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Book IV - Age 15 to Age 20

How swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is gone
before we know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapable
of enjoying life. At first we do not know how to live; and when
we know how to live it is too late. In the interval between these
two useless extremes we waste three-fourths of our time sleeping,
working, sorrowing, enduring restraint and every kind of suffering.
Life is short, not so much because of the short time it lasts, but
because we are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain is
there a long interval between the hour of death and that of birth;
life is still too short, if this interval is not well spent.

We are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and born
into life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who regard woman
as an imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they have external
resemblance on their side. Up to the age of puberty children of
both sexes have little to distinguish them to the eye, the same
face and form, the same complexion and voice, everything is the
same; girls are children and boys are children; one name is enough
for creatures so closely resembling one another. Males whose development
is arrested preserve this resemblance all their lives; they are
always big children; and women who never lose this resemblance seem
in many respects never to be more than children.

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

As the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmur
of rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressed
excitement warns us of the approaching danger. A change of temper,
frequent outbreaks of anger, a perpetual stirring of the mind,
make the child almost ungovernable. He becomes deaf to the voice
he used to obey; he is a lion in a fever; he distrusts his keeper
and refuses to be controlled.

With the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptible
changes in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the stamp
of his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks becomes
darker and stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he loses it
altogether. He is neither a child nor a man and cannot speak like
either of them. His eyes, those organs of the soul which till
now were dumb, find speech and meaning; a kindling fire illumines
them, there is still a sacred innocence in their ever brightening
glance, but they have lost their first meaningless expression; he
is already aware that they can say too much; he is beginning to
learn to lower his eyes and blush, he is becoming sensitive, though
he does not know what it is that he feels; he is uneasy without
knowing why. All this may happen gradually and give you time enough;
but if his keenness becomes impatience, his eagerness madness, if
he is angry and sorry all in a moment, if he weeps without cause,
if in the presence of objects which are beginning to be a source
of danger his pulse quickens and his eyes sparkle, if he trembles
when a woman's hand touches his, if he is troubled or timid in her
presence, O Ulysses, wise Ulysses! have a care! The passages you
closed with so much pains are open; the winds are unloosed; keep
your hand upon the helm or all is lost.

This is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man really
enters upon life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to him.
Our efforts so far have been child's play, now they are of the
greatest importance. This period when education is usually finished
is just the time to begin; but to explain this new plan properly,
let us take up our story where we left it.

Our passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try to
destroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this would
be to overcome nature, to reshape God's handiwork. If God bade
man annihilate the passions he has given him, God would bid him be
and not be; He would contradict himself. He has never given such a
foolish commandment, there is nothing like it written on the heart
of man, and what God will have a man do, He does not leave to the
words of another man. He speaks Himself; His words are written in
the secret heart.

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

But should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passions
are natural to man, we inferred that all the passions we feel in
ourselves and behold in others are natural? Their source, indeed,
is natural; but they have been swollen by a thousand other streams;
they are a great river which is constantly growing, one in which
we can scarcely find a single drop of the original stream. Our
natural passions are few in number; they are the means to freedom,
they tend to self-preservation. All those which enslave and destroy
us have another source; nature does not bestow them on us; we seize
on them in her despite.

The origin of our passions, the root and spring of all the rest,
the only one which is born with man, which never leaves him as long
as he lives, is self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive,
it precedes all the rest, which are in a sense only modifications
of it. In this sense, if you like, they are all natural. But most
of these modifications are the result of external influences,
without which they would never occur, and such modifications, far
from being advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the original
purpose and work against its end; then it is that man finds himself
outside nature and at strife with himself.

Self-love is always good, always in accordance with the order of
nature. The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted to
each one of us, and our first care is, and must be, to watch over
our own life; and how can we continually watch over it, if we do
not take the greatest interest in it?

Self-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love ourselves;
we must love ourselves above everything, and it follows directly
from this that we love what contributes to our preservation. Every
child becomes fond of its nurse; Romulus must have loved the she-wolf
who suckled him. At first this attachment is quite unconscious; the
individual is attracted to that which contributes to his welfare and
repelled by that which is harmful; this is merely blind instinct.
What transforms this instinct into feeling, the liking into love,
the aversion into hatred, is the evident intention of helping
or hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to objects
without feeling, which only follow the direction given them; but
those from which we expect benefit or injury from their internal
disposition, from their will, those we see acting freely for or
against us, inspire us with like feelings to those they exhibit
towards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but we love
the person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink from
it, but we hate the person who tries to hurt us.

The child's first sentiment is self-love, his second, which is
derived from it, is love of those about him; for in his present
state of weakness he is only aware of people through the help and
attention received from them. At first his affection for his nurse
and his governess is mere habit. He seeks them because he needs
them and because he is happy when they are there; it is rather
perception than kindly feeling. It takes a long time to discover
not merely that they are useful to him, but that they desire to be
useful to him, and then it is that he begins to love them.

So a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because he
sees that every one about him is inclined to help him, and from
this experience he gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards his
species; but with the expansion of his relations, his needs, his
dependence, active or passive, the consciousness of his relations
to others is awakened, and leads to the sense of duties and
preferences. Then the child becomes masterful, jealous, deceitful,
and vindictive. If he is not compelled to obedience, when he does
not see the usefulness of what he is told to do, he attributes it
to caprice, to an intention of tormenting him, and he rebels. If
people give in to him, as soon as anything opposes him he regards
it as rebellion, as a determination to resist him; he beats the chair
or table for disobeying him. Self-love, which concerns itself only
with ourselves, is content to satisfy our own needs; but selfishness,
which is always comparing self with others, is never satisfied and
never can be; for this feeling, which prefers ourselves to others,
requires that they should prefer us to themselves, which is impossible.
Thus the tender and gentle passions spring from self-love, while
the hateful and angry passions spring from selfishness. So it is
the fewness of his needs, the narrow limits within which he can
compare himself with others, that makes a man really good; what
makes him really bad is a multiplicity of needs and dependence on
the opinions of others. It is easy to see how we can apply this
principle and guide every passion of children and men towards
good or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will be
hard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increase
of necessity as his relations with others are extended. For this
reason, above all, the dangers of social life demand that the
necessary skill and care shall be devoted to guarding the human
heart against the depravity which springs from fresh needs.

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

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

The direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attracted
by the other; that is the impulse of nature. Choice, preferences,
individual likings, are the work of reason, prejudice, and habit;
time and knowledge are required to make us capable of love; we do
not love without reasoning or prefer without comparison. These judgments
are none the less real, although they are formed unconsciously.
True love, whatever you may say, will always be held in honour
by mankind; for although its impulses lead us astray, although it
does not bar the door of the heart to certain detestable qualities,
although it even gives rise to these, yet it always presupposes
certain worthy characteristics, without which we should be incapable
of love. This choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason,
really springs from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyes
are better than ours, and he perceives relations which we cannot
discern. All women would be alike to a man who had no idea of virtue
or beauty, and the first comer would always be the most charming.
Love does not spring from nature, far from it; it is the curb and
law of her desires; it is love that makes one sex indifferent to
the other, the loved one alone excepted.

We wish to inspire the preference we feel; love must be mutual.
To be loved we must be worthy of love; to be preferred we must be
more worthy than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved.
Hence we begin to look around among our fellows; we begin to compare
ourselves with them, there is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy.
A heart full to overflowing loves to make itself known; from the
need of a mistress there soon springs the need of a friend He who
feels how sweet it is to be loved, desires to be loved by everybody;
and there could be no preferences if there were not many that
fail to find satisfaction. With love and friendship there begin
dissensions, enmity, and hatred. I behold deference to other
people's opinions enthroned among all these divers passions, and
foolish mortals, enslaved by her power, base their very existence
merely on what other people think.

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

Let us begin with some considerations of importance with regard to
the critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood to
puberty is not so clearly determined by nature but that it varies
according to individual temperament and racial conditions. Everybody
knows the differences which have been observed with regard to this
between hot and cold countries, and every one sees that ardent
temperaments mature earlier than others; but we may be mistaken as
to the causes, and we may often attribute to physical causes what
is really due to moral: this is one of the commonest errors in
the philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature comes slowly;
man's lessons are mostly premature. In the former case, the senses
kindle the imagination, in the latter the imagination kindles the
senses; it gives them a precocious activity which cannot fail to
enervate the individual and, in the long run, the race. It is a more
general and more trustworthy fact than that of climatic influences,
that puberty and sexual power is always more precocious among
educated and civilised races, than among the ignorant and barbarous.
[Footnote: "In towns," says M. Buffon, "and among the well-to-do
classes, children accustomed to plentiful and nourishing food sooner
reach this state; in the country and among the poor, children are
more backward, because of their poor and scanty food." I admit the
fact but not the explanation, for in the districts where the food
of the villagers is plentiful and good, as in the Valais and even
in some of the mountain districts of Italy, such as Friuli, the
age of puberty for both sexes is quite as much later than in the
heart of the towns, where, in order to gratify their vanity, people
are often extremely parsimonious in the matter of food, and where
most people, in the words of the proverb, have a velvet coat and
an empty belly. It is astonishing to find in these mountainous
regions big lads as strong as a man with shrill voices and smooth
chins, and tall girls, well developed in other respects, without
any trace of the periodic functions of their sex. This difference
is, in my opinion, solely due to the fact that in the simplicity of
their manners the imagination remains calm and peaceful, and does
not stir the blood till much later, and thus their temperament
is much less precocious.] Children are preternaturally quick to
discern immoral habits under the cloak of decency with which they
are concealed. The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessons
in good behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang before
their eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. It is plain,
from the way you set about it, that they are meant to learn what
you profess to conceal; and of all you teach them this is most
quickly assimilated.

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

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

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

From these considerations I arrive at the solution of the question
so often discussed--Should we enlighten children at an early period
as to the objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put them
off with decent shams? I think we need do neither. In the first
place, this curiosity will not arise unless we give it a chance.
We must therefore take care not to give it an opportunity. In the
next place, questions one is not obliged to answer do not compel us
to deceive those who ask them; it is better to bid the child hold
his tongue than to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly surprised
at this treatment if you have already accustomed him to it in matters
of no importance. Lastly, if you decide to answer his questions,
let it be with the greatest plainness, without mystery or confusion,
without a smile. It is much less dangerous to satisfy a child's
curiosity than to stimulate it.

Let your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without trace
of hesitation. I need not add that they should be true. We cannot
teach children the danger of telling lies to men without realising,
on the man's part, the danger of telling lies to children. A single
untruth on the part of the master will destroy the results of his
education.

Complete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps the
best thing for children; but let them learn very early what it is
impossible to conceal from them permanently. Either their curiosity
must never be aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age when
it becomes a source of danger. Your conduct towards your pupil
in this respect depends greatly on his individual circumstances,
the society in which he moves, the position in which he may find
himself, etc. Nothing must be left to chance; and if you are not
sure of keeping him in ignorance of the difference between the
sexes till he is sixteen, take care you teach him before he is ten.

I do not like people to be too fastidious in speaking with children,
nor should they go out of their way to avoid calling a spade a
spade; they are always found out if they do. Good manners in this
respect are always perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled by
vice makes the ear over-sensitive and compels us to be constantly
refining our expressions. Plain words do not matter; it is lascivious
ideas which must be avoided.

Although modesty is natural to man, it is not natural to children.
Modesty only begins with the knowledge of evil; and how should
children without this knowledge of evil have the feeling which
results from it? To give them lessons in modesty and good conduct
is to teach them that there are things shameful and wicked, and to
give them a secret wish to know what these things are. Sooner or
later they will find out, and the first spark which touches the
imagination will certainly hasten the awakening of the senses.
Blushes are the sign of guilt; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.

Children have not the same desires as men; but they are subject
like them to the same disagreeable needs which offend the senses,
and by this means they may receive the same lessons in propriety.
Follow the mind of nature which has located in the same place
the organs of secret pleasures and those of disgusting needs; she
teaches us the same precautions at different ages, sometimes by means
of one idea and sometimes by another; to the man through modesty,
to the child through cleanliness.

I can only find one satisfactory way of preserving the child's
innocence, to surround him by those who respect and love him.
Without this all our efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooner
or later; a smile, a wink, a careless gesture tells him all we
sought to hide; it is enough to teach him to perceive that there
is something we want to hide from him. The delicate phrases and
expressions employed by persons of politeness assume a knowledge
which children ought not to possess, and they are quite out of
place with them, but when we truly respect the child's innocence we
easily find in talking to him the simple phrases which befit him.
There is a certain directness of speech which is suitable and
pleasing to innocence; this is the right tone to adopt in order
to turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By speaking simply to
him about everything you do not let him suspect there is anything
left unsaid. By connecting coarse words with the unpleasant ideas
which belong to them, you quench the first spark of imagination;
you do not forbid the child to say these words or to form these
ideas; but without his knowing it you make him unwilling to recall
them. And how much confusion is spared to those who speaking from
the heart always say the right thing, and say it as they themselves
have felt it!

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

Let me tell you a very different answer which I heard given to
the same question, one which made all the more impression on me,
coming, as it did, from a woman, modest in speech and behaviour,
but one who was able on occasion, for the welfare of her child
and for the cause of virtue, to cast aside the false fear of blame
and the silly jests of the foolish. Not long before the child had
passed a small stone which had torn the passage, but the trouble
was over and forgotten. "Mamma," said the eager child, "where do
little children come from?" "My child," replied his mother without
hesitation, "women pass them with pains that sometimes cost their
life." Let fools laugh and silly people be shocked; but let the
wise inquire if it is possible to find a wiser answer and one which
would better serve its purpose.

In the first place the thought of a need of nature with which
the child is well acquainted turns his thoughts from the idea
of a mysterious process. The accompanying ideas of pain and death
cover it with a veil of sadness which deadens the imagination and
suppresses curiosity; everything leads the mind to the results, not
the causes, of child-birth. This is the information to which this
answer leads. If the repugnance inspired by this answer should
permit the child to inquire further, his thoughts are turned to the
infirmities of human nature, disgusting things, images of pain.
What chance is there for any stimulation of desire in such a
conversation? And yet you see there is no departure from truth, no
need to deceive the scholar in order to teach him.

Your children read; in the course of their reading they meet
with things they would never have known without reading. Are they
students, their imagination is stimulated and quickened in the
silence of the study. Do they move in the world of society, they hear
a strange jargon, they see conduct which makes a great impression
on them; they have been told so continually that they are men that
in everything men do in their presence they at once try to find
how that will suit themselves; the conduct of others must indeed
serve as their pattern when the opinions of others are their law.
Servants, dependent on them, and therefore anxious to please them,
flatter them at the expense of their morals; giggling governesses
say things to the four-year-old child which the most shameless
woman would not dare to say to them at fifteen. They soon forget
what they said, but the child has not forgotten what he heard.
Loose conversation prepares the way for licentious conduct; the
child is debauched by the cunning lacquey, and the secret of the
one guarantees the secret of the other.

The child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knows
no attachment but that of habit, he loves his sister like his watch,
and his friend like his dog. He is unconscious of his sex and his
species; men and women are alike unknown; he does not connect their
sayings and doings with himself, he neither sees nor hears, or he
pays no heed to them; he is no more concerned with their talk than
their actions; he has nothing to do with it. This is no artificial
error induced by our method, it is the ignorance of nature. The
time is at hand when that same nature will take care to enlighten
her pupil, and then only does she make him capable of profiting
by the lessons without danger. This is our principle; the details
of its rules are outside my subject; and the means I suggest with
regard to other matters will still serve to illustrate this.

Do you wish to establish law and order among the rising passions,
prolong the period of their development, so that they may have time
to find their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlled
by nature herself, not by man; your task is merely to leave it
in her hands. If your pupil were alone, you would have nothing to
do; but everything about him enflames his imagination. He is swept
along on the torrent of conventional ideas; to rescue him you must
urge him in the opposite direction. Imagination must be curbed
by feeling and reason must silence the voice of conventionality.
Sensibility is the source of all the passions, imagination determines
their course. Every creature who is aware of his relations must
be disturbed by changes in these relations and when he imagines
or fancies he imagines others better adapted to his nature. It is
the errors of the imagination which transmute into vices the passions
of finite beings, of angels even, if indeed they have passions; for
they must needs know the nature of every creature to realise what
relations are best adapted to themselves.

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

But is man in a position to control his affections according to
such and such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix his
imagination on this or that object, or to form this or that habit.
Moreover, we are not so much concerned with what a man can do for
himself, as with what we can do for our pupil through our choice
of the circumstances in which he shall be placed. To show the means
by which he may be kept in the path of nature is to show plainly
enough how he might stray from that path.

So long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is no
morality in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyond
himself that he forms first the sentiments and then the ideas of
good and ill, which make him indeed a man, and an integral part of
his species. To begin with we must therefore confine our observations
to this point.

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

A child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only awaiting
the power to put into practice the precocious instruction he has
received, is never mistaken with regard to the time when this power
is acquired. Far from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he stirs his
blood to a premature ferment; he knows what should be the object
of his desires long before those desires are experienced. It is
not nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces the hand of
nature; she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a man; he was
a man in thought long before he was a man in reality.

The true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little by
little the blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the character
is formed. The wise workman who directs the process is careful
to perfect every tool before he puts it to use; the first desires
are preceded by a long period of unrest, they are deceived by a
prolonged ignorance, they know not what they want. The blood ferments
and bubbles; overflowing vitality seeks to extend its sphere. The
eye grows brighter and surveys others, we begin to be interested
in those about us, we begin to feel that we are not meant to live
alone; thus the heart is thrown open to human affection, and becomes
capable of attachment.

The first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable is
not love but friendship. The first work of his rising imagination
is to make known to him his fellows; the species affects him before
the sex. Here is another advantage to be gained from prolonged
innocence; you may take advantage of his dawning sensibility to sow
the first seeds of humanity in the heart of the young adolescent.
This advantage is all the greater because this is the only time in
his life when such efforts may be really successful.

I have always observed that young men, corrupted in early youth
and addicted to women and debauchery, are inhuman and cruel; their
passionate 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 sacrificed
father, mother, the whole world, to the least of their pleasures.
A young man, on the other hand, brought up in happy innocence, is
drawn by the first stirrings of nature to the tender and affectionate
passions; his warm heart is touched by the sufferings of his
fellow-creatures; he trembles with delight when he meets his comrade,
his arms can embrace tenderly, his eyes can shed tears of pity; he
learns to be sorry for offending others through his shame at causing
annoyance. If the eager warmth of his blood makes him quick, hasty,
and passionate, a moment later you see all his natural kindness of
heart in the eagerness of his repentance; he weeps, he groans over
the wound he has given; he would atone for the blood he has shed
with his own; his anger dies away, his pride abases itself before
the consciousness of his wrong-doing. Is he the injured party, in
the height of his fury an excuse, a word, disarms him; he forgives
the wrongs of others as whole-heartedly as he repairs his own.
Adolescence is not the age of hatred or vengeance; it is the age of
pity, mercy, and generosity. Yes, I maintain, and I am not afraid
of the testimony of experience, a youth of good birth, one who has
preserved his innocence up to the age of twenty, is at that age
the best, the most generous, the most loving, and the most lovable
of men. You never heard such a thing; I can well believe that
philosophers such as you, brought up among the corruption of the
public schools, are unaware of it.

Man's weakness makes him sociable. Our common sufferings draw our
hearts to our fellow-creatures; we should have no duties to mankind
if we were not men. Every affection is a sign of insufficiency;
if each of us had no need of others, we should hardly think of
associating with them. So our frail happiness has its roots in our
weakness. A really happy man is a hermit; God only enjoys absolute
happiness; but which of us has any idea what that means? If
any imperfect creature were self-sufficing, what would he have to
enjoy? To our thinking he would be wretched and alone. I do not
understand 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-creatures
less by our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for in
them we discern more plainly a nature like our own, and a pledge
of their affection for us. If our common needs create a bond
of interest our common sufferings create a bond of affection. The
sight of a happy man arouses in others envy rather than love, we
are ready to accuse him of usurping a right which is not his, of
seeking happiness for himself alone, and our selfishness suffers
an 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 man
than of the happy man; we feel that the one condition touches us
more nearly than the other. Pity is sweet, because, when we put
ourselves in the place of one who suffers, we are aware, nevertheless,
of the pleasure of not suffering like him. Envy is bitter, because
the 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 to
exempt us from the pains he suffers, the other seems to deprive us
of the good things he enjoys.

Do you desire to stimulate and nourish the first stirrings of
awakening sensibility in the heart of a young man, do you desire
to incline his disposition towards kindly deed and thought, do
not cause the seeds of pride, vanity, and envy to spring up in him
through the misleading picture of the happiness of mankind; do not
show him to begin with the pomp of courts, the pride of palaces,
the delights of pageants; do not take him into society and into
brilliant assemblies; do not show him the outside of society till
you have made him capable of estimating it at its true worth.
To show him the world before he is acquainted with men, is not to
train 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 of
life, its disappointments, its ills, its needs, its suffering of
every kind; and all are condemned at length to die. This is what
it really means to be a man, this is what no mortal can escape.
Begin then with the study of the essentials of humanity, that which
really constitutes mankind.

At sixteen the adolescent knows what it is to suffer, for he himself
has suffered; but he scarcely realises that others suffer too; to
see without feeling is not knowledge, and as I have said again and
again the child who does not picture the feelings of others knows
no ills but his own; but when his imagination is kindled by the
first beginnings of growing sensibility, he begins to perceive
himself in his fellow-creatures, to be touched by their cries, to
suffer in their sufferings. It is at this time that the sorrowful
picture of suffering humanity should stir his heart with the first
touch 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, you
taught them so early its language, that speaking continually in
the same strain they turn your lessons against yourself, and give
you no chance of discovering when they cease to lie, and begin to
feel what they say. But look at Emile; I have led him up to this
age, and he has neither felt nor pretended to feel. He has never
said, "I love you dearly," till he knew what it was to love; he has
never been taught what expression to assume when he enters the room
of his father, his mother, or his sick tutor; he has not learnt the
art of affecting a sorrow he does not feel. He has never pretended
to weep for the death of any one, for he does not know what it is
to die. There is the same insensibility in his heart as in his
manners. Indifferent, like every child, to every one but himself,
he takes no interest in any one; his only peculiarity is that he
will not pretend to take such an interest; he is less deceitful
than others.

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

So pity is born, the first relative sentiment which touches the
human heart according to the order of nature. To become sensitive
and pitiful the child must know that he has fellow-creatures who
suffer as he has suffered, who feel the pains he has felt, and
others which he can form some idea of, being capable of feeling
them himself. Indeed, how can we let ourselves be stirred by pity
unless we go beyond ourselves, and identify ourselves with the
suffering animal, by leaving, so to speak, our own nature and taking
his. We only suffer so far as we suppose he suffers; the suffering
is not ours but his. So no one becomes sensitive till his imagination
is 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 present
to the young man objects on which the expansive force of his heart
may take effect, objects which dilate it, which extend it to other
creatures, which take him outside himself? should we not carefully
remove everything that narrows, concentrates, and strengthens the
power of the human self? that is to say, in other words, we should
arouse in him kindness, goodness, pity, and beneficence, all the
gentle 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 sensibility
not merely a cipher but a minus quantity, passions which are the
curse of those who feel them.

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

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

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

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

From this we see that to incline a young man to humanity you must
not make him admire the brilliant lot of others; you must show
him life in its sorrowful aspects and arouse his fears. Thus it
becomes clear that he must force his own way to happiness, without
interfering with the happiness of others.

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

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

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

Why have kings no pity on their people? Because they never expect
to be ordinary men. Why are the rich so hard on the poor? Because
they have no fear of becoming poor. Why do the nobles look down
upon the people? Because a nobleman will never be one of the lower
classes. Why are the Turks generally kinder and more hospitable
than ourselves? Because, under their wholly arbitrary system of
government, the rank and wealth of individuals are always uncertain
and precarious, so that they do not regard poverty and degradation
as conditions with which they have no concern; to-morrow, any one
may himself be in the same position as those on whom he bestows
alms to-day. This thought, which occurs again and again in eastern
romances, lends them a certain tenderness which is not to be found
in our pretentious and harsh morality.

So do not train your pupil to look down from the height of his glory
upon the sufferings of the unfortunate, the labours of the wretched,
and do not hope to teach him to pity them while he considers them
as far removed from himself. Make him thoroughly aware of the fact
that the fate of these unhappy persons may one day be his own, that
his feet are standing on the edge of the abyss, into which he may
be plunged at any moment by a thousand unexpected irresistible
misfortunes. Teach him to put no trust in birth, health, or riches;
show him all the changes of fortune; find him examples--there are
only too many of them--in which men of higher rank than himself
have sunk below the condition of these wretched ones. Whether by
their own fault or another's is for the present no concern of ours;
does he indeed know the meaning of the word fault? Never interfere
with the order in which he acquires knowledge, and teach him only
through the means within his reach; it needs no great learning
to perceive that all the prudence of mankind cannot make certain
whether he will be alive or dead in an hour's time, whether
before nightfall he will not be grinding his teeth in the pangs of
nephritis, whether a month hence he will be rich or poor, whether
in a year's time he may not be rowing an Algerian galley under the
lash of the slave-driver. Above all do not teach him this, like
his catechism, in cold blood; let him see and feel the calamities
which overtake men; surprise and startle his imagination with the
perils which lurk continually about a man's path; let him see the
pitfalls all about him, and when he hears you speak of them, let
him cling more closely to you for fear lest he should fall. "You
will make him timid and cowardly," do you say? We shall see; let
us make him kindly to begin with, that is what matters most.

THIRD MAXIM.--The pity we feel for others is proportionate, not
to the amount of the evil, but to the feelings we attribute to the
sufferers.

We only pity the wretched so far as we think they feel the need of
pity. The bodily effect of our sufferings is less than one would
suppose; it is memory that prolongs the pain, imagination which
projects it into the future, and makes us really to be pitied.
This is, I think, one of the reasons why we are more callous to
the sufferings of animals than of men, although a fellow-feeling
ought to make us identify ourselves equally with either. We scarcely
pity the cart-horse in his shed, for we do not suppose that while
he is eating his hay he is thinking of the blows he has received
and the labours in store for him. Neither do we pity the sheep
grazing 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. In
this way we also become callous to the fate of our fellow-men, and
the rich console themselves for the harm done by them to the poor,
by the assumption that the poor are too stupid to feel. I usually
judge of the value any one puts on the welfare of his fellow-creatures
by what he seems to think of them. We naturally think lightly of
the happiness of those we despise. It need not surprise you that
politicians speak so scornfully of the people, and philosophers
profess to think mankind so wicked.

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

There is, so our wiseacres tell us, the same amount of happiness
and sorrow in every station. This saying is as deadly in its effects
as it is incapable of proof; if all are equally happy why should
I trouble myself about any one? Let every one stay where he is;
leave the slave to be ill-treated, the sick man to suffer, and
the wretched to perish; they have nothing to gain by any change in
their condition. You enumerate the sorrows of the rich, and show the
vanity of his empty pleasures; what barefaced sophistry! The rich
man's sufferings do not come from his position, but from himself
alone when he abuses it. He is not to be pitied were he indeed
more 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 poor
man come from external things, from the hardships fate has imposed
upon him. No amount of habit can accustom him to the bodily ills
of fatigue, exhaustion, and hunger. Neither head nor heart can serve
to free him from the sufferings of his condition. How is Epictetus
the better for knowing beforehand that his master will break his
leg for him; does he do it any the less? He has to endure not only
the pain itself but the pains of anticipation. If the people were
as wise as we assume them to be stupid, how could they be other
than they are? Observe persons of this class; you will see that,
with a different way of speaking, they have as much intelligence
and more common-sense than yourself. Have respect then for your
species; remember that it consists essentially of the people, that
if all the kings and all the philosophers were removed they would
scarcely 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 appreciate
him; act in such way that he is not a member of any class, but
takes his place in all alike: speak in his hearing of the human
race 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 the
beaten paths--that we must reach the heart of the young adolescent
And stimulate in him the first impulses of nature; we must develop
that heart and open its doors to his fellow-creatures, and there
must be as little self-interest as possible mixed up with these
impulses; above all, no vanity, no emulation, no boasting, none of
those sentiments which force us to compare ourselves with others;
for such comparisons are never made without arousing some measure
of hatred against those who dispute our claim to the first place,
were it only in our own estimation. Then we must be either blind
or angry, a bad man or a fool; let us try to avoid this dilemma.
Sooner or later these dangerous passions will appear, so you tell
me, in spite of us. I do not deny it. There is a time and place
for everything; I am only saying that we should not help to arouse
these passions.

This is the spirit of the method to be laid down. In this case examples
and illustrations are useless, for here we find the beginning of
the countless differences of character, and every example I gave
would possibly apply to only one case in a hundred thousand. It is
at this age that the clever teacher begins his real business, as
a student and a philosopher who knows how to probe the heart and
strives to guide it aright. While the young man has not learnt to
pretend, while he does not even know the meaning of pretence, you
see by his look, his manner, his gestures, the impression he has
received from any object presented to him; you read in his countenance
every impulse of his heart; by watching his expression you learn
to 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 directs
the senses towards things connected with suffering, are usually the
first to make an impression on all men. The idea of destruction, a
more complex matter, does not have so great an effect; the thought
of death affects us later and less forcibly, for no one knows from
his own experience what it is to die; you must have seen corpses
to feel the agonies of the dying. But when once this idea is
established in the mind, there is no spectacle more dreadful in our
eyes, whether because of the idea of complete destruction which it
arouses through our senses, or because we know that this moment must
come for each one of us and we feel ourselves all the more keenly
affected by a situation from which we know there is no escape.

These various impressions differ in manner and in degree, according to
the 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 we
receive from moral suffering, inward grief, the sufferings of the
mind, depression, and sadness. There are men who can be touched by
nothing but groans and tears; the suppressed sobs of a heart labouring
under sorrow would never win a sigh; the sight of a downcast visage, a
pale and gloomy countenance, eyes which can weep no longer, would
never draw a tear from them. The sufferings of the mind are as
nothing 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 just
without 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 no
idea of the moral sufferings they have never had to endure; for
once again they can only pity the ills they know, and this apparent
insensibility is soon transformed into pity when they begin to feel
that there are in human life a thousand ills of which they know
nothing. As for Emile, if in childhood he was distinguished by
simplicity and good sense, in his youth he will show a warm and
tender heart; for the reality of the feelings depends to a great
extent on the accuracy of the ideas.

But why call him hither? More than one reader will reproach me
no doubt for departing from my first intention and forgetting the
lasting happiness I promised my pupil. The sorrowful, the dying,
such sights of pain and woe, what happiness, what delight is this
for a young heart on the threshold of life? His gloomy tutor, who
proposed to give him such a pleasant education, only introduces him
to life that he may suffer. This is what they will say, but what
care 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 at
once to Olympus, and moves in the smartest society; he is taken
to 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 his
reason; I assume it can stand it. Pleasures fly before him, every
day provides him with fresh amusements; he flings himself into
everything with an eagerness which carries you away. You find him
busy, eager, and curious; his first wonder makes a great impression
on 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-called
pleasures, hitherto unknown. Most of these pleasures are only for
a moment within his reach, and seem to show themselves only to
inspire regret for their loss. Does he wander through a palace;
you see by his uneasy curiosity that he is asking why his father's
house is not like it. Every question shows you that he is comparing
himself all the time with the owner of this grand place. And all
the mortification arising from this comparison at once revolts and
stimulates his vanity. If he meets a young man better dressed than
himself, I find him secretly complaining of his parents' meanness.
If he is better dressed than another, he suffers because the latter
is his superior in birth or in intellect, and all his gold lace is
put to shame by a plain cloth coat. Does he shine unrivalled in
some assembly, does he stand on tiptoe that they may see him better,
who is there who does not secretly desire to humble the pride and
vanity of the young fop? Everybody is in league against him; the
disquieting glances of a solemn man, the biting phrases of some
satirical person, do not fail to reach him, and if it were only
one man who despised him, the scorn of that one would poison in a
moment 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 run
after 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 are
always anticipated; they never have time to spring up among his
pleasures, so he only feels the tedium of restraint. Even before
he knows it he is disgusted and satiated with the sex formed to
be the delight of his own; if he continues its pursuit it is only
through vanity, and even should he really be devoted to women, he
will not be the only brilliant, the only attractive young man, nor
will he always find his mistresses prodigies of fidelity.

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

Hitherto the young man has lived in the bosom of his family and his
friends, and has been the sole object of their care; what a change
to enter all at once into a region where he counts for so little; to
find himself plunged into another sphere, he who has been so long
the centre of his own. What insults, what humiliation, must he endure,
before he loses among strangers the ideas of his own importance
which have been formed and nourished among his own people! As
a child everything gave way to him, everybody flocked to him; as
a young man he must give place to every one, or if he preserves
ever so little of his former airs, what harsh lessons will bring
him to himself! Accustomed to get everything he wants without any
difficulty, 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, he
would always be master. He is devoured by vanity, his young heart
is enflamed by unbridled passions, jealousy and hatred among the
rest; all these violent passions burst out at once; their sting
rankles in him in the busy world, they return with him at night, he
comes back dissatisfied with himself, with others; he falls asleep
among 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 much
for your pupil; let us turn to mine.

If the first thing to make an impression on him is something
sorrowful his first return to himself is a feeling of pleasure.
When he sees how many ills he has escaped he thinks he is happier
than 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 of
being exempt from them; he feels in himself that state of vigour
which projects us beyond ourselves, and bids us carry elsewhere
the superfluous activity of our well-being. To pity another's woes
we must indeed know them, but we need not feel them. When we have
suffered, when we are in fear of suffering, we pity those who
suffer; but when we suffer ourselves, we pity none but ourselves.
But if all of us, being subject ourselves to the ills of life, only
bestow upon others the sensibility we do not actually require for
ourselves, it follows that pity must be a very pleasant feeling,
since it speaks on our behalf; and, on the other hand, a hard-hearted
man is always unhappy, since the state of his heart leaves him no
superfluous sensibility to bestow on the sufferings of others.

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

If at first the number and variety of our amusements seem to
contribute to our happiness, if at first the even tenor of a quiet
life seems tedious, when we look at it more closely we discover
that the pleasantest habit of mind consists in a moderate enjoyment
which leaves little scope for desire and aversion. The unrest of
passion causes curiosity and fickleness; the emptiness of noisy
pleasures causes weariness. We never weary of our state when we
know none more delightful. Savages suffer less than other men from
curiosity 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 scarcely
ever himself and is almost a stranger to himself; he is ill at ease
when he is forced into his own company. Not what he is, but what
he seems, is all he cares for.

I cannot help picturing in the countenance of the young man
I 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 interesting
expression which indicates the real contentment and the calm
of his mind; an expression which inspires respect and confidence,
and seems only to await the establishment of friendly relations
to bestow his own confidence in return. It is thought that the
expression is merely the development of certain features designed
by nature. For my own part I think that over and above this
development a man's face is shaped, all unconsciously, by the
frequent and habitual influence of certain affections of the heart.
These affections are shown on the face, there is nothing more
certain; and when they become habitual, they must surely leave lasting
traces. This is why I think the expression shows the character, and
that we can sometimes read one another without seeking mysterious
explanations in powers we do not possess.

A child has only two distinct feelings, joy and sorrow; he laughs
or he cries; he knows no middle course, and he is constantly passing
from one extreme to the other. On account of these perpetual changes
there is no lasting impression on the face, and no expression; but
when the child is older and more sensitive, his feelings are keener
or more permanent, and these deeper impressions leave traces more
difficult to erase; and the habitual state of the feelings has an
effect on the features which in course of time becomes ineffaceable.
Still it is not uncommon to meet with men whose expression varies
with their age. I have met with several, and I have always found
that those whom I could observe and follow had also changed their
habitual temper. This one observation thoroughly confirmed would
seem to me decisive, and it is not out of place in a treatise on
education, where it is a matter of importance, that we should learn
to judge the feelings of the heart by external signs.

I do not know whether my young man will be any the less amiable
for not having learnt to copy conventional manners and to feign
sentiments which are not his own; that does not concern me at
present, I only know he will be more affectionate; and I find it
difficult to believe that he, who cares for nobody but himself,
can so far disguise his true feelings as to please as readily as he
who finds fresh happiness for himself in his affection for others.
But with regard to this feeling of happiness, I think I have said
enough already for the guidance of any sensible reader, and to show
that 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 than
excite 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 the
boldness of the women hasten and anticipate the teaching of nature,
where everything presents to their view pleasures of which they
should know nothing till they are of an age to choose for themselves.
Bring them back to their early home, where rural simplicity allows
the passions of their age to develop more slowly; or if their taste
for the arts keeps them in town, guard them by means of this very
taste from a dangerous idleness. Choose carefully their company,
their occupations, and their pleasures; show them nothing but
modest 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 one
place, and that immoderate passions always do irreparable damage.
You need not make your pupil a sick-nurse or a Brother of Pity; you
need not distress him by the perpetual sight of pain and suffering;
you need not take him from one hospital to another, from the gallows
to the prison. He must be softened, not hardened, by the sight of
human misery. When we have seen a sight it ceases to impress us,
use is second nature, what is always before our eyes no longer
appeals to the imagination, and it is only through the imagination
that we can feel the sorrows of others; this is why priests and
doctors who are always beholding death and suffering become so
hardened. Let your pupil therefore know something of the lot of
man and the woes of his fellow-creatures, but let him not see them
too often. A single thing, carefully selected and shown at the right
time, will fill him with pity and set him thinking for a month. His
opinion about anything depends not so much on what he sees, but on
how it reacts on himself; and his lasting impression of any object
depends less on the object itself than on the point of view from
which he regards it. Thus by a sparing use of examples, lessons,
and pictures, you may blunt the sting of sense and delay nature
while 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 but
extremely pious, observed that through his growing sensibility he
was attracted by women, and spared no pains to restrain him; but at
last when, in spite of all his care, his son was about to escape
from his control, he decided to take him to a hospital, and,
without telling him what to expect, he introduced him into a room
where a number of wretched creatures were expiating, under a terrible
treatment, the vices which had brought them into this plight. This
hideous and revolting spectacle sickened the young man. "Miserable
libertine," said his father vehemently, "begone; follow your vile
tastes; you will soon be only too glad to be admitted to this ward,
and a victim to the most shameful sufferings, you will compel your
father 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 to
share their evil ways. "I have been a man," he said to me, "I have
had my weaknesses, but even to the present day the sight of a harlot
inspires me with horror." Say little to your pupil, but choose
time, place, and people; then rely on concrete examples for your
teaching, and be sure it will take effect.

The way childhood is spent is no great matter; the evil which may
find its way is not irremediable, and the good which may spring
up might come later. But it is not so in those early years when
a youth really begins to live. This time is never long enough for
what there is to be done, and its importance demands unceasing
attention; this is why I lay so much stress on the art of prolonging
it. One of the best rules of good farming is to keep things back as
much as possible. Let your progress also be slow and sure; prevent
the youth from becoming a man all at once. While the body is growing
the spirits destined to give vigour to the blood and strength to
the muscles are in process of formation and elaboration. If you turn
them into another channel, and permit that strength which should
have gone to the perfecting of one person to go to the making of
another, both remain in a state of weakness and the work of nature
is unfinished. The workings of the mind, in their turn, are affected
by this change, and the mind, as sickly as the body, functions
languidly and feebly. Length and strength of limb are not the same
thing as courage or genius, and I grant that strength of mind does
not always accompany strength of body, when the means of connection
between the two are otherwise faulty. But however well planned
they may be, they will always work feebly if for motive power they
depend upon an exhausted, impoverished supply of blood, deprived
of the substance which gives strength and elasticity to all the
springs of the machinery. There is generally more vigour of mind
to be found among men whose early years have been preserved from
precocious vice, than among those whose evil living has begun at the
earliest opportunity; and this is no doubt the reason why nations
whose morals are pure are generally superior in sense and courage
to those whose morals are bad. The latter shine only through I
know not what small and trifling qualities, which they call wit,
sagacity, cunning; but those great and noble features of goodness
and reason, by which a man is distinguished and honoured through
good deeds, virtues, really useful efforts, are scarcely to be
found except among the nations whose morals are pure.

Teachers complain that the energy of this age makes their pupils
unruly; 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 the
senses, do they not know that they cannot change its course? Will
the long and dreary sermons of the pedant efface from the mind of
his scholar the thoughts of pleasure when once they have found an
entrance; will they banish from his heart the desires by which it
is tormented; will they chill the heat of a passion whose meaning
the scholar realises? Will not the pupil be roused to anger by the
obstacles opposed to the only kind of happiness of which he has
any notion? And in the harsh law imposed upon him before he can
understand it, what will he see but the caprice and hatred of a
man who is trying to torment him? Is it strange that he rebels and
hates 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 use
of an authority over the pupil which is only maintained by fomenting
the vices it ought to repress; it is like attempting to soothe a
fiery steed by making it leap over a precipice.

Far from being a hindrance to education, this enthusiasm of
adolescence is its crown and coping-stone; this it is that gives
you a hold on the youth's heart when he is no longer weaker than
you. His first affections are the reins by which you control his
movements; he was free, and now I behold him in your power. So long
as he loved nothing, he was independent of everything but himself
and his own necessities; as soon as he loves, he is dependent on
his affections. Thus the first ties which unite him to his species
are already formed. When you direct his increasing sensibility in
this 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, those
whom habit has made dear to him or necessary to him, those who are
evidently thinking and feeling as he does, those whom he perceives
to be exposed to the pains he has endured, those who enjoy the
pleasures he has enjoyed; in a word, those who are so like himself
that he is the more disposed to self-love. It is only after long
training, after much consideration as to his own feelings and the
feelings he observes in others, that he will be able to generalise
his individual notions under the abstract idea of humanity, and
add to his individual affections those which may identify him with
the race.

When he becomes capable of affection, he becomes aware of the
affection of others, [Footnote: Affection may be unrequited; not
so friendship. Friendship is a bargain, a contract like any other;
though a bargain more sacred than the rest. The word "friend" has
no other correlation. Any man who is not the friend of his friend
is undoubtedly a rascal; for one can only obtain friendship by
giving it, or pretending to give it.] and he is on the lookout for
the signs of that affection. Do you not see how you will acquire a
fresh hold on him? What bands have you bound about his heart while
he was yet unaware of them! What will he feel, when he beholds
himself and sees what you have done for him; when he can compare
himself with other youths, and other tutors with you! I say, "When
he sees it," but beware lest you tell him of it; if you tell him
he will not perceive it. If you claim his obedience in return for
the care bestowed upon him, he will think you have over-reached him;
he will see that while you profess to have cared for him without
reward, you meant to saddle him with a debt and to bind him to
a bargain which he never made. In vain you will add that what you
demand is for his own good; you demand it, and you demand it in
virtue of what you have done without his consent. When a man down
on his luck accepts the shilling which the sergeant professes to
give him, and finds he has enlisted without knowing what he was
about, you protest against the injustice; is it not still more unjust
to demand from your pupil the price of care which he has not even
accepted!

Ingratitude would be rarer if kindness were less often the investment
of a usurer. We love those who have done us a kindness; what a
natural feeling! Ingratitude is not to be found in the heart of man,
but self-interest is there; those who are ungrateful for benefits
received 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 if
you 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 without
suspicion; but when they are caught on the hook concealed in the
bait, they feel the line tighten and they try to escape. Is the
fisherman a benefactor? Is the fish ungrateful? Do we find a man
forgotten by his benefactor, unmindful of that benefactor? On the
contrary, he delights to speak of him, he cannot think of him without
emotion; if he gets a chance of showing him, by some unexpected
service, that he remembers what he did for him, how delighted
he is to satisfy his gratitude; what a pleasure it is to earn the
gratitude of his benefactor. How delightful to say, "It is my turn
now." This is indeed the teaching of nature; a good deed never
caused ingratitude.

If therefore gratitude is a natural feeling, and you do not destroy
its effects by your blunders, be sure your pupil, as he begins to
understand the value of your care for him, will be grateful for
it, provided you have not put a price upon it; and this will give
you an authority over his heart which nothing can overthrow. But
beware of losing this advantage before it is really yours, beware
of insisting on your own importance. Boast of your services and
they become intolerable; forget them and they will not be forgotten.
Until the time comes to treat him as a man let there be no question
of his duty to you, but his duty to himself. Let him have his
freedom if you would make him docile; hide yourself so that he may
seek you; raise his heart to the noble sentiment of gratitude by
only speaking of his own interest. Until he was able to understand
I would not have him told that what was done was for his good; he
would only have understood such words to mean that you were dependent
on him and he would merely have made you his servant. But now that
he is beginning to feel what love is, he also knows what a tender
affection may bind a man to what he loves; and in the zeal which
keeps 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 carries
so much weight with the human heart as the voice of friendship
recognised as such, for we know that it never speaks but for our
good. We may think our friend is mistaken, but we never believe
he is deceiving us. We may reject his advice now and then, but we
never scorn it.

We have reached the moral order at last; we have just taken the
second step towards manhood. If this were the place for it, I would
try to show how the first impulses of the heart give rise to the
first stirrings of conscience, and how from the feelings of love
and hatred spring the first notions of good and evil. I would show
that justice and kindness are no mere abstract terms, no mere moral
conceptions framed by the understanding, but true affections of the
heart enlightened by reason, the natural outcome of our primitive
affections; that by reason alone, unaided by conscience, we cannot
establish any natural law, and that all natural right is a vain
dream if it does not rest upon some instinctive need of the human
heart. [Footnote: The precept "Do unto others as you would have
them do unto you" has no true foundation but that of conscience
and feeling; for what valid reason is there why I, being myself,
should do what I would do if I were some one else, especially when
I am morally certain I never shall find myself in exactly the same
case; and who will answer for it that if I faithfully follow out
this maxim, I shall get others to follow it with regard to me? The
wicked takes advantage both of the uprightness of the just and of
his own injustice; he will gladly have everybody just but himself.
This bargain, whatever you may say, is not greatly to the advantage
of the just. But if the enthusiasm of an overflowing heart identifies
me with my fellow-creature, if I feel, so to speak, that I will not
let him suffer lest I should suffer too, I care for him because I
care for myself, and the reason of the precept is found in nature
herself, which inspires me with the desire for my own welfare
wherever I may be. From this I conclude that it is false to say that
the precepts of natural law are based on reason only; they have a
firmer and more solid foundation. The love of others springing from
self-love, is the source of human justice. The whole of morality is
summed up in the gospel in this summary of the law.] But I do not
think it is my business at present to prepare treatises on metaphysics
and morals, nor courses of study of any kind whatsoever; it is
enough if I indicate the order and development of our feelings and
our knowledge in relation to our growth. Others will perhaps work
out what I have here merely indicated.

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

To guide him in this inquiry, after we have shown him men by means
of the accidents common to the species, we must now show him them
by means of their differences. This is the time for estimating
inequality natural and civil, and for the scheme of the whole social
order.

Society must be studied in the individual and the individual in
society; those who desire to treat politics and morals apart from
one another will never understand either. By confining ourselves
at first to the primitive relations, we see how men should be
influenced by them and what passions should spring from them; we
see that it is in proportion to the development of these passions
that a man's relations with others expand or contract. It is not so
much strength of arm as moderation of spirit which makes men free
and independent. The man whose wants are few is dependent on but
few people, but those who constantly confound our vain desires
with our bodily needs, those who have made these needs the basis
of 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 difference
between man and man should be great enough to make one dependent
on another, there is in fact in this state of nature an actual and
indestructible equality. In the civil state there is a vain and
chimerical 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 the
weak, disturbs the sort of equilibrium which nature has established
between them. [Footnote: The universal spirit of the laws of every
country 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 defect
is inevitable, and there is no exception to it.] From this first
contradiction spring all the other contradictions between the real
and the apparent, which are to be found in the civil order. The many
will always be sacrificed to the few, the common weal to private
interest; those specious words--justice and subordination--will
always serve as the tools of violence and the weapons of injustice;
hence it follows that the higher classes which claim to be useful
to the rest are really only seeking their own welfare at the expense
of others; from this we may judge how much consideration is due to
them according to right and justice. It remains to be seen if the
rank to which they have attained is more favourable to their own
happiness to know what opinion each one of us should form with regard
to 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 human
heart.

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 be
before their eyes; but since the mask is not the man, and since
they must not be led away by its specious appearance, when you paint
men for your scholar, paint them as they are, not that he may hate
them, 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 with
regard to his fellow-men.

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

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

It must be admitted that this method has its drawbacks, and it is
not easy to carry it out; for if he becomes too soon engrossed in
watching other people, if you train him to mark too closely the
actions of others, you will make him spiteful and satirical, quick
and decided in his judgments of others; he will find a hateful
pleasure in seeking bad motives, and will fail to see the good even
in that which is really good. He will, at least, get used to the
sight of vice, he will behold the wicked without horror, just as we
get used to seeing the wretched without pity. Soon the perversity
of 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 from
the 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 of
the external causes which turn our inclinations into vices; when
you thus transport him all at once from the objects of sense to the
objects of reason, you employ a system of metaphysics which he is
not in a position to understand; you fall back into the error, so
carefully avoided hitherto, of giving him lessons which are like
lessons, of substituting in his mind the experience and the authority
of the master for his own experience and the development of his
own reason.

To remove these two obstacles at once, and to bring the human heart
within his reach without risk of spoiling his own, I would show
him men from afar, in other times or in other places, so that he
may behold the scene but cannot take part in it. This is the time
for history; with its help he will read the hearts of men without
any lessons in philosophy; with its help he will view them as a
mere spectator, dispassionate and without prejudice; he will view
them as their judge, not as their accomplice or their accuser.

To know men you must behold their actions. In society we hear them
talk; they show their words and hide their deeds; but in history
the veil is drawn aside, and they are judged by their deeds. Their
sayings even help us to understand them; for comparing what they
say and what they do, we see not only what they are but what they
would appear; the more they disguise themselves the more thoroughly
they stand revealed.

Unluckily this study has its dangers, its drawbacks of several
kinds. It is difficult to adopt a point of view which will enable
one to judge one's fellow-creatures fairly. It is one of the chief
defects of history to paint men's evil deeds rather than their
good ones; it is revolutions and catastrophes that make history
interesting; so long as a nation grows and prospers quietly in
the tranquillity of a peaceful government, history says nothing;
she only begins to speak of nations when, no longer able to be
self-sufficing, they interfere with their neighbours' business, or
allow their neighbours to interfere with their own; history only
makes them famous when they are on the downward path; all our
histories begin where they ought to end. We have very accurate
accounts of declining nations; what we lack is the history of those
nations which are multiplying; they are so happy and so good that
history has nothing to tell us of them; and we see indeed in our
own times that the most successful governments are least talked
of. We only hear what is bad; the good is scarcely mentioned. Only
the wicked become famous, the good are forgotten or laughed to
scorn, and thus history, like philosophy, is for ever slandering
mankind.

Moreover, it is inevitable that the facts described in history
should not give an exact picture of what really happened; they are
transformed in the brain of the historian, they are moulded by his
interests and coloured by his prejudices. Who can place the reader
precisely in a position to see the event as it really happened?
Ignorance or partiality disguises everything. What a different
impression may be given merely by expanding or contracting the
circumstances of the case without altering a single historical
incident. The same object may be seen from several points of view,
and it will hardly seem the same thing, yet there has been no
change except in the eye that beholds it. Do you indeed do honour
to truth when what you tell me is a genuine fact, but you make it
appear something quite different? A tree more or less, a rock to
the right or to the left, a cloud of dust raised by the wind, how
often have these decided the result of a battle without any one
knowing it? Does that prevent history from telling you the cause
of defeat or victory with as much assurance as if she had been
on the spot? But what are the facts to me, while I am ignorant of
their causes, and what lessons can I draw from an event, whose true
cause is unknown to me? The historian indeed gives me a reason, but
he invents it; and criticism itself, of which we hear so much, is
only the art of guessing, the art of choosing from among several
lies, 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 his
purpose, adorns it with details of his own invention, with people
who never existed, with imaginary portraits; thus he piles fiction
on fiction to lend a charm to his story. I see little difference
between such romances and your histories, unless it is that the
novelist draws more on his own imagination, while the historian
slavishly copies what another has imagined; I will also admit, if
you 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 than
a true picture of men and manners; provided the human heart is
truly portrayed, it matters little that events should be accurately
recorded; for after all you say, what does it matter to us what
happened two thousand years ago? You are right if the portraits are
indeed truly given according to nature; but if the model is to be
found for the most part in the historian's imagination, are you not
falling into the very error you intended to avoid, and surrendering
to the authority of the historian what you would not yield to
the authority of the teacher? If my pupil is merely to see fancy
pictures, I would rather draw them myself; they will, at least, be
better 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 will
learn to know mankind. If he is always directed by the opinion of
the 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 no
character and all our people are alike, but because our historians,
wholly taken up with effect, think of nothing but highly coloured
portraits, which often represent nothing. [Footnote: Take, for
instance, Guicciardini, Streda, Solis, Machiavelli, and sometimes
even De Thou himself. Vertot is almost the only one who knows
how to describe without giving fancy portraits.] The old historians
generally give fewer portraits and bring more intelligence
and common-sense to their judgments; but even among them there is
plenty of scope for choice, and you must not begin with the wisest
but with the simplest. I would not put Polybius or Sallust into
the hands of a youth; Tacitus is the author of the old, young men
cannot understand him; you must learn to see in human actions the
simplest features of the heart of man before you try to sound its
depths. You must be able to read facts clearly before you begin
to study maxims. Philosophy in the form of maxims is only fit for
the experienced. Youth should never deal with the general, all
its teaching should deal with individual instances.

To my mind Thucydides is the true model of historians. He relates
facts without giving his opinion; but he omits no circumstance
adapted to make us judge for ourselves. He puts everything that he
relates before his reader; far from interposing between the facts
and the readers, he conceals himself; we seem not to read but to
see. Unfortunately he speaks of nothing but war, and in his stories
we only see the least instructive part of the world, that is to
say the battles. The virtues and defects of the Retreat of the Ten
Thousand and the Commentaries of Caesar are almost the same. The
kindly Herodotus, without portraits, without maxims, yet flowing,
simple, full of details calculated to delight and interest in the
highest degree, would be perhaps the best historian if these very
details did not often degenerate into childish folly, better adapted
to spoil the taste of youth than to form it; we need discretion
before we can read him. I say nothing of Livy, his turn will come;
but he is a statesman, a rhetorician, he is everything which is
unsuitable for a youth.

History in general is lacking because it only takes note of striking
and clearly marked facts which may be fixed by names, places,
and dates; but the slow evolution of these facts, which cannot be
definitely noted in this way, still remains unknown. We often find
in some battle, lost or won, the ostensible cause of a revolution
which was inevitable before this battle took place. War only makes
manifest events already determined by moral causes, which few
historians can perceive.

The philosophic spirit has turned the thoughts of many of the
historians of our times in this direction; but I doubt whether
truth has profited by their labours. The rage for systems has got
possession 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 us
actions rather than men, because she only seizes men at certain
chosen times in full dress; she only portrays the statesman when
he is prepared to be seen; she does not follow him to his home, to
his study, among his family and his friends; she only shows him in
state; it is his clothes rather than himself that she describes.

I would prefer to begin the study of the human heart with reading
the lives of individuals; for then the man hides himself in vain,
the historian follows him everywhere; he never gives him a moment's
grace nor any corner where he can escape the piercing eye of the
spectator; and when he thinks he is concealing himself, then it is
that the writer shows him up most plainly.

"Those who write lives," says Montaigne, "in so far as they delight
more in ideas than in events, more in that which comes from within
than in that which comes from without, these are the writers I
prefer; 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 very
different from the character of the individual man, and that we
have a very imperfect knowledge of the human heart if we do not
also examine it in crowds; but it is none the less true that to
judge of men we must study the individual man, and that he who had
a perfect knowledge of the inclinations of each individual might
foresee all their combined effects in the body of the nation.

We must go back again to the ancients, for the reasons already
stated, and also because all the details common and familiar, but
true and characteristic, are banished by modern stylists, so that
men are as much tricked out by our modern authors in their private
life as in public. Propriety, no less strict in literature than
in life, no longer permits us to say anything in public which we
might not do in public; and as we may only show the man dressed up
for his part, we never see a man in our books any more than we do
on 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 which
we are no longer permitted to describe. With inimitable grace he
paints the great man in little things; and he is so happy in the
choice of his instances that a word, a smile, a gesture, will often
suffice to indicate the nature of his hero. With a jest Hannibal
cheers his frightened soldiers, and leads them laughing to the
battle which will lay Italy at his feet; Agesilaus riding on a
stick makes me love the conqueror of the great king; Caesar passing
through a poor village and chatting with his friends unconsciously
betrays the traitor who professed that he only wished to be Pompey's
equal. Alexander swallows a draught without a word--it is the
finest moment in his life; Aristides writes his own name on the
shell and so justifies his title; Philopoemen, his mantle laid aside,
chops firewood in the kitchen of his host. This is the true art of
portraiture. Our disposition does not show itself in our features,
nor our character in our great deeds; it is trifles that show what
we really are. What is done in public is either too commonplace
or too artificial, and our modern authors are almost too grand to
tell us anything else.

M. de Turenne was undoubtedly one of the greatest men of the last
century. They have had the courage to make his life interesting by
the little details which make us know and love him; but how many
details have they felt obliged to omit which might have made us
know and love him better still? I will only quote one which I have
on good authority, one which Plutarch would never have omitted, and
one which Ramsai would never have inserted had he been acquainted
with it.

On a hot summer's day Viscount Turenne in a little white vest and
nightcap was standing at the window of his antechamber; one of
his men came up and, misled by the dress, took him for one of the
kitchen lads whom he knew. He crept up behind him and smacked him
with no light hand. The man he struck turned round hastily. The valet
saw it was his master and trembled at the sight of his face. He
fell on his knees in desperation. "Sir, I thought it was George."
"Well, even if it was George," exclaimed Turenne rubbing the injured
part, "you need not have struck so hard." You do not dare to say
this, you miserable writers! Remain for ever without humanity and
without feeling; steel your hard hearts in your vile propriety, make
yourselves contemptible through your high-mightiness. But as for
you, dear youth, when you read this anecdote, when you are touched
by all the kindliness displayed even on the impulse of the moment,
read also the littleness of this great man when it was a question
of his name and birth. Remember it was this very Turenne who always
professed to yield precedence to his nephew, so that all men might
see that this child was the head of a royal house. Look on this
picture and on that, love nature, despise popular prejudice, and
know 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 to
read without thinking, what we read strikes us even less, because
we already bear in ourselves the passions and prejudices with which
history and the lives of men are filled; all that they do strikes
us as only natural, for we ourselves are unnatural and we judge
others by ourselves. But imagine my Emile, who has been carefully
guarded for eighteen years with the sole object of preserving a
right judgment and a healthy heart, imagine him when the curtain
goes up casting his eyes for the first time upon the world's stage;
or rather picture him behind the scenes watching the actors don
their costumes, and counting the cords and pulleys which deceive
with their feigned shows the eyes of the spectators. His first
surprise will soon give place to feelings of shame and scorn of his
fellow-man; he will be indignant at the sight of the whole human
race deceiving itself and stooping to this childish folly; he will
grieve to see his brothers tearing each other limb from limb for
a mere dream, and transforming themselves into wild beasts because
they could not be content to be men.

Given the natural disposition of the pupil, there is no doubt that
if the master exercises any sort of prudence or discretion in
his choice of reading, however little he may put him in the way
of reflecting on the subject-matter, this exercise will serve as
a course in practical philosophy, a philosophy better understood
and more thoroughly mastered than all the empty speculations with
which the brains of lads are muddled in our schools. After following
the romantic schemes of Pyrrhus, Cineas asks him what real good he
would gain by the conquest of the world, which he can never enjoy
without such great sufferings; this only arouses in us a passing
interest as a smart saying; but Emile will think it a very wise
thought, one which had already occurred to himself, and one which
he will never forget, because there is no hostile prejudice in
his mind to prevent it sinking in. When he reads more of the life
of this madman, he will find that all his great plans resulted in
his death at the hands of a woman, and instead of admiring this
pinchbeck heroism, what will he see in the exploits of this great
captain and the schemes of this great statesman but so many steps
towards that unlucky tile which was to bring life and schemes alike
to a shameful death?

All conquerors have not been killed; all usurpers have not failed
in their plans; to minds imbued with vulgar prejudices many of them
will seem happy, but he who looks below the surface and reckons
men's happiness by the condition of their hearts will perceive
their wretchedness even in the midst of their successes; he will
see them panting after advancement and never attaining their prize,
he will find them like those inexperienced travellers among the
Alps, who think that every height they see is the last, who reach
its summit only to find to their disappointment there are loftier
peaks beyond.

Augustus, when he had subdued his fellow-citizens and destroyed
his rivals, reigned for forty years over the greatest empire that
ever existed; but all this vast power could not hinder him from
beating his head against the walls, and filling his palace with his
groans as he cried to Varus to restore his slaughtered legions. If
he had conquered all his foes what good would his empty triumphs
have done him, when troubles of every kind beset his path, when
his life was threatened by his dearest friends, and when he had to
mourn the disgrace or death of all near and dear to him? The wretched
man desired to rule the world and failed to rule his own household.
What was the result of this neglect? He beheld his nephew, his
adopted child, his son-in-law, perish in the flower of youth, his
grandson reduced to eat the stuffing of his mattress to prolong
his wretched existence for a few hours; his daughter and his
granddaughter, after they had covered him with infamy, died, the
one of hunger and want on a desert island, the other in prison by
the hand of a common archer. He himself, the last survivor of his
unhappy house, found himself compelled by his own wife to acknowledge
a 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 that
any one of those who admire his glory and fortune would accept them
at the same price.

I have taken ambition as my example, but the play of every human
passion offers similar lessons to any one who will study history
to make himself wise and good at the expense of those who went
before. The time is drawing near when the teaching of the life
of Anthony will appeal more forcibly to the youth than the life
of Augustus. Emile will scarcely know where he is among the many
strange sights in his new studies; but he will know beforehand how
to avoid the illusion of passions before they arise, and seeing how
in all ages they have blinded men's eyes, he will be forewarned of
the way in which they may one day blind his own should he abandon
himself to them. [Footnote: It is always prejudice which stirs
up passion in our heart. He who only sees what really exists and
only values what he knows, rarely becomes angry. The errors of
our judgment produce the warmth of our desires.] These lessons, I
know, are unsuited to him, perhaps at need they may prove scanty
and ill-timed; but remember they are not the lessons I wished to
draw from this study. To begin with, I had quite another end in
view; and indeed, if this purpose is unfulfilled, the teacher will
be to blame.

Remember that, as soon as selfishness has developed, the self
in its relations to others is always with us, and the youth never
observes others without coming back to himself and comparing himself
with them. From the way young men are taught to study history I
see that they are transformed, so to speak, into the people they
behold, that you strive to make a Cicero, a Trajan, or an Alexander
of them, to discourage them when they are themselves again, to
make every one regret that he is merely himself. There are certain
advantages in this plan which I do not deny; but, so far as Emile
is concerned, should it happen at any time when he is making these
comparisons that he wishes to be any one but himself--were it
Socrates or Cato--I have failed entirely; he who begins to regard
himself as a stranger will soon forget himself altogether.

It is not philosophers who know most about men; they only view them
through the preconceived ideas of philosophy, and I know no one so
prejudiced 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 beholds
us unmoved and says, "You are mad." He is right, for no one does
evil for evil's sake. My pupil is that savage, with this difference:
Emile has thought more, he has compared ideas, seen our errors at
close quarters, he is more on his guard against himself, and only
judges of what he knows.

It is our own passions that excite us against the passions of
others; it is our self-interest which makes us hate the wicked;
if they did us no harm we should pity rather than hate them. We
should readily forgive their vices if we could perceive how their
own heart punishes those vices. We are aware of the offence, but we
do not see the punishment; the advantages are plain, the penalty is
hidden. The man who thinks he is enjoying the fruits of his vices
is no less tormented by them than if they had not been successful; the
object is different, the anxiety is the same; in vain he displays
his good fortune and hides his heart; in spite of himself his
conduct betrays him; but to discern this, our own heart must be
utterly unlike his.

We are led astray by those passions which we share; we are disgusted
by those that militate against our own interests; and with a want
of logic due to these very passions, we blame in others what we fain
would imitate. Aversion and self-deception are inevitable when we
are forced to endure at another's hands what we ourselves would do
in his place.

What then is required for the proper study of men? A great wish
to know men, great impartiality of judgment, a heart sufficiently
sensitive to understand every human passion, and calm enough to
be free from passion. If there is any time in our life when this
study is likely to be appreciated, it is this that I have chosen
for Emile; before this time men would have been strangers to him;
later on he would have been like them. Convention, the effects of
which he already perceives, has not yet made him its slave, the
passions, whose consequences he realises, have not yet stirred his
heart. He is a man; he takes an interest in his brethren; he is
a just man and he judges his peers. Now it is certain that if he
judges them rightly he will not want to change places with any one
of them, for the goal of all their anxious efforts is the result
of prejudices which he does not share, and that goal seems to him
a mere dream. For his own part, he has all he wants within his
reach. How should he be dependent on any one when he is self-sufficing
and free from prejudice? Strong arms, good health, [Footnote: I
think I may fairly reckon health and strength among the advantages
he has obtained by his education, or rather among the gifts of
nature which his education has preserved for him.] moderation, few
needs, together with the means to satisfy those needs, are his.
He has been brought up in complete liberty and servitude is the
greatest ill he understands. He pities these miserable kings, the
slaves of all who obey them; he pities these false prophets fettered
by their empty fame; he pities these rich fools, martyrs to their
own pomp; he pities these ostentatious voluptuaries, who spend their
life in deadly dullness that they may seem to enjoy its pleasures.
He would pity the very foe who harmed him, for he would discern his
wretchedness beneath his cloak of spite. He would say to himself,
"This man has yielded to his desire to hurt me, and this need of
his places him at my mercy."

One step more and our goal is attained. Selfishness is a dangerous
tool though a useful one; it often wounds the hand that uses it,
and it rarely does good unmixed with evil. When Emile considers his
place among men, when he finds himself so fortunately situated, he
will be tempted to give credit to his own reason for the work of
yours, and to attribute to his own deserts what is really the result
of his good fortune. He will say to himself, "I am wise and other
men are fools." He will pity and despise them and will congratulate
himself all the more heartily; and as he knows he is happier than
they, he will think his deserts are greater. This is the fault we
have most to fear, for it is the most difficult to eradicate. If
he remained in this state of mind, he would have profited little
by all our care; and if I had to choose, I hardly know whether I
would not rather choose the illusions of prejudice than those of
pride.

Great men are under no illusion with respect to their superiority;
they see it and know it, but they are none the less modest. The
more they have, the better they know what they lack. They are less
vain of their superiority over us than ashamed by the consciousness
of their weakness, and among the good things they really possess,
they are too wise to pride themselves on a gift which is none of
their getting. The good man may be proud of his virtue for it is
his own, but what cause for pride has the man of intellect? What
has Racine done that he is not Pradon, and Boileau that he is not
Cotin?

The circumstances with which we are concerned are quite different.
Let us keep to the common level. I assumed that my pupil had neither
surpassing genius nor a defective understanding. I chose him of an
ordinary mind to show what education could do for man. Exceptions
defy all rules. If, therefore, as a result of my care, Emile
prefers his way of living, seeing, and feeling to that of others,
he is right; but if he thinks because of this that he is nobler
and better born than they, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself;
he must be undeceived, or rather let us prevent the mistake, lest
it 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 any
cure for it at all; when it first appears we can at least prevent
its further growth. But do not on this account waste your breath
on empty arguments to prove to the youth that he is like other men
and subject to the same weaknesses. Make him feel it or he will
never know it. This is another instance of an exception to my own
rules; I must voluntarily expose my pupil to every accident which
may convince him that he is no wiser than we. The adventure with
the conjurer will be repeated again and again in different ways; I
shall let flatterers take advantage of him; if rash comrades draw
him into some perilous adventure, I will let him run the risk;
if he falls into the hands of sharpers at the card-table, I will
abandon him to them as their dupe.[Footnote: Moreover our pupil
will be little tempted by this snare; he has so many amusements
about him, he has never been bored in his life, and he scarcely knows
the use of money. As children have been led by these two motives,
self-interest and vanity, rogues and courtesans use the same means
to get hold of them later. When you see their greediness encouraged
by prizes and rewards, when you find their public performances
at ten years old applauded at school or college, you see too how
at twenty they will be induced to leave their purse in a gambling
hell and their health in a worse place. You may safely wager that
the sharpest boy in the class will become the greatest gambler and
debauchee. Now the means which have not been employed in childhood
have not the same effect in youth. But we must bear in mind
my constant plan and take the thing at its worst. First I try to
prevent the vice; then I assume its existence in order to correct
it.] I will let them flatter him, pluck him, and rob him; and when
having sucked him dry they turn and mock him, I will even thank
them to his face for the lessons they have been good enough to give
him. The only snares from which I will guard him with my utmost
care are the wiles of wanton women. The only precaution I shall take
will be to share all the dangers I let him run, and all the insults
I let him receive. I will bear everything in silence, without a
murmur or reproach, without a word to him, and be sure that if this
wise conduct is faithfully adhered to, what he sees me endure on
his account will make more impression on his heart than what he
himself suffers.

I cannot refrain at this point from drawing attention to the sham
dignity of tutors, who foolishly pretend to be wise, who discourage
their pupils by always professing to treat them as children, and
by emphasising the difference between themselves and their scholars
in everything they do. Far from damping their youthful spirits in
this fashion, spare no effort to stimulate their courage; that they
may become your equals, treat them as such already, and if they
cannot rise to your level, do not scruple to come down to theirs
without being ashamed of it. Remember that your honour is no longer
in your own keeping but in your pupil's. Share his faults that
you may correct them, bear his disgrace that you may wipe it out;
follow the example of that brave Roman who, unable to rally his
fleeing soldiers, placed himself at their head, exclaiming, "They
do not flee, they follow their captain!" Did this dishonour him?
Not so; by sacrificing his glory he increased it. The power of
duty, the beauty of virtue, compel our respect in spite of all our
foolish prejudices. If I received a blow in the course of my duties
to Emile, far from avenging it I would boast of it; and I doubt
whether there is in the whole world a man so vile as to respect me
any 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 is
all very well for a child who can neither see nor compare things,
who thinks everything is within his reach, and only bestows his
confidence on those who know how to come down to his level. But a
youth of Emile's age and sense is no longer so foolish as to make
this mistake, and it would not be desirable that he should. The
confidence he ought to have in his tutor is of another kind; it
should rest on the authority of reason, and on superior knowledge,
advantages which the young man is capable of appreciating while
he perceives how useful they are to himself. Long experience has
convinced him that his tutor loves him, that he is a wise and good
man who desires his happiness and knows how to procure it. He ought
to 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, he
will lose his right to expect deference from him, and to give him
instruction. Still less should the pupil suppose that his master
is purposely letting him fall into snares or preparing pitfalls for
his inexperience. How can we avoid these two difficulties? Choose
the best and most natural means; be frank and straightforward like
himself; warn him of the dangers to which he is exposed, point them
out plainly and sensibly, without exaggeration, wi