creature whom weought to protect, one who is dragged by this first false step intoa gulf of misery from which only death can release her? Brutality, vanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure itself isunnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at itsworst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he is thebasest of men fears comparison with others, and would be the firstthat he may be less hateful. See if those who are most greedy inpursuit of such fancied pleasures are ever attractive young men--menworthy of pleasing, men who might have some excuse if they werehard to please. Not so; any one with good looks, merit, and feelinghas little fear of his mistress' experience; with well-placedconfidence he says to her, "You know what pleasure is, what is thatto me? my heart assures me that this is not so. "

But an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, noconsideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred ofhonour, incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of anywoman who knows anything of men deserving of love, expects to makeup for all this with an innocent girl by trading on her inexperienceand stirring her emotions for the first time. His last hope is tofind favour as a novelty; no doubt this is the secret motive ofthis desire; but he is mistaken, the horror he excites is just asnatural as the desires he wishes to arouse. He is also mistakenin his foolish attempt; that very nature takes care to assert herrights; every girl who sells herself is no longer a maid; she hasgiven herself to the man of her choice, and she is making the verycomparison he dreads. The pleasure purchased is imaginary, but nonethe less hateful. 

For my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matterin which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue, I shall not be wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy;and this will prevent me from spending my fortune in the pursuitof empty dreams, from wasting my money and my strength in teachingchildren to betray me and mock at me. If I were young, I wouldseek the pleasures of youth; and as I would have them at their bestI would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I were at mypresent age, it would be another matter; I would wisely confinemyself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes which I couldenjoy, and I would stifle those which could only cause suffering. I would not go and offer my grey beard to the scornful jests ofyoung girls; I could never bear to sicken them with my disgustingcaresses, to furnish them at my expense with the most absurdstories, to imagine them describing the vile pleasures of the oldape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had endured. But ifhabits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs, I wouldperhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes. I woulddistinguish between passion and necessity, I would find a suitablemistress and would keep to her. I would not make a business of myweakness, and above all I would only have one person aware of it. Life has other pleasures when these fail us; by hastening in vainafter those that fly us, we deprive ourselves of those that remain. Let our tastes change with our years, let us no more meddle withage than with the seasons. We should be ourselves at all times, instead of struggling against nature; such vain attempts exhaustour strength and prevent the right use of life. 

The lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity;if there is little variety in their amusements they do not recurfrequently; many days of labour teach them to enjoy their rareholidays. Short intervals of leisure between long periods of labourgive a spice to the pleasures of their station. The chief curse ofthe rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements, among somany men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured and slainby dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it and in beingovertaken by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable burden;women more especially, who do not know how to work or play, are aprey to tedium under the name of the vapours; with them it takesthe shape of a dreadful disease, which robs them of their reasonand even of their life. For my own part I know no more terriblefate than that of a pretty woman in Paris, unless it is that ofthe pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who becomes idleand effeminate like her, and so deprives himself twice over of hismanhood, while he prides himself on his successes and for theirsake endures the longest and dullest days which human being everput up with. 

Proprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding, confine the course of life within the limits of the most miserableuniformity. The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasurelost; we neither enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it. [Footnote: Two ladies of fashion, who wished to seem to be enjoyingthemselves greatly, decided never to go to bed before five o'clockin the morning. In the depths of winter their servants spent thenight in the street waiting for them, and with great difficultykept themselves from freezing. One night, or rather one morning, some one entered the room where these merry people spent theirhours without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone;each of them was asleep in her arm-chair. ] Ridicule, which publicopinion dreads more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise, and punish. It is only ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we canvary our place and our pleasures, to-day's impressions can effacethose of yesterday; in the mind of men they are as if they hadnever been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw ourselves intoevery hour and everything. My only set rule would be this: whereverI was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each dayas it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow. AsI should be a man of the people, with the populace, I should be acountryman in the fields; and if I spoke of farming, the peasantshould not laugh at my expense. I would not go and build a townin the country nor erect the Tuileries at the door of my lodgings. On some pleasant shady hill-side I would have a little cottage, a white house with green shutters, and though a thatched roof isthe best all the year round, I would be grand enough to have, notthose gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter and morecheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country are alwaysroofed with them, and so they would recall to me something of thehappy days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a poultry-yard, and for my stables a cowshed for the sake of the milk which I love. My garden should be a kitchen-garden, and my park an orchard, likethe one described further on. The fruit would be free to thosewho walked in the orchard, my gardener should neither count it norgather it; I would not, with greedy show, display before your eyessuperb espaliers which one scarcely dare touch. But this smallextravagance would not be costly, for I would choose my abode insome remote province where silver is scarce and food plentiful, where plenty and poverty have their seat. 

There I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous, a band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy it, women who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves to outdoorsports, women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards for thefishing line or the bird-trap, the gleaner's rake or grape-gatherer'sbasket. There all the pretensions of the town will be forgotten, and we shall be villagers in a village; we shall find all sorts ofdifferent sports and we shall hardly know how to choose the morrow'soccupation. Exercise and an active life will improve our digestionand modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast, where plenty willbe more pleasing than any delicacies. There are no such cooks inthe world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry games; and the finestmade dishes are quite ridiculous in the eyes of people who havebeen on foot since early dawn. Our meals will be served withoutregard to order or elegance; we shall make our dining-room anywhere, in the garden, on a boat, beneath a tree; sometimes at a distancefrom the house on the banks of a running stream, on the fresh greengrass, among the clumps of willow and hazel; a long processionof guests will carry the material for the feast with laughter andsinging; the turf will be our chairs and table, the banks of thestream our side-board, and our dessert is hanging on the trees;the dishes will be served in any order, appetite needs no ceremony;each one of us, openly putting himself first, would gladly seeevery one else do the same; from this warm-hearted and temperatefamiliarity there would arise, without coarseness, pretence, or constraint, a laughing conflict a hundredfold more delightfulthan politeness, and more likely to cement our friendship. Notedious flunkeys to listen to our words, to whisper criticisms onour behaviour, to count every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amusethemselves by keeping us waiting for our wine, to complain of thelength of our dinner. We will be our own servants, in order to beour own masters. Time will fly unheeded, our meal will be an intervalof rest during the heat of the day. If some peasant comes our way, returning from his work with his tools over his shoulder, I willcheer his heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of goodwine, which will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; andI too shall have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me, and I should say to myself--I too am a man. 

If the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast, I and my friends would be there among the first; if there weremarriages, more blessed than those of towns, celebrated near myhome, every one would know how I love to see people happy, and Ishould be invited. I would take these good folks some gift as simpleas themselves, a gift which would be my share of the feast; and inexchange I should obtain gifts beyond price, gifts so little knownamong my equals, the gifts of freedom and true pleasure. I shouldsup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join in thechorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn moremerrily than at a ball in the Opera House. 

"This is all very well so far, " you will say, "but what about theshooting! One must have some sport in the country. " Just so; I onlywanted a farm, but I was wrong. I assume I am rich, I must keepmy pleasures to myself, I must be free to kill something; this isquite another matter. I must have estates, woods, keepers, rents, seignorial rights, particularly incense and holy water. 

Well and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who arejealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of others;our keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will quarreltoo; this means altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits atthe least; this in itself is not very pleasant. My tenants will notenjoy finding my hares at work upon their corn, or my wild boarsamong their beans. As they dare not kill the enemy, every one ofthem will try to drive him from their fields; when the day has beenspent in cultivating the ground, they will be compelled to sit upat night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs, drums, horns, andbells; my sleep will be disturbed by their racket. Do what I will, I cannot help thinking of the misery of these poor people, andI cannot help blaming myself for it. If I had the honour of beinga prince, this would make little impression on me; but as I am aself-made man who has only just come into his property, I am stillrather vulgar at heart. 

That is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shallsoon have poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers, guards, and galleys; all this strikes me as cruel. The wives ofthose miserable creatures will besiege my door and disturb me withtheir crying; they must either be driven away or roughly handled. The poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest has beendestroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints. Somepeople will be put to death for killing the game, the rest willbe punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils! On everyside I shall find nothing but misery and hear nothing but groans. So far as I can see this must greatly disturb the pleasure of slayingat one's ease heaps of partridges and hares which are tame enoughto run about one's feet. 

If you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly;the more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your ownenjoyment. Therefore I should not do what I have just described, but without change of tastes I would follow those which seem likelyto cause me least pain. I would fix my rustic abode in a districtwhere game is not preserved, and where I can have my sport withouthindrance. Game will be less plentiful, but there will be moreskill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I rememberthe start of delight with which my father watched the rise of hisfirst partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare hehad sought all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his dog, carrying his own gun, cartridges, and game bag together with hishare, he came home at nightfall, worn out with fatigue and torn topieces by brambles, but better pleased with his day's sport thanall your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse, with twenty gunsready for them, merely take one gun after another, and shoot andkill everything that comes their way, without skill, without glory, and almost without exercise. The pleasure is none the less, andthe difficulties are removed; there is no estate to be preserved, no poacher to be punished, and no wretches to be tormented; here aresolid grounds for preference. Whatever you do, you cannot tormentmen for ever without experiencing some amount of discomfort; andsooner or later the muttered curses of the people will spoil theflavour of your game. 

Again, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those whichwe share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselvesalone. If the walls I build round my park transform it into agloomy prison, I have only deprived myself, at great expense, ofthe pleasure of a walk; I must now seek that pleasure at a distance. The demon of property spoils everything he lays hands upon. A richman wants to be master everywhere, and he is never happy where he is;he is continually driven to flee from himself. I shall thereforecontinue to do in my prosperity what I did in my poverty. Henceforward, richer in the wealth of others than I ever shallbe in my own wealth, I will take possession of everything in myneighbourhood that takes my fancy; no conqueror is so determined asI; I even usurp the rights of princes; I take possession of everyopen place that pleases me, I give them names; this is my park, chat is my terrace, and I am their owner; henceforward I wanderamong them at will; I often return to maintain my proprietary rights;I make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon, and you willnever convince me that the nominal owner of the property which Ihave appropriated gets better value out of the money it yields himthan I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted by hedgesand ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry it elsewhere;there will be space enough for it near at hand, and I may plundermy neighbours long enough before I outstay my welcome. 

This is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the choiceof pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is the spiritof enjoyment; all else is illusion, fancy, and foolish pride. Hewho disobeys these rules, however rich he may be, will devour hisgold on a dung-hill, and will never know what it is to live. 

You will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reachof all, that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the verypoint I was coming to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is onlysocial prejudice which makes everything hard to obtain, and drivespleasure before us. To be happy is a hundredfold easier than itseems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the man of taste hasno need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to be his ownmaster. With health and daily bread we are rich enough, if we willbut get rid of our prejudices; this is the "Golden Mean" of Horace. You folks with your strong-boxes may find some other use for yourwealth, for it cannot buy you pleasure. Emile knows this as wellas I, but his heart is purer and more healthy, so he will feelit more strongly, and all that he has beheld in society will onlyserve to confirm him in this opinion. 

While our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out forSophy, and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable thatshe should be found too easily, and I have taken care to look forher where I knew we should not find her. 

The time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile shouldmistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his error whenit is too late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris, with all yournoise and smoke and dirt, where the women have ceased to believe inhonour and the men in virtue. We are in search of love, happiness, innocence; the further we go from Paris the better. 

BOOK V

We have reached the last act of youth's drams; we are approachingits closing scene. 

It is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, andwe must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy. Where is her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We mustknow beforehand what she is, and then we can decide where to lookfor her. And when she is found, our task is not ended. "Since ouryoung gentleman, " says Locke, "is about to marry, it is time to leavehim with his mistress. " And with these words he ends his book. AsI have not the honour of educating "A young gentleman, " I shalltake care not to follow his example. 

SOPHY, OR WOMAN

Sophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i. E. , shemust possess all those characters of her sex which are required toenable her to play her part in the physical and moral order. Letus inquire to begin with in what respects her sex differs from ourown. 

But for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, thesame needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in itsconstruction; its parts, its working, and its appearance are similar. Regard it as you will the difference is only in degree. 

Yet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is thecomplement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies inour inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of sex, and what is not. General differences present themselves to thecomparative anatomist and even to the superficial observer; theyseem not to be a matter of sex; yet they are really sex differences, though the connection eludes our observation. How far such differencesmay extend we cannot tell; all we know for certain is that where manand woman are alike we have to do with the characteristics of thespecies; where they are unlike, we have to do with the characteristicsof sex. Considered from these two standpoints, we find so manyinstances of likeness and unlikeness that it is perhaps one of thegreatest of marvels how nature has contrived to make two beings solike and yet so different. 

These resemblances and differences must have an influence on themoral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed byexperience; it shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiorityor the equality of the sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the pathmarked out for it by nature, were not more perfect in that verydivergence than if it more closely resembled the other. A perfectman and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind than inface, and perfection admits of neither less nor more. 

In the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the commonend, but in different ways. From this diversity springs the firstdifference which may be observed between man and woman in theirmoral relations. The man should be strong and active; the womanshould be weak and passive; the one must have both the power andthe will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance. 

When this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is speciallymade for man's delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasingin her eyes, the necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in hisstrength, he pleases because he is strong. I grant you this is notthe law of love, but it is the law of nature, which is older thanlove itself. 

If woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, sheought to make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him toanger; her strength is in her charms, by their means she shouldcompel him to discover and use his strength. The surest way ofarousing this strength is to make it necessary by resistance. Thuspride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the other'svictory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of the boldnessof one sex and the timidity of the other, and even of the shameand modesty with which nature has armed the weak for the conquestof the strong. 

Who can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advancesto the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desireshould be the first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment!The consequences of the act being so different for the two sexes, is it natural that they should enter upon it with equal boldness?How can any one fail to see that when the share of each is sounequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as the other iscontrolled by nature, the result would be the destruction of both, and the human race would perish through the very means ordainedfor its continuance?

Women so easily stir a man's senses and fan the ashes of a dyingpassion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing thiscustom into any unlucky country, especially if it were a warmcountry where more women are born than men, the men, tyrannisedover by the women, would at last become their victims, and wouldbe dragged to their death without the least chance of escape. 

Female animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that?Are their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbedby this shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity, and when the need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longermake a feint of repulsing the male, they do it in earnest. Theirseasons of complaisance are short and soon over. Impulse andrestraint are alike the work of nature. But what would take theplace of this negative instinct in women if you rob them of theirmodesty?

The Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowedman with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them, sothat man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed bythese passions man is endowed with reason by which to control them. Woman is also endowed with boundless passions; God has given hermodesty to restrain them. Moreover, he has given to both a presentreward for the right use of their powers, in the delight whichsprings from that right use of them, i. E. , the taste for rightconduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my mind thisis far higher than the instinct of the beasts. 

Whether the woman shares the man's passion or not, whether she iswilling or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him anddefends herself, though not always with the same vigour, and thereforenot always with the same success. If the siege is to be successful, the besieged must permit or direct the attack. How skilfully canshe stimulate the efforts of the aggressor. The freest and mostdelightful of activities does not permit of any real violence;reason and nature are alike against it; nature, in that she hasgiven the weaker party strength enough to resist if she chooses;reason, in that actual violence is not only most brutal in itself, but it defeats its own ends, not only because the man thus declareswar against his companion and thus gives her a right to defend herperson and her liberty even at the cost of the enemy's life, butalso because the woman alone is the judge of her condition, and achild would have no father if any man might usurp a father's rights. 

Thus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a thirdconclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master, but is asa matter of fact dependent on the weaker, and that, not by any foolishcustom of gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity of the protector, but by an inexorable law of nature. For nature has endowed womanwith a power of stimulating man's passions in excess of man's powerof satisfying those passions, and has thus made him dependent onher goodwill, and compelled him in his turn to endeavour to pleaseher, so that she may be willing to yield to his superior strength. Is it weakness which yields to force, or is it voluntary self-surrender?This uncertainty constitutes the chief charm of the man's victory, and the woman is usually cunning enough to leave him in doubt. Inthis respect the woman's mind exactly resembles her body; far frombeing ashamed of her weakness, she is proud of it; her soft musclesoffer no resistance, she professes that she cannot lift the lightestweight; she would be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only togain an appearance of refinement; she is too clever for that; sheis providing herself beforehand with excuses, with the right to beweak if she chooses. 

The experience we have gained through our vices has considerablymodified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violencefor which there is so little occasion that it would hardly becredited, Yet such stories are common enough among the Jews andancient Greeks; for such views belong to the simplicity of nature, and have only been uprooted by our profligacy. If fewer deedsof violence are quoted in our days, it is not that men are moretemperate, but because they are less credulous, and a complaintwhich would have been believed among a simple people would onlyexcite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the bettercourse. There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outragedmaiden was punished, along with her assailant, if the crime werecommitted in a town; but if in the country or in a lonely place, the latter alone was punished. "For, " says the law, "the maidencried for help, and there was none to hear. " From this mercifulinterpretation of the law, girls learnt not to let themselves besurprised in lonely places. 

This change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on ourmorals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found thattheir pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwillof the fair sex, and have secured this goodwill by attentions whichhave had their reward. 

See how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical tothe moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexesspring the sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will ofman, but by the decrees of nature herself; she had the power longbefore she showed it. That same Hercules who proposed to violateall the fifty daughters of Thespis was compelled to spin at thefeet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man, was less strong thanDelilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is hers by right;she would have lost it long ago, were it possible. 

The consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. Themale is only a male now and again, the female is always a female, or at least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex; theperformance of her functions requires a special constitution. Sheneeds care during pregnancy and freedom from work when her childis born; she must have a quiet, easy life while she nurses herchildren; their education calls for patience and gentleness, fora zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she forms a bond betweenfather and child, she alone can win the father's love for hischildren and convince him that they are indeed his own. What lovingcare is required to preserve a united family! And there should beno question of virtue in all this, it must be a labour of love, without which the human race would be doomed to extinction. 

The mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equallybinding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality ofman-made laws; this inequality is not of man's making, or at anyrate it is not the result of mere prejudice, but of reason. Sheto whom nature has entrusted the care of the children must holdherself responsible for them to their father. No doubt every breachof faith is wrong, and every faithless husband, who robs his wifeof the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex, is cruel andunjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys the familyand breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her husband childrenwho are not his own, she is false both to him and them, her crimeis not infidelity but treason. To my mind, it is the source ofdissension and of crime of every kind. Can any position be morewretched than that of the unhappy father who, when he clasps hischild to his breast, is haunted by the suspicion that this is thechild of another, the badge of his own dishonour, a thief who isrobbing his own children of their inheritance. Under such circumstancesthe family is little more than a group of secret enemies, armedagainst each other by a guilty woman, who compels them to pretendto love one another. 

Thus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband, along with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity;she must be modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witnessnot only of a good conscience, but of a good reputation. In a word, if a father must love his children, he must be able to respect theirmother. For these reasons it is not enough that the woman shouldbe chaste, she must preserve her reputation and her good name. Fromthese principles there arises not only a moral difference betweenthe sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety, whichprescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attentionto their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertionsas to the equality of the sexes and the similarity of their dutiesare only empty words; they are no answer to my argument. 

It is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions againstlaws so firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearingchildren. Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because thereare a hundred or so of large towns in the world where women livelicentiously and have few children, will you maintain that it istheir business to have few children? And what would become of yourtowns if the remote country districts, with their simpler and purerwomen, did not make up for the barrenness of your fine ladies?There are plenty of country places where women with only four orfive children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion, although hereand there a woman may have few children, what difference does itmake? [Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily diminish;all things considered, for its preservation each woman ought to haveabout four children, for about half the children born die beforethey can become parents, and two must survive to replace the fatherand mother. See whether the towns will supply them?] Is it any theless a woman's business to be a mother? And to not the general lawsof nature and morality make provision for this state of things?

Even if there were these long intervals, which you assume, betweenthe periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way of lifewithout danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and a soldierto-morrow? Will she change her tastes and her feelings as a chameleonchanges his colour? Will she pass at once from the privacy ofhousehold duties and indoor occupations to the buffeting of thewinds, the toils, the labours, the perils of war? Will she be nowtimid, [Footnote: Women's timidity is yet another instinct of natureagainst the double risk she runs during pregnancy. ] now brave, nowfragile, now robust? If the young men of Paris find a soldier'slife too hard for them, how would a woman put up with it, a womanwho has hardly ventured out of doors without a parasol and who hasscarcely put a foot to the ground? Will she make a good soldier atan age when even men are retiring from this arduous business?

There are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rearchildren with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the mengo half-naked in all weathers, they strike down the wild beasts, they carry a canoe as easily as a knapsack, they pursue the chasefor 700 or 800 leagues, they sleep in the open on the bare ground, they bear incredible fatigues and go many days without food. Whenwomen become strong, men become still stronger; when men becomesoft, women become softer; change both the terms and the ratioremains unaltered. 

I am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the samegymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there isno place for women in his system of government, so he is forced toturn them into men. That great genius has worked out his plans indetail and has provided for every contingency; he has even providedagainst a difficulty which in all likelihood no one would ever haveraised; but he has not succeeded in meeting the real difficulty. Iam not speaking of the alleged community of wives which has oftenbeen laid to his charge; this assertion only shows that his detractorshave never read his works. I refer to that political promiscuityunder which the same occupations are assigned to both sexes alike, a scheme which could only lead to intolerable evils; I refer to thatsubversion of all the tenderest of our natural feelings, which hesacrificed to an artificial sentiment which can only exist by theiraid. Will the bonds of convention hold firm without some foundationin nature? Can devotion to the state exist apart from the love ofthose near and dear to us? Can patriotism thrive except in the soilof that miniature fatherland, the home? Is it not the good son, the good husband, the good father, who makes the good citizen?

When once it is proved that men and women are and ought to beunlike in constitution and in temperament, it follows that theireducation must be different. Nature teaches us that they should worktogether, but that each has its own share of the work; the end isthe same, but the means are different, as are also the feelingswhich direct them. We have attempted to paint a natural man, letus try to paint a helpmeet for him. 

You must follow nature's guidance if you would walk aright. Thenative characters of sex should be respected as nature's handiwork. You are always saying, "Women have such and such faults, from whichwe are free. " You are misled by your vanity; what would be faultsin you are virtues in them; and things would go worse, if theywere without these so-called faults. Take care that they do notdegenerate into evil, but beware of destroying them. 

On the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate themfor nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused withtrifles that we may be their masters; we are responsible, so theysay, for the faults we attribute to them. How silly! What have mento do with the education of girls? What is there to hinder theirmothers educating them as they please? There are no colleges forgirls; so much the better for them! Would God there were none forthe boys, their education would be more sensible and more wholesome. Who is it that compels a girl to waste her time on foolish trifles?Are they forced, against their will, to spend half their time overtheir toilet, following the example set them by you? Who preventsyou teaching them, or having them taught, whatever seems goodin your eyes? Is it our fault that we are charmed by their beautyand delighted by their airs and graces, if we are attracted andflattered by the arts they learn from you, if we love to see themprettily dressed, if we let them display at leisure the weaponsby which we are subjugated? Well then, educate them like men. Themore women are like men, the less influence they will have overmen, and then men will be masters indeed. 

All the faculties common to both sexes are not equally sharedbetween them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Womanis worth more as a woman and less as a man; when she makes a gooduse of her own rights, she has the best of it; when she tries tousurp our rights, she is our inferior. It is impossible to controvertthis, except by quoting exceptions after the usual fashion of thepartisans of the fair sex. 

To cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect theirown is evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sightedto be thus deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they donot abandon their own; with this result: they are unable to make useof two incompatible things, so they fall below their own level aswomen, instead of rising to the level of men. If you are a sensiblemother you will take my advice. Do not try to make your daughter agood man in defiance of nature. Make her a good woman, and be sureit will be better both for her and us. 

Does this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and keptto housework only? Is she to be man's handmaid or his help-meet?Will he dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To keepher a slave will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will he makean automaton of her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching of nature, who has given women such a pleasant easy wit. On the contrary, nature means them to think, to will, to love, to cultivate theirminds as well as their persons; she puts these weapons in theirhands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable them todirect the strength of men. They should learn many things, but onlysuch things as are suitable. 

When I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observeher inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines toindicate the mode of education she requires. Men and women are madefor each other, but their mutual dependence differs in degree; manis dependent on woman through his desires; woman is dependent onman through her desires and also through her needs; he could dowithout her better than she can do without him. She cannot fulfilher purpose in life without his aid, without his goodwill, withouthis respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the price weput upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms and herdeserts. Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for herselfand her children, should be at the mercy of man's judgment. 

Worth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy; norbeauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected. A woman's honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on herreputation, and no woman who permits herself to be considered vileis really virtuous. A man has no one but himself to consider, andso long as he does right he may defy public opinion; but when awoman does right her task is only half finished, and what peoplethink of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence hereducation must, in this respect, be different from man's education. "What will people think" is the grave of a man's virtue and thethrone of a woman's. 

The children's health depends in the first place on the mother's, and the early education of man is also in a woman's hands; hismorals, his passions, his tastes, his pleasures, his happinessitself, depend on her. A woman's education must therefore be plannedin relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respectand love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, tocounsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, theseare the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she shouldbe taught while she is young. The further we depart from thisprinciple, the further we shall be from our goal, and all ourprecepts will fail to secure her happiness or our own. 

Every woman desires to be pleasing in men's eyes, and this is right;but there is a great difference between wishing to please a man ofworth, a really lovable man, and seeking to please those foppishmanikins who are a disgrace to their own sex and to the sex whichthey imitate. Neither nature nor reason can induce a woman to lovean effeminate person, nor will she win love by imitating such aperson. 

If a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, andadopts the airs of such foolish creatures, she is not followingher vocation, she is forsaking it; she is robbing herself of therights to which she lays claim. "If we were different, " she says, "the men would not like us. " She is mistaken. Only a fool likesfolly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own foolishness. Ifthere were no frivolous men, women would soon make them, and womenare more responsible for men's follies than men are for theirs. The woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour in itssight will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a coquette byprofession, but her coquetry varies with her aims; let these aimsbe in accordance with those of nature, and a woman will receive afitting education. 

Even the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content tobe pretty, they must be admired; their little airs and graces showthat their heads are full of this idea, and as soon as they canunderstand they are controlled by "What will people think of you?"If you are foolish enough to try this way with little boys, itwill not have the same effect; give them their freedom and theirsports, and they care very little what people think; it is a workof time to bring them under the control of this law. 

However acquired, this early education of little girls is anexcellent thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precedethe birth of the mind, so the training of the body must precedethe cultivation of the mind. This is true of both sexes; but theaim of physical training for boys and girls is not the same; in theone case it is the development of strength, in the other of grace;not that these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but thattheir relative values should be different. Women should be strongenough to do anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough todo anything easily. 

The exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men. Women should not be strong like men but for them, so that theirsons may be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their plainfood and ample opportunities for amusements, races, and games inthe open air and in the garden, are better in this respect thanthe home, where the little girl is fed on delicacies, continuallyencouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in a stuffy room, always under her mother's eye, afraid to stand or walk or speakor breathe, without a moment's freedom to play or jump or run orshout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there is eitherharmful indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace of reason. In this fashion heart and body are alike destroyed. 

In Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just likethe boys, not that they might go to war, but that they might bearsons who could endure hardship. That is not what I desire. To providethe state with soldiers it is not necessary that the mother shouldcarry a musket and master the Prussian drill. Yet, on the whole, Ithink the Greeks were very wise in this matter of physical training. Young girls frequently appeared in public, not with the boys, butin groups apart. There was scarcely a festival, a sacrifice, or aprocession without its bands of maidens, the daughters of the chiefcitizens. Crowned with flowers, chanting hymns, forming the chorusof the dance, bearing baskets, vases, offerings, they presented acharming spectacle to the depraved senses of the Greeks, a spectaclewell fitted to efface the evil effects of their unseemly gymnastics. Whatever this custom may have done for the Greek men, it was wellfitted to develop in the Greek women a sound constitution by meansof pleasant, moderate, and healthy exercise; while the desire toplease would develop a keen and cultivated taste without risk tocharacter. 

When the Greek women married, they disappeared from public life;within the four walls of their home they devoted themselves tothe care of their household and family. This is the mode of lifeprescribed for women alike by nature and reason. These women gavebirth to the healthiest, strongest, and best proportioned men whoever lived, and except in certain islands of ill repute, no womenin the whole world, not even the Roman matrons, were ever at onceso wise and so charming, so beautiful and so virtuous, as the womenof ancient Greece. 

It is admitted that their flowing garments, which did not crampthe figure, preserved in men and women alike the fine proportionswhich are seen in their statues. These are still the models ofart, although nature is so disfigured that they are no longer tobe found among us. The Gothic trammels, the innumerable bands whichconfine our limbs as in a press, were quite unknown. The Greekwomen were wholly unacquainted with those frames of whalebone inwhich our women distort rather than display their figures. It seemsto me that this abuse, which is carried to an incredible degree offolly in England, must sooner or later lead to the production ofa degenerate race. Moreover, I maintain that the charm which thesecorsets are supposed to produce is in the worst possible taste; itis not a pleasant thing to see a woman cut in two like a wasp--itoffends both the eye and the imagination. A slender waist hasits limits, like everything else, in proportion and suitability, and beyond these limits it becomes a defect. This defect would bea glaring one in the nude; why should it be beautiful under thecostume?

I will not venture upon the reasons which induce women to incasethemselves in these coats of mail. A clumsy figure, a large waist, are no doubt very ugly at twenty, but at thirty they cease to offendthe eye, and as we are bound to be what nature has made us at anygiven age, and as there is no deceiving the eye of man, such defectsare less offensive at any age than the foolish affectations of ayoung thing of forty. 

Everything which cramps and confines nature is in bad taste; thisis as true of the adornments of the person as of the ornaments ofthe mind. Life, health, common-sense, and comfort must come first;there is no grace in discomfort, languor is not refinement, thereis no charm in ill-health; suffering may excite pity, but pleasureand delight demand the freshness of health. 

Boys and girls have many games in common, and this is as it shouldbe; do they not play together when they are grown up? They have alsospecial tastes of their own. Boys want movement and noise, drums, tops, toy-carts; girls prefer things which appeal to the eye, and can be used for dressing-up--mirrors, jewellery, finery, andspecially dolls. The doll is the girl's special plaything; this showsher instinctive bent towards her life's work. The art of pleasingfinds its physical basis in personal adornment, and this physicalside of the art is the only one which the child can cultivate. 

Here is a little girl busy all day with her doll; she is alwayschanging its clothes, dressing and undressing it, trying newcombinations of trimmings well or ill matched; her fingers areclumsy, her taste is crude, but there is no mistaking her bent; inthis endless occupation time flies unheeded, the hours slip awayunnoticed, even meals are forgotten. She is more eager for adornmentthan for food. "But she is dressing her doll, not herself, " youwill say. Just so; she sees her doll, she cannot see herself; shecannot do anything for herself, she has neither the training, northe talent, nor the strength; as yet she herself is nothing, she isengrossed in her doll and all her coquetry is devoted to it. Thiswill not always be so; in due time she will be her own doll. 

We have here a very early and clearly-marked bent; you have only tofollow it and train it. What the little girl most clearly desiresis to dress her doll, to make its bows, its tippets, its sashes, and its tuckers; she is dependent on other people's kindness in allthis, and it would be much pleasanter to be able to do it herself. Here is a motive for her earliest lessons, they are not tasksprescribed, but favours bestowed. Little girls always dislike learningto read and write, but they are always ready to learn to sew. Theythink they are grown up, and in imagination they are using theirknowledge for their own adornment. 

The way is open and it is easy to follow it; cutting out, embroidery, lace-making follow naturally. Tapestry is not popular; furniture istoo remote from the child's interests, it has nothing to do withthe person, it depends on conventional tastes. Tapestry is a woman'samusement; young girls never care for it. 

This voluntary course is easily extended to include drawing, anart which is closely connected with taste in dress; but I would nothave them taught landscape and still less figure painting. Leaves, fruit, flowers, draperies, anything that will make an eleganttrimming for the accessories of the toilet, and enable the girlto design her own embroidery if she cannot find a pattern to hertaste; that will be quite enough. Speaking generally, if it isdesirable to restrict a man's studies to what is useful, this iseven more necessary for women, whose life, though less laborious, should be even more industrious and more uniformly employed in avariety of duties, so that one talent should not be encouraged atthe expense of others. 

Whatever may be said by the scornful, good sense belongs to bothsexes alike. Girls are usually more docile than boys, and theyshould be subjected to more authority, as I shall show later on, but that is no reason why they should be required to do thingsin which they can see neither rhyme nor reason. The mother's artconsists in showing the use of everything they are set to do, andthis is all the easier as the girl's intelligence is more precociousthan the boy's. This principle banishes, both for boys and girls, not only those pursuits which never lead to any appreciable results, not even increasing the charms of those who have pursued them, butalso those studies whose utility is beyond the scholar's present ageand can only be appreciated in later years. If I object to littleboys being made to learn to read, still more do I object to itfor little girls until they are able to see the use of reading; wegenerally think more of our own ideas than theirs in our attemptsto convince them of the utility of this art. After all, why shoulda little girl know how to read and write! Has she a house to manage?Most of them make a bad use of this fatal knowledge, and girls areso full of curiosity that few of them will fail to learn withoutcompulsion. Possibly cyphering should come first; there is nothingso obviously useful, nothing which needs so much practice or givesso much opportunity for error as reckoning. If the little girldoes not get the cherries for her lunch without an arithmeticalexercise, she will soon learn to count. 

I once knew a little girl who learnt to write before she could read, and she began to write with her needle. To begin with, she wouldwrite nothing but O's; she was always making O's, large and small, of all kinds and one within another, but always drawn backwards. Unluckily one day she caught a glimpse of herself in the glasswhile she was at this useful work, and thinking that the crampedattitude was not pretty, like another Minerva she flung away herpen and declined to make any more O's. Her brother was no fonderof writing, but what he disliked was the constraint, not the lookof the thing. She was induced to go on with her writing in this way. The child was fastidious and vain; she could not bear her sistersto wear her clothes. Her things had been marked, they declined tomark them any more, she must learn to mark them herself; there isno need to continue the story. 

Show the sense of the tasks you set your little girls, but keep thembusy. Idleness and insubordination are two very dangerous faults, and very hard to cure when once established. Girls should beattentive and industrious, but this is not enough by itself; theyshould early be accustomed to restraint. This misfortune, if suchit be, is inherent in their sex, and they will never escape from it, unless to endure more cruel sufferings. All their life long, theywill have to submit to the strictest and most enduring restraints, those of propriety. They must be trained to bear the yoke from thefirst, so that they may not feel it, to master their own capricesand to submit themselves to the will of others. If they were alwayseager to be at work, they should sometimes be compelled to donothing. Their childish faults, unchecked and unheeded, may easilylead to dissipation, frivolity, and inconstancy. To guard againstthis, teach them above all things self-control. Under our senselessconditions, the life of a good woman is a perpetual struggle againstself; it is only fair that woman should bear her share of the illsshe has brought upon man. 

Beware lest your girls become weary of their tasks and infatuatedwith their amusements; this often happens under our ordinary methodsof education, where, as Fenelon says, all the tedium is on one sideand all the pleasure on the other. If the rules already laid downare followed, the first of these dangers will be avoided, unless thechild dislikes those about her. A little girl who is fond of hermother or her friend will work by her side all day without gettingtired; the chatter alone will make up for any loss of liberty. Butif her companion is distasteful to her, everything done under herdirection will be distasteful too. Children who take no delightin their mother's company are not likely to turn out well; but tojudge of their real feelings you must watch them and not trust totheir words alone, for they are flatterers and deceitful and soonlearn to conceal their thoughts. Neither should they be told thatthey ought to love their mother. Affection is not the result ofduty, and in this respect constraint is out of place. Continualintercourse, constant care, habit itself, all these will leada child to love her mother, if the mother does nothing to deservethe child's ill-will. The very control she exercises over thechild, if well directed, will increase rather than diminish theaffection, for women being made for dependence, girls feel themselvesmade to obey. 

Just because they have, or ought to have, little freedom, they areapt to indulge themselves too fully with regard to such freedomas they have; they carry everything to extremes, and they devotethemselves to their games with an enthusiasm even greater than thatof boys. This is the second difficulty to which I referred. Thisenthusiasm must be kept in check, for it is the source of severalvices commonly found among women, caprice and that extravagantadmiration which leads a woman to regard a thing with rapture to-dayand to be quite indifferent to it to-morrow. This fickleness oftaste is as dangerous as exaggeration; and both spring from the samecause. Do not deprive them of mirth, laughter, noise, and rompinggames, but do not let them tire of one game and go off to another;do not leave them for a moment without restraint. Train them tobreak off their games and return to their other occupations withouta murmur. Habit is all that is needed, as you have nature on yourside. 

This habitual restraint produces a docility which woman requiresall her life long, for she will always be in subjection to a man, or to man's judgment, and she will never be free to set her ownopinion above his. What is most wanted in a woman is gentleness;formed to obey a creature so imperfect as man, a creature oftenvicious and always faulty, she should early learn to submit toinjustice and to suffer the wrongs inflicted on her by her husbandwithout complaint; she must be gentle for her own sake, not his. Bitterness and obstinacy only multiply the sufferings of the wifeand the misdeeds of the husband; the man feels that these arenot the weapons to be used against him. Heaven did not make womenattractive and persuasive that they might degenerate into bitterness, or meek that they should desire the mastery; their soft voice wasnot meant for hard words, nor their delicate features for the frownsof anger. When they lose their temper they forget themselves; oftenenough they have just cause of complaint; but when they scold theyalways put themselves in the wrong. We should each adopt the tonewhich befits our sex; a soft-hearted husband may make an overbearingwife, but a man, unless he is a perfect monster, will sooner orlater yield to his wife's gentleness, and the victory will be hers. 

Daughters must always be obedient, but mothers need not always beharsh. To make a girl docile you need not make her miserable; tomake her modest you need not terrify her; on the contrary, I shouldnot be sorry to see her allowed occasionally to exercise a littleingenuity, not to escape punishment for her disobedience, butto evade the necessity for obedience. Her dependence need not bemade unpleasant, it is enough that she should realise that she isdependent. Cunning is a natural gift of woman, and so convincedam I that all our natural inclinations are right, that I wouldcultivate this among others, only guarding against its abuse. 

For the truth of this I appeal to every honest observer. I do notask you to question women themselves, our cramping institutions maycompel them to sharpen their wits; I would have you examine girls, little girls, newly-born so to speak; compare them with boys of thesame age, and I am greatly mistaken if you do not find the littleboys heavy, silly, and foolish, in comparison. Let me give oneillustration in all its childish simplicity. 

Children are commonly forbidden to ask for anything at table, forpeople think they can do nothing better in the way of educationthan to burden them with useless precepts; as if a little bit ofthis or that were not readily given or refused without leaving apoor child dying of greediness intensified by hope. Every one knowshow cunningly a little boy brought up in this way asked for saltwhen he had been overlooked at table. I do not suppose any one willblame him for asking directly for salt and indirectly for meat;the neglect was so cruel that I hardly think he would have beenpunished had he broken the rule and said plainly that he was hungry. But this is what I saw done by a little girl of six; the circumstanceswere much more difficult, for not only was she strictly forbiddento ask for anything directly or indirectly, but disobedience wouldhave been unpardonable, for she had eaten of every dish; one onlyhad been overlooked, and on this she had set her heart. This is whatshe did to repair the omission without laying herself open to thecharge of disobedience; she pointed to every dish in turn, saying, "I've had some of this; I've had some of this;" however she omittedthe one dish so markedly that some one noticed it and said, "Havenot you had some of this?" "Oh, no, " replied the greedy little girlwith soft voice and downcast eyes. These instances are typical ofthe cunning of the little boy and girl. 

What is, is good, and no general law can be bad. This special skillwith which the female sex is endowed is a fair equivalent for itslack of strength; without it woman would be man's slave, not hishelpmeet. By her superiority in this respect she maintains her equalitywith man, and rules in obedience. She has everything against her, our faults and her own weakness and timidity; her beauty and herwiles are all that she has. Should she not cultivate both? Yet beautyis not universal; it may be destroyed by all sorts of accidents, it will disappear with years, and habit will destroy its influence. A woman's real resource is her wit; not that foolish wit which isso greatly admired in society, a wit which does nothing to makelife happier; but that wit which is adapted to her condition, theart of taking advantage of our position and controlling us throughour own strength. Words cannot tell how beneficial this is toman, what a charm it gives to the society of men and women, how itchecks the petulant child and restrains the brutal husband; withoutit the home would be a scene of strife; with it, it is the abodeof happiness. I know that this power is abused by the sly and thespiteful; but what is there that is not liable to abuse? Do notdestroy the means of happiness because the wicked use them to ourhurt. 

The toilet may attract notice, but it is the person that wins ourhearts. Our finery is not us; its very artificiality often offends, and that which is least noticeable in itself often wins the mostattention. The education of our girls is, in this respect, absolutelytopsy-turvy. Ornaments are promised them as rewards, and they aretaught to delight in elaborate finery. "How lovely she is!" peoplesay when she is most dressed up. On the contrary, they should betaught that so much finery is only required to hide their defects, and that beauty's real triumph is to shine alone. The love offashion is contrary to good taste, for faces do not change with thefashion, and while the person remains unchanged, what suits it atone time will suit it always. 

If I saw a young girl decked out like a little peacock, I shouldshow myself anxious about her figure so disguised, and anxious whatpeople would think of her; I should say, "She is over-dressed withall those ornaments; what a pity! Do you think she could do withsomething simpler? Is she pretty enough to do without this or that?"Possibly she herself would be the first to ask that her finery mightbe taken off and that we should see how she looked without it. Inthat case her beauty should receive such praise as it deserves. Ishould never praise her unless simply dressed. If she only regardsfine clothes as an aid to personal beauty, and as a tacit confessionthat she needs their aid, she will not be proud of her finery, shewill be humbled by it; and if she hears some one say, "How prettyshe is, " when she is smarter than usual, she will blush for shame. 

Moreover, though there are figures that require adornment thereare none that require expensive clothes. Extravagance in dress isthe folly of the class rather than the individual, it is merelyconventional. Genuine coquetry is sometimes carefully thought out, but never sumptuous, and Juno dressed herself more magnificentlythan Venus. "As you cannot make her beautiful you are making herfine, " said Apelles to an unskilful artist who was painting Helenloaded with jewellery. I have also noticed that the smartest clothesproclaim the plainest women; no folly could be more misguided. Ifa young girl has good taste and a contempt for fashion, give her afew yards of ribbon, muslin, and gauze, and a handful of flowers, without any diamonds, fringes, or lace, and she will make herselfa dress a hundredfold more becoming than all the smart clothes ofLa Duchapt. 

Good is always good, and as you should always look your best, thewomen who know what they are about select a good style and keepto it, and as they are not always changing their style they thinkless about dress than those who can never settle to any one style. A genuine desire to dress becomingly does not require an elaboratetoilet. Young girls rarely give much time to dress; needlework andlessons are the business of the day; yet, except for the rouge, they are generally as carefully dressed as older women and oftenin better taste. Contrary to the usual opinion, the real cause ofthe abuse of the toilet is not vanity but lack of occupation. Thewoman who devotes six hours to her toilet is well aware that sheis no better dressed than the woman who took half an hour, but shehas got rid of so many of the tedious hours and it is better toamuse oneself with one's clothes than to be sick of everything. Without the toilet how would she spend the time between dinner andsupper. With a crowd of women about her, she can at least causethem annoyance, which is amusement of a kind; better still she avoidsa tete-a-tete with the husband whom she never sees at any othertime; then there are the tradespeople, the dealers in bric-a-brac, the fine gentlemen, the minor poets with their songs, their verses, and their pamphlets; how could you get them together but for thetoilet. Its only real advantage is the chance of a little moredisplay than is permitted by full dress, and perhaps this is lessthan it seems and a woman gains less than she thinks. Do not beafraid to educate your women as women; teach them a woman's business, that they be modest, that they may know how to manage their houseand look after their family; the grand toilet will soon disappear, and they will be more tastefully dressed. 

Growing girls perceive at once that all this outside adornment isnot enough unless they have charms of their own. They cannot makethemselves beautiful, they are too young for coquetry, but theyare not too young to acquire graceful gestures, a pleasing voice, a self-possessed manner, a light step, a graceful bearing, to choosewhatever advantages are within their reach. The voice extends itsrange, it grows stronger and more resonant, the arms become plumper, the bearing more assured, and they perceive that it is easy toattract attention however dressed. Needlework and industry sufficeno longer, fresh gifts are developing and their usefulness isalready recognised. 

I know that stern teachers would have us refuse to teach littlegirls to sing or dance, or to acquire any of the pleasing arts. This strikes me as absurd. Who should learn these arts--our boys?Are these to be the favourite accomplishments of men or women? Ofneither, say they; profane songs are simply so many crimes, dancingis an invention of the Evil One; her tasks and her prayers we allthe amusement a young girl should have. What strange amusementsfor a child of ten! I fear that these little saints who have beenforced to spend their childhood in prayers to God will pass theiryouth in another fashion; when they are married they will try tomake up for lost time. I think we must consider age as well as sex;a young girl should not live like her grandmother; she should belively, merry, and eager; she should sing and dance to her heart'scontent, and enjoy all the innocent pleasures of youth; the timewill come, all too soon, when she must settle down and adopt a moreserious tone. 

But is this change in itself really necessary? Is it not merelyanother result of our own prejudices? By making good women the slavesof dismal duties, we have deprived marriage of its charm for men. Can we wonder that the gloomy silence they find at home drives themelsewhere, or inspires little desire to enter a state which offersso few attractions? Christianity, by exaggerating every duty, hasmade our duties impracticable and useless; by forbidding singing, dancing, and amusements of every kind, it renders women sulky, fault-finding, and intolerable at home. There is no religion whichimposes such strict duties upon married life, and none in whichsuch a sacred engagement is so often profaned. Such pains has beentaken to prevent wives being amiable, that their husbands havebecome indifferent to them. This should not be, I grant you, butit will be, since husbands are but men. I would have an Englishmaiden cultivate the talents which will delight her husband aszealously as the Circassian cultivates the accomplishments of anEastern harem. Husbands, you say, care little for such accomplishments. So I should suppose, when they are employed, not for the husband, but to attract the young rakes who dishonour the home. But imaginea virtuous and charming wife, adorned with such accomplishmentsand devoting them to her husband's amusement; will she not add tohis happiness? When he leaves his office worn out with the day'swork, will she not prevent him seeking recreation elsewhere? Havewe not all beheld happy families gathered together, each contributingto the general amusement? Are not the confidence and familiaritythus established, the innocence and the charm of the pleasures thusenjoyed, more than enough to make up for the more riotous pleasuresof public entertainments?

Pleasant accomplishments have been made too formal an affair ofrules and precepts, so that young people find them very tediousInstead of a mere amusement or a merry game as they ought to be. Nothing can be more absurd than an elderly singing or dancingmaster frowning upon young people, whose one desire is to laugh, and adopting a more pedantic and magisterial manner in teaching hisfrivolous art than if he were teaching the catechism. Take the caseof singing; does this art depend on reading music; cannot the voicebe made true and flexible, can we not learn to sing with taste andeven to play an accompaniment without knowing a note? Does the samekind of singing suit all voices alike? Is the same method adaptedto every mind? You will never persuade me that the same attitudes, the same steps, the same movements, the same gestures, the samedances will suit a lively little brunette and a tall fair maidenwith languishing eyes. So when I find a master giving the samelessons to all his pupils I say, "He has his own routine, but heknows nothing of his art!"

Should young girls have masters or mistresses? I cannot say; I wishthey could dispense with both; I wish they could learn of theirown accord what they are already so willing to learn. I wish therewere fewer of these dressed-up old ballet masters promenading ourstreets. I fear our young people will get more harm from intercoursewith such people than profit from their instruction, and that theirjargon, their tone, their airs and graces, will instil a precocioustaste for the frivolities which the teacher thinks so important, and to which the scholars are only too likely to devote themselves. 

Where pleasure is the only end in view, any one may serve asteacher--father, mother, brother, sister, friend, governess, thegirl's mirror, and above all her own taste. Do not offer to teach, let her ask; do not make a task of what should be a reward, and inthese studies above all remember that the wish to succeed is thefirst step. If formal instruction is required I leave it to youto choose between a master and a mistress. How can I tell whethera dancing master should take a young pupil by her soft white hand, make her lift her skirt and raise her eyes, open her arms and advanceher throbbing bosom? but this I know, nothing on earth would induceme to be that master. 

Taste is formed partly by industry and partly by talent, and byits means the mind is unconsciously opened to the idea of beautyof every kind, till at length it attains to those moral ideas whichare so closely related to beauty. Perhaps this is one reason whyideas of propriety and modesty are acquired earlier by girls thanby boys, for to suppose that this early feeling is due to theteaching of the governesses would show little knowledge of theirstyle of teaching and of the natural development of the human mind. The art of speaking stands first among the pleasing arts; it alonecan add fresh charms to those which have been blunted by habit. Itis the mind which not only gives life to the body, but renews, soto speak, its youth; the flow of feelings and ideas give life andvariety to the countenance, and the conversation to which it givesrise arouses and sustains attention, and fixes it continuously onone object. I suppose this is why little girls so soon learn toprattle prettily, and why men enjoy listening to them even beforethe child can understand them; they are watching for the firstgleam of intelligence and sentiment. 

Women have ready tongues; they talk earlier, more easily, and morepleasantly than men. They are also said to talk more; this maybe true, but I am prepared to reckon it to their credit; eyes andmouth are equally busy and for the same cause. A man says what heknows, a woman says what will please; the one needs knowledge, theother taste; utility should be the man's object; the woman speaksto give pleasure. There should be nothing in common but truth. 

You should not check a girl's prattle like a boy's by the harshquestion, "What is the use of that?" but by another question atleast as difficult to answer, "What effect will that have?" At thisearly age when they know neither good nor evil, and are incapableof judging others, they should make this their rule and never sayanything which is unpleasant to those about them; this rule is allthe more difficult to apply because it must always be subordinatedto our first rule, "Never tell a lie. "

I can see many other difficulties, but they belong to a later stage. For the present it is enough for your little girls to speak thetruth without grossness, and as they are naturally averse to whatis gross, education easily teaches them to avoid it. In socialintercourse I observe that a man's politeness is usually morehelpful and a woman's more caressing. This distinction is natural, not artificial. A man seeks to serve, a woman seeks to please. Hencea woman's politeness is less insincere than ours, whatever we maythink of her character; for she is only acting upon a fundamentalinstinct; but when a man professes to put my interests before hisown, I detect the falsehood, however disguised. Hence it is easyfor women to be polite, and easy to teach little girls politeness. The first lessons come by nature; art only supplements them anddetermines the conventional form which politeness shall take. Thecourtesy of woman to woman is another matter; their manner is soconstrained, their attentions so chilly, they find each other sowearisome, that they take little pains to conceal the fact, andseem sincere even in their falsehood, since they take so littlepains to conceal it. Still young girls do sometimes become sincerelyattached to one another. At their age good spirits take the placeof a good disposition, and they are so pleased with themselves thatthey are pleased with every one else. Moreover, it is certain thatthey kiss each other more affectionately and caress each other moregracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud to be ableto arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight offavours which they know will arouse that envy. 

If young boys must not be allowed to ask unsuitable questions, muchmore must they be forbidden to little girls; if their curiosity issatisfied or unskilfully evaded it is a much more serious matter, for they are so keen to guess the mysteries concealed from them andso skilful to discover them. But while I would not permit them toask questions, I would have them questioned frequently, and painsshould be taken to make them talk; let them be teased to make themspeak freely, to make them answer readily, to loosen mind andtongue while it can be done without danger. Such conversation alwaysleading to merriment, yet skilfully controlled and directed, wouldform a delightful amusement at this age and might instil into theseyouthful hearts the first and perhaps the most helpful lessons inmorals which they will ever receive, by teaching them in the guiseof pleasure and fun what qualities are esteemed by men and what isthe true glory and happiness of a good woman. 

If boys are incapable of forming any true idea of religion, muchmore is it beyond the grasp of girls; and for this reason I wouldspeak of it all the sooner to little girls, for if we wait tillthey are ready for a serious discussion of these deep subjects weshould be in danger of never speaking of religion at all. A woman'sreason is practical, and therefore she soon arrives at a givenconclusion, but she fails to discover it for herself. The socialrelation of the sexes is a wonderful thing. This relation producesa moral person of which woman is the eye and man the hand, but thetwo are so dependent on one another that the man teaches the womanwhat to see, while she teaches him what to do. If women coulddiscover principles and if men had as good heads for detail, theywould be mutually independent, they would live in perpetual strife, and there would be an end to all society. But in their mutualharmony each contributes to a common purpose; each follows theother's lead, each commands and each obeys. 

As a woman's conduct is controlled by public opinion, so is herreligion ruled by authority. The daughter should follow her mother'sreligion, the wife her husband's. Were that religion false, thedocility which leads mother and daughter to submit to nature'slaws would blot out the sin of error in the sight of God. Unableto judge for themselves they should accept the judgment of fatherand husband as that of the church. 

While women unaided cannot deduce the rules of their faith, neithercan they assign limits to that faith by the evidence of reason;they allow themselves to be driven hither and thither by all sortsof external influences, they are ever above or below the truth. Extremein everything, they are either altogether reckless or altogetherpious; you never find them able to combine virtue and piety. Theirnatural exaggeration is not wholly to blame; the ill-regulatedcontrol exercised over them by men is partly responsible. Loosemorals bring religion into contempt; the terrors of remorse makeit a tyrant; this is why women have always too much or too littlereligion. 

As a woman's religion is controlled by authority it is moreimportant to show her plainly what to believe than to explain thereasons for belief; for faith attached to ideas half-understoodis the main source of fanaticism, and faith demanded on behalf ofwhat is absurd leads to madness or unbelief. Whether our catechismstend to produce impiety rather than fanaticism I cannot say, butI do know that they lead to one or other. 

In the first place, when you teach religion to little girls nevermake it gloomy or tiresome, never make it a task or a duty, andtherefore never give them anything to learn by heart, not eventheir prayers. Be content to say your own prayers regularly in theirpresence, but do not compel them to join you. Let their prayersbe short, as Christ himself has taught us. Let them always be saidwith becoming reverence and respect; remember that if we ask theAlmighty to give heed to our words, we should at least give heedto what we mean to say. 

It does not much matter that a girl should learn her religion young, but it does matter that she should learn it thoroughly, and stillmore that she should learn to love it. If you make religion aburden to her, if you always speak of God's anger, if in the nameof religion you impose all sorts of disagreeable duties, dutieswhich she never sees you perform, what can she suppose but thatto learn one's catechism and to say one's prayers is only the dutyof a little girl, and she will long to be grown-up to escape, likeyou, from these duties. Example! Example! Without it you will neversucceed in teaching children anything. 

When you explain the Articles of Faith let it be by direct teaching, not by question and answer. Children should only answer what theythink, not what has been drilled into them. All the answers in thecatechism are the wrong way about; it is the scholar who instructsthe teacher; in the child's mouth they are a downright lie, sincethey explain what he does not understand, and affirm what he cannotbelieve. Find me, if you can, an intelligent man who could honestlysay his catechism. The first question I find in our catechism is asfollows: "Who created you and brought you into the world?" To whichthe girl, who thinks it was her mother, replies without hesitation, "It was God. " All she knows is that she is asked a question whichshe only half understands and she gives an answer she does notunderstand at all. 

I wish some one who really understands the development of children'sminds would write a catechism for them. It might be the most usefulbook ever written, and, in my opinion, it would do its author nolittle honour. This at least is certain--if it were a good book itwould be very unlike our catechisms. 

Such a catechism will not be satisfactory unless the child cananswer the questions of its own accord without having to learn theanswers; indeed the child will often ask the questions itself. Anexample is required to make my meaning plain and I feel how illequipped I am to furnish such an example. I will try to give somesort of outline of my meaning. 

To get to the first question in our catechism I suppose we mustbegin somewhat after the following fashion. 

NURSE: Do you remember when your mother was a little girl?

CHILD: No, nurse. 

NURSE: Why not, when you have such a good memory?

CHILD: I was not alive. 

NURSE: Then you were not always alive!

CHILD: No. 

NURSE: Will you live for ever!

CHILD: Yes. 

NURSE: Are you young or old?

CHILD: I am young. 

NURSE: Is your grandmamma old or young?

CHILD: She is old. 

NURSE: Was she ever young?

CHILD: Yes. 

NURSE: Why is she not young now?

CHILD: She has grown old. 

NURSE: Will you grow old too?

CHILD: I don't know. 

NURSE: Where are your last year's frocks?

CHILD: They have been unpicked. 

NURSE: Why!

CHILD: Because they were too small for me. 

NURSE: Why were they too small?

CHILD: I have grown bigger. 

NURSE: Will you grow any more!

CHILD: Oh, yes. 

NURSE: And what becomes of big girls?

CHILD: They grow into women. 

NURSE: And what becomes of women!

CHILD: They are mothers. 

NURSE: And what becomes of mothers?

CHILD: They grow old. 

NURSE: Will you grow old?

CHILD: When I am a mother. 

NURSE: And what becomes of old people?

CHILD: I don't know. 

NURSE: What became of your grandfather?

CHILD: He died. [Footnote: The child will say this because she hasheard it said; but you must make sure she knows what death is, forthe idea is not so simple and within the child's grasp as peoplethink. In that little poem "Abel" you will find an example of the wayto teach them. This charming work breathes a delightful simplicitywith which one should feed one's own mind so as to talk withchildren. ]

NURSE: Why did he die?

CHILD: Because he was so old. 

NURSE: What becomes of old people!

CHILD: They die. 

NURSE: And when you are old----?

CHILD: Oh nurse! I don't want to die!

NURSE: My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies. 

CHILD: Why, will mamma die too!

NURSE: Yes, like everybody else. Women grow old as well as men, and old age ends in death. 

CHILD: What must I do to grow old very, very slowly?

NURSE: Be good while you are little. 

CHILD: I will always be good, nurse. 

NURSE: So much the better. But do you suppose you will live forever?

CHILD: When I am very, very old----

NURSE: Well?

CHILD: When we are so very old you say we must die?

NURSE: You must die some day. 

CHILD: Oh dear! I suppose I must. 

NURSE: Who lived before you?

CHILD: My father and mother. 

NURSE: And before them?

CHILD: Their father and mother. 

NURSE: Who will live after you?

CHILD: My children. 

NURSE: Who will live after them?

CHILD: Their children. 

In this way, by concrete examples, you will find a beginning and endfor the human race like everything else--that is to say, a fatherand mother who never had a father and mother, and children who willnever have children of their own. 

It is only after a long course of similar questions that we areready for the first question in the catechism; then alone can weput the question and the child may be able to understand it. Butwhat a gap there is between the first and the second question whichis concerned with the definitions of the divine nature. When willthis chasm be bridged? "God is a spirit. " "And what is a spirit?"Shall I start the child upon this difficult question of metaphysicswhich grown men find so hard to understand? These are no questionsfor a little girl to answer; if she asks them, it is as much or morethan we can expect. In that case I should tell her quite simply, "You ask me what God is; it is not easy to say; we can neitherhear nor see nor handle God; we can only know Him by His works. Tolearn what He is, you must wait till you know what He has done. "

If our dogmas are all equally true, they are not equally important. It makes little difference to the glory of God that we should perceiveit everywhere, but it does make a difference to human society, andto every member of that society, that a man should know and do theduties which are laid upon him by the law of God, his duty to hisneighbour and to himself. This is what we should always be teachingone another, and it is this which fathers and mothers are speciallybound to teach their little ones. Whether a virgin became the motherof her Creator, whether she gave birth to God, or merely to a maninto whom God has entered, whether the Father and the Son are ofthe same substance or of like substance only, whether the Spiritproceeded from one or both of these who are but one, or from bothtogether, however important these questions may seem, I cannotsee that it is any more necessary for the human race to come to adecision with regard to them than to know what day to keep Easter, or whether we should tell our beads, fast, and refuse to eat meat, speak Latin or French in church, adorn the walls with statues, hear or say mass, and have no wife of our own. Let each think ashe pleases; I cannot see that it matters to any one but himself;for my own part it is no concern of mine. But what does concern myfellow-creatures and myself alike is to know that there is indeeda judge of human fate, that we are all His children, that He bidsus all be just, He bids us love one another, He bids us be kindlyand merciful, He bids us keep our word with all men, even with ourown enemies and His; we must know that the apparent happiness ofthis world is naught; that there is another life to come, in whichthis Supreme Being will be the rewarder of the just and the judgeof the unjust. Children need to be taught these doctrines and otherslike them and all citizens require to be persuaded of their truth. Whoever sets his face against these doctrines is indeed guilty; heis the disturber of the peace, the enemy of society. Whoever goesbeyond these doctrines and seeks to make us the slaves of his privateopinions, reaches the same goal by another way; to establish hisown kind of order he disturbs the peace; in his rash pride he makeshimself the interpreter of the Divine, and in His name demands thehomage and the reverence of mankind; so far as may be, he sets himselfin God's place; he should receive the punishment of sacrilege ifhe is not punished for his intolerance. 

Give no heed, therefore, to all those mysterious doctrines whichare words without ideas for us, all those strange teachings, thestudy of which is too often offered as a substitute for virtue, astudy which more often makes men mad rather than good. Keep yourchildren ever within the little circle of dogmas which are relatedto morality. Convince them that the only useful learning is that whichteaches us to act rightly. Do not make your daughters theologiansand casuists; only teach them such things of heaven as conduceto human goodness; train them to feel that they are always in thepresence of God, who sees their thoughts and deeds, their virtueand their pleasures; teach them to do good without ostentation andbecause they love it, to suffer evil without a murmur, because Godwill reward them; in a word to be all their life long what theywill be glad to have been when they appear in His presence. Thisis true religion; this alone is incapable of abuse, impiety, orfanaticism. Let those who will, teach a religion more sublime, but this is the only religion I know. 

Moreover, it is as well to observe that, until the age when thereason becomes enlightened, when growing emotion gives a voice toconscience, what is wrong for young people is what those about havedecided to be wrong. What they are told to do is good; what theyare forbidden to do is bad; that is all they ought to know: thisshows how important it is for girls, even more than for boys, that the right people should be chosen to be with them and to haveauthority over them. At last there comes a time when they begin tojudge things for themselves, and that is the time to change yourmethod of education. 

Perhaps I have said too much already. To what shall we reduce theeducation of our women if we give them no law but that of conventionalprejudice? Let us not degrade so far the set which rules over us, and which does us honour when we have not made it vile. For allmankind there is a law anterior to that of public opinion. All otherlaws should bend before the inflexible control of this law; it isthe judge of public opinion, and only in so far as the esteem ofmen is in accordance with this law has it any claim on our obedience. 

This law is our individual conscience. I will not repeat what hasbeen said already; it is enough to point out that if these twolaws clash, the education of women will always be imperfect. Rightfeeling without respect for public opinion will not give them thatdelicacy of soul which lends to right conduct the charm of socialapproval; while respect for public opinion without right feelingwill only make false and wicked women who put appearances in theplace of virtue. 

It is, therefore, important to cultivate a faculty which servesas judge between the two guides, which does not permit conscienceto go astray and corrects the errors of prejudice. That facultyis reason. But what a crowd of questions arise at this word. Arewomen capable of solid reason; should they cultivate it, can theycultivate it successfully? Is this culture useful in relation to thefunctions laid upon them? Is it compatible with becoming simplicity?

The different ways of envisaging and answering these questions leadto two extremes; some would have us keep women indoors sewing andspinning with their maids; thus they make them nothing more thanthe chief servant of their master. Others, not content to securetheir rights, lead them to usurp ours; for to make woman our superiorin all the qualities proper to her sex, and to make her our equalin all the rest, what is this but to transfer to the woman thesuperiority which nature has given to her husband? The reason whichteaches a man his duties is not very complex; the reason whichteaches a woman hers is even simpler. The obedience and fidelitywhich she owes to her husband, the tenderness and care due to herchildren, are such natural and self-evident consequences of herposition that she cannot honestly refuse her consent to the innervoice which is her guide, nor fail to discern her duty in hernatural inclination. 

I would not altogether blame those who would restrict a woman tothe labours of her sex and would leave her in profound ignoranceof everything else; but that would require a standard of moralityat once very simple and very healthy, or a life withdrawn from theworld. In great towns, among immoral men, such a woman would betoo easily led astray; her virtue would too often be at the mercyof circumstances; in this age of philosophy, virtue must be ableto resist temptation; she must know beforehand what she may hearand what she should think of it. 

Moreover, in submission to man's judgment she should deserve hisesteem; above all she should obtain the esteem of her husband;she should not only make him love her person, she should make himapprove her conduct; she should justify his choice before the world, and do honour to her husband through the honour given to the wife. But how can she set about this task if she is ignorant of ourinstitutions, our customs, our notions of propriety, if she knowsnothing of the source of man's judgment, nor the passions by whichit is swayed! Since she depends both on her own conscience andon public opinion, she must learn to know and reconcile these twolaws, and to put her own conscience first only when the two areopposed to each other. She becomes the judge of her own judges, she decides when she should obey and when she should refuse herobedience. She weighs their prejudices before she accepts or rejectsthem; she learns to trace them to their source, to foresee whatthey will be, and to turn them in her own favour; she is carefulnever to give cause for blame if duty allows her to avoid it. Thiscannot be properly done without cultivating her mind and reason. 

I always come back to my first principle and it supplies thesolution of all my difficulties. I study what is, I seek its cause, and I discover in the end that what is, is good. I go to houseswhere the master and mistress do the honours together. They areequally well educated, equally polite, equally well equipped withwit and good taste, both of them are inspired with the same desireto give their guests a good reception and to send every one awaysatisfied. The husband omits no pains to be attentive to everyone; he comes and goes and sees to every one and takes all sortsof trouble; he is attention itself. The wife remains in her place;a little circle gathers round her and apparently conceals the restof the company from her; yet she sees everything that goes on, no one goes without a word with her; she has omitted nothing whichmight interest anybody, she has said nothing unpleasant to anyone, and without any fuss the least is no more overlooked thanthe greatest. Dinner is announced, they take their places; theman knowing the assembled guests will place them according to hisknowledge; the wife, without previous acquaintance, never makesa mistake; their looks and bearing have already shown her what iswanted and every one will find himself where he wishes to be. Ido not assert that the servants forget no one. The master of thehouse may have omitted no one, but the mistress perceives what youlike and sees that you get it; while she is talking to her neighbourshe has one eye on the other end of the table; she sees who is noteating because he is not hungry and who is afraid to help himselfbecause he is clumsy and timid. When the guests leave the tableevery one thinks she has had no thought but for him, everybody thinksshe has had no time to eat anything, but she has really eaten morethan anybody. 

When the guests are gone, husband and wife tails over the eventsof the evening. He relates what was said to him, what was said anddone by those with whom he conversed. If the lady is not alwaysquite exact in this respect, yet on the other hand she perceivedwhat was whispered at the other end of the room; she knows whatso-and-so thought, and what was the meaning of this speech or thatgesture; there is scarcely a change of expression for which shehas not an explanation in readiness, and she is almost always right. 

The same turn of mind which makes a woman of the world such anexcellent hostess, enables a flirt to excel in the art of amusinga number of suitors. Coquetry, cleverly carried out, demands aneven finer discernment than courtesy; provided a polite lady iscivil to everybody, she has done fairly well in any case; but theflirt would soon lose her hold by such clumsy uniformity; if shetries to be pleasant to all her lovers alike, she will disgust themall. In ordinary social intercourse the manners adopted towardseverybody are good enough for all; no question is asked as toprivate likes or dislikes provided all are alike well received. Butin love, a favour shared with others is an insult. A man of feelingwould rather be singled out for ill-treatment than be caressed withthe crowd, and the worst that can befall him is to be treated likeevery one else. So a woman who wants to keep several lovers ather feet must persuade every one of them that she prefers him, andshe must contrive to do this in the sight of all the rest, each ofwhom is equally convinced that he is her favourite. 

If you want to see a man in a quandary, place him between twowomen with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see whata fool he looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances betweentwo men, and the results will be even more remarkable; you will beastonished at the skill with which she cheats them both, and makesthem laugh at each other. Now if that woman were to show the sameconfidence in both, if she were to be equally familiar with both, how could they be deceived for a moment? If she treated them alike, would she not show that they both had the same claims upon her?Oh, she is far too clever for that; so far from treating them justalike, she makes a marked difference between them, and she doesit so skilfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection, and the man she ill uses think it is spite. So that each of thembelieves she is thinking of him, when she is thinking of no onebut herself. 

A general desire to please suggests similar measures; people wouldbe disgusted with a woman's whims if they were not skilfully managed, and when they are artistically distributed her servants are morethan ever enslaved. 

 "Usa ogn'arte la donna, onde sia colto Nella sua rete alcun novello amante; Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto Serba; ma cangia a tempo atto e sembiante. " Tasso, Jerus. Del. , c. Iv. , v. 87. 

What is the secret of this art? Is it not the result of a delicateand continuous observation which shows her what is taking place ina man's heart, so that she is able to encourage or to check everyhidden impulse? Can this art be acquired? No; it is born with women;it is common to them all, and men never show it to the same degree. It is one of the distinctive characters of the sex. Self-possession, penetration, delicate observation, this is a woman's science; theskill to make use of it is her chief accomplishment. 

This is what is, and we have seen why it is so. It is said thatwomen are false. They become false. They are really endowed withskill not duplicity; in the genuine inclinations of their sex theyare not false even when they tell a lie. Why do you consult theirwords when it is not their mouths that speak? Consult their eyes, their colour, their breathing, their timid manner, their slightresistance, that is the language nature gave them for your answer. The lips always say "No, " and rightly so; but the tone is notalways the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needsas a man, but without the same right to make them known? Her fatewould be too cruel if she had no language in which to express herlegitimate desires except the words which she dare not utter. Musther modesty condemn her to misery? Does she not require a meansof indicating her inclinations without open expression? What skillis needed to hide from her lover what she would fain reveal! Is itnot of vital importance that she should learn to touch his heartwithout showing that she cares for him? It is a pretty story thattale of Galatea with her apple and her clumsy flight. What moreis needed? Will she tell the shepherd who pursues her among thewillows that she only flees that he may follow? If she did, it wouldbe a lie; for she would no longer attract him. The more modesta woman is, the more art she needs, even with her husband. Yes, I maintain that coquetry, kept within bounds, becomes modest andtrue, and out of it springs a law of right conduct. 

One of my opponents has very truly asserted that virtue is one;you cannot disintegrate it and choose this and reject the other. If you love virtue, you love it in its entirety, and you close yourheart when you can, and you always close your lips to the feelingswhich you ought not to allow. Moral truth is not only what is, but what is good; what is bad ought not to be, and ought not to beconfessed, especially when that confession produces results whichmight have been avoided. If I were tempted to steal, and in confessingit I tempted another to become my accomplice, the very confessionof my temptation would amount to a yielding to that temptation. Whydo you say that modesty makes women false? Are those who lose theirmodesty more sincere than the rest? Not so, they are a thousandfoldmore deceitful. This degree of depravity is due to many vices, noneof which is rejected, vices which owe their power to intrigue andfalsehood. [Footnote: I know that women who have openly decided ona certain course of conduct profess that their lack of concealmentis a virtue in itself, and swear that, with one exception, they arepossessed of all the virtues; but I am sure they never persuadedany but fools to believe them. When the natural curb is removedfrom their sex, what is there left to restrain them? What honourwill they prize when they have rejected the honour of their sex?Having once given the rein to passion they have no longer any reasonfor self-control. "Nec femina, amissa pudicitia, alia abnuerit. "No author ever understood more thoroughly the heart of both sexesthan Tacitus when he wrote those words. ]

On the other hand, those who are not utterly shameless, who take nopride in their faults, who are able to conceal their desires evenfrom those who inspire them, those who confess their passion mostreluctantly, these are the truest and most sincere, these are theyon whose fidelity you may generally rely. 

The only example I know which might be quoted as a recognised exceptionto these remarks is Mlle. De L'Enclos; and she was considered aprodigy. In her scorn for the virtues of women, she practised, sothey say, the virtues of a man. She is praised for her franknessand uprightness; she was a trustworthy acquaintance and a faithfulfriend. To complete the picture of her glory it is said that shebecame a man. That may be, but in spite of her high reputation Ishould no more desire that man as my friend than as my mistress. 

This is not so irrelevant as it seems. I am aware of the tendenciesof our modern philosophy which make a jest of female modesty andits so-called insincerity; I also perceive that the most certainresult of this philosophy will be to deprive the women of thiscentury of such shreds of honour as they still possess. 

On these grounds I think we may decide in general terms what sortof education is suited to the female mind, and the objects to whichwe should turn its attention in early youth. 

As I have already said, the duties of their sex are more easilyrecognised than performed. They must learn in the first placeto love those duties by considering the advantages to be derivedfrom them--that is the only way to make duty easy. Every age andcondition has its own duties. We are quick to see our duty if welove it. Honour your position as a woman, and in whatever stationof life to which it shall please heaven to call you, you will bewell off. The essential thing is to be what nature has made you;women are only too ready to be what men would have them. 

The search for abstract and speculative truths, for principles andaxioms in science, for all that tends to wide generalisation, isbeyond a woman's grasp; their studies should be thoroughly practical. It is their business to apply the principles discovered by men, itis their place to make the observations which lead men to discoverthose principles. A woman's thoughts, beyond the range of her immediateduties, should be directed to the study of men, or the acquirementof that agreeable learning whose sole end is the formation of taste;for the works of genius are beyond her reach, and she has neitherthe accuracy nor the attention for success in the exact sciences; asfor the physical sciences, to decide the relations between livingcreatures and the laws of nature is the task of that sex whichis more active and enterprising, which sees more things, that sexwhich is possessed of greater strength and is more accustomed tothe exercise of that strength. Woman, weak as she is and limitedin her range of observation, perceives and judges the forces ather disposal to supplement her weakness, and those forces are thepassions of man. Her own mechanism is more powerful than ours; shehas many levers which may set the human heart in motion. She mustfind a way to make us desire what she cannot achieve unaided andwhat she considers necessary or pleasing; therefore she must havea thorough knowledge of man's mind; not an abstract knowledge ofthe mind of man in general, but the mind of those men who are abouther, the mind of those men who have authority over her, either bylaw or custom. She must learn to divine their feelings from speechand action, look and gesture. By her own speech and action, lookand gesture, she must be able to inspire them with the feelings shedesires, without seeming to have any such purpose. The men willhave a better philosophy of the human heart, but she will readmore accurately in the heart of men. Woman should discover, so tospeak, an experimental morality, man should reduce it to a system. Woman has more wit, man more genius; woman observes, man reasons;together they provide the clearest light and the profoundestknowledge which is possible to the unaided human mind; in a word, the surest knowledge of self and of others of which the human raceis capable. In this way art may constantly tend to the perfectionof the instrument which nature has given us. 

The world is woman's book; if she reads it ill, it is either herown fault or she is blinded by passion. Yet the genuine mother ofa family is no woman of the world, she is almost as much of a recluseas the nun in her convent. Those who have marriageable daughtersshould do what is or ought to be done for those who are enteringthe cloisters: they should show them the pleasures they forsakebefore they are allowed to renounce them, lest the deceitful pictureof unknown pleasures should creep in to disturb the happiness oftheir retreat. In France it is the girls who live in convents andthe wives who flaunt in society. Among the ancients it was quiteotherwise; girls enjoyed, as I have said already, many games andpublic festivals; the married women lived in retirement. This wasa more reasonable custom and more conducive to morality. A girlmay be allowed a certain amount of coquetry, and she may be mainlyoccupied at amusement. A wife has other responsibilities at home, and she is no longer on the look-out for a husband; but womenwould not appreciate the change, and unluckily it is they who setthe fashion. Mothers, let your daughters be your companions. Givethem good sense and an honest heart, and then conceal from themnothing that a pure eye may behold. Balls, assemblies, sports, thetheatre itself; everything which viewed amiss delights imprudentyouth may be safely displayed to a healthy mind. The more theyknow of these noisy pleasures, the sooner they will cease to desirethem. 

I can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girlwill resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the firstglimpse of the world; not one of them is ready to give it up. Thatmay be; but before you showed them this deceitful prospect, didyou prepare them to behold it without emotion? Did you tell themplainly what it was they would see? Did you show it in its truelight? Did you arm them against the illusions of vanity? Did youinspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasureswhich are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, whatsteps, did you take to preserve them from the false taste whichleads them astray? Not only have you done nothing to preservetheir minds from the tyranny of prejudice, you have fostered thatprejudice; you have taught them to desire every foolish amusementthey can get. Your own example is their teacher. Young people ontheir entrance into society have no guide but their mother, whois often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable toshow them things except as she sees them herself. Her example isstronger than reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and themother's authority is an unanswerable excuse for the daughter. IfI ask a mother to bring her daughter into society, I assume thatshe will show it in its true light. 

The evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schoolsof coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, buta coquetry the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry whichturns out girls who are the most ridiculous little madams. Whenthey leave the convent to take their place in smart society, youngwomen find themselves quite at home. They have been educated forsuch a life; is it strange that they like it? I am afraid what Iam going to say may be based on prejudice rather than observation, but so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more goodwives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries;if that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference ispartly due to the convent schools. 

The charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed;their delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in ourfather's home that we learn to love our own, and a woman whosemother did not educate her herself will not be willing to educateher own children. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as homeeducation in our large towns. Society is so general and so mixed thereis no place left for retirement, and even in the home we live inpublic. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcelyknow our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicityof home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity whichwas its charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother's milk ataste for the pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it iscontrolled. 

Girls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men maybe deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch theseyoung people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barelyconceal the passion which devours them, and already you may readin their eager eyes their desire to imitate their mothers. It isnot a husband they want, but the licence of a married woman. Whatneed of a husband when there are so many other resources; buta husband there must be to act as a screen. [Footnote: The way ofa man in his youth was one of the four things that the sage couldnot understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress. "Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum. "Prov. Xxx. 20. ] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in theheart; this sham modesty is one of its outward signs; they affectit that they may be rid of it once for all. Women of Paris andLondon, forgive me! There may be miracles everywhere, but I am notaware of them; and if there is even one among you who is reallypure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions. 

All these different methods of education lead alike to a taste forthe pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which thistaste so soon kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth;in the smaller towns it begins with reason. Young women brought upin the country are soon taught to despise the happy simplicity oftheir lives, and hasten to Paris to share the corruption of ours. Vices, cloaked under the fair name of accomplishments, are the soleobject of their journey; ashamed to find themselves so much behindthe noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they hasten to becomeworthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for theevil--the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?

I would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to showher these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if shedid so, either the girl has been badly brought up, or such sightshave little danger for her. With good taste, good sense, and a loveof what is right, these things are less attractive than to thosewho abandon themselves to their charm. In Paris you may see giddyyoung things hastening to adopt the tone and fashions of the townfor some six months, so that they may spend the rest of their lifein disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted withthe rout, return to their distant home and are contented with theirlot when they have compared it with that which others desire. Howmany young wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have takenthem to Paris where they might live if they pleased; but they haveshrunk from it and returned home more willingly than they went, saying tenderly, "Ah, let us go back to our cottage, life is happierthere than in these palaces. " We do not know how many there are whohave not bowed the knee to Baal, who scorn his senseless worship. Fools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed. 

If so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against temptation, in spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education ofgirls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthenedby suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching, for to preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business?You can do this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters, without crediting them with your harsh morality. The only effectof such teaching is to inspire a dislike for the teacher and thelessons. In talking to a young girl you need not make her afraidof her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid upon her bynature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and pleasantly;do not let her suppose that the performance of these duties isa dismal thing--away with every affectation of disgust or pride. Every thought which we desire to arouse should find its expressionin our pupils, their catechism of conduct should be as brief andplain as their catechism of religion, but it need not be so serious. Show them that these same duties are the source of their pleasuresand the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win love by love, happiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and honourby self-respect? How fair are these woman's rights, how worthy ofreverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able toshow their worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman'sempire begins with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud, yet she reigns already by the gentleness of her character andthe dignity of her modesty. Is there any man so hard-hearted anduncivilised that he does not abate his pride and take heed to hismanners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who listens butsays little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, herbeauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her verytimidity arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respectwhich she shows to others?

These external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not restentirely upon the charms of sense; they arise from that convictionthat we all feel that women are the natural judges of a man'sworth. Who would be scorned by women? not even he who has ceasedto desire their love. And do you suppose that I, who tell them suchharsh truths, am indifferent to their verdict? Reader, I care morefor their approval than for yours; you are often more effeminatethan they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their justice;I care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem. 

What great things might be accomplished by their influence if onlywe could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose theirascendancy, and fail to make men respect their judgment! Thisis the last stage of degradation. Every virtuous nation has shownrespect to women. Consider Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome thethrone of glory and virtue, if ever they were enthroned on earth. The Roman women awarded honour to the deeds of great generals, theymourned in public for the fathers of the country, their awards andtheir tears were alike held sacred as the most solemn utterance ofthe Republic. Every great revolution began with the women. Througha woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the plebeianswon the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirswas overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged byCoriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession, you Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would younot have followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see thingswith such different eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Sucha procession formed of the fairest beauties of France would be anindecent spectacle; but let it consist of Roman ladies, you willall gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with the heart ofCoriolanus. 

I will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourableto love than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as muchto the power of the beloved as to that of the wife or mother. Thereis no real love without enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without anobject of perfection real or supposed, but always present in theimagination. What is there to kindle the hearts of lovers forwhom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved one is merelythe means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart kindled, not thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports whichform the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is anillusion, I grant you, but its reality consists in the feelings itawakes, in the love of true beauty which it inspires. That beautyis not to be found in the object of our affections, it is thecreation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still sacrificeall those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feedour hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we stillwithdraw ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover isthere who would not give his life for his mistress? What gross andsensual passion is there in a man who is willing to die? We scoffat the knights of old; they knew the meaning of love; we knownothing but debauchery. When the teachings of romance began to seemridiculous, it was not so much the work of reason as of immorality. 

Natural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, theirgood or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading asreason, can but change their outward seeming; self-mastery, evenat the behest of fantastic opinions, will not cease to be greatand good. And the true motives of honour will not fail to appeal tothe heart of every woman who is able to seek happiness in life inher woman's duties. To a high-souled woman chastity above all mustbe a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of the world beforeher and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits enthroned inher own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing strugglesare crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or itmay be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexesand the universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gainis permanent. What a joy for a noble heart--the pride of virtuecombined with beauty. Let her be a heroine of romance; she willtaste delights more exquisite than those of Lais and Cleopatra; andwhen her beauty is fled, her glory and her joys remain; she alonecan enjoy the past. 

The harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearermust be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort ofpious talk about the most serious subjects which is dinned in vaininto the ears of young people. This talk, quite unsuited to theirideas and the small importance they attach to it in secret, inclinesthem to yield readily to their inclinations, for lack of anyreasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No doubta girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons againsttemptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merelyfilled with the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to thefirst skilful seducer who attacks her. A young and beautiful girlwill never despise her body, she will never really deplore sins whichher beauty leads men to commit, she will never lament earnestly inthe sight of God that she is an object of desire, she will neverbe convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the EvilOne. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake, for these will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as isoften done, ideas which contradict each other, and after havinghumbled and degraded her person and her charms as the stain of sin, to bid her reverence that same vile body as the temple of JesusChrist. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally ineffectiveand they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and sexis what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unlessthey are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty. 

 "Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit. " OVID, Amor. I. Iii. Eleg. Iv. 

One would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment. 

If you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoidsaying, "Be good;" make it their interest to be good; make themfeel the value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enoughto show this effect in the distant future, show it now, in therelations of the present, in the character of their lovers. Describea good man, a man of worth, teach them to recognise him when theysee him, to love him for their own sake; convince them that sucha man alone can make them happy as friend, wife, or mistress. Letreason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the empire oftheir sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not merelyon the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that ofmen; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and thatthe lover is incapable of serving his mistress unless he can dohomage to virtue. You may then be sure that when you describe themanners of our age you will inspire them with a genuine disgust;when you show them men of fashion they will despise them; youwill give them a distaste for their maxims, an aversion to theirsentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will arouse anobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambitionof the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguingwoman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retainthem by her favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; inweighty and important matters she has no influence over them. Butthe woman who is both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, ina word, combines love and esteem, can send them at her bidding tothe end of the world, to war, to glory, and to death at her behest. This is a fine kingdom and worth the winning. 

This is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has beentrained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has beenfollowed rather than thwarted. Let us say just a word about herperson, according to the description I have given to Emile and thepicture he himself has formed of the wife in whom he hopes to findhappiness. 

I cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies. Emile is no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is awoman; this is all they have to boast of. In the present confusionbetween the sexes it is almost a miracle to belong to one's ownsex. Sophy is well born and she has a good disposition; she isvery warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart sometimes makes herimagination run away with her. Her mind is keen rather than accurate, her temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing thoughnothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and itspeaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will notleave her without emotion. Others possess good qualities whichshe lacks; others possess her good qualities in a higher degree, but in no one are these qualities better blended to form a happydisposition. She knows how to make the best of her very faults, and if she were more perfect she would be less pleasing. 

Sophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairerwomen, and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At firstsight she is hardly pretty; but the more we see her the prettiershe is; she wins where so many lose, and what she wins she keeps. Her eyes might be finer, her mouth more beautiful, her stature moreimposing; but no one could have a more graceful figure, a finercomplexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look, anda more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arousesinterest; she delights us, we know not why. 

Sophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother hasno other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but shehates rich clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She doesnot like showy but becoming things. She does not know what coloursare fashionable, but she makes no mistake about those that suither. No girl seems more simply dressed, but no one could takemore pains over her toilet; no article is selected at random, andyet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very modestin appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not displayher charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhancethem. When you see her you say, "That is a good modest girl, " butwhile you are with her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughtsoff her and one might say that this very simple adornment is onlyput on to be removed bit by bit by the imagination. 

Sophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have notbeen neglected; but never having had a chance of much training sheis content to use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly;her little feet step lightly, easily, and gracefully, she can alwaysmake an easy graceful courtesy. She has had no singing master buther father, no dancing mistress but her mother; a neighbouringorganist has given her a few lessons in playing accompanimentson the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At firstshe only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then shediscovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voicesound sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms ofharmony; as she grew older she at last began to enjoy the charmsof expression, to love music for its own sake. But she has tasterather than talent; she cannot read a simple air from notes. 

Needlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts havebeen taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect, such as cutting out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannotdo with her needle, and nothing that she does not take a delight indoing; but lace-making is her favourite occupation, because thereis nothing which requires such a pleasing attitude, nothing whichcalls for such grace and dexterity of finger. She has also studiedall the details of housekeeping; she understands cooking andcleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose it;she can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother's housekeeper. Some day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father'shouse she is preparing to manage her own; she can take the placeof any of the servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannotgive orders unless you can do the work yourself; that is why hermother sets her to do it. Sophy does not think of that; her firstduty is to be a good daughter, and that is all she thinks about forthe present. Her one idea is to help her mother and relieve her ofsome of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all equallywell. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not likecooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are neverclean enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respectand carries her sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the wholedinner boil over into the fire rather than soil her cuffs. She hasalways disliked inspecting the kitchen-garden for the same reason. The soil is dirty, and as soon as she sees the manure heap shefancies there is a disagreeable smell. 

This defect is the result of her mother's teaching. According toher, cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman's duties, a special duty, of the highest importance and a duty imposed bynature. Nothing could be more revolting than a dirty woman, and ahusband who tires of her is not to blame. She insisted so stronglyon this duty when Sophy was little, she required such absolutecleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and toilet, thatuse has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time andcontrols the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thingthan of how to do it without getting dirty. 

Yet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness;there is none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but cleanwater enters her room; she knows no perfumes but the scent offlowers, and her husband will never find anything sweeter than herbreath. In conclusion, the attention she pays to the outside doesnot blind her to the fact that time and strength are meant for greatertasks; either she does not know or she despises that exaggeratedcleanliness of body which degrades the soul. Sophy is more thanclean, she is pure. 

I said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; butshe became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue. Little girls are not to be controlled, as little boys are, tosome extent, through their greediness. This tendency may have illeffects on women and it is too dangerous to be left unchecked. When Sophy was little, she did not always return empty handed ifshe was sent to her mother's cupboard, and she was not quite to betrusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught her, tookthem from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner. At last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for theteeth, and that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcameher faults; and when she grew older other tastes distracted her fromthis low kind of self-indulgence. With awakening feeling greedinessceases to be the ruling passion, both with men and women. Sophyhas preserved her feminine tastes; she likes milk and sweets; shelikes pastry and made-dishes, but not much meat. She has nevertasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats sparingly; women, who donot work so hard as men, have less waste to repair. In all thingsshe likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it; but shecan also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it. 

Sophy's mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but notdeep; it is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as shenever seems cleverer or stupider than oneself. When people talk toher they always find what she says attractive, though it may not behighly ornamental according to modern ideas of an educated woman;her mind has been formed not only by reading, but by conversationwith her father and mother, by her own reflections, and by herown observations in the little world in which she has lived. Sophyis naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her mothercured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden achange should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest andretiring while still a child, and now that she is a child no longer, she finds it easier to continue this conduct than it would havebeen to acquire it without knowing why. It is amusing to see heroccasionally return to her old ways and indulge in childish mirthand then suddenly check herself, with silent lips, downcast eyes, and rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well partake ofboth. 

Sophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentleto let this be really disagreeable to other people; it is onlyherself who suffers. If you say anything that hurts her she doesnot sulk, but her heart swells; she tries to run away and cry. Inthe midst of her tears, at a word from her father or mother shereturns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes andtrying to stifle her sobs. 

Yet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulgedit degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. Butgive her time to come round and her way of making you forget herwrong-doing is almost a virtue. If you punish her she is gentleand submissive, and you see that she is more ashamed of the faultthan the punishment. If you say nothing, she never fails to makeamends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that you cannotbe angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest servantand would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven, you can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is takenoff her heart. In a word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing ofothers, and she is eager to atone for her own. This amiability isnatural to her sex when unspoiled. Woman is made to submit to manand to endure even injustice at his hands. You will never bringyoung lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against injustice;nature has not fitted them to put up with it. 

 "Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii. " HORACE, lib. I. Ode vi. 

Sophy's religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines andfewer observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct butthe right her whole life is devoted to the service of God and todoing good. In all her parents' teaching of religion she has beentrained to a reverent submission; they have often said, "My littlegirl, this is too hard for you; your husband will teach you whenyou are grown up. " Instead of long sermons about piety, they havebeen content to preach by their example, and this example is engravedon her heart. 

Sophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion;she loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, sheloves it because it is a woman's glory and because a virtuous womanis little lower than the angels; she loves virtue as the only roadto real happiness, because she sees nothing but poverty, neglect, unhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of a bad woman; sheloves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to hertender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in theirown virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happinessin the hope of making them happy. All these feelings inspire anenthusiasm which stirs her heart and keeps all its budding passionsin subjection to this noble enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste andgood till her dying day; she has vowed it in her secret heart, andnot before she knew how hard it would be to keep her vow; she madethis vow at a time when she would have revoked it had she been theslave of her senses. 

Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman, cold-hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention thangive pleasure, who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffersfrom a consuming desire for love; it even disturbs and troublesher heart in the midst of festivities; she has lost her formerliveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from being afraid ofthe tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to himwho will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious, she wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather givepleasure to one good man than be a general favourite, or win thatapplause of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turnedto scorn. 

A woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on thedefensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure sohard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophyis precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment ismore formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothingstrange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age. 

Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex andof ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knowstheir corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has themby heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, butshe would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth; sheknows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy of him, that she can make him as happy as he will make her; she is sureshe will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is to find him. 

Women are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;this right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by menand women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but withthe modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her position;she confines her judgment to what she knows, and she only forms anopinion when it may help to illustrate some useful precept. Sheis extremely careful what she says about those who are absent, particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking about eachother makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only talkabout men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to womenshe never says anything at all about them, except to tell the goodshe knows; she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if sheknows no good of any woman, she says nothing, and that is enough. 

Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant andobliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy dispositiondoes more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of herown, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change withits changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises from afeminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the languageof empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate complimentsof her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged, that youdo her too much honour, that you should not take so much trouble, etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She respondsto an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy ora mere "Thank you;" but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough. If you do her a real service, she lets her heart speak, and itswords are no empty compliment. She has never allowed French mannersto make her a slave to appearances; when she goes from one roomto another she does not take the arm of an old gentleman, whom shewould much rather help. When a scented fop offers her this emptyattention, she leaves him on the staircase and rushes into theroom saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never wear highheels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispensewith them. 

Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towardswomen, but also towards married men, or those who are much olderthan herself; she will never take her place above them, unlesscompelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place assoon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take precedenceof those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth, and wisdomshould be held in the greatest honour. 

With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires adifferent manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adoptit without dropping the modest ways which become her. If theythemselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendlyfamiliarity of youth; their innocent conversation will be merry butsuitable; if they become serious they must say something useful;if they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for she has anutter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she considers aninsult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she seeks does notspeak that jargon, and she will never permit in another what wouldbe displeasing to her in him whose character is engraved on herheart. Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in thepurity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis ofher self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speechesintended for her amusement. She does not receive them with openanger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness. If a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of his wit inthe praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at the risk ofoffending him she is quite capable of saying politely, "Sir, I amafraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing more interestingto talk about, I think we may put an end to this conversation. " Tosay this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a considerabledistance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it iseasy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear. 

It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere, and if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that youappreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her proudspirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem, but empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant topractise the small arts of the dancing-girl. 

With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman oftwenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by herparents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthfuldisquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, theirconversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tenderconversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If herdisposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak to hersomewhat after this fashion?

"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. Wewant you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for ourhappiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happinessin the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;we must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars ourwhole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it. 

"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless itis a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you willbe the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining years;but however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon earth. There is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage withyou; there are many who would do you even greater honour thanthemselves. Among these we must try to find one who suits you, wemust get to know him and introduce you to him. 

"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so manypoints of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all. We must first consider the more important matters; if others areto be found along with them, so much the better; if not we must dowithout them. Perfect happiness is not to be found in this world, but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness, thatfor which ourselves are to blame. 

"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of establishedusage, and a suitability which is merely conventional. Parentsshould decide as to the two latters, and the children themselvesshould decide as to the former. Marriages arranged by parents onlydepend on a suitability of custom and convention; it is not twopeople who are united, but two positions and two properties; butthese things may change, the people remain, they are always there;and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes ahappy or an unhappy marriage. 

"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parentsconsidered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she losther position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her tobe a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of ourhearts has outweighed them all; the similarity of our tastes ledus to choose this retreat; we live happily in our poverty, we areall in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we hold in common, and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure and deprivedus of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been ledby Providence; the conventional motives which brought about ourmarriage no longer exist, our happiness consists in that naturalsuitability which was held of no account. 

"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking shouldbe the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance oftheir own eyes and hearts; when they are married their first dutywill be to love one another, and as love and hatred do not dependon ourselves, this duty brings another with it, and they must beginto love each other before marriage. That is the law of nature, andno power can abrogate it; those who have fettered it by so manylegal restrictions have given heed rather to the outward show oforder than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of the citizen. You see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It tendsto make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice ofyour husband to yourself. 

"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, itis only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of thatliberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, youhave the accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogetherwithout charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthyof esteem, but not those which are most esteemed. Do not seek whatis beyond your reach, and let your ambition be controlled, not byyour ideas or ours, but by the opinion of others. If it were merelya question of equal merits, I know not what limits to impose onyour hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun your fortune, andremember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you would notconsider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would notdo; Sophy must follow her mother's example and only enter a familywhich counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth, you were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and youshare it without hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek thosegood things we indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; wedid not know what happiness was till we lost our money. 

"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are notgo poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it maybe by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves intheir true colours, you would rate them at their real value; alltheir outward show would not long deceive you; but though yourjudgment is good and you know what merit is when you see it, youare inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal theirreal selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in order toseduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does notpossess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you weredoing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause tolament it. The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reasoncannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortuneto fall into its toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies andillusions; your eyes will be fascinated, your judgment troubled, your will corrupted, your very error will be dear to you, and evenif you were able to perceive it you would not be willing to escapefrom it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's own reason; I do nottrust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself solong as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourselfto your mother's care. 

"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, andrestores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husbandfor their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form;that is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you will choose, and we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy, use it freelyand wisely. The husband suitable for you should be chosen by younot us. But it is for us to judge whether he is really suitable, or whether, without knowing it, you are only following your ownwishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will countfor nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and charactersuit you; whatever he may be in other respects, we will accepthim as our son-in-law. He will be rich enough if he has bodilystrength, a good character, and family affection. His position willbe good enough if it is ennobled by virtue. If everybody blamesus, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation of men, but yourhappiness. "

I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upongirls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have nowords to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to expressherself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engravedupon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolutionmay be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve herparent's esteem. 

At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent dispositionwhich will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that herjudgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all, the sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood, willoutweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer aprolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether. She wouldrather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents by marryinga worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness of anill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental as anEnglishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the pride ofa Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily discoverone worthy of her. 

Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love ofwhat is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuinelove of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is afigment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded reasonwill never recognise the power over human passions which is wieldedby the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such men byexamples; if they persist in denying their existence, so much theworse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary person, that her name alone is my invention, that her education, her conduct, her character, her very features, really existed, and that her lossis still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt, refuse to believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relateword for word the story of a girl so like Sophy that this storymight be hers without surprising any one. Believe it or no, it isall the same to me; call my history fiction if you will; in anycase I have explained my method and furthered my purpose. 

This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed toSophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of thename, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversationrelated above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbandswould not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where theylived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town, under the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with theobject of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble prideat the thought of her self-control; and however much she mightwant to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have broughtherself to go in search of a husband. 

In response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to herfriends, took her into company, both private and public, showedher society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid littleheed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink fromyoung men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour. Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much likecoquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them. She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men'shomage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness. Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doingher the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determinednot to accept any one of them. 

Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, theempty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those whothink that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find whatshe sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tiredof the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up fortheir absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went homelong before the time fixed for the end of her visit. 

Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived thather temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she wasforgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At firstthey thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoketo her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested she had seen noone who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth. 

Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to giveway. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know thereason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winningspeech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ, she said, "My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bearever in my affection, confide your secret to your mother's bosom. What secrets are these which a mother may not know? Who pitiesyour sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them, if not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would you have me dieof grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?"

Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl askednothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but shecould not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describea condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed hersenses in spite of all her efforts. At length her very shame gaveher mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her thehumiliating confession. Far from distressing her with reproachesor unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; shewas too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made socruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessityto do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate? Why didshe not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not takea husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know thatshe was perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever herchoice, it would be approved, for it was sure to be good? They hadsent her to town, but she would not stay; many suitors had offeredthemselves, but she would have none of them. What did she expect?What did she want? What an inexplicable contradiction?

The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner ofher youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life isnot so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, peoplemust often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find the manwith whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's case; shewanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband; and to discovera heart such as she required, a lover and husband were equallydifficult to find. All these dashing young men were only her equalsin age, in everything else they were found lacking; their emptywit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulatedconduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She soughta man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was noneto be found. 

"How unhappy I am!" said she to her mother; "I am compelled to loveand yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects everyone who appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passionsand all alike revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannotlast. That is not the sort of man for your Sophy; the delightfulimage of her ideal is too deeply graven in her heart. She can loveno other; she can make no one happy but him, and she cannot behappy without him. She would rather consume herself in ceaselessconflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than drivendesperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man shewould make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than liveto suffer. "

Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiarthat she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neitheraffected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist inone who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to adaptherself to those with whom she must live, and to make a virtueof necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which she wasso enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation, made hermother suspect that there was some foundation for her capriceswhich was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told herall. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was onlytoo eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak;she hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room without a word, she presently returned with a book in her hand. "Have pity on yourunhappy daughter, there is no remedy for her grief, her tears cannotbe dried. You would know the cause: well, here it is, " said she, flinging the book on the table. Her mother took the book and openedit; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she could makenothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies, shediscovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rivalof Eucharis. 

Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passionwhich nothing could cure. When her father and mother became awareof her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her byreasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogetheron their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it. Many a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their ownarguments against them, by showing them that it was all their ownfault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;that she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinkingor he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossibleby the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was justwhat she wanted. "Give me, " said she, "a man who holds the sameopinions as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me, and I will marry him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me;I am miserable, but not mad. Is the heart controlled by the will?Did my father not ask that very question? Is it my fault if I lovewhat has no existence? I am no visionary; I desire no prince, Iseek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary person; I seeksome one like him. And why should there be no such person, sincethere is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his?No, let us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think thatan amiable and virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. Heexists, he lives, perhaps he is seeking me; he is seeking a soulwhich is capable of love for him. But who is he, where is he? Iknow not; he is not among those I have seen; and no doubt I shallnever see him. Oh! mother, why did you make virtue too attractive?If I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I. "

Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe thelong struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient motherexchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angryfather forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuousof daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, morethan ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecutionbrought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by stepto her death, and descending into the grave when they were aboutto force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomyscenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I considera sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudicesarising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the goodand the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and thatthere is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be obtainedfrom them as well as from us. 

You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches usto take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply, but neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate desires. Now, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature, as I haveproved again and again. 

Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to lifeand provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate. I desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with agreat soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let usretrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and an ordinaryheart; her education is responsible for everything in which sheexcels other women. 

In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and toleave every one free to choose what he could out of all the goodthings I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from thevery first, and to educate them for each other and with each other. But on consideration I thought all these premature arrangementsundesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage of two childrenbefore I could tell whether this union was in accordance withnature and whether they were really suited to each other. We mustnot confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what issuitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit anyman, for both are still in their primitive and undifferentiatedcondition; in the latter, all their characteristics have beendeveloped by social institutions, and each mind, having taken itsown settled form, not from education alone, but by the co-operation, more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and education, we can only make a match by introducing them to each other to seeif they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let themmake that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability. 

The difficulty is this: while social life develops characterit differentiates classes, and these two classifications do notcorrespond, so that the greater the social distinctions, the greaterthe difficulty of finding the corresponding character. Hence wehave ill-assorted marriages and all their accompanying evils; andwe find that it follows logically that the further we get fromequality, the greater the change in our natural feelings; the widerthe distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;the deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands andfathers. Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only toa class. 

If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages, you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, andconsult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike inone given condition, those who will not suit one another if thatcondition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another inevery situation, in every country, and in every rank in which theymay be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations areof no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence ofnatural relations is so much more important, that our fate in lifeis decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement oftaste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wisefather, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment'shesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she born in a badhome, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain indeed thatevery possible misfortune may overtake husband and wife if they arethus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness while theymingle their tears, than if they possessed all the riches of theworld, poisoned by divided hearts. 

Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waitedtill I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, butfor nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. Mybusiness, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted hisson to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his rights;it is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have made a manof him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not free tomarry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing butthe pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for thecost of making him capable of happiness. 

Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife forEmile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretextfor acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive the valueof a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may evenhave seen her already, but he will not recognise her till the timeis come. 

Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet thisequality along with other kinds of suitability increases theirvalue; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, otherthings being equal, it turns the scale. 

A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and everyclass; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them inothers; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet shewould be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restricthis inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish tomarry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not withinhis power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for whatdifference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils whichhe will feel all his life long. I even say that he should not tryto adjust the balance between different gifts, such as rank andmoney; for each of these adds less to the value of the other thanthe amount deducted from its own value in the process of adjustment;moreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator; andfinally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings, paves the way for discord between the two families and often todifficulties between husband and wife. 

It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability ofa marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The formercase is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformitywith reason. As the family is only connected with society throughits head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of thefamily as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man doesnot lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand, hemarries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raisehimself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil, in the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of naturebids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class, natural and civil law are in accordance and all goes well. When hemarries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite case; theman must choose between diminished rights or imperfect gratitude;he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying claim toauthority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and themaster, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserableof creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereignsof Asia honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us thatif they desire to sleep with their wife they must enter by the footof the bed. 

I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think womenhave a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradictingmyself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference betweenclaiming the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman'sreign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commandsare caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign in the homeas a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to be ordered todo what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that the best managedhomes are those where the wife has most power. But when she despisesthe voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his rights andtake the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper orderof things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour. 

There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; andI think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard tothe latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of societya woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that the lowerclasses are more vicious than the higher, but because they have solittle idea of what is good and beautiful, and because the injusticeof other classes makes its very vices seem right in the eyes ofthis class. 

By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquiresthe other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexesalike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those whothink and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirelyone of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with awoman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of sociallife if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People whospend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas beyondtheir work and their own interests, and their mind seems to residein their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable eitherto their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we oftencontent ourselves with thinking about our duties, and in the endwe substitute words for things. Conscience is the most enlightenedphilosopher; to be an honest man we need not read Cicero's DeOfficiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world is probably shewho knows least about virtue. But it is none the less true thata cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is asad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, tobe forced to shut himself up in himself and to be unable to makehimself understood. 

Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can shebring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? Howcan she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to meritof which she has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten, she can only make them insolent or timid; she will make themperforming monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will never makethem intelligent or pleasing children. 

Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choosea wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot beexpected to have any education. But I would a thousand times ratherhave a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady and awit who would make a literary circle of my house and install herselfas its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband, herchildren, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the loftyheight of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and she isalways trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of Mlle. De L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculousand she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are whenwe try to escape from our own position into one for which we areunfitted. These highly talented women only get a hold over fools. We can always tell what artist or friend holds the pen or pencilwhen they are at work; we know what discreet man of letters dictatestheir oracles in private. This trickery is unworthy of a decentwoman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness would degradethem. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect ofher husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to myreaders to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman's roomwhat makes you think more highly of her, what makes you addressher with more respect--to see her busy with feminine occupations, with her household duties, with her children's clothes about her, or to find her writing verses at her toilet table surrounded withpamphlets of every kind and with notes on tinted paper? If therewere none but wise men upon earth such a woman would die an oldmaid. 

 "Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es. " Martial xi. 20. 

Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikesus and they ought to be the last, still they should not count fornothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned thansought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciationof beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but itsdangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful womanis an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even ifshe were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowdand she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsiveI should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long thehusband would cease to notice either, but beauty would still haveits disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But ugliness whichis actually repulsive is the worst misfortune; repulsion increasesrather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred. Such a union is ahell upon earth; better death than such a marriage. 

Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractivecountenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, iswhat we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantagesare common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable thanbeauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself, andafter thirty years of married life, the charms of a good womandelight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day. 

Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy. Brought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him thanany other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in birth andcharacter, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great impressionat first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms. Her chiefinfluence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered infriendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than anyone. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has tastewithout deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning. Her mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilledsoil ready for the sower. She has read no book but Bareme andTelemachus which happened to fall into her hands; but no girl whocan feel so passionately towards Telemachus can have a heart withoutfeeling or a mind without discernment. What charming ignorance!Happy is he who is destined to be her tutor. She will not be herhusband's teacher but his scholar; far from seeking to control histastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better thana blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching hereverything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plana meeting. 

When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. ThisBabel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards thegreat city, saying angrily, "What a time we have wasted; the brideof my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but you thinknothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings. " Withsteady look and firm voice I reply, "Emile, do you mean what yousay?" At once he flings his arms round my neck and clasps me tohis breast without speaking. That is his answer when he knows heis in the wrong. 

And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escapingfrom them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country likeknights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste for ithas become established; and I do not suppose any of my readers aresuch slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise withclosed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing, making the time between our start and our arrival a mere blank, and losing in the speed of our journey, the time we meant to save. 

Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shortenit. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament theswiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes onlytoo slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit, they beholdunwillingly the space between them and it; one desires to-morrow, another looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond that. Noone wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with the presenthour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they complain thattime flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to hastenit; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their wholelife; and there is probably not a single one who would not havereduced his life to a few hours if he had been free to get rid ofthose hours he found tedious, and those which separated him fromthe desired moment. A man spends his whole life rushing from Paristo Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from town to country, fromcountry to town, from one district of the town to another; but hewould not know what to do with his time if he had not discoveredthis way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to findsomething to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving thetime he spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe herushes for the sake of rushing, and travels post in order to returnin the same fashion. When will mankind cease to slander nature? Whydo you complain that life is short when it is never short enoughfor you? If there were but one of you, able to moderate his desires, so that he did not desire the flight of time, he would never findlife too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one andthe same; should he die young, he would still die full of days. 

If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it wouldbe enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait, but to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, theirardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will notonly enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approachingthe object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraintthat he lives to a great extent in the present. 

So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do notmerely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between. The journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismallyimprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travelwith the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselvesof the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor theopportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will neverenter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry. But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. ShallI add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that isitself one of the joys of life. 

I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travellingon horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your owntime, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little as youchoose. You see the country, you turn off to the right or left;you examine anything which interests you, you stop to admire everyview. Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a leafy wood, Iseek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study its geology. If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I goon. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stickto regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man cango; I see all that a man can see; and as I am quite independent ofeverybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can enjoy. If I am stoppedby bad weather and I find myself getting bored, then I take horses. If I am tired--but Emile is hardly ever tired; he is strong; whyshould he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops, why should hebe bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a trade; heuses his arms to rest his feet. 

To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato, and Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher canbring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear himselffrom the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes and beneathhis feet. Is there any one with an interest in agriculture, whodoes not want to know the special products of the district throughwhich he is passing, and their method of cultivation? Is thereany one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece ofground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a pieceof it, hills without looking for plants, and stones without seekingfor fossils?

Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; theyhave small specimens; they know their names but nothing of theirnature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is thewhole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist whois its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest order;Dauberton could do no better. 

What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling, not to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I noticethat those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrappedin thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those who go onfoot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted with everything. How cheerful we are when we get near our lodging for the night!How savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at table enjoyingour rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If you only want toget to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to travelyou must go on foot. 

If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in theway I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; forwith an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to besupposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. Itis knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough towant to know more. 

One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If Ichose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is notdifficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris we mustseek a wife at a distance. 

A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills andvalleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely. No matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey'send, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily wecame across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed hispoor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry andtired we were he said, "If the Lord had led you to the other sideof the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would havefound a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They couldnot wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer, thoughfolks say they used to be much better off. Still they are notreduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better forwhat they have. "

When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. "Myfriend, " said he, looking at me, "let us visit this house, whoseowners are a blessing to the district; I shall be very glad tosee them; perhaps they will be pleased to see us too; I am sure weshall be welcome; we shall just suit each other. "

Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off, but lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm, which delayed us further. At last we found the right path and inthe evening we reached the house, which had been described to us. It was the only house among the cottages of the little hamlet, andthough plain it had an air of dignity. We went up to the door andasked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner of the house, whoquestioned us courteously; without telling him the object of ourjourney, we told him why we had left our path. His former wealthenabled him to judge a man's position by his manners; those whohave lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport wewere admitted. 

The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everythingwe needed. "Why, " said Emile, in astonishment, "one would thinkthey were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind andattentive, how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think Iam living in the times of Homer. " "I am glad you feel this, " saidI, "but you need not be surprised; where strangers are scarce, theyare welcome; nothing makes people more hospitable than the factthat calls upon their hospitality are rare; when guests are frequentthere is an end to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarelytravelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely weare the only people who have passed this way this year. " "Nevermind, " said he, "to know how to do without guests and yet to givethem a kind welcome, is its own praise. "

Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined themaster of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she receivedus not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance restedon Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young maninto her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least. 

Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into thedining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and thefifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, madea deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word. Emilewas busy with his supper or considering how to reply to what wassaid to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and eating. The main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts as hebelieved himself to be from the end of his journey. The conversationturned upon our losing our way. "Sir, " said the master of the houseto Emile, "you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved young gentleman, and that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet and wearylike Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso. " "Indeed, "said Emile, "we have found the hospitality of Calypso. " His Mentoradded, "And the charms of Eucharis. " But Emile knew the Odyssey andhe had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As forthe young girl, I saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed hereyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe. Her mother, noticingher confusion, made a sign to her father to turn the conversation. When he talked of his lonely life, he unconsciously began to relatethe circumstances which brought him into it; his misfortunes, hiswife's fidelity, the consolations they found in their marriage, their quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this withouta word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story, which cannot fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic, leaves off eating and listens. When finally this best of mendiscourses with delight of the affection of the best of women, theyoung traveller, carried away by his feelings, stretches one handto the husband, and taking the wife's hand with the other, he kissesit rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is charmedwith the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, moredeeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart, is reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. Shelooks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there isnothing in it to give the lie to her comparison. 

His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners arelively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and hisexpression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is readyto mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse for tears, she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already forthe tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong toweep for one's family. 

Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down tosupper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on someerrand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered thather distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently, "Sophy, control yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunesof your parents? Why should you, who are their chief comfort, bemore sensitive than they are themselves?"

At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. Hisattention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at onceand looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you theSophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks ather; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust. The faceis not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes itmore or less. He studies every feature, he watches every movement, every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for themall; he would give half his life if she would but speak. He looksat me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions andreproaches. His every glance seems to say, "Guide me while thereis yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shallnever get over it. "

There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings thanEmile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatestdisturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of fourspectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heedhim least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness doesnot escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that sheis its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; whatmatter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will bevery unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity. 

Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too. Sophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads thehearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come tosecure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughterspeak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timidtone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound ofher voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be nodoubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to denyit. 

The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents throughhis heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with whichhe is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; hesees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he openshis mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he sees hersigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to speak inhis. What a change have these few moments wrought in her heart! Itis no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's. Farewell liberty, simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he dare notlook about him for fear he should see that we are watching him. Ashamed that we should read his secret, he would fain becomeinvisible to every one, that he might feed in secret on the sightof Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains her confidence at thesight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph and rejoices in it. 

 "No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida. " Tasso, Jerus. Del. , c. Iv. V. 33. 

Her expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest lookand downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and ittells her that she has found Telemachus. 

If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affectionsyou will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficientattention is not given to the effect which the first connectionbetween man and woman is bound to produce on the future life ofboth. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as thatof love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produceslasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works oneducation are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of theimaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the mostimportant and most difficult part of their education, the crisiswhich forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any partof this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at greatlength on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected byother authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouragedeither by false delicacy or by the difficulties of expression. Thestory of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it isnot found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind. If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who depravemankind. 

This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with ayouth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, andall those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;we have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the firsttime, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion ofany kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he willever know, and upon it depends the final formation of his character. His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined bya lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will beincapable of further change. 

You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the wholeof the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Doyou mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected bya mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world?Are they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meetshis Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of whom he knowsso little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a couple of words?Wait, young man; examine, observe. You do not even know who ourhosts may be, and to hear you talk one would think the house wasyour own. 

This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scantattention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interestin Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. Theunexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far as heknows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only serve asfuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's excellence, that he feels sure he can make me fond of her. 

Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart ashis old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amusedto see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. Iknow his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he is trying toestablish a means of intercourse, through the return and exchangeof the linen; so that he may have a right to return it and so payanother visit to the house. 

I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but Iwas mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those whomerely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicatematter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, ifpossible, more simply than last night, though as usual her frock isexquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness. She knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she doesnot know that a careless toilet is another of its signs; it showsa desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but for oneself. What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinkingof him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she isnot content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; hemust not only perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he notseen enough to guess the rest?

We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking lastnight, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was madeand instructions given. The morning's meeting is not unprepared. Twelve hours ago our young people had never met; they have neversaid a word to each other; but it is clear that there is alreadyan understanding between them. Their greeting is formal, confused, timid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to avoid eachother, but that is in itself a sign that they understand, theyavoid each other with one consent; they already feel the need ofconcealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart weask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person, Emile's words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyesseek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophysays nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but sheblushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer than that of herparents. 

We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited tostay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers, but a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress. 

We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking oftaking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems toofar; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. "You young fool!" Isaid in a tone of pity, "are you already blinded by passion? Haveyou no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched youth, you callyourself a lover and you would bring disgrace upon her you love!What would people say of her if they knew that a young man who hasbeen staying at her house was sleeping close by? You say you loveher! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the price you offerfor her parents' hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on her whowill one day make you the happiest of men?" "Why should we troubleourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of otherpeople?" said he eagerly. "Have you not taught me yourself to makelight of them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy, what respect I desire to show her? My attachment will not causeher shame, it will be her glory, it shall be worthy of her. If myheart and my actions continually give her the homage she deserves, what harm can I do her?" "Dear Emile, " I said, as I clasped him tomy heart, "you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think forher too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of theother, they rest on different foundations. These foundations areequally firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, andthat same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself, binds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honouris in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglectit is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due toyourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves. "

Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make himrealise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who cansay if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how shefeels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may alreadyhave formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhapsthere are none of those grounds of suitability which make ahappy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandalwith regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not evenmarriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What manof feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour woulddesire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortuneof having found favour in his eyes?

Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequenceswhich I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks thathe cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps toget further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one islistening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand timesto the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never see heragain than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is the firstresult of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to makehim capable of affection. 

We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far. We look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a townat least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town, rather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might giverise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his abode, full of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling. In thisway, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable andgood, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same bent. 

My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chiefdifficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; thehardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work byundue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life, letus shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the presentto the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will neverbe. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our carehe should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if thereis a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence, when the powers of mind and body have reached their greateststrength, and when man in the midst of his course is furthest fromthose two extremes which tell him "Life is short. " If the imprudenceof youth deceives itself it is not in its desire for enjoyment, butbecause it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be found, and laysup misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present. 

Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well developedin mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, fullof sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals andgood taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free fromthe sway of fierce passions, released from the tyranny of popularprejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom, and easily guidedby the voice of a friend; gifted with so many useful and pleasantaccomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to earn a livingwith his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may come. Beholdhim in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens tothe first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a wholeworld of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whosecharacter is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, heexpects the reward which he deserves. 

Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in communityof honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. Itabandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightfulmadness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbingthought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. Whatlacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking, that can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which canexist in combination is already present; nothing could be addedwithout taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man canbe. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period? ShallI disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life'sreward. What could I give that could outweigh what I should takeaway? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should destroyits greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold greater inanticipation than in possession; its savour is greater while we waitfor it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and be loved!prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love andin your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you awaityour heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I willdraw out its enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible. Alas! it must come to an end and that soon; but it shall at leastlinger in your memory, and you will never repent of its joys. 

Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soonas the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace, for on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heartopens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flightof time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend his lifelike this. 

Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. Welose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing histemper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention todiscovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he knowswhere he is and always with the same self-control. You think nothingof that; but I think it a matter of great importance, for I knowhow eager he is; I see the results of the care I have taken fromhis infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity. 

We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendlythan on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances. Emile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in ourpresence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk inthe garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds, the park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit trees of everykind, divided by pretty streams and borders full of flowers. "Whata lovely place!" exclaims Emile, still thinking of his Homer, and still full of enthusiasm, "I could fancy myself in the gardenof Alcinous. " The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was;her mother asks. "Alcinous, " I tell them, "was a king of Coreyra. Homer describes his garden and the critics think it too simple andunadorned. [Footnote: "'When you leave the palace you enter a vastgarden, four acres in extent, walled in on every side, plantedwith tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, andother goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and greenolives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;summer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the treesand ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, thefig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. Theinexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some arespread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made intowine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginningto wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square gardenfilled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardensare adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters thegarden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken to alofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its citizens. 'Such is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7thbook of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting disgraceof that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day, there wereneither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens. "] ThisAlcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before herfather received a stranger at his board that she would soon havea husband. " Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, andbit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father, who wasenjoying her confusion, added that the young princess bent herselfto wash the linen in the river. "Do you think, " said he, "she wouldhave scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying, that they smelt ofgrease?" Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural timidityand defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all thesmaller things would have had no other laundress if she had beenallowed to wash them, and she would gladly have done more had shebeen set to do it. [Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy'smother for not letting her spoil such pretty hands with soap, handswhich Emile will kiss so often. ] Meanwhile she watched me secretlywith such anxiety that I could not suppress a smile, while I readthe terrors of her simple heart which urged her to speak. Herfather was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by askingher, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she incommon with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed shedared hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no timefor feigning, you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself. 

To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily forSophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk, the young people at first keeping close beside us; but they findit hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently theyare a little in front of us, they are walking side by side, theybegin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead. Sophyseems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulatingvigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. Whenwe turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and theyreturn slowly enough now, and we can see they are making gooduse of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before theycome within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets us witha frank affectionate expression; his eyes are sparkling with joy;yet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how she takes it. Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us sheseems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete witha young man, though she has met so many other young men franklyenough, and without being found fault with for it. She runs up toher mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes some trivial remark, as if to pretend she had been with her for some time. 

From the happy expression of these dear children we see thatthis conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are noless reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is lessembarrassing, it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy'smodesty, to the goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few wordsto her, she ventures to reply, but she always looks at her motherbefore she dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in herattitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watchesme with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I amhonoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine. I understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you mightsay they have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet itis not so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emilewill have more need of my influence with her than of hers withme. What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love ofmy young friend has brought my name so prominently into his firstconversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all mytrouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense. 

Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between theyoung people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happinessis within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formalavowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing. Emile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;he feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide whomtheir daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaitingher parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them, andshe makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his behalfand in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear that Sophyis her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her alone. Hebegins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident, he takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress ashe expected, and then it is that his love appeals to her in thetenderest and most moving language. 

Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no onetold him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophyis too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others wouldcall advantages. She has not forgotten her parents' teaching. Sheis poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must win her esteem;his deserts must be great indeed to remove this inequality. Buthow should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile aware that he isrich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank heaven, he hasno need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The good hedoes comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretchedhis time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckonsup what he has done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent onthe poor. 

As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it ishis own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one ofcaprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointedlove. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidenceof his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longerhopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes heloses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guesshis angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough todisarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be. 

Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, hepours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs ofa heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. "Howmysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes an interestin me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is pleased to seeme; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when I go she showsregret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services seem togive her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice and evenher commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. WhenI venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I saya word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me tobe hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you, and shewill not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her, make heranswer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping stone to allyou have done for him; do not let him fall a victim to your care!If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching will havebeen the cause of his misery. "

I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confideher secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is notso easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives meleave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over hissurprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;he cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his characteror his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people'sprejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that hewants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce hismoney, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and toreturn worthy to be her husband. 

"Why, " said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at hisimpetuosity, "will this young head never grow any older? Havingdabbled all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason?Do not you see that your wild scheme would only make things worse, and Sophy more obstinate? It is a small superiority to be ratherricher than she, but to give up all for her would be a verygreat superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be under the smallobligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If shecannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the factthat he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her forhaving brought him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspectsyou of such a plan! On the contrary, be careful and economicalfor her sake, lest she should accuse you of trying to gain her bycunning, by sacrificing of your own free will what you are reallywasting through carelessness. 

"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she isopposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; thereare more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion, in theeffect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that thosewho are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them first. The rich always put wealth before merit. When services are reckonedagainst silver, the latter always outweighs the former, and thosewho have spent their life in their master's service are consideredhis debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile, to calm her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not donein a day. Show her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalancethe wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time and constancy willovercome her resistance; let your great and noble feelings make herforget your wealth. Love her, serve her, serve her worthy parents. Convince her that these attentions are not the result of a foolishfleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon yourheart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to thebuffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with thatworth which basks in her smiles. "

The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these wordsmay easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his goodheart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he wouldhave done if there had been no such person, or if he had not beenin love with her. However little his character has been understood, anybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances. 

Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediatorof their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine thatnever in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor feltso pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without itscharms. I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business to seethat the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of offendingme, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms me witha kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only take myproper share. This is her way of making up for her severity towardsEmile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses, though she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowingthat I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I shouldget on so well with her. If she refuses his arm when we are outwalking, he consoles himself with the thought that she has takenmine. He makes way for me without a murmur, be clasps my hand, andvoice and look alike whisper, "My friend, plead for me!" and hiseyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our feelings in ourfaces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he knowsthat everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frankand easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheardby Telemachus. How freely and delightfully you permit him to readwhat is passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you areto show him how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealinglyyou allow him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With whata pretence of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leadshim to interrupt you? With what pretty vexation you reproach hisindiscretion when he comes and prevents you saying something tohis credit, or listening to what I say about him, or finding in mywords some new excuse to love him!

Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover, Emile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, heimplores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference, provided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, thoughwith some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed, todecide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to acceptinstead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of hisvisits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyondsuch an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if itwas hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them sosternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them toher. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question, and often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glancesat me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, "You see she has takenpossession of me. " Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with all her pride, is observing him closely, and she is smiling to herself at thepride of her slave. 

Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint theirbliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasuresof love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink backbefore the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness ofheart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these younglovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon themselvesto their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of passion theyare advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers andgarlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them tilldeath do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures, I am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort of order orscheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint the charmingpicture for himself and realise the different experiences of father, mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played by eachand all in the union of the most delightful couple whom love andvirtue have ever led to happiness. 

Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel thevalue of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond ofsinging, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music. She is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he danceswith her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into thesteps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest mirth, are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love; a lovermay enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be her teacher. 

There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunesit; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as acarpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything hecan for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he makesseveral sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her share, andshe hangs them in her father's study. The frames are not gilded, nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing, she drawstoo, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all her talents, and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and motherrecall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves surroundedby the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the wholehouse is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them, without cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gatheredtogether in former days by dint of toil and money. 

As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the objectof his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection inhis mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment. Shedoes not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasureof giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her, a freshpleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty seemsto find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty. It is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophyeverything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learnit or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts ofthings and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinkshe has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward toarguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he cannotdisplay before her is so much useless learning; he is quite ashamedof knowing more than she. 

So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history, and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasmand to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can getleave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinksthe heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil thanto teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy to knowwhere to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow our own, andif they meet so much the worse for the lesson. 

Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they shouldonly skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understandsreadily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moralsciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains somevague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes inthe course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of naturebids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts tonature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pourout their hearts before him. 

What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking ofreligion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!What profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes, no doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful landof romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love oneanother, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth having. Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to them. Theirstruggles after self-control draw from them tears purer than thedew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no humanheart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their veryrenunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increasetheir self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls, some daythey will know your pleasures, and all their life long they willrecall with regret the happy days when they refused the cup ofpleasure. 

In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrelsoccur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hottemper; but these passing showers are soon over and only serve tostrengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not to attach toomuch importance to them, he always gains more by the reconciliationthan he lost by the quarrel. The results of the first differencemade him expect a like result from all; he was mistaken, but evenif he does not make any appreciable step forward, he has always thesatisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine concern for his affectionmore firmly established. "What advantage is this to him?" youwould ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because itwill give me an opportunity to establish clearly a very importantprinciple, and to combat a very deadly one. 

Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easilyunderstand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allowany kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everythingelse, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity than forindulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid lest herlofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit. When mostalone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must noteven seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take hisarm when they are out walking, a favour which she will never permithim to claim as a right, it is only occasionally that he dare venturewith a sigh to press her hand to his heart. However, after a longperiod of self-restraint, he ventured secretly to kiss the hem ofher dress, and several times he was lucky enough to find her willingat least to pretend she was not aware of it. One day he attemptsto take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes itinto her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angryand speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this withoutreply; the rest of the day is given over to sulks, and they partin a very ill temper. 

Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things, how can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding, and the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business. She is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permissionand her father's commands to make reparation. 

The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in astate of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room andher father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily. Scarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns round andholding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone how he is. That pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed; he takes it butdoes not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself, withdraws herhand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman's whims, and does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forgetso easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's father, seeingher confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poorgirl, confused and ashamed, does not know what to do with herselfand would gladly have a good cry. The more she tries to controlherself the worse she feels; at last a tear escapes in spite of allshe can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear, rushes towardsher, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it againand again with the greatest devotion. "My word, you are too kindto her, " says her father, laughing; "if I were you, I should dealmore severely with these follies, I should punish the mouth thatwronged me. " Emboldened by these words, Emile turns a supplianteye towards her mother, and thinking she is not unwilling, hetremblingly approaches Sophy's face; she turns away her head, andto save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring youngman is not content with this; there is no great resistance. Whata kiss, if it were not taken under her mother's eyes. Have a care, Sophy, in your severity; he will be ready enough to try to kissyour dress if only you will sometimes say "No. "

After this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about hisbusiness, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out ofthe room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. "Sir, " she says, "I think a young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a manof feeling and character, would never reward with dishonour theconfidence reposed in him by the friendship of this family. I amneither prudish nor over strict; I know how to make excuses foryouthful folly, and what I have permitted in my own presence issufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your own duty, he will tell you there is all the difference in the world betweenthe playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother, and the same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal oftheir confidence, a freedom which makes a snare of the very favourswhich in the parents' presence were wholly innocent. He will tellyou, sir, that my daughter is only to blame for not having perceivedfrom the first what she ought never to have permitted; he will tellyou that every favour, taken as such, is a favour, and that it isunworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a young girl'sinnocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she maypermit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us whatis permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permitto himself in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of hisconduct. "

After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than tomy pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rareprudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kissher daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he shouldventure to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I considerthe folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continuallysacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomesmore refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquetteis stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral. 

While I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to theseduties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new ideaoccurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit, though I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-calledpride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a verywise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that, unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads theleast spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternnessis due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control overEmile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns the oneagainst the other. If she had more confidence in herself she wouldbe much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere on eartha gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an affront withgreater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying others? Isthere any with less pretension, except in the matter of virtue?Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in orderto preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of herheart without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wisemother does not confide all this even to her father; men shouldnot hear everything. 

Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendlyand less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one personwho has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells withthe feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victorygained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained, her speech more timid, since she has begun to blush at the word"lover"; but contentment may be seen beneath her outward confusionand this very shame is not painful. This change is most noticeablein her behaviour towards the young men she meets. Now that shehas ceased to be afraid of them, much of her extreme reserve hasdisappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not hesitateto be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; takingno more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and shealways finds them pleasant enough for people who are of no importanceto her. 

If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw tracesof it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in herlover's presence. One would say that not content with the ardentpassion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she isnot sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would saythat when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means totorment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow herselfwith him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise toreally torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence andcontrol the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassurehim just as he needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy shenever really gives him pain. The anxiety she causes to her belovedmay be forgiven because of her fear that he is not sufficientlyher own. 

But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?Will he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for suchdigressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they do notlead me far from my main subject. 

I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in mattersof convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it isanother matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that itis hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example of thevery beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove thispoint beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught cooks totear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?

No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturbor interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to acertain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that whichministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when this desirehas become a passion, when it is transformed into madness, or intoa bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy, that is quiteanother matter; such a passion may be natural or it may not; wemust distinguish between these different cases. 

I have already analysed the example of the animal world in myDiscourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I mayrefer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I willonly add this further point to those already made in that work, thatthe jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly on sexualpower, and that when sexual power is or appears to be boundless, thatjealousy is at its height; for then the male, measuring his rightsby his needs, can never see another male except as an unwelcomerival. In such species the females always submit to the firstcomer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and theyare the cause of unending strife. 

Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give riseto some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female whobelongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herselfusually denies herself to all others; and the male, having thispreference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasyat the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them. Among these species the male shares the care of the little ones; andby one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the femalerewards the father for his love for his children. 

Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it iseasy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderationof his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;this is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes, at anyrate in our part of the world; an equality which does not exist inanything like the same degree among those species in which severalfemales are collected around one male. Though a man does not broodlike a pigeon, and though he has no milk to suckle the young, andmust in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds, his childrenare feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and childrencould ill dispense with the father's affection, and the care whichresults from it. 

All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury ofthe males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man;and the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamyis the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is theplurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautionsof the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makesthe man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature. 

Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded inthis respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and evenmore detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions ofsociety rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregularconnections the hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds hislove for his mistress; if he fears a rival in her affections itis the effect of that self-love whose origin I have already tracedout, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection. Moreover, our clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful, [Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the oppositeof that deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature;the latter consists in concealing her real feelings, the formerin feigning what she does not feel. Every society lady spends herlife in boasting of her supposed sensibility, when in reality shecares for no one but herself. ] and have so over-stimulated theirappetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly provedaffection; they can no longer display a preference which securesyou against the fear of a rival. 

True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work alreadyreferred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think, and that there is a great difference between the gentle habit whichbinds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the unbridledpassion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of an objectwhich he no longer sees in its true light. This passion which isfull of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity inthis respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so thatit is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands, is in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the moreexacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion which gaverise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious, esteemis trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart withoutesteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which hehimself holds in honour. 

When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidencethe kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;as there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the humanheart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile, full of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious, but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than vexed;he will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening hisrival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possiblefrom his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hateshim, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy'saffection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger oflosing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as totake offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that the lawof preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends uponsuccess; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable, and he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she hasgiven alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atonefor it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to theproof are speedily dismissed. 

But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned, who braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasksand his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice orpassion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only, unheeding all thatwas not hers? Living in softness and idleness he now lets himselfbe ruled by women; their amusements are the business of his life, their wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter of hisfate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is theplaything of a child. 

So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives, but the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, attwenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set uponpleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when willhe seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to followher against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end isattained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to thishuman weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsyfingers were none the less great men. 

If you would prolong the influence of a good education throughlife itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carriedforward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought tobe you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is thecoping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first importancethat the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise there islittle doubt they will learn to make love without him. The greatmistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think that one wayof living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the childis grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he waslittle. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood, since the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhooditself; if another way of life were necessarily accompanied byother ways of thinking?

The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and thestream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinationsmay change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, isrendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a goodcolour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that thetransitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are spreadover the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks. Soshould it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are alwayschanging their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; theonly constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settledcharacter always returns to his former habits and preserves to oldage the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood. 

If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of lifeto another do not despise what has gone before, that when they formnew habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always loveto do what is right, in things new and old; then only are the fruitsof your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars as long asthey live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is that of the ageover which you are now watching. As men always look back to thisperiod with regret so the tastes carried forward into it fromchildhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted theyare never resumed. 

Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children andyoung people are not really habits at all; they have only beenacquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly theywill be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you remainin prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion isincreased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile; asa child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure, and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit willonly lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodilylabour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him thathe could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all atonce to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chainsand imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom andconstraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper. He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air, movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help castinga glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company. Yet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;he seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he isa captive. "Yes, " you will say, "these are necessities to whichyou have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon him. " Youspeak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of manhood. 

Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was firstattracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest. When he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?And what price did she put upon herself? She required all herlover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality, simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches. These virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is hereally changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that isthe only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that allthe circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance. There were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that hischoice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the workof chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to each other?Is it chance that they cannot live in the same place, that he iscompelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it chance that hecan see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of seeing herat the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate. Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to standthe fatigue he endures on Sophy's account. 

He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temperthe shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or ifhe could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would loveat his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved deathfor the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them? Need Isay more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will be ableto follow out my principles in detail. 

The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so asto get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan untilour fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a leaguefrom the house we see people on the road. Emile watches them, hispulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismountsquickly; he hastens to join the charming family. Emile is fond ofgood horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he is free, and gallopsoff across the fields; I follow and with some difficulty I succeedin catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily Sophy is afraidof horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen whathappened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his frienda great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself, takes the horses, and follows after the party. It is only fairthat each should take his turn and he rides on to get rid of ourmounts. He has to leave Sophy behind him, and he no longer thinksriding a convenient mode of travelling. He returns out of breathand meets us half-way. 

The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. "Why, " say I, "we needonly take a servant to look after them. " "Shall we put our worthyfriends to such expense?" he replies. "You see they would insiston feeding man and horse. " "That is true, " I reply; "theirs is thegenerous hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardlypride only welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for theirfriends' horses. " "Let us go on foot, " says he; "won't you ventureon the walk, when you are always so ready to share the toilsomepleasures of your child?" "I will gladly go with you, " I reply atonce, "and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show. "

As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further fromhome than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emileis very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchiefover his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ridethere after this. 

But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together. Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whateverwe say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unlesswe make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon aswe get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account, and it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper for us tostay in the house, beds might be found for us in the village, ifwe liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his hands at thisidea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses her motherrather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her. 

Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarityof innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompanymy young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, butsometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshineof confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and whathave I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere withhis interests. However, whether we go together or separately youwill understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are onlytoo proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. UnluckilySophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in badweather. This is the only occasion on which she rebels againstthe rules which I laid down for her in private. 

One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till thefollowing day, but he returned the same evening. "My dear Emile, "said I, "have you come back to your old friend already?" But insteadof responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper, "You need not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord;she insisted on it; it is for her sake not yours that I am here. "Touched by his frankness I renewed my caresses, saying, "Truthfulheart and faithful friend, do not conceal from me anything I oughtto know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so for my own;your return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue topreserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think whatthey will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us betterthan we are. "

I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confessionby assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and bytelling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour ofthis return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealedto me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he hadreturned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, Ishould know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even ifhe was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor. 

You see that the young man is very far from spending his days withSophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. One or two visitsa week are all that is permitted, and these visits are often onlyfor the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next day. He spendsmuch more of his time in longing to see her, or in rejoicing thathe has seen her, than he actually spends in her presence. Even whenhe goes to see her, more time is spent in going and returning thanby her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure, delicious, but moreimaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to make himeffeminate. 

On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle athome. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scoursthe country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observesand studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;he compares the methods he sees with those with which he is alreadyfamiliar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if hethinks other methods better than those of the locality, he introducesthem to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better kind ofplough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a limepit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a processnew to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised tofind him handling all manner of tools more easily than they canthemselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs, he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce aremore cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker, they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zealand attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful toeverybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in theirhomes; inquires into their circumstances, their families, thenumber of their children, the extent of their holdings, the natureof their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens, theirdebts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it isusually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money, and makes it helpful to them without distributing it among them. He supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for work doneby themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one he has thefalling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he clears a pieceof land which had gone out of cultivation for lack of means; toanother he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replacea loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over, and makes them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him caredfor, he looks after him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sickpeasant is not merely to give him a pill, or medicine, or to senda surgeon to him. That is not what these poor folk require insickness; what they want is more and better food. When you havefever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it, givethem meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due topoverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught, your butchers will be the best apothecary. ] another is harassed bya rich and powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on hisbehalf; young people are fond of one another, he helps forward theirmarriage; a good woman has lost her beloved child, he goes to seeher, he speaks words of comfort and sits a while with her; he doesnot despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid the unfortunate;he often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping, and hewill even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;though he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he isnone the less their equal. In conclusion, he always does as muchgood by his personal efforts as by his money. 

Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walkingwithout being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everythinghe does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of thatpleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a goodconscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes nearenough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophyherself. On the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood, looking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling what pains she hastaken and what a distance she has walked to please him. 

The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm andorder a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in thatdirection without any special object, we shall turn in apparentlyby chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likessweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quiteready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have myshare of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; itis a girl's way of returning thanks more easily. Her father and Ihave cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is alwayson the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dippedher spoon. 

The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Everyone wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; theyask him if he can run as well as ever. "Better, " says he; "I shouldbe sorry to forget how to run. " One member of the company is dyingto see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakesto suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young menof the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of ourearlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is ready, Sophy's father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimbleEmile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before theothers have started. He receives his prize at Sophy's hands, andno less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished. 

In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor, and to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse toenter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start, while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to showEmile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while sheis seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a wordto her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes his placeby his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is offlike a bird. 

Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken. Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thingthey do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointedbackwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they areperched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to runinstead of to jump. 

Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, doesnot deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smileof mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels;she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs soquickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalantawhen he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an eagle dashingupon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at lastquite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her, he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to hisheart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, andthen exclaiming, "Sophy wins!" he sinks on one knee before her andowns himself beaten. 

Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. Oneday a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad forcountry pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner. We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work inearnest like regular workmen. Once when Sophy's father came to seeus, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder tohis wife and daughter. "Go and see that young man in the workshop, "said he, "and you will soon see if he despises the condition ofthe poor. " You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this! They talkit over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They questionme, apparently without any special object, and having made sure ofthe time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come totown on that very day. 

On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a youngman in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at workthat he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile, a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishinga mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vicein order to polish it. The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing;it affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman, honour yourmaster; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you breadto eat; this is he!

While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile bythe sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to themwith an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his firstraptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work. But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about theworkshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picksup shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, itis so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile. With her delicatewhite hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slipsand makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is hoveringover us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries, "Hercules is avenged. "

Yet Sophy's mother questions the master. "Sir, how much do you paythese two men a day?" "I give them each tenpence a day and theirfood; but if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, forhe is the best workman in the country. " "Tenpence a day and theirfood, " said she looking at us tenderly. "That is so, madam, " repliedthe master. At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him, and clasps him to her breast with tears; unable to say more sherepeats again and again, "My son, my son!"

When they had spent some time chatting with us, but withoutinterrupting our work, "We must be going now, " said the mother toher daughter, "it is getting late and we must not keep your fatherwaiting. " Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on thecheek, saying, "Well, my good workman, won't you come with us?" Hereplied sadly, "I am at work, ask the master. " The master is askedif he can spare us. He replies that he cannot. "I have work onhand, " said he, "which is wanted the day after to-morrow, so thereis not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I refused otherworkmen who came; if they fail me I don't know how to replace themand I shall not be able to send the work home at the time promised. "The mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile wouldsay. Emile hung his head in silence. "Sir, " she said, somewhatsurprised at this, "have you nothing to say to that?" Emile lookedtenderly at her daughter and merely said, "You see I am bound tostay. " Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door, gazed after them as long as they were in sight, and returned tohis work without a word. 

On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoketo her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. "Why, "said she, "was it so difficult to arrange matters with the masterwithout being obliged to stay. The young man is generous enoughand ready to spend money when there is no need for it, could nothe spend a little on such a fitting occasion?" "Oh, mamma, " repliedSophy, "I trust Emile will never rely so much on money as to use itto break an engagement, to fail to keep his own word, and to makeanother break his! I know he could easily give the master a trifleto make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his absence; buthis soul would become the slave of riches, he would become accustomedto place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty mightbe neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's wayof thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do youthink it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; itwas for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes. "

It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; onthe contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather notbe loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noblepride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting andclaiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart thatdid not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not loveher for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heartwhich did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She didnot desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reignover a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed intoswine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whomshe had no power. 

Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealousof her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them, how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes, how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have himneither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come earlyis to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglecther. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice. An unfoundedsuspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is reallyjust and knows how to atone for her faults. 

They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders. They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?What accident have we met with? No message from us! The eveningis spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the nightthrough. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched toinquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messengerreturns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes ourexcuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene ischanged; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is foranger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that weare alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting. 

When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parentsdesire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding atonce what course she will take she assumes a calm and contentedexpression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forwardto receive us saying, "You have made your friends very uneasy;there are people here who will not forgive you very readily. " "Whoare they, papa, " said Sophy with the most gracious smile she couldassume. "What business is that of yours, " said her father, "if itis not you?" Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her motherreceived us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared notspeak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him totake a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow, who as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quitedeceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offenceon his own account. 

To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it tomy lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with theword, "Sir, " uttered in such a strange manner that Emile's eyeswere opened at once by this involuntary movement. 

Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised lesscontrol over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded byscornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllablesuttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her angershould show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror staredat her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so thathis eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still moreangry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wishfor another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded, dared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he notbeen guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would neverhave forgiven him. 

Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe forexplanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this timeshe did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently, "Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are just andreasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to what we haveto say. " She said nothing and I proceeded--

"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be here atseven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need, so as to rest a little before we get here. We were more than halfway here when we heard lamentable groans, which came from a littlevalley in the hillside, some distance off. We hurried towards theplace and found an unlucky peasant who had taken rather more winethan was good for him; on his way home he had fallen heavily fromhis horse and broken his leg. We shouted and called for help; therewas no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his horse, butwithout success; the least movement caused intense agony. We decidedto tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made achair of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible, following his directions till we got him home. The way was long, and we were constantly obliged to stop and rest. At last we gotthere, but thoroughly exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to findthat it was a house we knew already and that the wretched creaturewe had carried with such difficulty was the very man who receivedus so kindly when first we came. We had all been so upset thatuntil that moment we had not recognised each other. 

"There were only two little children. His wife was about to presenthim with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of himbrought home in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a fewhours later gave birth to another little one. What was to be doneunder such circumstances in a lonely cottage far from any help?Emile decided to fetch the horse we had left in the wood, to rideas fast as he could into the town and fetch a surgeon. He let thesurgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a nurse allat once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent amessenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a manwith a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as wellas I could such things in the house as I thought would be neededfor the relief of both. 

"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to thepoint. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment'srest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close athand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what hadhappened to us. "

That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile, approaching Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmnessthan I expected, "Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very wellknow. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to makeme forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in myeyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you. "

For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissedhim on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable graceshe said to him, "Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will, you shall be my husband and my master; I will try to be worthy ofthat honour. "

Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped hishands calling, "Encore, encore, " and Sophy without further ado, kissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had doneshe took refuge at once in her mother's arms and hid her blushingface on the maternal bosom. 

I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us. After dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see thepoor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When wegot there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a secondbedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile hadseen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that theysuffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition. Sophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work tomake her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for theman; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurtingthem and how to settle them into less painful positions. Hervery presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed toguess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgustedby the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both withoutdisturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modestand sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the worldhave touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sickman and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to restin a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of morevalue than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and withsuch a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing shehad touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings upon thekindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She was an angelfrom heaven come to visit them; she was an angel in face and manner, in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly touched by all thisand he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy helpmeet. Godgave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy troubles. This is she!

The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents, and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom oftheir hearts, for the time when they should have a child of theirown to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thoughtit was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished, but mineremained. They had not got so far as they expected; every one musthave his turn. 

One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days, I entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and lookingfixedly at him I said to him, "What would you do if some one toldyou Sophy were dead?" He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck hishands together, and without saying a single word, he looked at mewith eyes of desperation. "Answer me, " I continued with the samecalmness. Vexed at my composure, he then approached me with eyesblazing with anger; and checking himself in an almost threateningattitude, "What would I do? I know not; but this I do know, I wouldnever set eyes again upon the person who brought me such news. ""Comfort yourself, " said I, smiling, "she lives, she is well, andthey are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walkand we can talk things over. "

The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devotehimself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this verypassion must be called to our aid if his attention is to be givento my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible preface;I am quite sure he will listen to me now. 

"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feelingcreature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the onlyone which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Everyone seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in the searchand we die before the end is attained. My young friend, when Itook you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God himself towitness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote my life tothe happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was undertaking?No; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my ownhappiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I madeit for us both. 

"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doingnothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, andnone which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when weknow not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and furtherfrom it, we are running as many risks as there are roads to choosefrom. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our passionfor our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would ratherdeceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit still and donothing; and when once we have left the place where we might haveknown happiness, we can never return. 

"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. WhenI took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and toprevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, untilshe should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their paths werethe same, and without knowing it this was the path I trod. 

"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to acceptyour decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to thosethat were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts whichnature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were by naturesubject, and from which I could shelter you, you have only experiencedsuch as would harden you to bear others. You have never sufferedany evil, except to escape a greater. You have known neither hatrednor servitude. Free and happy, you have remained just and kindly;for suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man ever became baduntil he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood remain withyou to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will everrecall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it. 

"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influenceof human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from thesway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillitytill your life's end, my work would have been secure, and you wouldhave been as happy as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain didI dip you in the waters of Styx, I could not make you everywhereinvulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared, whom you have not yetlearnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot save you. That enemyis yourself. Nature and fortune had left you free. You could facepoverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of the heartwere unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but yourposition as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you haveformed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are nowthe slave of your desires. Without any change in yourself, withoutany insult, any injury to yourself, what sorrows may attack yoursoul, what pains may you suffer without sickness, how many deathsmay you die and yet live! A lie, an error, a suspicion, may plungeyou in despair. 

"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe, making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting likewomen, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of theaudience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations, cries, and groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds ofconstancy and heroism. 'Why, ' said you, 'are those the patterns weare to follow, the models set for our imitation! Are they afraidman will not be small enough, unhappy enough, weak enough, if hisweakness is not enshrined under a false show of virtue. ' My youngfriend, henceforward you must be more merciful to the stage; youhave become one of those heroes. 

"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavyyoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learntto give a law to the desires of your heart; and the difficultiesof life arise rather from our affections than from our needs. Ourdesires are vast, our strength is little better than nothing. In hiswishes man is dependent on many things; in himself he is dependenton nothing, not even on his own life; the more his connections aremultiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth hasan end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers, and we behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror atthe mere suspicion of Sophy's death? Do you suppose she will livefor ever? Do not young people of her age die? She must die, my son, and perhaps before you. Who knows if she is alive at this moment?Nature meant you to die but once; you have prepared a second deathfor yourself. 

"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to bepitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoywhat is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear of losingit; you will never be able to satisfy your passions, because youdesired to follow them continually. You will ever be seeking thatwhich will fly before you; you will be miserable and you willbecome wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no care but yourunbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary privationshow will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you sacrificedesire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to yourreason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring youword of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him whowould deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tellyou, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf between you'? If youmust live with her whatever happens, whether Sophy is married orsingle, whether you are free or not, whether she loves or hatesyou, whether she is given or refused to you, no matter, it is yourwill and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what crimewill stop a man who has no law but his heart's desires, who knowsnot how to resist his own passions. 

"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue withouta struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifyingstrength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue isthe heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; thatis the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God goodwe do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort. I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned, until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quiteeasy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need ariseswith the awakening of the passions; your time has come. 

"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, insteadof preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity fromthe vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying notso much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not somuch to give others their due, as to care little about your ownrights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly manis only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls topieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only kindto himself. 

"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty;he is his own master and nothing can turn him from the right way. So far you have had only the semblance of liberty, the precariousliberty of the slave who has not received his orders. Now is thetime for real freedom; learn to be your own master; control yourheart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous. 

"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship moredifficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evilsshe lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; butshe has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed evils;she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our ownpassions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves onthe tears of which we should be ashamed. 

"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthyof you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; youwill be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing but thepassion for virtue. 

"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is aspure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour andnursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue dobut add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you arelooking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of youraffection. But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion ispure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its slave?And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangleit on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength; there is notime for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should bemade when danger is still afar. We do not practise the use of ourweapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we do that beforethe war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared. 

"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful, so as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are goodif we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves tothem. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond the limitsof our strength; reason forbids us to want what we cannot get, conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield to temptation. To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control, but we cancontrol ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is lawful;those which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if heloves his neighbour's wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passionunder the control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves hisown wife so greatly as to sacrifice everything to that love. 

"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality, I have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be aman; restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Studyand know these limits; however narrow they may be, we are notunhappy within them; it is only when we wish to go beyond them thatwe are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions, we try to attainthe impossible; we are unhappy when we forget our manhood to makean imaginary world for ourselves, from which we are always slippingback into our own. The only good things, whose loss really affectsus, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is clear thatwe cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it; wisheswithout hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by adesire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinkshimself more than man. 

"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; butthe contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. Hekeeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it;he does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep; andhis whole strength being devoted to the right employment of whathe has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion ashe desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change, shallI forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where everythingchanges and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly vanish! Oh, Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be left of myself?And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may betaken from me?

"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on thebeauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position, let your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend the law ofnecessity into the region of morals; learn to lose what may be takenfrom you; learn to forsake all things at the command of virtue, to set yourself above the chances of life, to detach your heartbefore it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that youmay never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may neverbe guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune, and good in spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure thatcannot be destroyed, even in the possession of the most fragilethings; you will possess them, they will not possess you, and youwill realise that the man who loses everything, only enjoys whathe knows how to resign. It is true you will not enjoy the illusionsof imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the sufferings whichare their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange, forthe sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare andempty. Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquishthe idea that attaches such an excessive value to life. You willspend your life in peace, and you will leave it without terror; youwill detach yourself from life as from other things. Let others, horror-struck, believe that when this life is ended they cease tobe; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think that youare but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is theclose of life; to the just it is its dawn. "

Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After sucha startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresawthat when I showed him how necessary it is to practise the strengthof the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern discipline; hewas like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon, and fancieshe already feels the painful but healing touch which will cure thedeadly wound. 

Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he doesnot answer, he questions me but timidly. "What must I do?" sayshe almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. "What must youdo?" I reply firmly. "You must leave Sophy. " "What are you saying?"he exclaimed angrily. "Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, becomea traitor, a villain, a perjurer!" "Why!" I continue, interruptinghim; "does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?""No, " he continued with the same vigour. "Neither you nor any oneelse; I am capable of preserving your work; I shall not deservesuch reproaches. "

I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. IfI had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use preachingit! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of demandingany wrong action from him, and he knows that it would be wrong toleave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase. So he waitsfor an explanation. Then I resume my speech. 

"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier thanyou have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceiveyourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbedthe depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than you havealready experienced. The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariablydestroys them. You have tasted greater joys through hope than youwill ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which adorns what welong for, deserts its possession. With the exception of the oneself-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except that whichis not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would havefound perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares hisdecline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and evenif the conditions which make us happy could be prolonged for ever, habit would deprive us of all taste for that happiness. If externalcircumstances remain unchanged, the heart changes; either happinessforsakes us, or we forsake her. 

"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over, winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at sucha time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it orno, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot continue. I read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb you greatly;Sophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a simple planfor avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The plan has itsadvantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will meltand the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons. 

"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you, but because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as tofitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with hatred!I know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness merely a matterof honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it is her disposition. Does a woman show her real character in a day? Do you know howoften you must have seen her and under what varying conditions toreally know her temper? Is four months of liking a sufficient pledgefor the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you may haveforgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface yourimage in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferentas you have hitherto found her affectionate. Sentiments are nota matter of principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet ceaseto love you. I am inclined to think she will be faithful and true;but who will answer for her, and who will answer for you if youare not put to the proof? Will you postpone this trial till it istoo late, will you wait to know your true selves till parting isno longer possible?

"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is theage for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother fora family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you shouldat least wait till you yourselves are children no longer. Do younot know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution, destroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?Do you not know that many children have always been weak and sicklybecause their mother was little more than a child herself? Whenmother and child are both growing, the strength required for theirgrowth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended; arenot both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, orhe would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, thansatisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health. 

"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father;have you seriously considered your duties? When you become the headof a family you will become a citizen of your country. And what isa citizen of the state? What do you know about it? You have studiedyour duties as a man, but what do you know of the duties of acitizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms as government, laws, country? Do you know the price you must pay for life, and for whatyou must be prepared to die? You think you know everything, whenyou really know nothing at all. Before you take your place in thecivil order, learn to perceive and know what is your proper place. 

"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if youwere capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not tohave married you; you must leave her in order to return worthy ofher. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already worthy. Howmuch remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid task; comeand learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize of fidelity, so that when you return you may indeed deserve some honour, andmay ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward. "

Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thingand to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists, he argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him?Would he not despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitatedto accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he ought to know?And if it were necessary to leave her why not leave her as hiswife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be her husband, and he is ready to follow me; let them be married and he will leaveher without fear. "Marry her in order to leave her, dear Emile! whata contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows himselfcapable of great things; a husband should never leave his wifeunless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delaymust be involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophyyou leave her against your will. Very well, be content, and sinceyou will not follow the commands of reason, you must submit toanother master. You have not forgotten your promise. Emile, youmust leave Sophy; I will have it. "

For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful, then looking me full in the face he said, "When do we start?" "Ina week's time, " I replied; "Sophy must be prepared for our going. Women are weaker than we are, and we must show consideration forthem; and this parting is not a duty for her as it is for you, soshe may be allowed to bear it less bravely. "

The temptation to continue the daily history of their love upto the time of their separation is very great; but I have alreadypresumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridgethe story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situationas bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversationwith his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in thesincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if itcost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself toblame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play;but the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands for itin the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no fear thatshe will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems to say, "Oh, Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your lover is notwithout virtue. "

Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual prideand dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as thehonours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is lessequal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and thefear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She doesnot weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her terror;she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am therecipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who amsupposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how toconceal their cleverness; the more she frets in private, the morepains she takes to please me; she feels that her fate is in myhands. 

I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover, or rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he toher and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. Sherespects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her. I am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue, my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassurethem. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as ifthey were never to meet again. 

Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fanciesherself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affectionduring his absence "Sophy, " say I one day, "exchange books withEmile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn to be likehim, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy reading. Study the duties of good wives in it, and remember that in two years'time you will undertake those duties. " The exchange gave pleasureto both and inspired them with confidence. At last the sad dayarrived and they must part. 

Sophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business, took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spokeseriously and somewhat emphatically, saying, "I have done everythingto please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have onlyone word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract ofmarriage on my daughter's lips. "

What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile, impetuous, eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloudand sheds torrents of tears upon the hands of father, mother, anddaughter; with sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeatsthe same thing over and over again in a way that would be ludicrousat any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed, remains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not evenEmile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; sheremains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everythinghe does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sightmore moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of herlover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantlyaway; if I left him another minute, he would never go. I am delightedthat he should carry this touching picture with him. If he shouldever be tempted to forget what is due to Sophy, his heart musthave strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it back to her byrecalling her as he saw her last. 

OF TRAVEL

Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often askedand as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Aremen the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be lessdifference of opinion. 

The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People thinkthey know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too muchreading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never somuch reading in any age as the present, and never was there lesslearning; in no country of Europe are so many histories and booksof travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there less knowledgeof the mind and manners of other nations. So many books lead us toneglect the book of the world; if we read it at all, we keep eachto our own page. If the phrase, "Can one become a Persian, " wereunknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came fromthe country where national prejudice is most prevalent and fromthe sex which does most to increase it. 

A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows onlyFrenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considersevery foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in theuniverse. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle classesof that great city, you must have lived among them, before you canbelieve that people could be at once so witty and so stupid. Thestrangest thing about it is that probably every one of them hasread a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitantsinspire him with such wonder. 

To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of theauthors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travelsall my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea ofthe same nation. On comparing my own scanty observations with whatI have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and I regretthe time wasted in trying to learn from their books; for I amquite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not reading isrequired. That would be true enough if every traveller were honest, if he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were nottinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be whenwe have to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?

Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are contentto use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to setpeople chattering about things they do not know. They are able toset fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, andteaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word ofPaul Lucas or Tavernier. 

I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seenone nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whomhe has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the questionabout travel: "Is it enough for a well-educated man to know hisfellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?" Thenthere is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly thesolution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which itis stated. 

But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Needwe go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individualbefore we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that itis not worth while to study them individually. When you have seena dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot sayas much of the English and other nations, it is, however, certainthat every nation has its own specific character, which is derivedby induction from the study, not of one, but many of its members. He who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just he who hascompared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French. 

To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through acountry. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing themtowards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of peoplewho learn no more from their travels than from their books, becausethey do not know how to think; because in reading their mind isat least under the guidance of the author, and in their travelsthey do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn nothing, because they have no desire to learn. Their object is so entirelydifferent, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikelythat you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. TheFrench travel more than any other nation, but they are so taken upwith their own customs, that everything else is confused together. There are Frenchmen in every corner of the globe. In no countryof the world do you find more people who have travelled than inFrance. And yet of all the nations of Europe, that which has seenmost, knows least. The English are also travellers, but they travelin another fashion; these two nations must always be at oppositeextremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at home;the French people travel, the English stay at home. This differencedoes credit, I think, to the English. The French almost alwaystravel for their own ends; the English do not seek their fortunein other lands, unless in the way of commerce and with their handsfull; when they travel it is to spend their money, not to live bytheir wits; they are too proud to cringe before strangers. Thisis why they learn more abroad than the French who have other fishto fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but theseprejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling. The Englishman's prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman'sare due to vanity. 

Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so thosetravel best who travel least; they have made less progress than wein our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with the objectsof our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention to whatis really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards who travelin this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after all theartists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy ofsome antique, while the German is taking his album to every manof science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, themanners of the country, its police, and he is the only one of thefour who from all that he has seen will carry home any observationuseful to his own country. 

The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;yet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed eachother more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Withoutgoing back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports usto the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the gloryof having painted manners in his history, though he does it ratherby narrative than by comment; still he does it better than all ourhistorians whose books are overladen with portraits and characters. Tacitus has described the Germans of his time better than anyauthor has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubtthat those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know moreabout the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians thanany nation of to-day knows about its neighbours. 

It must also be admitted that the original characteristics ofdifferent nations are changing day by day, and are therefore moredifficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, thosenational differences which formerly struck the observer at firstsight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remainedmore or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication werefewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflictinginterests, less political and civil intercourse between nation andnation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy, were less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors residentat foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreigntrade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes, who employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had noinfluence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together. The relations between Europe and Asia in the present century area hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain inthe past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world isnow. 

Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselvesas the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt thereso long that all record was lost of the far-off times when theirancestors settled there; they had been there so long that theplace had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europethe invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests, have caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-dayare no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longerbeautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face ofthe Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians, originally from Tartary, are daily losing their native uglinessthrough the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longerGauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians, moreor less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct. 

This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soiland climate, made a greater difference between nation and nationin respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than canbe distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europeleaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests arecut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally, though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences betweencountry and country can no longer be detected even in purely physicalfeatures. 

If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in sucha hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having describedthe inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiaritiesand with striking differences which we no longer see. To recognisesuch types of face we should need to see the men themselves; nochange must have passed over them, if they are to remain the same. If we could behold all the people who have ever lived, who candoubt that we should find greater variations between one centuryand another, than are now found between nation and nation. 

At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, itis more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for thesmall success of our researches into the natural history of thehuman race. The information acquired by travel depends upon theobject of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy, thetraveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest, it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce andthe arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time preventthem from studying each other. If they know how to make a profitout of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?

It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, soas to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If everyone lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would behow much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need ofno one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know any othercountry but his own. If he requires more land for his subsistencehe shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild beastsand feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has becomea necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures, self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districtswhere there are most people to be devoured. This is why we allflock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are alwayscheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations, which are just like one another. 

They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so, they travel like other people from interested motives. Philosopherslike Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if theyare, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travelat the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid, they receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and theobject of that journey is certainly not the study of any questionof morals. Their whole time is required for the object of theirjourney, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in anycountry whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense, you may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It isnot knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their travelsteach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice thatsends them on their travels. 

To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are twovery different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious, the latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel asa philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observesthings till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin bystudying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits. 

It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is uselessbecause we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, doesit follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there arevery few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good forthose who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voiceof error without being deceived, strong enough to see the exampleof vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates theprogress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. Whena man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he willbe all his life; there are more who return bad than good, becausethere are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In thecourse of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved, pick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned, and none of the virtues with which those vices are associated; butthose who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose gooddisposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with a realdesire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went. Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelledanother young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was theadmiration of Europe, one who died for his country in the flowerof his manhood; he deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by hisvirtues only, received no honour till a stranger's hand adorned itwith flowers. 

Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel, undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules. To travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; totravel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definiteaim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interestin learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide thenature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation of themethod I have hitherto practised. 

Now after he has considered himself in his physical relationsto other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, thereremains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens. To do this he must first study the nature of government in general, then the different forms of government, and lastly the particulargovernment under which he was born, to know if it suits him to liveunder it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every man, when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce thecontract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving thecountry in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourningin that country, after he has come to years of discretion, thathe is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by hisancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just ashe has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands; yethis place of birth was a gift of nature, and in renouncing it, herenounces what is his own. Strictly speaking, every man remains inthe land of his birth at his own risk unless he voluntarily submitsto its laws in order to acquire a right to their protection. 

For example, I should say to Emile, "Hitherto you have lived undermy guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you areapproaching the age when the law, giving you the control over yourproperty, makes you master of your person. You are about to findyourself alone in society, dependent on everything, even on yourpatrimony. You mean to marry; that is a praiseworthy intention, it is one of the duties of man; but before you marry you must knowwhat sort of man you want to be, how you wish to spend your life, what steps you mean to take to secure a living for your familyand for yourself; for although we should not make this our mainbusiness, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to bedependent on men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish yourfortune and determine your position by means of civil relations whichwill make you always dependent on the choice of others, which willcompel you, if you would escape from knaves, to become a knaveyourself?"

In the next place I would show him every possible way of using hismoney in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall showhim that in every one of these there are risks to be taken, everyone of them places him in a precarious and dependent position, andcompels him to adapt his morals, his sentiments, his conduct tothe example and the prejudices of others. 

"There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you mayjoin the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at veryhigh wages to go and kill men who never did you any harm. This tradeis held in great honour among men, and they cannot think too highlyof those who are fit for nothing better. Moreover, this profession, far from making you independent of other resources, makes them allthe more necessary; for it is a point of honour in this professionto ruin those who have adopted it. It is true they are not allruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in this as inother professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it, I doubt whether you would desire to follow their example. 

"Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longera question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies;on the contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, themore honour you obtain; if you have decided to take your professionseriously, you will be despised, you will be hated, you will verypossibly be driven out of the service, or at least you will fall avictim to favouritism and be supplanted by your comrades, becauseyou have been doing your duty in the trenches, while they have beenattending to their toilet. "

We can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be muchto Emile's taste. "Why, " he will exclaim, "have I forgotten theamusements of my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Ismy strength failing me? Do I not know how to work? What do I careabout all your fine professions and all the silly prejudices ofothers? I know no other pride than to be kindly and just; no otherhappiness than to live in independence with her I love, gaininghealth and a good appetite by the day's work. All these difficultiesyou speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire isa little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my effortsafter wealth to making it pay, and I will live without a care. Giveme Sophy and my land, and I shall be rich. "

"Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife andland of his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think. The rarest you have found already; let us discuss the other. 

"A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in whatremote corner of the earth can you say, 'Here am I master of myselfand of this estate which belongs to me?' We know where a man maygrow rich; who knows where he can do without riches? Who knowswhere to live free and independent, without ill-treating othersand without fear of being ill-treated himself! Do you think it isso easy to find a place where you can always live like an honest man?If there is any safe and lawful way of living without intrigues, without lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I admit, to live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our ownland; but where is the state in which a man can say, 'The earthwhich I dig is my own?' Before choosing this happy spot, be surethat you will find the peace you desire; beware lest an unjustgovernment, a persecuting religion, and evil habits should disturbyou in your home. Secure yourself against the excessive taxes whichdevour the fruits of your labours, and the endless lawsuits whichconsume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly withouthaving to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges, to priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind, who are always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all, secure yourself from annoyance on the part of the rich and great;remember that their estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth's vineyard. If unluckily for you some great man buys or builds a house nearyour cottage, make sure that he will not find a way, under somepretence or other, to encroach on your lands to round off his estate, or that you do not find him at once absorbing all your resourcesto make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to ward offall these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for itwill cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon eachother, the one can hardly stand without the other. 

"I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearlythe difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine schemeand honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carryit out. I have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two yearsfrom now till the time of your return to choosing a place inEurope where you could live happily with your family, secure fromall the dangers I have just described. If we succeed, you willhave discovered that true happiness, so often sought for in vain;and you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. Ifwe fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will consoleyourself for an inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law ofnecessity. "

I do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggestedinquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from histravels, begun and continued with this end in view, without a fullknowledge of questions of government, public morality, and politicalphilosophy of every kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligenceand I in judgment. 

The science of politics is and probably always will be unknown. Grotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child, and what is worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praisedto the skies and Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive howlittle sensible men have read or understood these authors. As amatter of fact, their principles are exactly alike, they only differin their mode of expression. Their methods are also different:Hobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets; they areagreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who couldhave created this vast and useless science was the illustriousMontesquieu. But he was not concerned with the principles ofpolitical law; he was content to deal with the positive laws ofsettled governments; and nothing could be more different than thesetwo branches of study. 

Yet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government isforced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in orderto judge what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing lightupon this important matter is to induce an individual to discussand to answer these two questions. "How does it concern me; andwhat can I do?" Emile is in a position to answer both. 

The next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, theprinciples in which we were brought up; it is due above all to thepartiality of authors, who are always talking about truth, thoughthey care very little about it; it is only their own intereststhat they care for, and of these they say nothing. Now the nationhas neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of theacademies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established bymen of that type? The education I have given him has removed thisdifficulty also from Emile's path. He scarcely knows what is meantby government; his business is to find the best; he does not wantto write books; if ever he did so, it would not be to pay court tothose in authority, but to establish the rights of humanity. 

There is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficultywhich I neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I amnot afraid of it; sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, greattalents are less necessary than a genuine love of justice and asincere reverence for truth. If matters of government can ever befairly discussed, now or never is our chance. 

Before beginning our observations we must lay down rules of procedure;we must find a scale with which to compare our measurements. Ourprinciples of political law are our scale. Our actual measurementsare the civil law of each country. 

Our elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directlyfrom the nature of things. They will take the form of problemsdiscussed between us, and they will not be formulated into principles, until we have found a satisfactory solution of our problems. 

For example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall seewhether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent;is their association the result of free will or of force? Can theforce which compels them to united action ever form a permanentlaw, by which this original force becomes binding, even when anotherhas been imposed upon it, so that since the power of King Nimrod, who is said to have been the first conqueror, every other powerwhich has overthrown the original power is unjust and usurping, so that there are no lawful kings but the descendants of Nimrod ortheir representatives; or if this original power has ceased, hasthe power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroythe binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound toobey except under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon aswe are capable of resistance? Such a right is not very differentfrom might; it is little more than a play upon words. 

We shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comesfrom God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor. 

Again, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience togive our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him, for the pistol in his hand is also a power. 

Does this word power in this context mean something different froma power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to whichit owes its being?

Suppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit theright of nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundationof society; we shall inquire into the extent of this authority; whatis its foundation in nature? Has it any other grounds but that ofits usefulness to the child, his weakness, and the natural lovewhich his father feels towards him? When the child is no longerfeeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in body, does nothe become the sole judge of what is necessary for his preservation?Is he not therefore his own master, independent of all men, evenof his father himself? For is it not still more certain that theson loves himself, than that the father loves the son?

The father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother, or some other person who has not the natural affection of a father?Should there always be, from family to family, one single head towhom all the family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever cometo be divided, and how is it that there is more than one head togovern the human race throughout the world?

Suppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; weshall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjectedto their brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because theywere obliged, but because they choose, we shall inquire whetherthis kind of society is not a sort of free and voluntary association?

Taking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man canmake over to another his right to himself, without restriction, without reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say, can he renounce his person, his life, his reason, his very self, can he renounce all morality in his actions; in a word, can hecease to exist before his death, in spite of nature who places himdirectly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason andconscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?

If there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery, we shall discuss whether this deed does not then become a truecontract, in which both the contracting powers, having in this respectno common master, [Footnote: If they had such a common master, hewould be no other than the sovereign, and then the right of slaveryresting on the right of sovereignty would not be its origin. ]remain their own judge as to the conditions of the contract, andtherefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract assoon as it becomes hurtful. 

If then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master, how can a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slaveis to judge whether his master is fulfilling his contract, is notthe nation to judge whether its head is fulfilling his contract?

Thus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we considerthe meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether somecontract, a tacit contract at the least, is not required to makea nation, a contract anterior to that which we are assuming. 

Since the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made ita nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contractis the foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature ofthis contract that we must seek the nature of the society formedby it. 

We will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not befairly well expressed in this formula? As an individual every oneof us contributes his goods, his person, his life, to the commonstock, under the supreme direction of the general will; while asa body we receive each member as an indivisible part of the whole. 

Assuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shallobserve that, instead of the individual person of each contractingparty, this deed of association produces a moral and collective body, consisting of as many members as there are votes in the Assembly. This public personality is usually called the body politic, whichis called by its members the State when it is passive, and theSovereign when it is active, and a Power when compared with itsequals. With regard to the members themselves, collectively theyare known as the nation, and individually as citizens as membersof the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects asobedient to the same authority. 

We shall note that this contract of association includes a mutualpledge on the part of the public and the individual; and that eachindividual, entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself, finds himself in a twofold capacity, i. E. , as a member of thesovereign with regard to others, as member of the state with regardto the sovereign. 

We shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement towhich he was not himself a party, the general deliberation whichmay be binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign, because of the two different relations under which each of them isenvisaged, cannot be binding on the state with regard to itself. Hence we see that there is not, and cannot be, any other fundamentallaw, properly so called, except the social contract only. This doesnot mean that the body politic cannot, in certain respects, pledgeitself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then becomesa simple creature, an individual. 

Thus the two contracting parties, i. E. , each individual and thepublic, have no common superior to decide their differences; so wewill inquire if each of them remains free to break the contract atwill, that is to repudiate it on his side as soon as he considersit hurtful. 

To clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according tothe social pact, the sovereign power is only able to act throughthe common, general will; so its decrees can only have a generalor common aim; hence it follows that a private individual cannotbe directly injured by the sovereign, unless all are injured, whichis impossible, for that would be to want to harm oneself. Thus thesocial contract has no need of any warrant but the general power, for it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not thereforefreed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it. 

To decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mindthat the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar toitself, in that the nation only contracts with itself, i. E. , thepeople as a whole as sovereign, with the individuals as subjects;this condition is essential to the construction and working of thepolitical machine, it alone makes pledges lawful, reasonable, andsecure, without which it would be absurd, tyrannical, and liableto the grossest abuse. 

Individuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, andthe sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see thatevery man in obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how muchfreer are we under the social part than in the state of nature. 

Having compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons, we will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership andthe rights of sovereignty, the private and the common domain. Ifthe sovereign power rests upon the right of ownership, there is noright more worthy of respect; it is inviolable and sacred for thesovereign power, so long as it remains a private individual right; assoon as it is viewed as common to all the citizens, it is subjectto the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus the sovereignhas no right to touch the property of one or many; but he maylawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done inSparta in the time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts bySolon was an unlawful deed. 

Since nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will, let us inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we mayrecognise it with certainty, what is a law, and what are the truecharacters of the law? This is quite a fresh subject; we have stillto define the term law. 

As soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, thenation is divided. A relation is established between the whole andits part which makes of them two separate entities, of which thepart is one, and the whole, minus that part, is the other. But thewhole minus the part is not the whole; as long as this relationexists, there is no longer a whole, but two unequal parts. 

On the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the wholenation, it is only considering itself; and if a relation is setup, it is between the whole community regarded from one point ofview, and the whole community regarded from another point of view, without any division of that whole. Then the object of the statuteis general, and the will which makes that statute is general too. Let us see if there is any other kind of decree which may bear thename of law. 

If the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law cannever have any but a general purpose, concerning all the membersof the state, it follows that the sovereign never has the powerto make any law with regard to particular cases; and yet it isnecessary for the preservation of the state that particular oasesshould also be dealt with; let us see how this can be done. 

The decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the generalwill, that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decreesof power or government, for the execution of those laws; and these, on the other hand, can only have particular aims. Thus the decreesby which the sovereign decides that a chief shall be elected isa law; the decree by which that chief is elected, in pursuance ofthe law, is only a decree of government. 

This is a third relation in which the assembled people may beconsidered, i. E. , as magistrates or executors of the law which ithas passed in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problemsand theorems are mostly taken from the Treatise on the SocialContract, itself a summary of a larger work, undertaken withoutdue consideration of my own powers, and long since abandoned. ]

We will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to depriveitself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or morepersons; for the decree of election not being a law, and the peoplein this decree not being themselves sovereign, we do not see howthey can transfer a right which they do not possess. 

The essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it isequally hard to see how we can be certain that an individual willshall always be in agreement with the general will. We shouldrather assume that it will often be opposed to it; for individualinterest always tends to privileges, while the common interestalways tends to equality, and if such an agreement were possible, no sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were eithernecessary or indestructible. 

We will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads ofthe nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be morethan the officers of the people, entrusted by them with the dutyof carrying the law into execution. Are not these chiefs themselvesaccountable for their administration, and are not they themselvessubject to the laws which it is their business to see carried out?

If the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrustit to others for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot itfind representatives? This is an important question and deservesdiscussion. 

If the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives wewill inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws;must they be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to beits own lawgiver?

Was not the Roman people a great nation?

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

It follows from considerations already established that there isan intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign;and this intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, isentrusted with the public administration, the carrying out of thelaws, and the maintenance of civil and political liberty. 

The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that isto say, rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation toits members, is called the prince, and considered in its actionsit is called the government. 

If we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that isto say, the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereignto the state, we can compare this relation to that of the extremesin a proportion of which the government is the middle term. Themagistrate receives from the sovereign the commands which he givesto the nation, and when it is reckoned up his product or his poweris in the same degree as the product or power of the citizenswho are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns onthe other. None of the three terms can be varied without at oncedestroying this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, andif the prince wants to make the laws, or if the subject refuses toobey them, disorder takes the place of order, and the state fallsto pieces under despotism or anarchy. 

Let us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens. The sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body, but each individual, as a subject, has his private and independentexistence. Thus the sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that isto say, every member of the state has, as his own share, only oneten-thousandth part of the sovereign power, although he is subjectto the whole. Let the nation be composed of one hundred thousandmen, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each continuesto bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to theone hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in themaking of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereignis relatively greater as the number of the citizens is increased. Hence it follows that the larger the state the less liberty. 

Now the greater the disproportion between private wishes and thegeneral will, i. E. , between manners and laws, the greater must bethe power of repression. On the other side, the greatness of thestate gives the depositaries of public authority greater temptationsand additional means of abusing that authority, so that the morepower is required by the government to control the people, the morepower should there be in the sovereign to control the government. 

From this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportionbetween the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitraryidea, but a consequence of the nature of the state. Moreover, itfollows that one of the extremes, i. E. , the nation, being constant, every time the double ratio increases or decreases, the simpleratio increases or diminishes in its turn; which cannot be unlessthe middle term is as often changed. From this we may conclude thatthere is no single absolute form of government, but there mustbe as many different forms of government as there are states ofdifferent size. 

If the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio betweenits manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may alsosay, the more numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government. 

To make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentiallydifferent wills in the person of each magistrate; first, hisown will as an individual, which looks to his own advantage only;secondly, the common will of the magistrates, which is concernedonly with the advantage of the prince, a will which may be calledcorporate, and one which is general in relation to the governmentand particular in relation to the state of which the governmentforms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will, which is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as thewhole as in relation to the government viewed as a part of thewhole. In a perfect legislature the private individual will shouldbe almost nothing; the corporate will belonging to the governmentshould be quite subordinate, and therefore the general and sovereignwill is the master of all the others. On the other hand, in thenatural order, these different wills become more and more active inproportion as they become centralised; the general will is alwaysweak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individualwill is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, thena magistrate, and then a citizen; a series just the opposite ofthat required by the social order. 

Having laid down this principle, let us assume that the governmentis in the hands of one man. In this case the individual and thecorporate will are absolutely one, and therefore this will hasreached the greatest possible degree of intensity. Now the use ofpower depends on the degree of this intensity, and as the absolutepower of the government is always that of the people, and thereforeinvariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the most activeform of government. 

If, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supremepower, and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so manymagistrates, then the corporate will is completely lost in the generalwill, and will have no more activity than the general will, and itwill leave the individual will in full vigour. Thus the government, though its absolute force is constant, will have the minimum ofactivity. 

These rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerationsonly serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistratesas a body far more active than the citizens as a body, so that theindividual will always counts for more. For each magistrate usuallyhas charge of some particular duty of government; while each citizen, in himself, has no particular duty of sovereignty. Moreover, thegreater the state the greater its real power, although its powerdoes not increase because of the increase in territory; but thestate remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain, the government acquires no further real strength, because it isthe depositary of that of the state, which I have assumed to beconstant. Thus, this plurality of magistrates decreases the activityof the government without increasing its power. 

Having found that the power of the government is relaxed inproportion as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and thatthe more numerous the people, the more the controlling power mustbe increased, we shall infer that the ratio between the magistratesand the government should be inverse to that between subjects andsovereign, that is to say, that the greater the state, the smallerthe government, and that in like manner the number of chiefs shouldbe diminished because of the increased numbers of the people. 

In order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assignthem their different names, we shall observe in the first placethat the sovereign may entrust the care of the government to thewhole nation or to the greater part of the nation, so that thereare more citizen magistrates than private citizens. This form ofgovernment is called Democracy. 

Or the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lessernumber, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates;and this form of government is called Aristocracy. 

Finally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in thehands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government, and is called Monarchy or royal government. 

We shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second atleast, may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits. For the democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confinedto one half of it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink fromthe half of the nation to the smallest number. Even royalty may beshared, either between father and son, between two brothers, or insome other fashion. There were always two kings in Sparta, and inthe Roman empire there were as many as eight emperors at once, andyet it cannot be said that the empire was divided. There is a pointwhere each form of government blends with the next; and under thethree specific forms there may be really as many forms of governmentas there are citizens in the state. 

Nor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments iscapable of subdivision into different parts, each administered inone of these three ways. From these forms in combination there mayarise a multitude of mixed forms, since each may be multiplied byall the simple forms. 

In all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the bestform of government, and people have failed to consider that eachis the best in some cases and the worst in others. For ourselves, if the number of magistrates [Footnote: You will remember thatI mean, in this context, the supreme magistrates or heads of thenation, the others being only their deputies in this or that respect. ]in the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the number ofthe citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government isadapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those ofmoderate size, and a monarchy to large states. 

These inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discoverwhat are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they canbe separated one from the other; what is our country, in what doesit really consist, and how can each of us ascertain whether he hasa country or no?

Having thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, weshall compare them, so as to note their relations one with another;great and small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insultingone another, destroying one another; and in this perpetual actionand reaction causing more misery and loss of life than if men hadpreserved their original freedom. We shall inquire whether too muchor too little has not been accomplished in the matter of socialinstitutions; whether individuals who are subject to law and tomen, while societies preserve the independence of nature, are notexposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages ofeither, and whether it would not be better to have no civil societyin the world rather than to have many such societies. Is it notthat mixed condition which partakes of both and secures neither?

 "Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec tanquam in pace securum. "--Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I. 

Is it not this partial and imperfect association which gives riseto tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourgesof humanity?

Finally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficultiesby means of leagues and confederations, which leave each stateits own master in internal affairs, while they arm it against anyunjust aggression. We will inquire how a good federal associationmay be established, what can make it lasting, and how far the rightsof the federation may be stretched without destroying the right ofsovereignty. 

The Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the statesof Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is thisassociation practicable, and supposing that it were established, would it be likely to last? These inquiries lead us straight to allthe questions of international law which may clear up the remainingdifficulties of political law. Finally we shall lay down the realprinciples of the laws of war, and we shall see why Grotius andothers have only stated false principles. 

I should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man, should interrupt me saying, "One would think we were building ouredifice of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactlyin its place!" That is true; but remember that the law does notbow to the passions of men, and that we have first to establishthe true principles of political law. Now that our foundations arelaid, come and see what men have built upon them; and you will seesome strange sights!

Then I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; weare seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wiseby misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and noPhilocles, neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found. But let our readers picture our travels for themselves, or takethe same journeys with Telemachus in their hand; and let us notsuggest to them painful applications which the author himself avoidsor makes in spite of himself. 

Moreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are notdistressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the goodthey did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place, none have less desire to leave it. We know that the same taskis allotted to all; that whoever loves what is right with all hisheart, and does the right so far as it is in his power, has fulfilledthat task. We know that Telemachus and Mentor are creatures of theimagination. Emile does not travel in idleness and he does moregood than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should be nogreater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we shouldcause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposedwe were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed weshould desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would beto abdicate our kingship and return to our present position. 

I have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes itstill more barren for the young is the way in which they are senton their travels. Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct, take them from town to town, from palace to palace, where if theyare men of learning and letters, they make them spend their timein libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or rummaging among oldbuildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every country theyare busy over some other century, as if they were living in anothercountry; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at greatexpense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seennothing to interest them, and having learnt nothing that could beof any possible use to them. 

All capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations andall ways of living; they are not the place in which to study thenations. Paris and London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitantshave a few prejudices of their own, but each has as many as theother, and all their rules of conduct are the same. We know thekind of people who will throng the court. We know the way of livingwhich the crowds of people and the unequal distribution of wealthwill produce. As soon as any one tells me of a town with two hundredthousand people, I know its life already. What I do not know aboutit is not worth going there to learn. 

To study the genius and character of a nation you should go to themore remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce, where strangers seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in oneplace, where there are fewer changes of wealth and position. Takea look at the capital on your way, but go and study the countryfar away from that capital. The French are not in Paris, but inTouraine; the English are more English in Mercia than in London, and the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid. In theseremoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and showswhat it really is; there the good or ill effects of the governmentare best perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactlyat a greater radius. 

The necessary relations between character and government have beenso clearly pointed out in the book of L'Esprit des Lois, that onecannot do better than have recourse to that work for the study ofthose relations. But speaking generally, there are two plain andsimple standards by which to decide whether governments are good orbad. One is the population. Every country in which the populationis decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the countries in whichthe population increases most rapidly, even were they the poorestcountries in the world, are certainly the best governed. [Footnote:I only know one exception to this rule--it is China. ] But thispopulation must be the natural result of the government and thenational character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any othertemporary and accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidenceof the disease. When Augustus passed laws against celibacy, thoselaws showed that the Roman empire was already beginning to decline. Citizens must be induced to marry by the goodness of the government, not compelled to marry by law; you must not examine the effectsof force, for the law which strives against the constitution haslittle or no effect; you should study what is done by the influenceof public morals and by the natural inclination of the government, for these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy ofthe worthy Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedyfor every individual ill, instead of tracing them to their commonsource and seeing if they could not all be cured together. Youdo not need to treat separately every sore on a rich man's body;you should purify the blood which produces them. They say that inEngland there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;that is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there muchlonger. 

The second sign of the goodness or badness of the government andthe laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to befound not in its numbers but in its distribution. Two states equalin size and population may be very unequal in strength; and themore powerful is always that in which the people are more evenlydistributed over its territory; the country which has fewer largetowns, and makes less show on this account, will always defeat theother. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are thecause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a shamwealth, there is much money and few goods. They say the town ofParis is worth a whole province to the King of France; for my ownpart I believe it costs him more than several provinces. I believethat Paris is fed by the provinces in more senses than one, andthat the greater part of their revenues is poured into that townand stays there, without ever returning to the people or to theking. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators thereis no one to see that France would be much more powerful if Pariswere destroyed. Not only is this ill-distributed population notadvantageous to the state, it is more ruinous than depopulationitself, because depopulation only gives as produce nought, andthe ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a negativeresult. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of thesize of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris hasmore inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as towhich nation can claim the honour of being the worst governed. 

Study the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really getto know it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government, overladen with the machinery of administration and the jargonof the administrators, if you have not also studied its nature asseen in the effects it has upon the people, and in every degree ofadministration. The difference of form is really shared by everydegree of the administration, and it is only by including everydegree that you really know the difference. In one country youbegin to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of hisunderlings; in another you must see the election of members ofparliament to see if the nation is really free; in each and everycountry, he who has only seen the towns cannot possibly know whatthe government is like, as its spirit is never the same in townand country. Now it is the agricultural districts which form thecountry, and the country people who make the nation. 

This study of different nations in their remoter provinces, andin the simplicity of their native genius, gives a general resultwhich is very satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling tothe human heart; it is this: All the nations, if you observe themin this fashion, seem much better worth observing; the nearer theyare to nature, the more does kindness hold sway in their character;it is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is only when theyare changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that certainfaults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged forpleasant but pernicious vices. 

From this observation we see another advantage in the mode oftravel I suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big townswhich are horribly corrupt, are less likely to catch the infectionof vice; among simpler people and less numerous company, they willpreserve a surer judgment, a healthier taste, and better morals. Besides this contagion of vice is hardly to be feared for Emile;he has everything to protect him from it. Among all the precautionsI have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart. 

We do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, becausewe are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who havecontrol over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young manmust either love or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceivedby appearances. You will quote any number of young men who are saidto live very chastely without love; but show me one grown man, areal man, who can truly say that his youth was thus spent? In allour virtues, all our duties, people are content with appearances;for my own part I want the reality, and I am much mistaken if thereis any other way of securing it beyond the means I have suggested. 

The idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on histravels is not my own. It was suggested to me by the followingincident. 

I was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It waswinter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor's letters werebrought from the post office. He glanced at them, and then readthem aloud to his pupil. They were in English; I understood not aword, but while he was reading I saw the young man tear some finepoint lace ruffles which he was wearing, and throw them in the fireone after another, as quietly as he could, so that no one shouldsee it. Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and thoughtI perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, thoughmuch alike in all men, have national differences which may easilylead one astray. Nations have a different language of facial expressionas well as of speech. I waited till the letters were finished andthen showing the tutor the bare wrists of his pupil, which he didhis best to hide, I said, "May I ask the meaning of this?"

The tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced hispupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gaveme the desired explanation. 

"The ruffles, " said he, "which Mr. John has just torn to pieces, were a present from a lady in this town, who made them for him notlong ago. Now you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a younglady in his own country, with whom he is greatly in love, and shewell deserves it. This letter is from the lady's mother, and I willtranslate the passage which caused the destruction you beheld. 

"'Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John's ruffles. Yesterday MissBetty Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doingsome of her work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morningand I wanted to see what she was doing; I found her busy unpickingwhat Miss Betty had done. She would not have a single stitch inher present done by any hand but her own. '"

Mr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to histutor: "Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me isnot the letter from Miss Lucy's mother a put up job? Is it not anexpedient of your designing against the lady of the ruffles?" "No, "said he, "it is quite genuine; I am not so artful as that; I havemade use of simplicity and zeal, and God has blessed my efforts. "

This incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; itwas sure to set a dreamer like me thinking. 

But it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy, or rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever, and a more enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land allthe bettor for having made acquaintance with foreign governmentsthrough their vices and foreign nations through their virtues. I have even taken care that he should associate himself with someman of worth in every nation, by means of a treaty of hospitalityafter the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry if thisacquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this beuseful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent inforeign lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the swayof patriotic prejudices, to which we are liable all through ourlife, and to which sooner or later we are more or less enslaved. Nothing is better calculated to lessen the hold of such prejudicesthan a friendly interchange of opinions with sensible people whomwe respect; they are free from our prejudices and we find ourselvesface to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of prejudicesagainst the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thingto have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs. In the former case there is always a certain amount of politenesswhich either makes them conceal their real opinions, or makes themthink more favourably of our country while they are with us; whenthey get home again this disappears, and they merely do us justice. I should be very glad if the foreigner I consult has seen my country, but I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is at home again. 

When we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of thegreat countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, whenwe have learnt two or three of the chief languages, when we haveseen what is really interesting in natural history, government, arts, or men, Emile, devoured by impatience, reminds me that ourtime is almost up. Then I say, "Well, my friend, you remember themain object of our journey; you have seen and observed; what isthe final result of your observations? What decision have you cometo?" Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat afterthis fashion--

"What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you mademe; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposedupon me by nature and the laws. The more I study the works of menin their institutions, the more clearly I see that, in their effortsafter independence, they become slaves, and that their very freedomis wasted in vain attempts to assure its continuance. That theymay not be carried away by the flood of things, they form all sortsof attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward they aresurprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to methat to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continueto desire freedom. My master, you have made me free by teachingme to yield to necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow herwithout compulsion; I lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In ourtravels I have sought for some corner of the earth where I mightbe absolutely my own; but where can one dwell among men withoutbeing dependent on their passions? On further consideration I havediscovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I to holdto nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I hadsettled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads wereattached to their trees. I have discovered that the words libertyand empire are incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage byceasing to be master of myself. 

 "'Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus. ' Horace, lib. Ii. , sat. Vi. 

"I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. Youargued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and myliberty; but when you wished me to be free and at the same timewithout needs, you desired two incompatible things, for I couldonly be independent of men by returning to dependence on nature. What then shall I do with the fortune bequeathed to me by myparents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on it; I will cutmyself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is leftin my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall notbe dragged away with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it, but I shall keep steadfastly to my own place. Rich or poor, I shallbe free. I shall be free not merely in this country or in that; Ishall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of prejudiceare broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds ofnecessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood, and I shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why shouldI not wear those chains as a free man, for I should have to wearthem even if I were a slave, together with the additional fettersof slavery?

"What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever thereare none, I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent andrich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealthmakes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it. I havehands to work, and I shall get a living. If my hands fail me, Ishall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shalldie; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not thepenalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comesI defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; itshall never prevent me having lived. 

"My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should bein my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire whatis and I should never fight against fate. At least, there is onlyone chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I maybe justly proud. Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free. "

"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, andto behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggeratedunselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you havechildren of your own, and then you will be just what a good fatherand a wise man ought to be. I knew what the result would be beforeour travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would befar from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve. In vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws. The laws!Where is there any law? Where is there any respect for law? Underthe name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interestand human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of orderexist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; theyare written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;let him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but theevil-doer, for he always does evil against his will. Liberty isnot to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart ofthe free man, he bears her with him everywhere. The vile man bearshis slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, theother free in Paris. 

"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhapsask me, 'Which is my country?' And you would think you had put meto confusion. Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he whohas no country has, at least, the land in which he lives. There isalways a government and certain so-called laws under which he haslived in peace. What matter though the social contract has not beenobserved, if he has been protected by private interest against thegeneral will, if he has been secured by public violence againstprivate aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him tolove the good, and if our institutions themselves have made himperceive and hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is theman who owes nothing to the land in which he lives? Whatever thatland may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed byman, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue. Born inthe depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happinessand freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without astruggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he wouldnot have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions. The mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it. The publicgood, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him. He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrificehis own interest to the common weal. It is not true that he gainsnothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even inthe midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed tomake him free; they have taught him to rule himself. 

"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?' It does matterthat you should be where you can best do your duty; and one ofthese duties is to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymenprotected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood. You should live among them, or at least you should live where youcan serve them to the best of your power, and where they know whereto find you if ever they are in need of you. There are circumstancesin which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outsidehis country than within it. Then he should listen only to his ownzeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is oneof his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken thepainful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midstof your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasantintercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; yourexample will do more than all our books, and the good they see youdo will touch them more deeply than all our empty words. 

"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, oneof the examples which the good should give to others is that of apatriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful, the most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart. Happy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peacein the wilderness! But where is that country? A man of good willfinds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns, where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for. The welcomegiven by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek theirfortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the countryought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All themen who withdraw from high society are useful just because of theirwithdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers. They arealso useful when they can bring with them into the desert placeslife, culture, and the love of their first condition. I liketo think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, mayspread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country, how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers. 

"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming undercultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers andplenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; Isee the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which theyhave revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings ofthose about them. Men say the golden age is a fable; it always willbe for those whose feelings and taste are depraved. People do notreally regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it. What is needed for its restoration? One thing only, and that is animpossibility; we must love the golden age. 

"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together youwill only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dearEmile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste forsterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that theRomans sometimes left the plough to become consul. If the princeor the state calls you to the service of your country, leave allto fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assignedto you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourablemeans of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it willnot long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear thedifficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time, they will not summon you to serve the state. "

Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end oftheir love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A lovefounded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtueswhich will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of characterwhich gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age thedelights of early love. But all such details would be pleasing butnot useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractivedetails unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandonthis rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen isweary. Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandonthis if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be leftimperfect it is time it were finished. 

At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day ofEmile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin toappreciate their results. The noble pair are united till death dopart; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife. When they return from the church, they follow where they are led;they know not where they are, whither they are going, or what ishappening around them. They heed nothing, they answer at random;their eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture! Oh, human weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, heis not strong enough to bear it. 

There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-marriedcouple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversationof others seem to me equally out of place. I would rather theiryoung hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to anagitation which is not without its charm, rather than that theyshould be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed bycoarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at othertimes, are surely out of place on such a day. 

I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, givingno heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoyall the days of their life, shall I let them lose this preciousday? No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoythem. I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them insome quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of themI wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts, and I know that there is only one subject of which they can thinkto-day. 

"My children, " say I, taking a hand of each, "it is three yearssince I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which isyour happiness to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell methat it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline. "My readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile, and the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;how their eyes protest that they will adore each other till theirlatest breath. I let them have their way; then I continue:

"I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continuein marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this hasnever been. But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quiteworthy to set an example you have not received, an example whichfew married couples could follow. My children, shall I tell youwhat I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?"

They look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanksme curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has abetter, at any rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees withhim and seems just as certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I thinkI see a trace of curiosity. I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixedupon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; andhe pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to smile, and Isay to myself, "I will soon get your attention. "

The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulsesis characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; itis that men are generally less constant than women, and are soonerweary of success in love. A woman foresees man's future inconstancy, and is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous. [Footnote:In France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; andnecessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiringattention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention theycare very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; itis the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so, for women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desiresand only disgust them. There may be plenty of exceptions to thesegeneral truths; but I still think they are truths. ] When hispassion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentionshe used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is herturn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affectionand kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win themback. I return to my prescription against the cooling of love inmarriage. 

"It is plain and simple, " I continue. "It consists in remaininglovers when you are husband and wife. "

"Indeed, " said Emile, laughing at my secret, "we shall not findthat hard. "

"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me timeto explain. 

"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happenswhen the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. Thefidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred ofall rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other. Constraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not tobe had for the asking. Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to runaway. God forbid that I should offend your modesty! But your fatefor life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a conversationbetween your husband and your father which you would not permitelsewhere. 

"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, andaffection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress thana wife. How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, anda right of the sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire whichgives the right, and nature knows no other. The law may restrictthis right, it cannot extend it. The pleasure is so sweet in itself!Should it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain fromits own charms? No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound, but the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another fidelity, butnot complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another, butneither of you belongs to the other except at your own will. 

"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife'slover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be ahappy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing fromduty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace. I know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to beovercome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever bemistaken as to the real will? Will not he know when heart and eyesgrant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master of theirperson and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow themonly at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasureis only lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, mychildren, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, itwill make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety. Trueto one another, nature and love will draw you to each other. "

Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions. Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing. Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. YetI insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;I undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake hershare of the treaty. I incite her to speak, you may guess she willnot dare to say I am mistaken. Emile anxiously consults the eyes ofhis young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filledwith a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangersof trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapturethe hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity hehas already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her. "My dear wife, " said he, "be the arbiter of my pleasures as you arealready the arbiter of my life and fate. Should your cruelty costme life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights. Iwill owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart. "

Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let youfall a victim to your generosity. 

In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the mostsolemn tone, "Remember both of you, that you are free, that thereis no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference. Emile will you come home with me? Sophy permits it. " Emile is readyto strike me in his anger. "And you, Sophy, what do you say? ShallI take him away?" The little liar, blushing, answers, "Yes. " Atender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!

The next day. ... Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;their taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as theirhearts. They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive whatis truly delightful. You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, seeonly the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is veryimperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charmsof pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young couple, happily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chasteyet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they haveenjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightfulcertainty that they will spend the rest of their life together. Theheart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the realpicture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times withoutheeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it. Sophy, peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of herhusband. 

The day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to looksomewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tendereagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think thereis much amiss. As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;her eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;she is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little andvexes him still more. 

These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;I am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that, to his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was notpermitted last night to share Sophy's bed. That haughty lady hadmade haste to assert her right. An explanation takes place. Emilecomplains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile isreally getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tendernessand love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, butin a tone that goes to his heart, "Ungrateful man!" Emile is toostupid to understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away andspeak to Sophy privately in her turn. 

"I see, " said I, "the reason for this whim. No one could be moredelicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, donot be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treathim as such. You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has notsquandered his manhood and it will endure for you. My dear child, I must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation ofthe day before yesterday. Perhaps you only understood it as a wayof restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance. Oh, Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care. When Emilebecame your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; thisis the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however, good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature'slaws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, ashis sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiterof his pleasures. It will be hard for you, but you will control himif you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows methat this difficult art is not beyond your courage. You will longrule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, ifyou know how to use them aright. If you want to have your husbandalways in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your sternnessbe the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest notcapricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubtyour own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the morerespected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity, without having to complain of her coldness. 

"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listento your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decidenothing without you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays, and bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourselflovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalfof virtue, and love on behalf of reason. 

"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve yourpurpose. In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed bypossession, and love above all others. But when love has lasted longenough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidencesucceeds the raptures of passion. Children form a bond betweentheir parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimesstronger than love itself. When you cease to be Emile's mistress youwill be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children. Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullestintimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, nomore caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longerdo without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he isfar from himself. You have made the charms of home life so powerfulin your father's home, let them prevail in your own. Every man whois happy at home loves his wife. Remember that if your husband ishappy in his home, you will be a happy wife. 

"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deservesmore consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not carefor his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your ownhappiness. You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;you must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add tothe value of your favours. "

Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, "One mustbear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts besuch that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to thegraces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable. "Peace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms. The treatyis signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, "Dear Emile, all his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor. So farI have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is nowended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I abdicate theauthority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian. "

Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefullyenjoy the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthyhusband and wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint theirfelicity, would require the history of their lives. How often doesmy heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of mylife's work! How often do I take their hands in mine blessing Godwith all my heart! How often do I kiss their clasped hands! Howoften do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are touched bymy joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see theirown youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live, as it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the firsttime, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, whichprevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they wereyoung. If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you mustseek it in our abode. 

One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embracesme, saying, "My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon tohave the honour of being a father. What a responsibility will beours, how much we shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should letyou educate the son as you educated the father. God forbid that sosweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, eventhough I should make as good a choice for my child as was made forme! But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers. Adviseand control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shallneed you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up theduties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to followyour example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure. "

THE END