Émile; Or, Concerning Education; Extracts

by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Because the child has not this idea, he stretches out his hand indifferently to seize an object which touches him, or one which is a hundred paces distant from him. The effort he makes in doing this appears to you a sign of domination, an order he gives the object to come nearer, or to you to bring it to him. It is nothing of the kind. It means only that the object seen first within the brain, then upon the eye, is now seen at arm's length, and that he does not conceive of any distance beyond his reach. Be careful, then, to walk often with him, to transport him from one place to another, to let him feel the change of position, and, in this way to teach him how to judge of distances. When he begins to know them, change the plan; carry him only where it is convenient for you to do so, and not wherever it pleases him. For as soon as he is no longer deceived by the senses, his attempts arise from another cause. This change is remarkable and demands explanation.

The uneasiness arising from our wants expresses itself by signs whenever help in supplying these wants is needed; hence the cries of children. They cry a great deal, and this is natural. Since all their sensations are those of feeling, children enjoy them in silence, when the sensations are pleasant; otherwise they express them in their own language, and ask relief. Now as long as children are awake they cannot be in a state of indifference; they either sleep or are moved by pleasure and pain.

All our languages are the result of art. Whether there is a natural language, common to all mankind, has long been a matter of investigation. Without doubt there is such a language, and it is the one that children utter before they know how to talk. This language is not articulate, but it is accentuated, sonorous, intelligible. The using of our own language has led us to neglect this, even so far as to forget it altogether. Let us study children, and we shall soon acquire it again from them. Nurses are our teachers in this language. They understand all their nurslings say, they answer them, they hold really connected dialogues with them. And, although they pronounce words, these words are entirely useless; the child understands, not the meaning of the words, but the accent which accompanies them.

To the language of the voice is added the no less forcible language of gesture. This gesture is not that of children's feeble hands; it is that seen in their faces. It is astonishing to see how much expression these immature countenances already have. From moment to moment, their features change with inconceivable quickness. On them you see the smile, the wish, the fear, spring into life, and pass away, like so many lightning flashes. Each time you seem to see a different countenance. They certainly have much more flexible facial muscles than ours. On the other hand, their dull eyes tell us almost nothing at all.

Such is naturally the character of their expression when all their wants are physical. Sensations are made known by grimaces, sentiments by looks.

As the first state of man is wretchedness and weakness, so his first utterances are complaints and tears. The child feels his need and cannot satisfy it; he implores aid from others by crying. If he is hungry or thirsty, he cries; if he is too cold or too warm, he cries; if he wishes to move or to be kept at rest, he cries; if he wishes to sleep or to be moved about, he cries. The less control he has of his own mode of living, the oftener he asks those about him to change it. He has but one language, because he feels, so to speak, but one sort of discomfort. In the imperfect condition of his organs, he does not distinguish their different impressions; all ills produce in him only a sensation of pain.

From this crying, regarded as so little worthy of attention, arises the first relation of man to all that surrounds him; just here is forged the first link of that long chain which constitutes social order.

When the child cries, he is ill at ease; he has some want that he cannot satisfy. We examine into it, we search for the want, find it, and relieve it. When we cannot find it, or relieve it, the crying continues. We are annoyed by it; we caress the child to make him keep quiet, we rock him and sing to him, to lull him asleep. If he persists, we grow impatient; we threaten him; brutal nurses sometimes strike him. These are strange lessons for him upon his entrance into life.

The first crying of children is a prayer. If we do not heed it well, this crying soon becomes a command. They begin by asking our aid; they end by compelling us to serve them. Thus from their very weakness, whence comes, at first, their feeling of dependence, springs afterward the idea of empire, and of commanding others. But as this idea is awakened less by their own wants, than by the fact that we are serving them, those moral results whose immediate cause is not in nature, are here perceived. We therefore see why, even at this early age, it is important to discern the hidden purpose which dictates the gesture or the cry.

When the child stretches forth his hand with an effort, but without a sound, he thinks he can reach some object, because he does not properly estimate its distance; he is mistaken. But if, while stretching out his hand, he complains and cries, he is no longer deceived as to the distance. He is commanding the object to come to him, or is directing you to bring it to him. In the first case, carry him to the object slowly, and with short steps; in the second case, do not even appear to understand him. It is worth while to habituate him early not to command people, for he is not their master; nor things, for they cannot understand him. So, when a child wants something he sees, and we mean to give it to him, it is better to carry him to the object than to fetch the object to him. From this practice of ours he will learn a lesson suited to his age, and there is no better way of suggesting this lesson to him.