Result. The Pupil at the Age of Ten or Twelve.
Supposing that my method is indeed that of nature itself, and that I have made no mistakes in applying it, I have now conducted my pupil through the region of sensations to the boundaries of childish reason. The first step beyond should be that of a man. But before beginning this new career, let us for a moment cast our eyes over what we have just traversed. Every age and station in life has a perfection, a maturity, all its own. We often hear of a full-grown man; in contemplating a full-grown child we shall find more novelty, and perhaps no less pleasure.
The existence of finite beings is so barren and so limited that when we see only what is, it never stirs us to emotion. Real objects are adorned by the creations of fancy, and without this charm yield us but a barren satisfaction, tending no farther than to the organ that perceives them, and the heart is left cold. The earth, clad in the glories of autumn, displays a wealth which the wondering eye enjoys, but which arouses no feeling within us; it springs less from sentiment than from reflection. In spring the landscape is still almost bare; the forests yield no shade; the verdure is only beginning to bud; and yet the heart is deeply moved at the sight. We feel within us a new life, when we see nature thus revive; delightful images surround us; the companions of pleasure, gentle tears, ever ready to spring at the touch of tender feelings, brim our eyes. But upon the panorama of the vintage season, animated and pleasant though it be, we have no tears to bestow. Why is there this difference? It is because imagination joins to the sight of spring-time that of following seasons. To the tender buds the eye adds the flowers, the fruit, the shade, sometimes also the mysteries that may lie hid in them. Into a single point of time our fancy gathers all the year's seasons yet to be, and sees things less as they really will be than as it would choose to have them. In autumn, on the contrary, there is nothing but bare reality. If we think of spring then, the thought of winter checks us, and beneath snow and hoar-frost the chilled imagination dies.
The charm we feel in looking upon a lovely childhood rather than upon the perfection of mature age, arises from the same source. If the sight of a man in his prime gives us like pleasure, it is when the memory of what he has done leads us to review his past life and bring up his younger days. If we think of him as he is, or as he will be in old age, the idea of declining nature destroys all our pleasure. There can be none in seeing a man rapidly drawing near the grave; the image of death is a blight upon everything.
But when I imagine a child of ten or twelve, sound, vigorous, well developed for his age, it gives me pleasure, whether on account of the present or of the future. I see him impetuous, sprightly, animated, free from anxiety or corroding care, living wholly in his own present, and enjoying a life full to overflowing. I foresee what he will be in later years, using the senses, the intellect, the bodily vigor, every day unfolding within him. When I think of him as a child, he delights me; when I think of him as a man, he delights me still more. His glowing pulses seem to warm my own; I feel his life within myself, and his sprightliness renews my youth. His form, his bearing, his countenance, manifest self-confidence and happiness. Health glows in his face; his firm step is a sign of bodily vigor. His complexion, still delicate, but not insipid, has in it no effeminate softness, for air and sun have already given him the honorable stamp of his sex. His still rounded muscles are beginning to show signs of growing expressiveness. His eyes, not yet lighted with the fire of feeling, have all their natural serenity. Years of sorrow have never made them dim, nor have his cheeks been furrowed by unceasing tears. His quick but decided movements show the sprightliness of his age, and his sturdy independence; they bear testimony to the abundant physical exercise he has enjoyed. His bearing is frank and open, but not insolent or vain. His face, never glued to his books, is never downcast; you need not tell him to raise his head, for neither fear nor shame has ever made it droop.
Make room for him among you, and examine him, gentlemen. Question him with all confidence, without fear of his troubling you with idle chatter or impertinent queries. Do not be afraid of his taking up all your time, or making it impossible for you to get rid of him. You need not expect brilliant speeches that I have taught him, but only the frank and simple truth without preparation, ornament, or vanity. When he tells you what he has been thinking or doing, he will speak of the evil as freely as of the good, not in the least embarrassed by its effect upon those who hear him. He will use words in all the simplicity of their original meaning.
We like to prophesy good of children, and are always sorry when a stream of nonsense comes to disappoint hopes aroused by some chance repartee. My pupil seldom awakens such hopes, and will never cause such regrets: for he never utters an unnecessary word, or wastes breath in babble to which he knows nobody will listen. If his ideas have a limited range, they are nevertheless clear. If he knows nothing by heart, he knows a great deal from experience. If he does not read ordinary books so well as other children, he reads the book of nature far better. His mind is in his brain, and not at his tongue's end. He has less memory than judgment. He can speak only one language, but he understands what he says: and if he does not say it as well as another, he can do things far better than they can.
He does not know the meaning of custom or routine. What he did yesterday does not in any wise affect his actions of to-day. He never follows a rigid formula, or gives way in the least to authority or to example. Everything he does and says is after the natural fashion of his age. Expect of him, therefore, no formal speeches or studied manners, but always the faithful expression of his own ideas, and a conduct arising from his own inclinations.
You will find he has a few moral ideas in relation to his own concerns, but in regard to men in general, none at all. Of what use would these last be to him, since a child is not yet an active member of society? Speak to him of liberty, of property, even of things done by common consent, and he may understand you. He knows why his own things belong to him and those of another person do not, and beyond this he knows nothing. Speak to him of duty and obedience, and he will not know what you mean. Command him to do a thing, and he will not understand you. But tell him that if he will do you such and such a favor, you will do the same for him whenever you can, and he will readily oblige you; for he likes nothing better than to increase his power, and to lay you under obligations he knows to be inviolable. Perhaps, too, he enjoys being recognized as somebody and accounted worth something. But if this last be his motive, he has already left the path of nature, and you have not effectually closed the approaches to vanity.
If he needs help, he will ask it of the very first person he meets, be he monarch or man-servant; to him one man is as good as another.
By his manner of asking, you can see that he feels you do not owe him anything; he knows that what he asks is really a favor to him, which humanity will induce you to grant. His expressions are simple and laconic. His voice, his look, his gesture, are those of one equally accustomed to consent or to refusal. They show neither the cringing submission of a slave, nor the imperious tone of a master; but modest confidence in his fellow-creatures, and the noble and touching gentleness of one who is free, but sensitive and feeble, asking aid of another, also free, but powerful and kind. If you do what he asks, he does not thank you, but feels that he has laid himself under obligation. If you refuse, he will not complain or insist; he knows it would be of no use. He will not say, "I was refused," but "It was impossible." And, as has been already said, we do not often rebel against an acknowledged necessity.
Leave him at liberty and by himself, and without saying a word, watch what he does, and how he does it. Knowing perfectly well that he is free, he will do nothing from mere thoughtlessness, or just to show that he can do it; for is he not aware that he is always his own master? He is alert, nimble, and active; his movements have all the agility of his years; but you will not see one that has not some definite aim. No matter what he may wish to do, he will never undertake what he cannot do, for he has tested his own strength, and knows exactly what it is. The means he uses are always adapted to the end sought, and he rarely does anything without being assured he will succeed in it. His eye will be attentive and critical, and he will not ask foolish questions about everything he sees. Before making any inquiries he will tire himself trying to find a thing out for himself. If he meets with unexpected difficulties, he will be less disturbed by them than another child, and less frightened if there is danger. As nothing has been done to arouse his still dormant imagination, he sees things only as they are, estimates danger accurately, and is always self-possessed. He has so often had to give way to necessity that he no longer rebels against it. Having borne its yoke ever since he was born, he is accustomed to it, and is ready for whatever may come.
Work and play are alike to him; his plays are his occupations, and he sees no difference between the two. He throws himself into everything with charming earnestness and freedom, which shows the bent of his mind and the range of his knowledge. Who does not enjoy seeing a pretty child of this age, with his bright expression of serene content, and laughing, open countenance, playing at the most serious things, or deeply occupied with the most frivolous amusements? He has reached the maturity of childhood, has lived a child's life, not gaining perfection at the cost of his happiness, but developing the one by means of the other.
While acquiring all the reasoning power possible to his age, he has been as happy and as free as his nature allowed. If the fatal scythe is to cut down in him the flower of our hopes, we shall not be obliged to lament at the same time his life and his death. Our grief will not be embittered by the recollection of the sorrows we have made him feel. We shall be able to say, "At least, he enjoyed his childhood; we robbed him of nothing that nature gave him."
In regard to this early education, the chief difficulty is, that only far-seeing men can understand it, and that a child so carefully educated seems to an ordinary observer only a young scapegrace.
A tutor usually considers his own interests rather than those of his pupil. He devotes himself to proving that he loses no time and earns his salary. He teaches the child such accomplishments as can be readily exhibited when required, without regard to their usefulness or worthlessness, so long as they are showy. Without selecting or discerning, he charges the child's memory with a vast amount of rubbish. When the child is to be examined, the tutor makes him display his wares; and, after thus giving satisfaction, folds up his pack again, and goes his way.
My pupil is not so rich; he has no pack at all to display; he has nothing but himself. Now a child, like a man, cannot be seen all at once. What observer can at the first glance seize upon the child's peculiar traits? Such observers there are, but they are uncommon; and among a hundred thousand fathers you will not find one such.
[[1]] Puer, child; infans, one who does not speak.
[[2]] Reading these lines, we are reminded of the admirable works of Dickens, the celebrated English novelist, who so touchingly depicts the sufferings of children made unhappy by the inhumanity of teachers, or neglected as to their need of free air, of liberty, of affection: David Copperfield, Hard Times, Nicholas Nickleby, Dombey and Son, Oliver Twist, Little Dorrit, and the like.
[[3]] Here he means Xerxes, King of Persia, who had built an immense bridge of boats over the Hellespont to transport his army from Asia into Europe. A storm having destroyed this bridge, the all-powerful monarch, furious at the insubordination of the elements, ordered chains to be cast into the sea, and had the rebellious waves beaten with rods.
[[4]] The feeling of a republican, of the "citizen of Geneva," justly shocked by monarchial superstitions. Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had had, in fact, from the days of their first playthings, the degrading spectacle of a universal servility prostrated before their cradle. The sentiment here uttered was still uncommon and almost unknown when Rousseau wrote it. He did much toward creating it and making it popular.
[[5]] Civil bondage, as understood by Rousseau, consists in the laws and obligations of civilized life itself. He extols the state of nature as the ideal condition, the condition of perfect freedom, without seeing that, on the contrary, true liberty cannot exist without the protection of laws, while the state of nature is only the enslavement of the weak by the strong—the triumph of brute force.
[[6]] In this unconditional form the principle is inadmissible. Any one who has the rearing of children knows this. But the idea underlying the paradox ought to be recognized, for it is a just one. We ought not to command merely for the pleasure of commanding, but solely to interpret to the child the requirements of the case in hand. To command him for the sake of commanding is an abuse of power: it is a baseness which will end in disaster. On the other hand, we cannot leave it to circumstances to forbid what ought not to be done. Only, the command should be intelligible, reasonable, and unyielding. This is really what Rousseau means.
[[7]] This is not strictly true. The child early has the consciousness of right and wrong; and if it be true that neither chastisement nor reproof is to be abused, it is no less certain that conscience is early awake within him, and that it ought not to be neglected in a work so delicate as that of education: on condition, be it understood, that we act with simplicity, without pedantry, and that we employ example more than lectures. Rousseau says this admirably a few pages farther on.
[[8]] Nothing is more injudicious than such a question, especially when the child is in fault. In that case, if he thinks you know what he has done, he will see that you are laying a snare for him, and this opinion cannot fail to set him against you. If he thinks you do not know he will say to himself, "Why should I disclose my fault?" And thus the first temptation to falsehood is the result of your imprudent question.—[Note by J. J. ROUSSEAU.]
[[9]] He refers to Cato, surnamed of Utica, from the African city in which he ended his own life. When a child, he was often invited by his brother to the house of the all-powerful Sulla. The cruelties of the tyrant roused the boy to indignation, and it was necessary to watch him lest he should attempt to kill Sulla. It was in the latter's antechamber that the scene described by Plutarch occurred.
[[10]] While writing this I have reflected a hundred times that in an extended work it is impossible always to use the same words in the same sense. No language is rich enough to furnish terms and expressions to keep pace with the possible modifications of our ideas. The method which defines all the terms, and substitutes the definition for the term, is fine, but impracticable; for how shall we then avoid travelling in a circle? If definitions could be given without using words, they might be useful. Nevertheless, I am convinced that, poor as our language is, we can make ourselves understood, not by always attaching the same meaning to the same words, but by so using each word that its meaning shall be sufficiently determined by the ideas nearly related to it, and so that each sentence in which a word is used shall serve to define the word. Sometimes I say that children are incapable of reasoning, and sometimes I make them reason extremely well; I think that my ideas do not contradict each other, though I cannot escape the inconvenient contradictions of my mode of expression.
[[11]] Another exaggeration: the idea is not to teach children to speak another language as perfectly as their own. There are three different objects to be attained in studying languages. First, this study is meant to render easy by comparison and practice the knowledge and free use of the mother tongue. Second, it is useful as intellectual gymnastics, developing attention, reflection, reasoning, and taste. This result is to be expected particularly from the study of the ancient languages. Third, it lowers the barriers separating nations, and furnishes valuable means of intercourse which science, industries, and commerce cannot afford to do without. The French have not always shown wisdom in ignoring the language of their neighbors or their rivals.
[[12]] From this passage, it is plain that the objections lately raised by intelligent persons against the abuse of Latin conversations and verses are not of recent date, after all.
[[13]] There is indeed a faulty method of teaching history, by giving children a dry list of facts, names, and dates. On the other hand, to offer them theories upon the philosophy of history is quite as unprofitable. Yet it is not an absurd error, but a duty, to teach them the broad outlines of history, to tell them of deeds of renown, of mighty works accomplished, of men celebrated for the good or the evil they have done; to interest them in the past of humanity, be it melancholy or glorious. By abuse of logic Rousseau, in protesting against one excess, falls into another.
[[14]] Rousseau here analyzes several of La Fontaine's fables, to show the immorality and the danger of their "ethics." He dwells particularly upon the fable of the Fox and the Crow. In this he is right; the morality of the greater part of these fables leaves much to be desired. But there is nothing to prevent the teacher from making the application. The memory of a child is pliable and vigorous; not to cultivate it would be doing him great injustice. We need not say that a true teacher not only chooses, but by his instructions explains and rectifies everything he requires his pupil to read or to learn by heart. With this reservation one cannot but admire this aversion of Rousseau's for parrot-learning, word-worship, and exclusive cultivation of the memory. In a few pages may here be found a complete philosophy of teaching, adapted to the regeneration of a people.
[[15]] Rousseau here alludes to the typographical lottery invented by Louis Dumas, a French author of the eighteenth century. It was an imitation of a printing-office, and was intended to teach, in an agreeable way, not only reading, but even grammar and spelling. There may be good features in all these systems, but we certainly cannot save the child all trouble; we ought to let him understand that work must be in earnest. Besides, as moralists and teachers, we ought not to neglect giving children some kinds of work demanding application. They will be in better spirits for recreation hours after study.
[[16]] It is well to combine the two methods; to keep the child occupied with what immediately concerns him, and to interest him also in what is more remote, whether in space or in time. He ought not to become too positive, nor yet should he be chimerical. The "order of nature" itself has provided for this, by making the child inquisitive about things around him, and at the same time about things far away.
[[17]] This expresses rather too vehemently a true idea. Do not try to impart a rigid education whose apparent correctness hides grave defects. Allow free course to the child's instinctive activity and turbulence; let nature speak; do not crave reserve and fastidiousness at the expense of frankness and vigor of mind. This is what the writer really means.
[[18]] An English philosopher, who died in 1701. He wrote a very celebrated "Treatise on the Education of Children."
[[19]] A celebrated professor, Rector of the University of Paris, who died in 1741. He left a number of works on education.
[[20]] An abbé of the seventeenth century who wrote a much valued "History of the Church," and a "Treatise on the Method and Choice of Studies." He was tutor to Count Vermandois, natural son to Louis XIV.
[[21]] A professor of mathematics, born at Lausanne, tutor to Prince Fredrick of Hesse Cassel.
[[22]] "Passion is not born of familiar things."
[[23]] Recorded as illustrating Spartan education.