ROUSSEAU 
 
^Ixjc (^xmt l^tTucatovs <^ ^ ^ 
 
 ^1 
 
 Edited by NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER 
 
 ROUSSEAU 
 
 EDUCATION ACCOEDING TO NATURE 
 
 BY 
 
 y 
 
 THOMAS DAVIDSON 
 
 
 NEW YORK 3 1898 jj 
 
 CHAELES SCRIBNER'S SONS ^i<^^ 
 
 1898 
 
 TWi' 
 
 1st COPY, r^ 
 
 1898„ ^ 
 
v^ 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Koriooon IPrtes 
 
 J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
 Norwood Masg. U.S.A. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In my volume on Aristotle in this series, I tried 
 to give an account of ancient, classical, and social 
 Education ; in the present volume I have endeavored 
 to set forth the nature of modern, romantic, and 
 unsocial Education. This education originates with 
 Rousseau, 
 
 With much reluctance I have been obliged to dwell, 
 at considerable length, on the facts of his life, in order 
 to show that his glittering structure rests, not upon 
 any broad and firm foundation of well-generalized and 
 well-sifted experience, but upon the private tastes and 
 preferences of an exceptionally capricious and self- 
 centred nature. His Emile is simply his selfish and 
 unsocial self, forcibly withheld, by an external Provi- 
 dence, in the shape of an impossible tutor, from those 
 aberrations which led that self into the " dark forest " 
 of misery. If my estimate of Rousseau's value as an 
 educator proves disappointing to those who believe in 
 his doctrines, I can only say, in excuse, that I am more 
 disappointed than they are. 
 
 In preparing the present volume, I have depended 
 solely upon the original sources, the works of Rousseau 
 
/ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 ,'-t' 
 
 himself, and these I have allowed tc tj\ ■ for them- 
 selves. I owe a certain amount of dAxtion, and a 
 few dates and references, to Mr. Morley's Rousseau. 
 
 THOMAS DAVIDSON. 
 
 " Glenmore," 
 
 Keene, Essex Co., N.Y., 
 
 January 31, 1898. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAOB 
 
 Introddctorv 1 
 
 I. Ideas and Aspirations current in Rousseau's 
 
 Time. — Authority, Nature, and Culture . 3 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 
 
 II. Formative Period 24 
 
 III. Productive Period 50 
 
 IV. Rousseau's Social Theories . . . .77 
 
 MOUSSE AU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 V. Infancy 97 
 
 Vl. Childhood 113 
 
 VII. Boyhood .137 
 
 VIII. Adolescence 156 
 
 IX. Youth 178 
 
 X. Manhood 203 
 
 XL Conclusion. — Rousseau's Influence . . 211 
 
 Brief Bibliography 245 
 
 Index 247 
 
 vii 
 
KOUSSEAU 
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 The Educational System of Rousseau forms an 
 integral part of a complete theory, or philosophy, of 
 human life, individual, domestic, social, economic, 
 political, and religious. This theory, again, is com- 
 pounded of elements mainly derived from two sources, 
 (1) a somewhat incoherent body of ideas and aspira- 
 tions current in Rousseau's time and in the centuries 
 immediately preceding him, and (2) his own charac- 
 ter, as formed by native endowment, education, and 
 experience. The latter source makes a very large 
 contribution; for among all writers of influence there 
 is hardly one whose personality, that is, whose feel- 
 ings, emotions, and tastes, enter for so much into his 
 writings, as Rousseau's. He is, above all, subjective, 
 and, indeed, the apostle of subjectivism. This is 
 what he stands for in history. 
 
 In order, then, to understand the pedagogics of 
 Rousseau, we must begin by making as clear as pos- 
 sible to ourselves that body of ideas and aspirations 
 which gave form and direction to his thought, and 
 then consider his experience and character, as furnish- 
 ing the matter of the same. Having done this, we 
 shall be in a position to account for his theory of 
 
 B 1 
 
2 ROUSSEAU 
 
 human life, and to see how his system of education is 
 conditioned by it. We shall then find little difficulty 
 in expounding that system itself, or in distinguishing 
 what is objective and, therefore, permanent in it, from 
 that which, being due to transitory notions or per- 
 sonal tastes, is subjective and temporary. Finally, 
 and with this distinction in our minds, we shall be 
 able to trace the effect of Eousseau's thought, as a 
 whole, upon subsequent theory and practice, and to 
 show how his educational teachings have influenced 
 later systems, for good or for evil, down to the present 
 day. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS CURRENT IN ROUSSEAU'S 
 TIME 
 
 Authority, Nature, and Culture 
 
 Questo modo di retro par die uccida 
 Pur lo viuco d' amor die fa natura. 
 ***** 
 Per 1' altro modo quell' amor s' obblia 
 Che fa natura e quel cli' 6 poi aggiunto, 
 Di die la fede spezial si cria. 
 
 Dante, Inferno, XI., 55, 56, 61-63. 
 
 If true human greatness consists in deep insight, 
 strong and well-distributed affection, and free, benefi- 
 cent will, Rousseau was not in any sense a great 
 man. His insight, like his knowledge, was limited 
 and superficial; his affections were capricious and 
 undisciplined; and his will was ungenerous and self- 
 ish. His importance in literature and history is due 
 to the fact that he summed up in his character, ex- 
 pressed in his writings, and exemplified in his experi- 
 ence, a group of tendencies and aspirations which had 
 for some time been half blindly stirring in the bosom 
 of society, and which in him attained to complete 
 consciousness and manifestation for the first time.^ 
 
 1 Rousseau has been undeservedly blamed for feeling and express- 
 ing this. In the opening of his Confessions he says: " I feel my 
 heart, and I know men. I am not made like any that I have seen, 
 
 3 
 
4 ROUSSEAU 
 
 These tendencies and aspirations, which may be com- 
 prehended under the one term individualism, or, more 
 strictly, subjective individualism, have a history, and 
 this we must now sketch, if we are to understand the 
 significance of our author. 
 
 Modern individualism is a reaction against the ex- 
 treme socialism of the Middle Age. The ruling prin- 
 ciple of that age was authority, conceived as derived 
 from a Supreme Being of infinite power, and vested 
 in the heads of two institutions, Church and Empire, 
 or, more frequently, in that of the Church alone. ^ 
 According to the views then prevalent, the individual 
 was neither his own origin nor his own end. He was 
 created by God, for God's glory, ^ and was merely a 
 means to that. He had therefore, of course, no free- 
 dom, whether of thought, affection, or will. Tree in- 
 quiry into the laws and nature of reality gave way to 
 a timid discussion of the meaning of authority. The 
 natural affections were but grudgingly admitted to a 
 place in life, and, even as late as the Council of Trent, 
 in the sixteenth century, an anathema was pronounced 
 upon any one who should say that the state of vir- 
 
 and I venture to think that I am not made like any that exist. If I 
 am not better, I am, at least, different. Whether nature did well 
 or ill in breaking the mould in which she cast me, no one can tell 
 till after he has read me." The truth is, Rousseau was the first of 
 a new type, of which there are plenty of specimens in our day, the 
 type of the subjective, sensuous, sentimental, dalliant, querulous 
 individualist. Nature by no means broke the mould. See Morley, 
 Bousseau, Vol. II., pp. 30i sqq. 
 
 1 See Dante, De Monarchia, and compare Bryce, The Holy 
 Roman Umpire, passim. 
 
 2 " In His will is our peace," says a blessed spirit in the Paradise 
 of Dante (III., 85). 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 6 
 
 ginity and celibacy was not better than the state of 
 matrimony.^ Above all, free self-determination of 
 the will, possible only through free inquiry and free 
 affection, was placed under the ban. The task of the 
 centuries since the close of the Middle Age has been 
 gradually to shake off this yoke and to restore men to 
 freedom, that is, to convince them that they are ends 
 in and through themselves. 
 
 The first notable manifestations ^ of this tendency 
 were the Germanic Reformation and the Italian Re- 
 naissance, both belonging to the sixteenth century. 
 The former claimed freedom for the individual intelli- 
 gence; the latter, freedom for the individual feelings 
 and emotions. Neither of them thought of aspiring 
 to freedom of the moral will, which is the only true 
 freedom. This is a fact of the utmost importance in 
 enabling us to comprehend the thought and practice 
 of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centu- 
 ries. We look vainly in these for the conception of 
 moral freedom.^ What the absence of this meant, we 
 can perhaps most clearly see, when we realize that 
 the complete, logical outcome of the Reformation was 
 Voltaire ; that of the Renaissance, Rousseau. It takes 
 the clear, mathematical mind of the French to carry 
 principles to their logical conclusions in thought and 
 
 1 See Denzinger, Enchiridion Symholorum et Definitionum, p. 
 231, § 856. 
 
 2 We can trace the tendency itself back to Abelard (1079-1142) , 
 and even further. 
 
 8 In Goethe's great drama, Faust, who stands for the complete 
 movement toward individualism, and who discovers its nature and 
 limitations, takes his stand upon the will. " Allein ich will!" he 
 says, in defiance of all Mephistopheles' suggestions. Part I., 1. 1432 
 (Schroer). 
 
6 KOUSSEAU 
 
 practice.^ What Eousseau demands is absolutely free 
 play for the feelings and emotions. But it took a long 
 time for any one to become clearly aware that this 
 was the true meaning of the Renaissance. 
 
 In trying to escape from authority, the men of the 
 Reformation appealed to Reason ; those of the Renais- 
 sance, to Nature. And the causes of this are obvious. 
 Reason can find justification only in Reason ; feeling, 
 emotion, as claiming to be guiding principles, must 
 look for theirs in Nature. Accordingly, while among 
 the " Reformers " Reason played the chief part, and 
 in the end gave rise to speculative philosophy, among 
 the "Humanists" Nature received a homage which 
 finally developed into physical science. The notion 
 of "Nature" was an inheritance from the Greeks, 
 chiefly, it should seem, through Plato. Indeed, the 
 distinction between Nature (^ucrts) and convention 
 (^eVts), or law (vo/x,os), is fundamental in Greek think- 
 ing, which may be said to have originated in an at- 
 tempt to find in Nature, regarded as unerring because 
 necessitated, a sure refuge from the manifold forms 
 of capricious-seeming conventions.^ Already in the 
 minds of the Greeks this distinction involves that 
 dualism between the material and the spiritual which 
 pervades almost their entire philosophy, and con- 
 stitutes its chief defect. Accepting, without analy- 
 sis, the ordinary, common-sense view of the world, 
 which regards material things as entirely indepen- 
 
 1 See Mrs. Browning, Aurora Leigh, Bk. VI. 
 
 2 See, especially, Plato's Cratylus and the opening lines of ^s- 
 chylus' Againemnon. Cf. Lerscli, Sprachphilosophie der Alten, 
 Vol. I., pp. 1 sqq. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 7 
 
 dent of thought, and governed by laws more rigid 
 and reliable than it can claim, they were fain, like 
 many equally unschooled scientists of the present day, 
 to adopt these laws as the norm for human action; 
 in a word, to naturalize spirit. Continuing to think, 
 however, they were finally surprised to discover that 
 Nature itself was purely conventional {Oiau, vofjixS), 
 that is, subject to the laws of spirit, and therefore 
 incapable of furnishing a court of appeal from these. 
 This was the work of the Sophists, who, by their open 
 scepticism, made it very clear that, if there was any 
 inexorable law, it must be sought elsewhere than in 
 Nature. Socrates wisely sought it in the unity and 
 completeness of thought ; but his work was undone by 
 his pupil Plato, who sought it in a world of ideas of 
 his own invention, a world having no necessary con- 
 nection with either matter or mind. From this time 
 on, Nature, and gradually mind or Eeason also, fell 
 into disrepute, and the supreme object of interest 
 became Plato's fantastic creation, the so-called ideal 
 world. This tendency, along with many other things 
 in Greek philosophy,^ passed over into Christianity, 
 and reached its culmination in the Middle Age, when 
 Nature and Reason were both equally regarded with 
 suspicion, or even contempt,^ as the origin of evil, 
 and the place of Plato's ideal world was taken by an 
 authoritative Eevelation. 
 
 As we have seen, the Reformation undertook to 
 rehabilitate Reason, and the Renaissance, Nature. 
 
 1 See Hatch, Hibbert Lectures (1888), generally. 
 
 2 See the horrified speech of the Archbishop, in Faust, Pt. II., 
 Act i., lines 285-304 (Schroer). 
 
8 ROUSSEAU 
 
 They did so without attempting to overcome their 
 opposition, or, generally speaking, to reject Revela- 
 tion, at least openly. Thus it came to pass that the 
 thinkers of the seventeenth century found, in their 
 inheritance from the past, three unreconciled concep- 
 tions, or groups of conceptions, whose opposing claims 
 they were in no position to settle^ — Nature, Reason, 
 Revelation. As might have been expected, some 
 declared for one, some for another. Generally speak- 
 ing, churchmen and their friends clung to Revelation 
 and authority; while other thinkers tried to make 
 peace between Reason and Nature. In general, the 
 English mind showed a preference for Nature, and 
 tried to explain Reason through it, while the French 
 mind, setting out with Reason, could find no way of 
 arriving at Nature, and so left the dualism unsolved. 
 Bacon, Hobbes, and Locke form a strong contrast to 
 Pascal, Descartes, and Malebranche. Rousseau gen- 
 erally follows the former, and especially Hobbes. 
 
 Hobbes conceived the human race as setting out on 
 its career in a "state of Nature," which to him meant 
 a state of universal war, resulting in a life " solitary, 
 poor, brutish, nasty, and short. '"^ At the same time 
 he regarded Nature as "the art whereby God hath 
 made and governs the world," getting over the para- 
 dox herein involved by maintaining that Nature " is 
 by the art of man . . . imitated that it can make 
 an artificial animal,"* in other words, that 'art' is 
 
 1 Most of the thought of the Western world, for the last three 
 hundred years, has been devoted to effecting this settlement, thus 
 far with very indifferent success. 
 
 2 Leviathan, Cap. XIII. 8 Ibid,, Introduction. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 9 
 
 an extension of Nature.^ "Nature," according to 
 Hobbes, " has made men so equal in faculties of the 
 body and mind, as that though there be found one 
 man sometimes manifestly stronger in body, or of 
 quicker mind, than another, yet when all is reckoned 
 together, the difference between man and man is not 
 so considerable as that one man can thereupon claim 
 to himself any benefit to which another may not pre- 
 tend as well as he." And not only are men equal, 
 but they have equal rights. "The right of Nature," 
 he says, " which writers commonly call jus naturale, 
 is the liberty each man hath to use his own power, as 
 well as himself, for the preservation of his own 
 nature; that is to say, of his own life; and conse- 
 quently of doing anything, which in his own judg- 
 ment and reason he shall conceive to be the aptest 
 means thereto. By 'liberty ' is understood, according 
 to the proper signification of the word, the absence of 
 external impediments." ... "A 'law of Nature,' 
 lex naturalis, is a precept or general rule, found out 
 by reason, by which a man is forbidden to do that 
 which is destructive of his life, or taketh away the 
 means of preserving the same; and to omit that by 
 which he thinketh it may best be preserved." In 
 this " condition of war of every one against every one, 
 . . . every one is governed by his own reason " and 
 
 1 Shakespeare, Wi7iter's Tale, Act IV., sc. iii. : 
 
 " Yet nature is made better by no mean, 
 But nature makes that mean : so over that art, 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 That nature makes. . . . 
 
 . . . This is an art 
 Which does mend nature — change it rather : but 
 The art itself is nature." 
 
10 ROUSSEAU 
 
 "every man has a right to everything, even to an- 
 other's body. And, therefore, as long as the natural 
 right of every man to everything endureth, there can 
 be no security to any man." . . . "And conse- 
 quently it is a precept, or general rule of reason, 
 that every man ought to endeavor peace as far as he 
 has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain 
 it that he may seek, and use, all helps and advantages 
 of war. The first branch of which rule containeth 
 the first, the fundamental law of Nature, which is, to 
 seek peace and follow it. The second, the sum of the 
 right of Nature; which is, by all means we can, to 
 defend ourselves. From this fundamental law of 
 Nature, by which men are commanded to endeavor 
 peace, is derived this second law : that a man be will- 
 ing, when others are so too, as far-forth as, for peace, 
 and defence of himself, he shall think it necessary, 
 to lay down this right to all things ; and be contented 
 with so much liberty against other men as he would 
 allow other men against himself." . . . "The mu- 
 tual transferring of right, is that which men call 
 'contract.' "^ 
 
 " From the law of Nature, by which we are obliged 
 to transfer to another such rights as, being retained, 
 hinder the peace of mankind, there followeth a third, 
 which is this, that men perform their covenants 
 made." . . . "In this law of Nature consisteth the 
 fountain and original of 'justice.'" . . . "When a 
 covenant is made, then to break it is 'unjust'; and 
 the definition of 'injustice ' is no other than the non- 
 performance of covenant. And whatsoever is not 
 1 Leviathan, Cap. XIV. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 11 
 
 unjust is 'just.'"^ . . . "The agreement ... of 
 men is by covenant only, which is artificial; and 
 therefore it is no wonder if there be somewhat else 
 required, besides covenant, to make their agreement 
 constant and lasting; which is a common power, to 
 keep them in awe, and to direct their actions to a 
 common benefit." ^ . . . "The only way to erect such 
 a common power ... is to confer all their power and 
 strength upon one man, or upon one assembly of men, 
 that may reduce all their wills, by plurality of voices, 
 unto one will; which is as much as to say, to appoint 
 one man, or assembly of men, to bear their person;® 
 and every one to own, and to acknowledge, himself 
 to be author of whatsoever he that so beareth their 
 person shall act, or cause to be acted, in those things 
 which concern the common peace and safety; and 
 therein to submit their wills, every one to his will, 
 and their judgments to his judgment. This is more 
 than consent or concord; it is a real unity of them 
 all, in one and the same person made by covenant of 
 every man with every man."* . . . " He that carrieth 
 this person is called 'sovereign,' and, said to have 
 'sovereign power'; and every one besides his 'sub- 
 ject.'" . . . " The attaining of this sovereign power 
 is by two ways. One is by natural force." . . . 
 " The other is, when men agree amongst themselves 
 to submit to some man, or assembly of men, volun- 
 tarily, on confidence to be protected by him against 
 
 1 Leviathan, Cap. XV. 
 
 2 Cf. Dante, De Monarchia, Bk. III., Cap. XVI. 
 
 3 Used here in the sense of the Latin persona, for which see In- 
 stitutes of Justinian. 
 
 * Cf. the story of Menenius Agrippa, Livy, Bk. II., Cap. 32. 
 
12 ROUSSEAU 
 
 all others. The latter may be called a political com- 
 monwealth, or commonwealth by ' institution ' ; and 
 the former a commonwealth by 'acquisition.' "^ . . . 
 "A 'commonwealth' is said to be 'instituted,' when 
 a multitude of men do agree, and covenant, every one 
 with every one, that to whatsoever man, or assembly 
 of men, shall be given by the major part, the 'right ' 
 to 'present ' the person of all of them, that is to say, 
 to be their 'representative,' every one, as well he that 
 voted for it, as he that voted against it, shall 'author- 
 ize ' all the actions and judgments of that man, or 
 assembly of men, in the same manner as if they were 
 his own, to the end, to live peaceably among them- 
 selves, and be protected against other men. From 
 this institution of a commonwealth are derived all the 
 'rights ' and 'faculties ' of him, or them, to whom 
 sovereign power is conferred by the consent of the 
 people assembled." ^ 
 
 Hobbes now goes on to say that the compact, thus 
 once made, can never be either replaced or annulled ; 
 that it is binding on all; that the sovereign, once 
 elected, can do no injustice, and hence cannot be put 
 to death, or otherwise punished, by his subjects ; that 
 he has the right to prescribe or proscribe opinion, to 
 determine the laws of property, to decide all contro- 
 versies, to make war and peace, to choose all officials, 
 to reward "with riches or honor," and to punish, 
 " with corporal or pecuniary punishment, or with ig- 
 nominy, every subject," and to confer titles of honor. ^ 
 Though, theoretically speaking, the sovereign may be 
 
 1 Leviathan, Cap. XVII. 8 Leviathan, Cap. XVII. 
 
 2 Leviathan, Cap. XVIII. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 13 
 
 either a monarch, an aristocracy, or a democracy, yet 
 Hobbes, for various reasons assigned, advocates the 
 first. But, in any case, as soon as the sovereign is 
 in power, "the liberty of a subject lieth . . . only 
 in those things which, in regulating their actions, the 
 sovereign hath pretermitted." This is the less to be 
 regretted, that "liberty or freedom signifieth, prop- 
 erly, the absence of opposition; by opposition I mean 
 external impediments, and may be applied no less to 
 irrational and inanimate creatures than to rational." ^ 
 Indeed, " liberty and necessity are consistent, as the 
 water that hath not only liberty but a necessity of 
 descending by the channel ; so likewise in the actions 
 that men voluntarily do ; which, because they proceed 
 from their will, proceed from liberty; and yet, because 
 every act of man's will, and every desire and incli- 
 nation, proceedeth from some cause, and that from 
 another cause, in a contimial chain, whose first link 
 is in the hand of God, the first of causes proceed from 
 necessity." . . . "And did not His will assixre the 
 necessity of man's will . . . the liberty of men would 
 be a contradiction and impediment to the omnipotence 
 and liberty of God." ^ 
 
 Hobbes' views with regard to law are characteristic. 
 "The law of Kature," he says, "and the civil law 
 contain each other. For the laws of Nature, which 
 consist in equity, justice, gratitude, and other moral 
 virtues on these depending in the condition of mere 
 nature . . . are not properly laws, but qualities that 
 dispose men to peace and obedience. When a com- 
 
 1 This confusion of ideas was inherited by Rousseau. 
 
 2 Leviathan, Cap. XXI. 
 
14 KOUSSEAU 
 
 monwealtli is once settled, they are actually laws, and 
 not before." . . . "The law of Nature therefore is 
 a part of the civil law." . . . "Reciprocally, also, 
 the civil law is a part of the dictates of Nature. For 
 justice, that is to say, performance of covenant, and 
 giving to every one his own, is a dictate of the law of 
 Nature." . . . "Civil and natural law are not differ- 
 ent kinds, but different parts of law, whereof one part, 
 being written, is called civil, the othei', unwritten, 
 natural." ^ 
 
 We have made these long quotations from Hobbes, 
 because he may be regarded as the father of that 
 system of ideas which found their complete expres- 
 sion in Rousseau. Looking back on them, let us con- 
 sider (1) what he borrowed from previous thought, 
 (2) what he altered or added, and (3) what he arrived 
 at. (1) He borrowed from Greek thought the notions 
 of Nature (4>v<n<:) and convention (^eVis), or law (vo/xos), 
 of necessity and freedom, and of hypostatic unity; 
 from Latin thought, the notions of person and natural 
 law;^ from mediaeval theology the notions of God's 
 omnipotence and man's consequent dependence and 
 unfreedom; and from "the judicious Hooker," ap- 
 parently, the notion of a "social contract."^ (2) He 
 identified convention with nature, by making the 
 former a mere conscious, that is, rational, expression 
 of the latter ; * and freedom with necessity, by calling 
 
 1 Leviathan, Cap. XXVI. Note the naturalization of spirit ! 
 
 2 See Justinian, Institutes. 
 
 3 See Ecclesiastical Polity, Bk. I. 
 
 ^ Here we have the germ of Hegel's objective and subjective 
 reason, and, indeed, of modern idealism generally. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 15 
 
 that whicli proceeds from a necessitated will, volun- 
 tary and, therefore, free. He assumed that men lived 
 originally in a state of Nature, which was at once a 
 state of freedom and a state of universal warfare, and 
 that they passed out of that into a civic condition by 
 a social contract, resulting in the creation of a new 
 hypostatic person, of which all individuals thence- 
 forth became mere organs. This new person, he 
 maintained, had no real liberty of its own, but, being 
 a product of Nature, was a mere implement in the 
 hands of God, for His own ends. Thus (3), in his 
 attempt to correlate Revelation, Nature, and Reason, 
 or Convention, Hobbes arrived at the notion of a state 
 or commonwealth as a mere automaton, whose motive 
 force was externally communicated through its head 
 — a notion which underlies many forms of theistic 
 religion, for example, Islam and Calvinism, and finds 
 its most complete realization in the Turkish and 
 Russian empires of to-day. It is due to a mere shuf- 
 fling and combining of old, unanalyzed concepts, such 
 as those above enumerated, in a mind essentially 
 servile. 
 
 But, though Hobbes was the avowed champion of 
 moral determinism and political despotism, he unwit- 
 tingly paved the way for freedom, by admitting that 
 all sovereign or despotic rights were derived from a 
 primitive convention. His readers forgot that this 
 convention was, at bottom, due to Nature and God, 
 and fixed their attention upon men as the source of 
 civic rights. So true was this that even Charles II., 
 Hobbes' pupil, was highly offended at what seemed a 
 denial of the "divine right of kings." To maintain 
 
16 ROUSSEAU 
 
 this right, Sir Robert Filmer wrote his Patriarcha,^ 
 which tried to show that all sovereign rights were 
 derived from the sovereignty of the world originally 
 conceded by God to Adam, and had descended in a 
 direct line from him ; hence, that all primitive equality 
 among men and all occasion for a social contract were 
 impossible. Princes are born princes; the rest of 
 mankind, subjects or thralls. Against this plea for 
 royal absolutism and popular enslavement, Locke 
 raised his voice, and published in 1689, just after the 
 revolution which expelled James II., his Two Trea- 
 tises on Government. In the former of these he 
 refuted, with needless gravity, the flimsy arguments 
 of Filmer, and, in the latter, undertook to show what 
 were the true origins of civil government. 
 
 Defining political power as "a right of making 
 laws, with penalties of death, and consequently all 
 less penalties for the regulating and preserving of 
 property, and of employing the force of the community 
 in the execution of such laws, and in the defence of 
 the commonwealth from foreign injury, and all this 
 only for the public good," ^ he proceeded to consider 
 how such power could rise. In dealing with this 
 question, he made the two fundamental assumptions 
 of Hooker and Hobbes, (1) that mankind started on 
 its career in a state of Nature, in which all individuals 
 enjoyed complete liberty and equality, (2) that the 
 transition from this to the civic state was through a 
 social contract; but he sided with Hooker, against 
 
 1 Leviathan was published in 1G51 ; Patriarcha was written be- 
 fore 1653, but not published till 1680. 
 
 2 Bk. II., Cap. I., ad Jin. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 17 
 
 Hobbes, in maintaining that the state of Nature was 
 not a state of war, but one of peace, governed by a 
 natural law. "The state of Nature," he says, "has 
 a law of Nature to govern it, which obliges every one, 
 and reason, which is that laiv, teaches all mankind who 
 will but consult it, that being all equal and inde- 
 pendent no one ought to harm another in his life, 
 health, liberty, or possessions; for men being all the 
 workmanship of one omnipotent and infinitely wise 
 Maker, all the servants of one sovereign Master, sent 
 into the world by His order and about His business, 
 they are His property whose workmanship they are, 
 made to last during His, not one another's pleasure." 
 Here we have to observe two things : (1) that, as in 
 Hobbes, Reason is identified with the law of Nature, 
 (2) that man is still conceived as being a mere instru- 
 ment in the hands of a Higher Power. At the same 
 time, Locke does not, on that account, deprive him of 
 either moral ^ or political liberty, or submit him 
 irrevocably to the tender mercies of a despot. He 
 says: "To this strange doctrine, viz., That in the 
 state of Nature, every one has the executive power of 
 the law of Nature, I doubt not but it will be objected 
 that it is unreasonable for men to be judges in their 
 own cases . . . and that therefore God hath certainly 
 appointed government to restrain the partiality and 
 violence of men. I easily grant that civil government 
 is the proper remedy for the inconveniences of the 
 state of Nature, which must certainly be great when 
 men may be judges in their own cases." . . . "But I 
 desire those who make this objection to remember 
 
 1 See Two Treatises, Bk. II., Cap. VI., § 58. 
 c 
 
18 ROUSSEAU 
 
 that absolute monarchs are but men ; and, if govern- 
 ment is to be the remedy of those evils which neces- 
 sarily follow from men being judges in their own 
 cases, and the state of Nature is therefore not to be 
 endured, I desire to know what kind of government 
 that is, and how much better it is than the state of 
 Nature, where one man commanding a multitude has 
 the liberty to be judge in his own case, and may do to 
 all his subjects whatever he pleases without the least 
 question or control of those who execute his pleasure? 
 and in whatsoever he doth, whether led by reason, 
 mistake, or passion, must be submitted to? which 
 men in the state of Nature are not bound to do to one 
 another. " ^ 
 
 Locke not only rejects Hobbes' theory of despotic 
 sovereignty, but he stoutly maintains that men, by 
 submitting to common laws, do not lose, but gain, free- 
 dom. He says : " However it may be mistaken, the 
 end of law is not to abolish or restrain, but to pre- 
 serve and enlarge freedom." . . . "Where there is 
 no law there is no freedom." . . . "For who could 
 be free, when every other man's humor might domi- 
 neer over him." ^ He holds that all property is right- 
 fully due to labor, and all inequality of possession 
 (wrongfully) to the introduction of money. ^ The 
 origin of civil society is thus described : " Whenever 
 any number of men so unite into one society as to 
 quit every one his executive power of the law of 
 Nature, and to resign it to the public, there and there 
 only is a political or civil society. And this is done 
 
 1 Two Treatises, Bk. II., Cap. II., § 13. Cf. Cap. VII., § 90. 
 
 2 Two Treatises, Bk. II., Cap. VI., § 57. 3 Ibid., Cap. V. 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 19 
 
 wherever any number of men, in the state of Nature, 
 enter into society to make one people, one body poli- 
 tic, under one supreme government; or else when he 
 joins himself to, and incorporates with, any govern- 
 ment already made." ^ And Locke agrees with Aris- 
 totle in holding that men unite in this way because 
 "man is by nature a political animal." "God," he 
 says, " having made man such a creature that, in His 
 own judgment, it was not good for him to be alone, 
 put him under strong obligations of necessity, con- 
 venience, and inclination, to drive him into society, 
 as well as fitted him with understanding and language 
 to continue and enjoy it." ^ And Locke firmly be- 
 lieved, not only that all civil societies were due to 
 original contracts, voluntarily entered into, but also 
 that they might be dissolved when that contract was 
 broken. Distinguishing, moreover, between society 
 and government, which latter he held to be the act of 
 a society already formed, he maintained that, when a 
 government, or form of government, failed to perform 
 the functions for which it was instituted, society 
 might overthrow it, and put another in its place — an 
 excuse for the revolution of 1688, and for revolutions 
 generally. 
 
 Comparing Locke with Hobbes, we find a consider- 
 able advance, on the part of the former, in the direc- 
 tion of liberty. Men are no longer moral automata; 
 they are no longer drawn into a social contract by 
 mere selfishness, but by a beneficent law of their 
 nature ; the social contract no longer extends to the 
 whole of human life, and is no longer irrevocable; by 
 
 1 Two Treatises, Bk. II., Cap. VII., § 89. ^Ibid., § 77. 
 
20 ROUSSEAU 
 
 such contract men gain, and do not lose, freedom, 
 otherwise the contract is not binding; divine au- 
 thority, though still freely acknowledged, does not 
 prevent men from being the originators, and the only 
 lawful originators, of their own governments ; Reason 
 is the qualification for free citizenship. Neverthe- 
 less, Hobbes' fundamental fallacies — the state of 
 Nature and the social contract — still remain. The 
 two Englishmen, Hobbes and Locke, were the chief 
 inspirers of Rousseau's social and political theories. 
 Of earlier men whose views tended away from medise- 
 valism, such as Marsiglio of Padua (fourteenth cen- 
 tury), Hooker (1553-1600), Machiavelli (1469-1527), 
 Bodin (1530-1596), Grotius (1583-1645), Althusen, 
 he knew very little, though he mentions some of 
 them. Among his more immediate predecessors, the 
 men that most influenced him were Montesquieu 
 (1689-1755) and Morelly. The former, in his Esprit 
 des Lois, first published at Geneva, in 1748, had dealt 
 with social and political questions in an historic and 
 scientific way, inquiring into facts, instead of spin- 
 ning theories out of his own head or heart. Against 
 this method, Rousseau, who hated research, and could 
 not endure continuous study, but followed his *' heart " 
 in everything, protested with all his might, so that 
 many of his theories may be said to come from a reac- 
 tion against those of Montesquieu. Morelly, on the 
 other hand, whose Code de la Nature, ou le viritable 
 Esprit des Loix, de tout terns n^glig^ ou m4connu, 
 appeared in 1754, soon after Rousseau's second dis- 
 course (see Cap. IV.), and several years before the 
 Social Contract, must have found in Rousseau a strong 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 21 
 
 sympatliizer. Though he combated Rousseau's notion 
 that human corruption is due to the arts and sciences, 
 and agreed with Hobbes, Locke, and Montesquieu in 
 holding that man is improved by social culture, he 
 was at one with Rousseau in maintaining that men in 
 a state of Nature are good, and not bad, that most gov- 
 ernments hitherto have rather corrupted them than 
 otherwise, and that they have done this by permitting 
 private property, and consequent inequality of posses- 
 sion, which is the source of all other inequalities and 
 most other evils. He, accordingly, recommended a 
 return to the simplicity and equality of Nature, by the 
 establishment of a community of goods, that is, of 
 socialism. 
 
 At the time when Rousseau began to write, the 
 ideas of Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu, and Morelly, 
 and the questions started by them, were in the air. 
 The chief of these notions were : (1) a state of Nature, 
 as man's original condition, — a state conceived some- 
 times as one of goodness, peace, freedom, equality, 
 and happiness, sometimes as one of badness, war, 
 slavery, inequality, and misery; (2) a law of Nature, 
 independent of all human enactment, and yet binding 
 upon all men; (3) a social contract, voluntarily and 
 consciously made, as the basis of justification for civil 
 society and authority, — a contract by which men 
 united for the protection of rights, and the enforce- 
 ment of laAvs which had existed already in the state 
 of Nature ; (4) false inequality among men, as due to 
 private property, or the usurpation by some of what, 
 by natural right, belonged to all; (5) a peaceful, 
 untroubled, unenterprising, unstruggling existence as 
 
 
22 ROUSSEAU 
 
 the normal form of human life. The questions started 
 were chiefly these : (1) Was the state of Nature one of 
 freedom and peace, or of war and slavery? (2) Are 
 Nature's laws beneficent or the opposite ? (3) Do 
 men gain or lose freedom through the social contract? 
 (4) Are they improved or degraded by social union 
 and culture? (5) Since all men are free and equal in 
 the state of Nature, how do social subordination of one 
 man to another, and social inequality come about, and 
 what is their justification? (6) Are men bound to 
 submit to social regulations against their wills? 
 
 In all these notions and questions there are two 
 facts specially deserving of attention: (1) the ever- 
 increasing importance assigned to Nature, and the 
 ever-growing tendency to identify the divine will with 
 its laws, and to regard Reason as the expression of 
 these ; (2) the growing tendency to look upon man as 
 the originator of laws and the founder of institutions; 
 as, therefore, their master and not their slave. It 
 thus appears that, in the attempt to reconcile the three 
 concepts of Eevelation, Nature, and Reason, regarded 
 as guides to human action, the first place came gradu- 
 ally to be assigned to the second, and all appeals to 
 be made to it. And this fact was fraught with the 
 gravest consequences, two of which may be here 
 mentioned. (1) There was the gradual decline of 
 theology and metaphysical speculation, with the 
 growth of natural science. (2) There was the ten- 
 dency to regard human duty as a mere docile follow- 
 ing of Nature, and no longer as a process of abnegation 
 of the natural self in favor of a loftier ideal. 
 
 In Nature, which thus became the watchword of the 
 
IDEAS AND ASPIRATIONS 23 
 
 time, men sought a quiet refuge from tlie warring 
 subtleties of a theology and a philosophy which had 
 lost contact with life, and left it devoid of interest. 
 And though, for a time, they misunderstood Nature, 
 and committed many enormities in their devotion to 
 her, yet it proved in the end that " Xature never did 
 betray the heart that loved her." Whatever view we 
 may take of Revelation and Reason, it is certain that 
 it is through the study of Nature, taken in its widest 
 sense, that the truth of them becomes significant and 
 fruitful for us. 
 
 It was while these ideas were fermenting in men's 
 minds that Rousseau came upon the scene. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 
 
 (1) Formative Period (1712-1741) 
 
 Who would command must in command find bliss. 
 
 . . . Enjoyment vulgarizes. 
 
 GcETHE, Faust, Pt. II., Act IV., lines 5640, 5647. 
 
 Human beings may, roughly speaking, be divided 
 into two classes, — the dalliers and the willers, — 
 into those who live for passive enjoyment, and those 
 who live for active mastery. The former, endowed 
 with keen sensibility and strong appetite (Plato's 
 imOvfirjTiKov), which tend to direct attention upon them- 
 selves and upon immediate objects, and usually desti- 
 tute of ambition, seek to enjoy each moment, as it 
 passes, pursuing no definite path, but wandering up 
 and down the field of time, like children, plucking 
 the flowers of delight that successively attract them. 
 As they are going nowhere in particular, they, of 
 course, arrive nowhere. The latter, distinguished 
 by courage and the spirit of enterprise (^u/ao's), which 
 give their interests an outward direction, and by the 
 stern quality of ambition, live mainly in the future, 
 half ignoring the blandishments of the present, and 
 finding their satisfaction in planning and carrying 
 out great enterprises, which, when successful, give 
 
 24 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 25 
 
 them position and fame — often a permanent place in 
 the world's history.^ Of the two chief literary in- 
 spirers of the French Revolution and of the individu- 
 alistic tendencies of the present century, the one, 
 Rousseau, belonged to the former class, the other, 
 Voltaire, to the latter. How, then, it may be asked, 
 did Rousseau come to be an important factor in a 
 great historic movement? The answer is. For two 
 reasons, (1) because, like other men of his type, he 
 was thrown into circumstances which wounded his 
 sensibility, and thus driven to imagine others in 
 which it would find free play, and (2) because the 
 movement in question was toward the very things 
 which he represented, — sensibility, subjectivism, and 
 dalliance. Over most of the men of his class, how- 
 ever, he had the rare advantage of being able to ex- 
 press his imaginings in literary form and in a style 
 which, for simplicity, clearness, effectiveness, and 
 almost every other excellence, looks almost in vain 
 for an equal. Keen sensibility, uttered with confi- 
 dent and touching eloquence, is the receipt for making 
 fanatics, and Rousseau made them. Meanwhile his 
 ambitious rival, Voltaire, was making sceptics. • 
 
 In treating of the life of Rousseau, it will be suffi- 
 cient for the present purpose to consider only those 
 events and experiences which, in a marked degree, 
 contributed to form his character, and, through it, to 
 make his writings what they are. ' Persons desirous 
 
 1 Literary examples of the former class are Hamlet and Wilhelm 
 Meister ; of the latter, Julius Cpesar and Faust. In Mark Antony 
 the characteristics of the two contend with fatal result. Cf. Ten- 
 nyson's poem Will. 
 
26 KOUSSEAU 
 
 of knowing more will find ample details in his Con- 
 fessions, perhaps the most recklessly impartial biog- 
 raphy that ever was written, his Reveries, letters, etc. 
 
 Jean- Jacques Kousseau, the second son^ of Isaac 
 Rousseau and of his wife Suzanne, nee Bernard, was 
 born at Geneva on the 28th of June, 1712. Both 
 parents belonged to the citoyen class, the highest of 
 the five classes into which the inhabitants of Geneva 
 were divided ; both were Protestants. The father, a 
 watchmaker by trade, was descended from an old 
 Parisian family, — his great-great-grandfather having 
 emigrated from Paris and settled in Geneva in the early 
 days of the Reformation (1529) — and retained all the 
 characteristics of his French origin, — sensibility, live- 
 liness, gallantry, romanticism, and love of pleasure. 
 The mother, daughter of a clergyman, was a person 
 of great beauty and refinement, but endowed with an 
 almost morbid sensibility, which she had heightened 
 by extensive reading of sentimental, highly colored 
 romances, such as were current at the time. She 
 died in giving birth to Jean-Jacques, who was thus 
 left to the care of a father such as we have described. 
 
 ■It Avill be necessary to linger for a moment on the first 
 years of our hero's life, because in them his character 
 was formed to a degree that is very unusual. He 
 was, in fact, a very precocious child, quick, vivacious, 
 responsive, a very thunder-cloud stored with light- 
 ning feelings, ready to flash forth at any moment. 
 At his birth he was taken charge of by an aunt, a 
 sister of his mother's, a quiet, kindly person, much 
 
 1 The elder son, seven years older than Jean-Jacques, ran away 
 from home to Germany quite young, and was lost sight of. 
 
KOUSSEAU'S LIFE 27 
 
 given to embroidery and song-singing. She treated 
 him with exemplary gentleness, not to say indulgence, 
 allowing him to follow the bent of his own disposi- 
 tion, which, though free from any trace of malignity, 
 continually drew him toward incontinence — to pilfer- 
 ing and devouring eatables — and to romancing; in 
 plain terms, to lying. His sympathetic and winning 
 nature, by saving him from correction, also prevented 
 him from becoming aware of any moral principle, so 
 that he passed his whole childhood without ever 
 impinging upon any disagreeable ought, without any 
 other guides than his own feelings. And this condi- 
 tion of things lasted during his entire life. He was 
 always completely at the mercy of his feelings, ac- 
 knowledging duty only for purposes of rhetoric. 
 
 As he was never allowed to go out and mix with 
 other children in the street, he learnt very early to 
 read and write; so that, by the time he was six years 
 old, he was feeding his emotions and his vivid imagi- 
 nation upon the romances which had formed his 
 mother's library. For over a year, his father and he 
 used frequently to sit up Avhole nights together, 
 reading aloud, in turn, the most sensational and 
 sentimental stories, forgetting sleep in the nervous 
 excitement and tearful rapture caused by pathetic 
 love-scenes, heroic adventures, and hairbreadth 
 escapes. Before he was seven years old (1719), his 
 mother's library was exhausted, and then father and 
 son were obliged to turn for nocturnal entertainment 
 to the library of her father, which consisted of such 
 works as Plutarch's Lives, Le Sueur's History of 
 Church and Empire, Bossuet's Lectures on Universal 
 
28 ROUSSEAU 
 
 History, Nani's History of Venice, Ovid's Metamor- 
 plioses, and certain works of La Bruy^re, Fontenelle, 
 and Moliere. Though not one of these seems to have 
 been without its effect upon the chikl, that which 
 most interested him was the first. Of this he says : 
 " Through these interesting readings, and the conver- 
 sations to which they gave occasion between my father 
 and me, were formed that free, republican spirit, and 
 that proud, indomitable character, impatient of yoke 
 and of servitude, which have tormented me all my 
 life, in the situations least suited for their manifes- 
 tation. Continually occupied with Eome and with 
 republican Athens, living, so to speak, with their 
 great men, myself born a citizen of a republic, and 
 son of a father whose strongest passion was his love 
 of country, I was set aflame by his example ; I thought 
 myself a Greek or a Koman; I became the personage 
 whose life I was reading ; the stories of constancy and 
 heroism which had struck me put lightning into my 
 eyes and force into my voice. One day as I was tell- 
 ing at table the story of Scaevola, the whole company 
 was frightened to see me go up and hold my hand 
 over a chafing-dish to represent his action." 
 
 Melodramatic romances and Plutarchic heroisms 
 represented the world to the precocious, nervous, 
 imaginative, secluded child, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 
 at the age of eight. The former rendered him 
 dreamy and fantastic, the latter intractable and de- 
 fiant. He himself says: "Thus began to grow and 
 appear in me this heart at once so haughty and so 
 tender, and this character, effeminate, yet indomi- 
 table, which, always hovering between weakness and 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 29 
 
 courage, between dalliance and virtue, have all my 
 life long placed me in contradiction with myself and 
 caused me to miss both abstinence and enjoyment, 
 pleasure and self-control." A sad and unpromising 
 enough result of the first stage of education ! 
 
 In 1720, when Jean-Jacques was eight years old, 
 his father, in consequence of a dispute with an " in- 
 solent and cowardly" French captain, in which he 
 felt himself unjustly treated, withdrew from Geneva, 
 leaving his child to the care of a maternal uncle, who 
 sent him, along with his own son, a child of the same 
 age, to be educated in the house of a clergyman, 
 named Lambercier, at Bossey, a village not far from 
 the city. The cousins remained here for two years, 
 and for the greater part of the time enjoyed them- 
 selves royally. The country, with all its beauty, 
 freshness, and freedom, was new to them, and they 
 rioted in it. They formed an ardent friendship for 
 each other, and were inseparable night and day. 
 They did not learn much — " Latin and all the trifling 
 rubbish that goes with it under the name of educa- 
 tion " ; but they were, in the main, kindly and even 
 indulgently treated, so that, while they were fond of 
 their master, as well as of his sister, who acted the 
 part of mother to them, they had but slight occasion 
 to seek any other guide than their own tastes and 
 appetites, or to learn the meaning of duty. It is easy 
 to understand how, with an experience like this, 
 backed by that of his earlier childhood, Rousseau 
 came to believe in, and passionately to maintain, the 
 natural goodness of the human character. To an 
 incident which occurred toward the end of his sojourn 
 
30 KOUSSEAU 
 
 at Bossey, namely, his being cruelly punished for a 
 slight offence, — which, moreover, he stoutly main- 
 tained to the end of his days that he did not commit, 
 — may be traced the origin of another doctrine of 
 his, namely, that what confuses, degrades, and blasts 
 human nature is discipline, the restraining or curbing 
 of the natural impulses. The effect of this incident 
 may be described in his own words : " Here came to 
 an end the serenity of my childish life. From that 
 moment I ceased to enjoy pure happiness, and to-day 
 I feel that the recollection of the charms of my child- 
 hood stops there. We remained some months longer 
 at Bossey; but we were as we are told the first man 
 was, when, though still in the earthly paradise, he 
 was no longer able to enjoy it; it was apparently the 
 same situation, but in reality it was another mode of 
 being. Attachment, respect, intimacy, confidence no 
 longer bound the pupils to their guides; we no longer 
 regarded them as gods who could read our hearts ; we 
 were less ashamed to do evil and more afraid of being 
 accused; we began to hide, to mutiny, to lie. All the 
 vices of our years corrupted our innocence and dis- 
 figured our games. The very country lost in our eyes 
 that charm of sweetness and simplicity which touches 
 the heart; it looked deserted and gloomy to us; it had 
 covered itself with a veil, which hid its beauties from 
 us. We no longer cultivated our little gardens, our 
 herbs, our flowers. We no longer went to scratch the 
 earth lightly, and shout with joy at discovering the 
 germ of the seed we had sown. We were disgusted 
 with life; our guardians were disgusted with us. My 
 uncle withdrew us, and we parted with Mr. and Miss 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 31 
 
 Lambercier feeling that we had had enough of each 
 other, and with small regret." 
 
 It would surely be impossible to write a severer 
 criticism than this upon the sentimental, undisci- 
 plined, unmoral education which Kousseau, up to this 
 time, had received, and which he afterwards put for- 
 ward as the type of true education. So frail is it 
 that a single experience of what he conceives to be 
 injustice dashes the whole to pieces, turns his world 
 into a desert, and sinks him in every sort of vice of 
 which his age is capable — including even that of 
 lasciviousness, prematurely developed in his ebul- 
 liently emotional nature, long nourished on senti- 
 mental romances. It is sad that we must allude to 
 this painful subject here; but, unless we do, we 
 cannot give a correct or fair account either of the 
 man or of his teachings. He himself tells us that 
 there ran in his veins "blood burning with sensuality 
 almost from his birth," and, though he professes to 
 have remained pure in action till late in youth, this 
 is contradicted by facts which he relates. The truth 
 is, his imagination was corrupt from early childhood, 
 and he was a victim not only of sensibility, but 
 of the demon sensuality, all the days of his life. 
 Though this fact may move our pity, its effect upon 
 his writings must not be ignored. 
 
 After leaving Bossey, at the age of ten, Eousseau 
 remained, for a couple of years, along with his cousin, 
 in the house of his uncle at Geneva. Here the two 
 boys, mixing with no other children, attending no 
 school, and having no definite tasks, made life a per- 
 petual holiday devoted to amusement. They made 
 
32 ROUSSEAU 
 
 kites, cages, drums, houses, bows, watches, mario- 
 nettes. For the last they composed comedies, which 
 later on they exchanged for sermons. Eousseau occa- 
 sionally visited his father, who was settled at Nyon 
 in the Pays de Vaud. Here he was petted and feted 
 by everybody, fell violently in love with several inju- 
 dicious women of twice his age, sighed, wept, and 
 went into hysterics over them, and was rewarded 
 sometimes with candy. With all this, he remained a 
 mere mass of impulses, ever tending to become more 
 and more unruly, violent, and sensual, and without 
 one ray of moral sense to guide them. So far, duty 
 had played no part in his purely animal existence; so 
 far, he had received no preparation for a human life. 
 And such a life, a life involving regular habits, con- 
 stant application, obedience, and self-denial, he was 
 now about to be called on to lead. In a word, he had 
 to learn a profession. 
 
 At first, when hardly twelve years old, he was 
 placed in a notary's office; but found his occupation 
 there so tiresome and unendurable that, though he 
 did not show any signs of active rebellion, he was 
 dismissed for ignorance and incapacity. He was 
 then, in a crestfallen condition, apprenticed to an 
 engraver, "a, coarse, violent man," by whom he was 
 treated as negligent and unruly apprentices usually 
 were. "In a short time," says Rousseau, "he suc- 
 ceeded in tarnishing all the brightness of my child- 
 hood, in brutalizing my loving, vivacious character, 
 and in reducing me, in spirit as well as in fortune, to 
 the true condition of an apprentice." . . . "The 
 vilest tastes and the lowest rascality took the place 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 33 
 
 of my pleasant amusements, blotting them entirely 
 from my mind. I must, despite a most sterling 
 (honnite) education, have had a great tendency to de- 
 generation; for this took place rapidly, and without 
 the least difficulty.'" . . . "My master's tyranny 
 finally . . . drove me to vices vv^hich otherwise I 
 should have hated, such as lying, idleness, and theft." 
 Comment on this is unnecessary, especially when we 
 find Rousseau taking credit to himself for having but 
 once stolen money — which he did at the age of forty! 
 Lying he frequently pleads guilty to, not to speak of 
 idleness. Yet he was not altogether idle at this time; 
 for, in order to escape from the real world of work 
 and duty, to which he neither then nor at any time 
 knew how to adapt himself, he threw himself into 
 the unreal world of romance, devouring, with the 
 nervous excitement of his childish days, every thril- 
 ling or sentimental story he could beg or borrow. 
 
 His apprenticeship lasted about four years, and 
 came to an end in a sudden and unexpected way. 
 Having remained outside the city one night till after 
 the gates were shut, and having been threatened by 
 his master with severe chastisement for such offence, 
 he resolved, rather than expose himself to this, to 
 leave both his master and his home, and seek his 
 fortune, as a knight-errant, in the wide world. His 
 cousin, whose friendship had visibly cooled as Rous- 
 seau degenerated, made him a few presents, encour- 
 aged him in his resolution, and " left him without 
 many tears." They never afterwards met or cor- 
 responded. 
 
 It was in 1728, when Rousseau was about sixteen 
 
34 ROUSSEAU 
 
 years old, that he resolved to become a " tramp, " — 
 for such, in very deed, he became. That he should 
 do this need not surprise us. It was the logical out- 
 come of his character and training, or, rather, want 
 of training. It is training that tits us to be members 
 of social institutions, and he had received no such 
 thing, but had been left to follow his natural instincts, 
 which were abnormally strong. Though he had been 
 caged for a time, the only life he was prepared to lead 
 was that of the wild bird, and to this he now, having 
 made his escape, naturally enough betook himself. 
 He was now to chirp and chatter, to fly hither and 
 thither, as hunger and caprice might direct, to coo 
 and make love and pilfer, utterly unaware that there 
 is such a thing in the world as duty or self-denial. 
 His master he blamed for everything. " Had I fallen 
 into the hands of a better," he wrote, nearly forty 
 years afterwards, "I should have passed, in the 
 bosom of my religion, my country, my family, and 
 my friends, a quiet, peaceable life, such as my nature 
 demanded, amid regular work suited to my taste, and 
 a society suited to my heart. I should have been a 
 good Christian, a good citizen, a good husband and 
 father, a good friend, a good workman, good in every- 
 thing. I should have loved my calling, honored it 
 perhaps; and, after having lived an obscure and 
 simple, but quiet and even life, I should have died 
 in peace in the bosom of my people. Soon forgot- 
 ten, no doubt, I should have been regretted at least 
 as long as I should have been remembered." The 
 whole of Jean-Jacques is here. He would have been 
 "good," as anybody can be, had he always found 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 35 
 
 everything suited to liis "taste" and "heart," that 
 is, pleasant and attractive; but of heroic, moral good- 
 ness, in the midst of circumstances offending both taste 
 and heart, he had not even a conception. Hence, 
 when he found himself in sucli circumstances, he was 
 bad, ready to shirk even the simplest and most sacred 
 duties, and to descend to the utmost baseness. 
 
 It would be uncharitable to speak in this way of 
 Rousseau, even though we but repeat his own state- 
 ment, without good reason. But in the present in- 
 stance such reason exists. His educational system 
 has its chief source in his own experiences, tastes, 
 and character, and cannot be appreciated in its moral 
 bearings without an impartial presentation of these. 
 By publishing his Confessions, moreover, he has in- 
 vited us to make this presentation, which we can thus 
 do without laying ourselves open to any charge of 
 circulating malicious gossip or slander. In judging 
 him as a man, we may allow him to put in the plea 
 of King Lear, whom, indeed, he resembles in many 
 
 ways : — 
 
 " I am a man 
 More siiin'd against than sinning." 
 
 After running away from his master, home, and 
 relatives, Rousseau lingered for a short time in the 
 neighborhood of Geneva, getting food and shelter as 
 best he could, and rioting in the sense of animal 
 liberty and romantic visions of a future career of 
 pure, ebullient enjoyment suited to his "taste and 
 heart." Here is one of them: "My moderation 
 limited me to a narrow sphere, but one deliciously 
 choice, in which I was sure to reign. A single castle 
 
36 EOUSSEAU 
 
 bounded my ambition; favorite of the lord and lady, 
 lover of the daughter, friend of the brother, and pro- 
 tector of the neighbors — that was enough; I asked 
 no more." In the course of his rambles he passed 
 over into Savoy, and at Confignon, finding himself 
 penniless and hungry, he called upon the cure, a zeal- 
 ous Roman Catholic, who, by means of a good dinner 
 and a bottle of wine, converted him to Catholicism. 
 Rousseau always maintained that he received a most 
 careful religious education; the above fact shows how 
 much it meant to a sensuous nature destitute of moral 
 discipline. To make sure of his proselyte, whose 
 weaknesses he must have seen through, M. de Pont- 
 verre sent him, with a letter of introduction, to a 
 recent convert, Madame de Warens, a person of many 
 attractions and easy virtue, residing at Annecy. This 
 lady, who lived on a pension from the King of Sar- 
 dinia, received him kindly, fed and lodged him, and 
 would gladly have given him a permanent home, 
 which, as he fell in love with her at first sight, he 
 would, no doubt, have accepted. But interested 
 friends of hers succeeded in driving him away, and 
 transporting him across the Alps to a monastery in 
 Turin, there to undergo spiritual instruction and be 
 formally received into the bosom of the Church. If, 
 during his week's journey to Turin, he was in the 
 seventh heaven of romantic ecstasy and hope, he found 
 himself in quite another place on his arrival there. 
 When the iron gate of the Hospice of the Catechu- 
 mens closed behind him, he found himself in a gloomy 
 prison, among men and women of the most degraded 
 type, all paying with pretended conversion for a 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 37 
 
 temporary subsistence. His account of his life 
 there, and of his spiritual guides, beggars belief. 
 His sojourn lasted but nine days,^ at the end of 
 which he solemnly abjured Protestantism, "received 
 the accessories of baptism," and was admitted into the 
 Church with gorgeous and edifying pomp. Then he 
 was turned out into the street amid pious wishes, and 
 with twenty francs of alms in his pocket. His ro- 
 mantic dreams had given place to a brutal reality. 
 
 Still he was not daunted. Finding food and lodg- 
 ing for a few cents a day, he idled as long as he could, 
 scouring the city in all directions. When his purse 
 was nearly empty, he tried to find work as an en- 
 graver, and, after many failures, managed to ingra- 
 tiate himself with an attractive young shopkeeper, 
 whose husband was at the time absent. He, of course, 
 fell at once violently in love with her, and had hopes 
 of reciprocation, when the husband returned, ordered 
 him out of the house, and threatened him with a yard- 
 stick whenever he again came near it. A few days 
 later, he found a place, as half-lackey, half-secretary, 
 with a very worthy and gifted lady, whose only defect 
 seems to have been that she kept him in his place and 
 did not coquette with him. When, after a time, she 
 died of cancer, he took the opportunity to steal a 
 valuable ribbon, and when it was found in his posses- 
 sion, he said it had been given to him by a fellow- 
 servant,^ a young girl, it seems, of irreproachable 
 
 1 Rousseau would have us believe that he was altogether three 
 months in the hospice ; but this, like-many other things in the Con- 
 fessions, is demonstrably incorrect. 
 
 2 His reason for this, he says, was that, liking the girl and mean- 
 ing to give her the ribbon, he had her in his mind ! 
 
38 ROUSSEAU 
 
 character, and stuck to his lie, even in the presence of 
 the girl, and notwithstanding her despairing appeals 
 to him. He gained belief simply because no one was 
 found bad-hearted enough to conceive any one capable 
 of such cruel lying. Indeed, it seems hardly possible 
 to descend to a lower depth of infamy than this, or to 
 furnish a more drastic commentary on the sort of 
 education which Rousseau received and advocated. 
 And this is the man who is continually taking credit 
 to himself for his chivalrous devotion to women, and 
 speaking of them in the most effusive terras! The 
 compunction which, in his Confessions, he so elo- 
 quently parades, only shows the value of rhetorical 
 morality. 
 
 After leaving the house of Madame de Vercellis, 
 Eousseau for a time prowled about the streets of 
 Turin, often performing acts of so disgusting a nature 
 that one wonders why he was not shut iip in a mad- 
 house. Once he was mobbed by an indignant crowd 
 and escaped only by a barefaced lie. At the same 
 time he was visiting a certain Abbe Gaime, who talked 
 to him very seriously, gave him wise counsels, and 
 made such an impression upon him as to be immortal- 
 ized later in the Vicaire Savoyard. 
 
 At last a situation was found for him. The Comte 
 de la Roque, a nephew of Madame de Vercellis, intro- 
 duced him to the Comte de Gouvon, head of a noble 
 family, who took him into his house as lackey, and 
 promised to do better things for him. Here he was 
 treated with great kindness, received instruction in 
 Latin from the count's nephew, and for a while con- 
 ducted himself satisfactorily, hoping, in course of 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 39 
 
 time, to find his way into the good graces of the 
 count's charming niece. Failing in this, and sud- 
 denly conceiving an ardent attachment for an old 
 acquaintance of his apprenticeship days, he neglected 
 his duties and his studies, was dismissed from his 
 place, refused an offer to be taken back, and the two 
 started off, with light-hearted glee, to resume the life 
 of tramps. Kousseau recalled the delights of his 
 journey to Turin. "What must it be," he thought, 
 "when to the charm of independence is united that 
 of travelling in company with a comrade of my own 
 age, taste, and good humor, without formalities, ivith- 
 out duty, without constraint, without any obligation 
 to travel or to stop, except as we please. One would 
 be a fool, indeed, to sacrifice such a chance for pro- 
 jects of ambition slow of realization, difficult, uncer- 
 tain, and which, even if one day realized, were not, in 
 all their glory, worth a quarter of an hour of true 
 youthful pleasure and liberty." 
 
 The two young men had little money; but they 
 hoped to make enough for board and lodging, by ex- 
 hibiting a gimcrack, a Hiero's-fountain, in country 
 taverns and bar-rooms. Disappointed in this, they 
 nevertheless continued their tramp, with great jollity, 
 across the Alps, arriving finally at Chambery, ragged 
 and almost shoeless. Here Eousseau, having made 
 up his mind to return to Madame de Warens, with 
 whom he had corresponded during his three years' 
 stay in Turin, and not wishing to take his companion 
 with him, began to treat him coolly, and the latter, 
 taking the hint, embraced him, bade him good-bye, 
 turned on his heel, and walked gayly off. The two 
 
40 ROUSSEAU 
 
 never afterwards met. Their ardent friendship had 
 lasted six weeks. 
 
 Madame de Warens, though surprised to see her 
 protege, whose fortune she had supposed made, come 
 back to her in rags, nevertheless received him kindly, 
 lodged him in her house, and, much to his chagrin, 
 tried to prepare him for some sort of regular work. 
 What he wanted was to dawdle about with her, to be 
 caressed and petted, to follow the dear caprice of the 
 moment, and to have no duties or definite employment. 
 As Madame de Warens, at that time, hardly cared to 
 be so completely absorbed, he was sent to a seminary 
 to learn a little Latin, as a preparation for the priest- 
 hood. He hated his first teacher, but formed an 
 ardent attachment for his second, who was weak and 
 sentimental, but sympathetic.^ In spite of this, 
 Rousseau made little progress, and was soon dis- 
 missed for incapacity. He was thus thrown back on 
 the hands of Madame de Warens, than which he de- 
 sired nothing better. Music was next tried, with no 
 better success, notwithstanding that he had great 
 sensuous delight in it. He had not patience or per- 
 sistence enough to learn even the rudiments of it, and 
 was too vain to accept instruction from teachers. At 
 last, Madame de Warens, getting tired, adopted a 
 scheme to get rid of him. She sent him off to Lyons 
 to accompany home a well-known musician of some- 
 what irregular habits, and during his absence went off 
 to Paris without leaving any address behind. Eous- 
 seau deserted the musician in a fainting-fit in the 
 
 1 Along with the Turinese M. Gaime, this man, M. Gatier, went 
 to form the portrait of the Savoyard Vicar. See p. 38. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S LIFE 41 
 
 streets of Lyons, ^ and hastened back to his dear 
 "mamma," ^ as he called her. 
 
 Finding her gone, he " loafed " about Annecy for a 
 time, in somewhat disreputable company, and then 
 started off to convoy home to Freiburg Madame de 
 Wareus' maid, whom, with his characteristic vanity 
 in such matters, he supposed to be deeply in love with 
 him. On the way he called, at Nyon, on his father, 
 who had married again, and had a satisfactorily affect- 
 ing scene with him. Being, contrary to his expecta- 
 tion, coolly received by his companion's family, and 
 finding himself without money, he went to Lausanne, 
 persuaded a kindly innkeeper to board and lodge him 
 on credit,^ gave himself out as a Parisian, changed 
 his name, and set up as a music teacher. His almost 
 complete ignorance of music having soon been dis- 
 covered, he, of course, made a ridiculous failure, and 
 soon left for Neuchatel. On the way he had a fine 
 opportunity for Arcadian longings and self-pity. " I 
 must absolutely have an orchard on the banks of this 
 lake (Lake of Geneva), and of no other. I must have 
 a firm friend, a sweet wife, a cow, and a little boat. 
 Till I have all these, I shall never enjoy complete 
 happiness on earth." . . . "I sighed and cried like 
 a baby. How often, sitting down on a big stone to 
 
 1 " He was abandoned by the only friend on whom he had a right 
 to count. I seized a moment when nobody was thinking of me, 
 turned the corner of the street, and disappeared." — Confessions, 
 Bk. I., Cap. III. 
 
 ^ Maman. She called him "Baby" {Petit). This was exactly 
 the relation that suited him. Cf. Confessions, Bk. I., Cap. II. 
 
 3 " I told him my little lies, as I had arranged them." — Confes- 
 sions, Bk. IV. 
 
42 ROUSSEAU 
 
 weep at leisure, did I amuse myself by watching my 
 tears fall into the water! " At Neuchatel he repeated 
 his experiment with somewhat better success than at 
 Lausanne ; but, having one day fallen in with a Greek 
 archimandrite, who was collecting subscriptions to 
 restore tlie Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, he was glad 
 to follow him as interpreter, with the prospect of 
 much aimless wandering and good dinners. At 
 Soleure, liowever, the French minister, having sat- 
 isfied himself that the archimandrite was a fraud, 
 sent him about his business, and took charge of Rous- 
 seau, who still pretended to be a Parisian. Having 
 heard the youth's story (Rousseau was now about 
 twenty), he gave him a hundred francs and sent him 
 off to Paris — home, as he thouglit ! — to be attendant 
 to a young officer in the guards. During the fort- 
 niglit which Rousseau took to reach Paris on foot, he 
 had a royal time, filling himself full of visions of 
 future military glory, and then allowing them to 
 vanish in the more passive delights of idyllic land- 
 scape. Paris, of which he had heard so much, com- 
 pletely disappointed him, and, as his reception there 
 was not over cordial, he soon left it and trudged 
 southward, hoping somewhere to find his "mamma." 
 During this journey, he was once more in the seventh 
 heaven, although here and there he encountered ex- 
 periences which tended to sober him, and which made 
 a lasting and fruitful impression upon him. Having 
 one day entered a peasant's house and asked for din- 
 ner, offering to pay, he received nothing but skimmed 
 milk and coarse barley bread, the man declaring that 
 lie had nothing else. In course of time, however, 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 43 
 
 feeling tliat his guest would not betray him, the man 
 opened a trap-door in the floor, descended, and re- 
 turned with a ham, some good white bread, and a 
 bottle of wine, on which, together with an omelette, 
 Rousseau made a royal dinner. The peasant then 
 explained to him that, in order to avoid ruin at the 
 hands of the tax-gatherer, he was obliged to feign 
 abject poverty. " All that he said to me on this sub- 
 ject," writes Rousseau, "was absolutely new to me, 
 and made an impression that will never be wiped out. 
 This was the germ of that inextinguishable hatred 
 which grew up in my heart against the vexations 
 endured by the unhappy people and against their 
 oppressors." 
 
 Having, when he reached Lyons, sought out a 
 friend of Madame de Warens', he learnt that she was 
 at Chambery, and would be glad to see him, having 
 found for him a pleasant occupation that would not 
 separate him from her. He hastened to find her; but, 
 though offered a horse, he walked all the way. This 
 was his last long journey on foot, the end of his vaga- 
 bondage, which had lasted four years. He tells us 
 that, though often poor afterwards, he never again 
 had to go without a meal. 
 
 And here it is to be noted that this vagabondage 
 had done five things for him: (1) It had satisfied his 
 lust for adventure, and made him willing to settle 
 down to a quiet life; (2) it had dispelled all the 
 glamor attaching to courts, castles, palaces, and 
 high life, and awakened in him a profound and en- 
 during passion for rural simplicity; (3) it had made 
 him acquainted, as hardly anything else could have 
 
44 ROUSSEAU 
 
 done, with the character, lives, needs, and sufferings 
 of the common people, and awakened in him a lively 
 sympathy for them; (4) it had inspired him with a 
 passionate love of natural scenery, such as no one 
 before him had ever felt; so that he may fairly be 
 called the inventor of the modern love of nature, the 
 inspirer of the nature-poets of all lands; (5) it had 
 made his language the expression of genuine passion 
 and first-hand experience, and so given it a force 
 which no style formed by reading or study ever can 
 have. All these things told in the future. 
 
 For nine years, from 1732 to 1741, Rousseau spent 
 the greater part of his time " at home, " that is, with 
 his " mamma." For four years they lived in Chambery 
 in a gloomy old house, under the most extraordinary 
 conditions, and the most immoral, that it is well 
 possible to conceive; for Madame de Warens had 
 apparently no trace of moral sense. For two years 
 Rousseau was employed in the public surveyor's 
 office ; but, as he found every sort of regular employ- 
 ment irksome and intolerable, he finally threw up his 
 place and fell back upon his *' mamma's " hands. After 
 a season of blessed idleness, he once more took to 
 teaching music, with a little better success this time. 
 Most of his pupils were young ladies of good family, 
 and he made a point of falling in love with nearly 
 every one of them, as well as sometimes with their 
 mothers and aunts. Observing this, and fearing for 
 his morals, Madame de Warens ceased to treat him as 
 a baby and admitted him to the closest intimacy. On 
 the death of her other intimate, some time after- 
 wards, Rousseau undertook to conduct her financial 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 45 
 
 affairs, which, on account of her recklessness and her 
 devotion to quacks and quackery, were rapidly falling 
 to irretrievable ruin. He only made them worse, tak- 
 ing advantage of her recklessness like the rest. To 
 make matters worse, partly owing to certain acci- 
 dents, and partly to his own morbid imagination, 
 nursed on laziness, his health gave way and he became 
 an invalid for Madame de Warens to nurse. Being 
 fond of the country, he persuaded her to leave Cham- 
 bery in the summer, and rent a cottage outside — the 
 famous Charmettes. Here he had everything his own 
 way, and for a time enjoyed perfect bliss. He had 
 his trees and Howers, his pigeons and bees, his mis- 
 tress and his books. His " languors " and " vapors " 
 gave him an excuse for avoiding all effort or trying to 
 earn anything, and so, for nearly a couple of years, 
 he dallied away his time, helping to devour the little 
 that remained of his poor mistress' pension, not to 
 speak of her patience. It is true that, to while away 
 the time, he did contrive to do a good deal of very 
 desultory reading, in all sorts of subjects, — geometry, 
 algebra, Latin, astronomy, and even philosophy. He 
 dabbled in Locke, Malebranche, Leibniz, Descartes, 
 and the Port Eoyal Logic. He even read some the- 
 ology, and was on the way to a wholesome fear of 
 hell, but was turned back by the comfortable optimism 
 of his mistress.^ At last, both he and she desired a 
 change. He, having dabbled in physiology, came to 
 
 1 It was a favorite idea of his that " the interesting and sensible 
 conversations of a worthy woman are better suited to form the 
 character of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy of 
 books." — Confessions, Bk. I., Cap. IV. 
 
46 EOUSSEAU 
 
 think that his languors were due to polypus of the 
 heart, and she encouraged him to go to Montpellier 
 to be cured, starting him off in a sedan chair, as he 
 was too feeble to ride ! On the way, he fell into the 
 most vulgar sort of intrigue with a coarse woman, 
 and quite forgot his mamma — and his polypus. He, 
 nevertheless, went to Montpellier and frittered away 
 some months there. When his money was exhausted, 
 he started off to join his new mistress ; but, on coming 
 to a point where the road to her parted from the road 
 to his mamma, he virtuously chose the latter! His 
 account of this deserves to be quoted: "As I ap- 
 proached Saint Esprit, I made up my mind to give 
 Saint Andiol the go-by, and go straight on. I carried 
 out this resolution courageously, with some sighs, I 
 admit, but also with the inner satisfaction, tvhicJi I 
 tasted for the first time in my life, of being able to say: 
 'I deserve my own good opinion; I know how to pre- 
 fer my duty to my pleasure.' This was the first real 
 obligation I owed to study. This it was that had 
 taught me to reflect and compare." . . . "One ad- 
 vantage of good actions is that they elevate the soul 
 and dispose it to do better ones; for human weakness 
 is such that one must count among good actions every 
 abstinence from evil that one is tempted to commit. 
 As soon as I had made up my mind, I became an- 
 other man." We must not despise the day of small 
 things ! 
 
 It is well that virtue is its own reward; for in this 
 case there was no other. On reaching the house of 
 his "mamma," he was coolly received, and found that 
 his place had been taken — taken by a travelling wig- 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 47 
 
 maker of brusque, noisy ways. With a bleeding 
 heart, he tells us, he voluntarily gave up his rights. 
 " I kept this resolution with a firmness, I venture to 
 say, worthy of the feeling which inspired it." . . . 
 "The ardent desire to see her happy, at any price, 
 absorbed all my affections." . . . "Thus began to 
 spring up, with my misfortunes, those virtues of 
 which the seeds lay in the depths of my soul, which 
 study had cultivated, and which only awaited the 
 influence {ferment) of adversity to bring them to 
 fruition." In spite of his disappointment, Rousseau 
 remained for some time with Madame de Warens; 
 but at last, finding his position intolerable, went off 
 to Lyons, to be tutor to the sons of M. de Mably, 
 brother of the famous Condillac. In this capacity he 
 was not a success, "having but three instruments, 
 always useless, and often hurtful, with children, — 
 sentiment, reasoning, anger." He seems, however, to 
 have retained the good opinion of his employer, and 
 he made several important acquaintances which were 
 valuable to him in the future. His morals, too, 
 improved somewhat ; he stole nothing but wine. He 
 kept his place for a year, and then, as usual, returned 
 to his " mamma, " who, though she treated him kindly, 
 showed no desire to retain him. Nevertheless, he 
 remained with her for some time; but, seeing that 
 the renewal of the old relations was impossible, and 
 that she was drifting to ruin, he at last left her, re- 
 solved to try his fortune in Paris, and hoping, — we 
 may well believe sincerely, — if he were successful, 
 to return and relieve her at a later time. 
 
 Here, in 1741, at the age of twenty-nine, Rousseau 
 
48 ROUSSEAU 
 
 passes, almost suddenly, from the dependent and pas- 
 sive period of his life to the independent and produc- 
 tive. Looking back upon the former, he says : " We 
 have seen my peaceful youth glide by in a quiet, not 
 ungentle sort of existence, without great troubles or 
 great prosperities. This absence of extremes was, in 
 large degree, due to my ardent but feeble tempera- 
 ment, slow to undertake and quick to be discouraged, 
 shaking off inaction by tits and starts, but always re- 
 turning to it from lassitude or taste ; a temperament 
 which, continually drawing me far away from great 
 virtues and yet further from great vices, to the indo- 
 lent, quiet life, for which I felt myself born, never 
 permitted me to rise to anything great, in the way 
 either of good or of evil." Though, after what we 
 have seen, it is impossible to agree with the author in 
 this indulgent estimate of himself, it nevertheless 
 contains much truth. For the first thirty years of 
 his life, Eousseau was a bundle of ardent desires, 
 undisciplined by either serious reflection or moral 
 training. He responded to outward impressions 
 exactly as an animal does, restrained, if at all, only 
 by fear. So utterly unaware was he that there is 
 such a thing in the world as morality or duty, that it 
 seems almost unfair to apply any moral standard to 
 his actions. He is the natural man, pure and simple, 
 with egoistic and altruistic instincts of a merely sen- 
 suous, not to say sensual, kind. He has gone back to 
 the state of nature; he is a savage living among civil- 
 ized men, and adapting himself to their standards as 
 far as he must. He is lying, faithless, slanderous, 
 thievish, lascivious, indecent, cruel, cowardly, self- 
 
EOUSSEAU'S LIFE 49 
 
 ish. Only toward the end do germs of nobler things 
 begin to appear. Into what grotesque and portentous 
 forms these developed, in the spongy soil of passion, 
 and under the bitter rain of adversity, we shall see 
 in the next chapter. 
 
 < G 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 
 
 (2) Productive Period (1741-1778) 
 
 I knew that all my talent came from a certain warmth of 
 soul regarding the subjects I had to treat, and that it was only 
 the love of the great, the true, and the good that could animate 
 my genius. ... I have never been able to write except from 
 passion. 
 
 Rousseau, Confessions, Bk. X. 
 
 Rousseau's early education, failing to discipline 
 his instincts, and leaving him in a state of animal 
 spontaneity, had produced the man whom we have 
 seen. Toward his thirtieth year, thanks partly to 
 poor health, partly to rather extensive reading, he 
 began, as we have seen, to realize his condition and to 
 have dim glimpses, still in a sensuous way indeed, of 
 a higher. His sated sensuality made him think of 
 hell, while the vague thrill of delight which he felt 
 in the presence of sublime nature was objectified into 
 a god.^ At all events, he began to make good reso- 
 lutions, which is the first step in moral life. And he 
 
 1 See Confessions, Pt. I., Bk. VI. It is perhaps worth noting 
 that this is exactly the god of Faust, at the time when he is trying 
 to ruin Gretchen. " Feeling is all," he says, at the close of a gush 
 of immoral sentimentality. The result proves the moral value of 
 such a god. Rousseau sat for much in the portrait of Faust. 
 
 50 
 
EOUSSEAU'S LIFE 61 
 
 was now about to enter a new school, very conducive 
 to such life, — the school of experience, which, as Jean 
 Paul says, is an excellent schoolmistress, though the 
 fees are rather high. 
 
 In turning his face to Paris, Rousseau meant to win 
 distinction and fortune as a musician. He had made 
 considerable progress in musical knowledge and even 
 aspired to be a composer. The idea of literary 
 authorship had hardly yet dawned upon him. On 
 his way he stopped at Lyons, where he obtained 
 several letters of introduction, and had a momentary, 
 but violent, love-spasm, which, however, did not 
 detain him. **I reached Paris," he says, "in the 
 autumn of 1741, with fifteen louis of ready money 
 in my pocket, my comedy Narcisse, and my musical 
 project as my sole resources. Having, therefore, no 
 time to lose, I made haste to take advantage of my 
 letters of introduction." He was well received. 
 His "musical project," which was nothing less than 
 a new system of musical notation, was presented to 
 the Academy of Sciences, but failed to meet with the 
 recognition he had expected. His Narcisse, though 
 praised by Fontenelle and Diderot, with whom, among 
 other notabilities, he had become intimate, was not 
 then brought on the stage. He consequently relapsed, 
 with a kind of desperate delight, into his habitual 
 indolence, and would soon have been reduced to ab- 
 ject poverty, had not a wise Jesuit father advised him 
 to try his fortune with the ladies. He did so, and, 
 notwithstanding his incurable awkwardness and rus- 
 ticity of manner, and his fatal habit of making effu- 
 sive love to every woman he met, no matter what her 
 
62 ROUSSEAU 
 
 rank or age, he was able, through one of his patron- 
 esses, Madame de Broglie, to obtain a situation as 
 secretary to a recently appointed ambassador to Ven- 
 ice, the Comte de Montaigu. In this position, which 
 brought him in contact with diplomatic and political 
 life — in a word, with the " great world " — for the first 
 time, he seems to have conducted himself with energy 
 and firmness, though not always with prudence, aaid 
 he retained it for eighteen months. He finally quar- 
 relled with the ambassador, who was an incompetent, 
 negligent coxcomb, and returned to France — without 
 his salary. For a long time all his endeavors to 
 obtain this were in vain — a fact which made a deep 
 impression on him. *'The injustice and uselessness," 
 he says, " of my complaints left in my soul a germ of 
 indignation against our stupid civil institutions, in 
 which the true good of the public and real justice are 
 always sacrificed to some indefinable, apparent order, 
 in reality destructive of all order, and merely adding 
 the sanction of public authority to the oppression of 
 the weak and the iniquity of the strong." And this 
 was not the only profound impression made on him 
 by his sojourn in Venice. In his official life, he 
 learnt the hollowness and corruption of diplomacy 
 and officialism; in his private life, in which he saw 
 much of the seamy side of Venice, he came to close 
 quarters with forms of depravity that disgusted even 
 his not over-healthy sensuality, and touched his 
 better nature. He returned from " the most immoral 
 of cities" a somewhat sobered and reflective man,^ 
 
 1 A letter which he wrote to a lady who received him badly on 
 his return, because he had dared to quarrel with an ambassador, 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 53 
 
 and, what is more, with a little sense of his own per- 
 sonal dignity as a man. 
 
 On his return to Paris, Rousseau resumed his 
 Bohemian life. For a short time he lived with a 
 much-admired Spanish friend; but, on his departure, 
 desiring to enjoy entire independence, he moved to a 
 little inn near the Luxembourg, meaning to resume 
 his musical studies and composition. His landlady 
 was a woman of the coarsest sort, and most of the 
 guests, Irish or Gascons, were like her, Rousseau 
 being the only decent person among them! They 
 were waited upon by a poor, hard-working girl, 
 named Therese Le Vasseur, from Orleans, who soon 
 became the butt of all the coarse ribaldry of the 
 house. Rousseau alone took her part; a sympathy 
 sprang up between them, which soon passed into 
 what he called love, and in a few days the ex- 
 secretary of the Venetian embassy, wishing to find a 
 successor to his "mamma," as he says, made the poor 
 creature his wife, in all but the name. He promised 
 never to abandon her, and never to marry her, and he 
 kept his word to his dying day, from 1744 to 1778. 
 There is no accounting for tastes; and there is no 
 doubt that Rousseau found in his Therese, who had 
 
 reveals his state of mind at this time. Here are some extracts : " I 
 am sorry, madam ; I have made a mistake. I thought you just : I 
 ought to have remembered that you are noble. I ought to have felt 
 that it is unbecoming in me, a plebeian, to make claims against a 
 gentleman. Have I ancestors, titles ? Is equity without parchment 
 equity ? " . . . " If he [the ambassador] has no dignity of soul, it is 
 because his nobility enables him to be without it ; if he is hand in 
 glove with all that is filthiest in the most immoral of cities ; if he 
 is the chum of pickpockets ; if he is one himself, it is because his 
 ancestors had honor instead of him." 
 
54 ROUSSEAU 
 
 few personal charms, and who could never tell the 
 time on a clock-face, remember the order of the 
 months, or give change for a franc, what was per- 
 manently congenial to his sensuous, indolent nature. 
 What he wanted was not stimulation or intellectual 
 companionship, but steady, unexacting affection, and 
 the thousand little soothing attentions that are quite 
 compatible with gross stupidity. These he found, 
 and his loyalty to her through all changes of fortune, 
 amid good and evil repute, is perhaps the noblest 
 trait in his whole life. What mattered it to him that 
 other persons saw in her only coarseness and greed? 
 he was content. "In the presence of those we love," 
 he says, "feeling nourishes the intelligence, as well 
 as the heart, and there is no need to go elsewhere in 
 quest of ideas. I lived with my Therese as agreeably 
 as with the finest genius in the world." ... "I saw 
 that she loved me sincerely, and this redoubled my 
 tenderness. This intimacy took the place of every- 
 thing for me. The future did not touch me, or 
 touched me only as the present prolonged. I desired 
 only to insure its duration. This attachment rendered 
 all other sorts of dissipation superfluous and insipid. 
 I went out only to visit Therese : her home became 
 almost mine." 
 
 Eousseau's relation to Therese did one thing, at 
 least, for him; it steadied him, and gave him peace 
 to work. So he toiled away at musical composition, 
 and tried, through his friends, to bring his work 
 before the public, but without success. Discouraged 
 at last, and having to provide, not only for himself, 
 but also for Therese and her whole family, he attached 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LITE 55 
 
 himself, in a somewhat nondescript capacity, to cer- 
 tain wealthy patrons, who gave him a small salary. 
 With these he passed the autumn of 1747 at the castle 
 of Chenonceau, on the Cher, in great luxury; but, 
 when he returned, a great surprise awaited him. His 
 Therese was about to give birth to a child — an event 
 for which he was not at all prepared. And here the 
 worst side of his character, his utter want of any 
 sense of moral responsibility and natural affection, 
 came to the surface. As soon as the child was born, 
 it was sent, despite the heartbroken remonstrances of 
 the mother, to the foundling hospital, and was never 
 again seen or recognized by its parents. We may 
 anticipate somewhat, by adding that four other chil- 
 dren, born to them later, all shared the same fate. 
 With all his gushing sentimentality and sensuous 
 sympathy, Rousseau recoiled from the tenderest, 
 sweetest, and most sacred of all human duties, — the 
 nurture and training of his own offspring. Speaking 
 of the exposure of his second child, he says : " Not a 
 bit more reflection on my part; not a bit more ap- 
 proval on the part of the mother. She groaned and 
 obeyed." And this was the man who could not see 
 her gibed by the Irish and Gascon abbes ! 
 
 About this time, Eousseau became acquainted with 
 Madame d'^fipinay and Mademoiselle de Bellegarde, 
 afterwards Comtesse d'Houdetot, both of whom were 
 destined to play important parts in his life. Now 
 also, mainly through his connection with the Abbe 
 Condillac and Diderot, he began to think of literary 
 composition, and planned a periodical to be called Le 
 Persijleur, which, luckily, never saw the light. He 
 
56 ROUSSEAU 
 
 did, however, write the article on Music for the En- 
 cyclopedie, which Diderot and D' Alembert were at that 
 time preparing to issue. The progress of this work 
 was interrupted by the arrest and imprisonment of 
 the former, on account of his Letter on the Blind. 
 Confined at first in the donjon at Vincennes, Diderot 
 was afterwards, on his parole, allowed the liberty of 
 the castle and park, and here his wife and friends 
 visited him. Among the most enthusiastic of the 
 latter was Kousseau, who went every other day. It 
 was on one of these visits that an event occurred 
 which affected his whole subsequent career, by throw- 
 ing him into the path on which he gained both influ- 
 ence and fame. It must be described in his own 
 words : " The summer of 1749 was one of excessive 
 heat. It is two leagues from Paris to Vincennes. 
 Unable to pay for a cab, I started at two o'clock in 
 the afternoon and walked, when I was alone, and I 
 walked quick to arrive the sooner." ... "To moder- 
 ate my pace, I resolved to carry some books with me. 
 One day I took the Mercure de France, and, as I 
 walked along reading it, my eye fell on this question, 
 proposed by the Academy of Dijon as the subject of 
 the following year's prize essay: Has the Progress of 
 the Arts and Sciences contributed to corrupt or to purify 
 Morals? On reading this, I instantly saw a new uni- 
 verse, and became a new man." ... "If ever there 
 was anything like a sudden inspiration, it was the 
 movement that took place in me on that occasion. 
 Instantly I felt my mind dazzled by a thousand 
 lights. Crowds of brilliant ideas presented them- 
 selves all at once, with a force and a confusion which 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 57 
 
 threw me into an inexpressible tumult. I became as 
 dizzy as if I had been intoxicated. I was seized with 
 a violent palpitation which made my bosom heave. 
 No longer able to breathe while I walked, I threw 
 myself down under one of the trees of the avenue, 
 and there remained for half an hour in such a state of 
 agitation that, when I got up, I observed that the 
 whole front of my vest was wet with my tears, though 
 I was not aware that I had shed any. "... " If I 
 could have written down a fourth part of what I felt 
 and saw under that tree, with what clearness would I 
 have exposed all the contradictions of our social sys- 
 tem; with what force would I have laid bare all the 
 abuses of our institutions; with what simplicity would 
 I have proved that man is naturally good, and that 
 it is solely through institutions that men become 
 wicked! "... "On arriving at Vincennes, I was in 
 a state of agitation bordering on delirium. Diderot 
 perceived this. I told him the cause. He encour- 
 aged me to give vent to my ideas and compete for the 
 prize. I did so, and from that moment I was lost. 
 All the rest of my life and misfortunes were the in- 
 evitable result of this moment of bewilderment. My 
 feelings rose, with utterly inconceivable rapidity, to 
 the height of my ideas. All my petty passions were 
 stifled by enthusiasm for truth, freedom, virtue; and 
 what is yet more astonishing, this effervescence kept 
 up in my heart for over four or five years, to a degree 
 in which I have never known it to occur in the heart 
 of any other man." ^ 
 
 1 This translation is made partly from the Confessions, Pt. II., Bk. 
 VIII., and partly from the second of the Letters to M. Malesherbes. 
 
58 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Such is Kousseau's account of his conversion to 
 literature and to the advocacy of truth, right, and 
 liberty. Though we need not accept its details as 
 literal facts, we may fairly say that this conversion 
 was due, not to calm conviction, based upon long and 
 profound reflection, but simply to the direction of 
 his ardent and effusive imagination upon a new and 
 attractive series of Arcadian pictures of quiet bliss, 
 contrasted with the noisy and distressing scenes in 
 which he found himself. His essay won the Dijon 
 Academy's prize, and this encouraged him to continue 
 writing. 
 
 Meantime, he had hired a small apartment, fur- 
 nished it, and taken Therese and her parents to live 
 with him. Here he spent the next seven years, in a 
 way which must be described in his own words: 
 " The heart of my Therese was that of an angel. Our 
 attachment increased with our intimacy, and we felt 
 more and more every day how truly we were made 
 for each other. If our pleasures could be described, 
 they would excite a laugh by their simplicity: our 
 private walks outside the city, where I munificently 
 spent eight or ten cents at some alehouse; our little 
 suppers by my window-sill, where we sat, face to face, 
 on two chairs placed on a trunk which filled the 
 embrasure. So placed, with the window as our table, 
 we breathed the air, we could see the neighborhood 
 and the passers-by, and, though on the fourth floor, 
 look down into the street, while Ave ate. Who shall 
 describe, who shall feel, the delights of those meals, 
 consisting of nothing more than a quartern loaf of 
 bread, a few cherries, a piece of cheese, and a half 
 
KOUSSEAU'S LIFE 59 
 
 pint of wine, which we drank between us? Friend- 
 ship, confidence, intimacy, sweetness of soul, how de- 
 licious your relishes are ! Sometimes we remained 
 there till midnight, without being aware of it, or noting 
 the time, until the old mamma called our attention to 
 it." In this description we find the old vagabond 
 Rousseau, only transferred to a city garret, and, at 
 the same time, that ideal qf a quiet, aimless, unen- 
 terprising, dalliaut life, which underlies all his 
 writings. 
 
 In Paris, Rousseau, notwithstanding his mode of 
 life, and his ebullient, intractable disposition, made 
 many friends both in the fashionable and in the 
 literary worlds, and was recognized as a rising man, 
 both in music and in literature. His opera, Le 
 Devin du Village, was played, with great success, 
 before the king at Versailles, and would have earned 
 him a pension had he played his cards well. His 
 Narcisse likewise was performed. His essay on the 
 Moral Effect of the Arts and Sciences had identified 
 him with certain rather paradoxical principles and 
 made him an object of universal curiosity, so that he 
 now resolved to live up to these even in externals. 
 He gave up a public ofiice which brought him a good 
 salary, and took to earning his living by copying 
 music. Another change must be described in his own 
 words: "I began my reform with my dress. I left 
 off gold facings and white stockings ; I put on a round 
 wig; I laid aside my sword; I sold my watch, saying 
 to myself, with incredible delight, 'Thank heaven, I 
 shall no longer need to know what the time is ! ' " In 
 doing this, Rousseau wished to show that he, once for 
 
60 ROUSSEAU 
 
 all, identified himself with the common people, with 
 wliom indeed his chief sympathies were. He was too 
 immediate and capricious ever to school himself into 
 the manners of polite society, or to find satisfaction 
 in its hollow formalities, and he would have been 
 wise had he avoided it altogether, as he did not. In 
 1753 he wrote his second 'discourse ' — on the ques- 
 tion, W/iat is the Origin of Inequality among Men, and 
 is it authorized by the Natural Law? — which, though 
 failing to win the Dijon prize, added to his reputation, 
 and carried his thoughts further on in the direction 
 in which they had for some time been moving — that 
 of democracy. 
 
 In spite of all these successes, Rousseau got weary 
 of the close atmosphere of Paris, the obtrusive curi- 
 osity of visitors, and the calls of social life, — all the 
 more that he had for some time been suffering from 
 a painful malady. Accordingly, in 1754, he paid a 
 visit, in company with Therese, to his native city. 
 On his way he went to see his " mamma, " whom he 
 found a poverty-stricken wreck. "Then," he says, 
 "was the moment to pay off my debts. I oiight to 
 have left all and followed her, clinging to her till her 
 last hour, and sharing whatever might be her fate. 
 I did nothing. ... I groaned over her and did not 
 follow her. " At Geneva, he met with an enthusiastic 
 reception, returned, after twenty-six years of apos- 
 tacy, to Protestantism, and was restored to his rights 
 as a citizen. He even made up his mind to settle 
 there for the rest of his life, and returned to Paris 
 with the intention of preparing for so doing. Find- 
 ing, however, that Voltaire, whose unfriendly influ- 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 61 
 
 ence lie dreaded, had settled near Geneva, and that the 
 Introduction to his second discourse, in which he had 
 spoken of the Genevese constitution, had given offence 
 to his countrymen, he changed his mind, and, having 
 just then received from his friend, Madame d'Jfipinay, 
 the offer of a home in the charming Hermitage, 
 near Montmorency, he accepted, and in the spring of 
 1756 removed thither, with Therese and her mother. 
 The father, over eighty years of age, was packed off 
 to the poorhouse, where he died almost immediately, 
 to the great grief of Therese. 
 
 Amid the delights of his new residence, Rousseau 
 was for a while in the most ecstatic condition. He 
 had money enough to live on for some time, a fair 
 prospect of paying work, devoted friends, self-set 
 tasks in which he delighted, and natural surroundings 
 in which he could thrill and gush to his heart's con- 
 tent. But this Avas too much. He did, indeed, con- 
 tinue to copy music; but his other tasks were soon 
 mostly abandoned or forgotten, while he gave himself 
 up to his natural indolence and dreaming. AVith- 
 drawing almost completely from society, he buried 
 himself in the woods, and, with his morbid and lurid 
 imagination, devoted himself to the creation of a 
 Mohammedan paradise of sensual delights, in which 
 he revelled day and night. From this time on, he 
 never ceased to suffer from what may be called imagi- 
 native insanity. The effects of this showed them- 
 selves at the first touch with reality. Having been 
 visited by the Comtesse d'Houdetot, the sister-in-law 
 of his patroness, he at once enveloped her in all the 
 products of his diseased imagination, and so conceived 
 
62 ROUSSEAU 
 
 for her a frantic passion, whose depth he measured by 
 the nervous derangement it caused in him, and the 
 gush of passionate bombast it brought upon his lips.^ 
 Madame d'Houdetot, however, having not only a 
 husband, but a lover besides, while allowing him to 
 gush, did not respond as he desired, and the only 
 result of his folly was that he embroiled himself with 
 Madame d'^^pinay, and many of his other friends. 
 The former, a woman of very loose life, was jealous 
 of her sister-in-law, while the latter, seeing the effect 
 of solitude upon him, tried to induce him to return 
 to Paris, or to separate from Therese, who, with her 
 rapacious, deceitful mother, was bringing him to 
 poverty, and becoming more and more a burden to 
 him. For both women they undertook to provide. 
 Eousseau, resenting all interference with his caprices, 
 — they were nothing more, — suddenly left the Her- 
 mitage, and accused his friends of having formed a 
 conspiracy, for which he could never assign any 
 motive, to ruin him. One can excuse him only by 
 saying that he was emotionally insane. 
 
 In the middle of December he moved with Therese 
 to a rented cottage at Montmorency, having sent the 
 mother about her business. Feeling himself here 
 dependent on no one, and not being in very opulent 
 circumstances, he began to work, and the next four 
 years were the most productive of his whole life. 
 They produced The New Helotse, the Social Contract, 
 and iJmile. The first, which had been begun at the 
 
 1 He maintained ever afterwards that she was the only real love 
 of his life, that he had never completely loved even his "mamma," 
 or his Therese at all ! Such is the power of a fixed idea ! 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 63 
 
 Hermitage, under the iufluence of his passion for 
 Madame d'Houdetot, was finished in 1759, and pub- 
 lished two years later. The Social Contract, meant to 
 be part of a larger work, Political Institutions, came 
 out in 1762, only a few weeks before Emile. 
 
 At Montmorency, Kousseau made the acquaintance 
 of the Duke of Luxembourg, Marshal of France, and 
 his wife, who introduced him into their very aristo- 
 cratic circle, made him acquainted with great people, 
 and in every way treated him with the utmost kind- 
 ness and consideration, so that in their society he had 
 a season of comparative rest and comfort. He read 
 the whole of The New Heloise and JSmile to the duchess 
 in bed, and in consequence became a great favorite 
 with her. She even undertook to see to the printing 
 and publication of £mile, and made the contracts. 
 Thus Rousseau began to feel that, after his stormy 
 past, there might be in store for him a peaceful old 
 age, with a competency, honor, and friends. But this 
 was not to be. 
 
 No sooner had £mile appeared than it roused a 
 storm, whose extent and fury it is, at first sight, diffi- 
 cult to understand. Within a month, the Parliament 
 condemned the book, ordering it to be burnt and its 
 obnoxious author arrested. To this result there is no 
 doubt that persons who had once been his friends con- 
 tributed. The truth is, Rousseau, by his book, had 
 placed himself in opposition to two powerful and 
 well-defined parties : (1) the orthodox, religious party, 
 which included the court, (2) the philosophic or 
 rationalistic party, at whose head stood Voltaire and 
 the Encyclopaedists — Diderot, D'Alembert, Grimm, 
 
64 ROUSSEAU 
 
 etc. The latter was the prime mover in the storm. 
 Voltaire and his followers had for many years been 
 laboring, with might and main, to discredit and 
 destroy all religion, all belief in the supernatural, 
 and were flattering themselves that they would suc- 
 ceed in replacing it by what they called Reason. Now 
 came Rousseau, whom they had in vain tried to add 
 to their ranks, and not only reinstated religion and 
 religious belief, but did so with a power and a bril- 
 liancy of literary style that threatened not only to 
 defeat their purpose, but even to cast themselves and 
 their works into the shade. This, of course, was not 
 to be tamely borne. Voltaire especially, who hated 
 Rousseau, and whose vanity shrank from no meanness, 
 trickery, or deceit, moved heaven and earth to crush 
 him; and he did this so adroitly that his victim was 
 never able to trace to its source the persecution which 
 remorselessly dogged him.^ But if the party of Vol- 
 taire started the persecution, the orthodox party was 
 but too ready to carry it on. The theology and 
 religion expounded and advocated in iJmile, especially 
 in the Savoyard Vicar's Confession of Faith, not only 
 set at open defiance all the dogmas of the Church, but 
 were well calculated, by their simplicity and sweet 
 sentimentality, to become widely popular, and under- 
 mine the Church's influence. Under these circum- 
 stances, we need not be surprised to find that the two 
 mutually hostile parties combined to procure the con- 
 demnation of Rousseau and his book. 
 
 We have seen that the Duchess of Luxembourg had 
 
 1 The infamous libel, which Rousseau so unjustly attributed to the 
 Swiss pastor Vernes, was from the hand of Voltaire. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 65 
 
 made the arrangements for the printing of ^mile. It 
 was through her he learnt that his arrest was about 
 to be decreed. She had received a letter to that effect 
 from the Prince de Conti, a friend of Rousseau's, and 
 so great was her agitation, not only on account of the 
 latter, but also on her own, that she roused him from 
 sleep and called hira to her bedside at two o'clock in 
 the morning of June 9, 1762. It was intimated that, 
 if he attempted to escape, no effort would be made to 
 detain him. He accordingly determined upon this 
 course, one chief motive being his unwillingness to 
 compromise the duchess and her family. Several 
 places of refuge were suggested to him ; but he finally 
 chose the nearest, Switzerland, and made all possible 
 haste to reach it. On the way, he composed three 
 cantos of a poem — The Levite of Ephraim. On 
 reaching Yverdun, he stopped for a few days with a 
 friend, considering what he should do next, where 
 he should settle. He would gladly have gone to 
 Geneva, but found it closed against him. There, too, 
 his book had been burnt and a decree issued against 
 him. " These two decrees," he says, " were the signal 
 for a shriek of malediction against me from one end 
 of Europe to the other — a shriek of unexampled fury. 
 All the papers, journals, pamphlets, tolled the most 
 awful tocsin." Despairing of finding a refuge in 
 Switzerland, he turned to the canton of Neuchatel, 
 which at that time formed part of the dominions of 
 Frederick the Great, and was governed by Marshal 
 Keith, an exiled Scottish Jacobite of the noblest char- 
 acter. Though he had inveighed against Frederick, 
 Rousseau, with his usual frankness, wrote to him, 
 
66 ROUSSEAU 
 
 telling him he was in his power and asking for an 
 asylum. The Prussian king not only granted him 
 this, but directed Marshal Keith to supply his needs, 
 and even build him a house, if he so desired. Rous- 
 seau declined his gifts, but thought better of him ever 
 afterwards. Marshal Keith proved to be the best 
 friend he ever had. Kousseau settled at Motiers, at 
 the foot of Mount Jura, and remained there for over 
 three years, having sent for Therese, his books and 
 papers. Though he frittered away his time in child- 
 ish pursuits, writing almost nothing, things went well 
 enough till the departure of Marshal Keith, when the 
 people of the village, stirred up by narrow-minded 
 pastors, and prejudiced by the Armenian costume 
 which, on account of a troublesome malady, he had 
 adopted, began to threaten him with violence. This 
 finally went so far that he was obliged to leave the 
 place and betake himself to the Island of Saint Peter, 
 in the Lake of Bienne, in the territory of Berne. 
 Here he had reason to think that he would be unmo- 
 lested, and, sending for Therese, gave himself up to 
 a life similar to that which he had for some time led 
 at the Charmettes, and later at the Hermitage. He 
 revelled in nature, botanized and sentimentalized from 
 morning till night, and was in an ecstasy of bliss. 
 His description of his life here is one of the most 
 charming Arcadian idyls in existence. At the end of 
 six weeks, however, his persecutors found him out, 
 and he received a peremptory order to leave the island, 
 and the territory of Berne, within twenty-four hours, 
 on pain of arrest and forcible expulsion. Stupefied 
 and almost heartbroken, he begged the authorities to 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 67 
 
 imprison him in the island for the rest of his life; he 
 would then be safe, and he desired nothing better. 
 But all in vain! He left the island in the end of 
 October, 1765, not knowing whither to turn his 
 steps. He thought of Corsica, of Berlin, where he 
 would have had the protection of Marshal Keith, of 
 England, which had been strongly recommended to 
 him by certain of his patronesses, and where he hoped 
 to enjoy the friendship of David Hume. He finally 
 decided for the last of the three. ^ 
 
 The life of Rousseau from this point on, having no 
 effect upon his chief works, may be sketched rapidly. 
 We shall try to show merely how his undisciplined 
 temperament, and the theories he based on it, led to 
 their natural results. Some of these had already 
 manifested themselves — a diseased, sensuous imagi- 
 nation, suspicion, Avillessness, querulousness, gloom. 
 But others followed. 
 
 On his way to England, Rousseau went to Paris, to 
 join Hume. Here, instead of being molested, he was 
 lionized. " Voltaire and everybody are quite eclipsed 
 by him," said Hume. In spite of this, Rousseau, 
 who sincerely disliked publicity, was eager to proceed, 
 and, early in January, 1766, he crossed over to Eng- 
 land with his new friend. In London he received the 
 utmost attention, was visited by the most distin- 
 guished persons, and was offered a pension by the 
 king. About all this, however, he cared little, and 
 was anxious only to find a quiet retreat. Several 
 
 1 Rousseau's Confessions break off at this point. The projected 
 third volume was never written. For what follows we have to 
 depend on his Reveries, correspondence, etc. 
 
68 ROUSSEAU 
 
 places were thought of; but he finally settled upon 
 Wootton in Derbyshire. Here he was offered the use 
 of a spacious house by a wealthy and generous Mr. 
 Davenport, but insisted upon paying rent for it. 
 Removing to it in March, and being soon joined by 
 Therese, he resumed his life with Nature and his 
 botany, set to work upon his Confessions, which he 
 had long projected, and thought he was going to be 
 happy. Soon, however, the rudeness of the climate, 
 his ignorance of English, the difficulties caused by 
 Therese, the change of feeling on the part of the Eng- 
 lish public, as evidenced by the press, and Hume's 
 lack of continual satisfactory responsiveness to his 
 ardent feelings, brought to the surface the morbid sus- 
 picion that lurked in his nature. He accused Hume 
 of gross treachery, and of having conspired with Vol- 
 taire and D'Alembert to ruin him.^ 
 
 Hume, it is needless to say, was guiltless of 
 treachery; but his cold, passionless nature rendered 
 him incapable of understanding the man he had 
 undertaken to befriend, and with whose known in- 
 firmities he ought to have borne, while his vanity 
 resented anything that seemed to call his Pharisaic 
 impeccability in question. He accordingly printed a 
 
 1 Among the charges which he brought against Hume was that 
 of having written a letter pretending to come from Frederick tlie 
 Great, which brought great ridicule upon him. The closing words 
 of this letter, whose real author was the coxcomb, Horace Walpole, 
 may be quoted, as containing some truth: " If you will persist in 
 harrowing your soul to find new misfortunes, choose those which 
 you prefer : I am a king and can procure you any sort you like ; 
 and I will do what you need not expect from your enemies, I will 
 cease to persecute you when you cease taking pride in being perse- 
 cuted." 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 69 
 
 defence of himself, thus dragging before the public 
 what was essentially a private matter. The public 
 took it up, and the world was deluged with pamphlets 
 on both sides. Rousseau, who cared nothing for 
 public opinion, preserved a dignified silence. Never- 
 theless, he became more and more unhappy, and, after 
 sojourning a year at Wootton, he suddenly disap- 
 peared from it, leaving behind him Therese and his 
 effects. He was found, first in Lincolnshire, and 
 afterwards at Dover, whence, toward the end of May, 
 1767, he crossed over to Calais, a wretched man, full 
 of fears, disordered in body and in mind. 
 
 For the next three years he wandered about from 
 place to place, sometimes alone, sometimes the guest 
 of generous patrons, among whom were the Marquis 
 de Mirabeau and the Prince de Conti. In the chateau 
 of the latter at Trye, near Gisors, he remained a 
 whole year, under the assumed name of Eenou, and 
 here he wrote the second part of his Qmfessions. 
 Having got into difficulties through Therese, whose 
 character became daily more brutal, he suddenly left 
 Tvje, meaning to go to Chambery and visit old scenes.^ 
 But he never reached that place. He passed some time 
 at Grenoble, went thence to Bourgoin, where he spent 
 over half a year, and informally married Therese, 
 thinking thereby to regain her lost affection, and 
 thence to Monquin, where he passed some fifteen 
 months. Tired at last of wandering, and feeling that 
 he might with safety return to Paris, he repaired 
 
 1 His " mamma " was no longer living. She had died in destitu- 
 tion and wretchedness, in 1762, while he was at Metiers, botanizing 
 and trifling. 
 
70 ROUSSEAU 
 
 thither in July, 1770, and settled down to his old 
 life, which he had abandoned fourteen years before, 
 when he went to occupy the Hermitage. Here he 
 passed eight years, living in a very simple way on a 
 meagre income, which he eked out by copying music. 
 He still continued, however, to botanize, to write, 
 and to compose music. His Dialogues, his Reveries, 
 and some minor works belong to this period. He was 
 still visited by the great, the fashionable, the wise, 
 and the curious. But he was not happy. Therese 
 was daily becoming more trying; he suffered a good 
 deal of bodily pain; his mind was morbid, haunted 
 by phantoms from the past, fears for the present, and 
 gloomy forebodings for the future ; he had lost many 
 of his friends, and his independence, which had almost 
 become a disease, forbade him to accept aid from 
 those whom he still retained. At last, however, by 
 the advice of his physician, he was induced to accept 
 the invitation of M. Girardin to go and live at his 
 estate of Ermenonville, some twenty miles from Paris. 
 He went there on the 21st of May, 1778, and Avas soon 
 followed by Therese. Country life seemed to bring 
 back some of his old enthusiasm, and he was revolving 
 in his head projects for the future, among them the 
 continuation of Emile, when, on the 2d of July, he 
 was suddenly taken ill, suffering acute pains. On 
 the following day he got up, and was preparing to go 
 out, when he was seized with violent shivering and 
 headache. While trying to swallow some medicine, 
 he fell forward on the ground, and almost instantly 
 expired, at the age of sixty-six years. He was buried 
 the same day in the Island of the Poplars, in the Lake 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 71 
 
 of Ermenonville, and there his ashes rested till the 
 triumph of the Revolution, which he had done so 
 much to bring about.-' On the 11th of October, 1793, 
 they were removed, amid a tumult of enthusiasm, to 
 Paris, and placed in the Pantheon, over whose portal 
 are inscribed the words : Aux grands Hommes, la 
 Patrie reconnaissante. 
 
 This sketch of Rousseau's life, imperfect as it is, 
 will enable us to form a conception and an estimate of 
 his character and ideals, which underlie his social and 
 educational theories. 
 
 We shall not greatly err, if we say that the founda- 
 tion of Rousseau's character was spontaneity, that his 
 whole life was an endeavor to give free and uncon- 
 strained expression to this, and that his works were 
 so many efforts to champion it, as the ideal of life, 
 and to show how it might be preserved, free from 
 constraint and corruption. In Rousseau himself, this 
 spontaneity, naturally very rich and strong, was fos- 
 tered by an education which, leaving him at liberty to 
 follow his momentary caprices, fired his imagination 
 and made it ungovernable, so that he early became 
 utterly incapable of submitting to any restraint, 
 regulation, continuous occupation, or duty, however 
 sacred. He lived in, and for, the present moment, 
 seeking to draw from it the greatest amount of enjoy- 
 ment, tranquil or ecstatic, as his mood happened to 
 demand, without any thought of past, future, or the 
 claims of others. He was too immediate to cherish 
 
 1 The report that he committed suicide seems utterly destitute of 
 foundation. [Since this was written, an examination of his skull has 
 placed this heyoud doubt.] 
 
72 ROUSSEAU 
 
 either love or hatred for absent things or persons. 
 He was without malignity, because malignity causes 
 discomfort; he loved for the pleasure love gave him, 
 and when that ceased, love ceased. He was equally 
 a stranger to revenge and gratitude. He could aban- 
 don his best friend, and then weep torrents of delicious 
 tears over his or her forlorn condition. He could 
 gush over his friends as long as they were willing 
 merely to gush back ; but, when they showed any signs 
 of coldness, or tried to call him back to a sense of 
 duty, he was ready to accuse them of the grossest 
 ingratitude or blackest treachery. Knowing abso- 
 lutely nothing of moral discipline, and having learnt 
 none of those moral principles which render perma- 
 nent and healthy social relations possible, he easily 
 got disgusted with society, and was always ready to 
 withdraw to solitude, which he could people with 
 beings endowed with prodigal emotion, duly respon- 
 sive to his own. For the same reason, while he exulted 
 in virtue, when virtue was picturesque and pleasant, 
 he was ready to give way to the basest of vices, if he 
 could thereby obtain pleasure or avoid pain. He 
 could never prevail upon himself to do anything that 
 was disagreeable, no matter what law of duty im- 
 posed it upon him. He could wax eloquent on the 
 duties of parents, and melt into tears at the sight of 
 innocent children; yet he sent his own offspring to 
 the foundling asylum. Such are some of the fruits 
 of spontaneity. 
 
 But perhaps the most astonishing thing about Eous- 
 seau is, that he went through life, not only without 
 learning the meaning of duty, but firmly believing 
 
ROUSSEAU'S LIFE 73 
 
 that the life of pure spontaneity and caprice which he 
 led was the ideal life, and that he himself was the 
 best of men. This, indeed, he openly maintains. So 
 far, indeed, was he from being ashamed of his undis- 
 ciplined spontaneity, that he wrote his Confessions to 
 prove that the spontaneous man is the best of men. 
 We need not be surprised, then, to find that all his 
 works are so many pleas for spontaneity, so many 
 attempts to show all the evils which afflict humanity 
 to be due to restraints placed upon spontaneity or at- 
 tempts to discipline it; that they are so many schemes 
 for making humanity blest, by the removal of these 
 restraints. Indeed, it is hardly an exaggeration to 
 say that the whole aim of Rousseau's literary activity 
 is to show how men may be made happy and con- 
 tented, without being obliged to become moral. 
 
 But what Rousseau sought to prove by eloquent 
 words, by insidious appeals to man's natural craving 
 for happiness on easy terms, he disproved by his own 
 character, his actions, and the sad results of both. 
 His character, with its obtrusive independence, due 
 to absence of all acknowledgment of moral ties, is 
 spongy, unmanly, and repellent. We might pity him, 
 if he did not pity himself so much; biit we can in no 
 case admire or love him. His actions are merely so 
 many efforts to obtain self-satisfaction, and that, too, 
 of a purely sensuous, not to say sensual, sort. Though 
 often imprudent, he is never heroic; though senti- 
 mentally or picturesquely kind, he is never generous 
 or high-minded. If he submits to wrong, he does so 
 more from sloth than from magnanimity. The results 
 of his character and actions, of which his theories are 
 
74 ROUSSEAU 
 
 but the generalized expression and defence, are a 
 sufficient warning against such character, actions, and 
 theories. These results were querulousness, misery, 
 and insanity, unillumined by one ray of conscious 
 heroism or moral worth. The man who had no other 
 interest in life than the satisfaction of his own senses 
 and emotions, found life meaningless, when satiety, 
 abuse, and age had blunted these ; and when, despite 
 all unnatural stimulation from a diseased imagination, 
 they became sources of pain, instead of sources of 
 pleasure, nothing was left for him but spontaneous 
 reactions in the form of querulousness, self-pity, and 
 insanity. A sadder old age than Rousseau's is not 
 often recorded. 
 
 As the above estimate of Rousseau's character may 
 seem harsh and unsympathetic, it ought to be added 
 that it is based entirely upon his own account of him- 
 self. In order to show this, it may be well to tran- 
 scribe here a few passages from the four letters which 
 he wrote to M. de Malesherbes, in January, 1762, in his 
 best days, shortly before the publication of the Social 
 Contract and Emile: — • 
 
 " My heart cares too much for other attachments, to care so 
 much for public opinion. I am too fond of my pleasure and my 
 independence, to be as much the slave of vanity as they sup- 
 pose. A man for whom fortune and the hope of a brilliant 
 future never outweighed a rendezvous or a pleasant supper, is 
 not likely to sacrifice his honor to the desire of being talked 
 about." ... "I was long mistaken as to the cause of my in- 
 vincible disgust with human society." ... " Wliat, then, is this 
 cause ? It is simply this indomitable spirit of liberty, which 
 nothing has been able to overcome, and before which fortune, 
 honors, reputation even, are as nothing. Certain it is that this 
 spirit of liberty is due less to pride than to indolence ; but this 
 
EOUSSEAU'S LIFE 75 
 
 indolence is incredible. Everything scares it ; the smallest 
 duties of civil life are insupportable to it ; a word to speak, a 
 letter to vsrite, a visit to pay, as soon as they have to be done, 
 are tortures to me. This is why, while ordinary intercourse 
 with men is odious to me, friendship is so dear — because there 
 is no duty about it. You follow your heart, and all is done. 
 This also is why I have always dreaded kindnesses ; for every 
 kindness demands gratitude, and I feel my heart ungrateful, 
 simply because gratitude is a duty. In a word, the kind of 
 happiness I want consists, not so much in doing what I wish, 
 as in not doing what I don't wish. Active life has no tempta- 
 tions for me. I had a thousand times rather do nothing than 
 do anything against my will. I have a hundred times thought 
 that I should not have been unhappy in the Bastille, having 
 merely to stay there." . . . "An indolent soul, recoiling 
 from all responsibilities, and an ardent, bilious temperament, 
 easily affected and excessively sensitive to all that affects it, are 
 two things which seem unlikely to meet in the same character ; 
 yet, contrary though they be, they form the basis of mine." 
 ... " My soul, alienated from itself, belongs wholly to my 
 body ; the disordered condition of my poor machine holds 
 it every day more captive, until the time when the two 
 shall part company altogether." . . . "My woes are the work 
 of Nature ; my happiness is my own work. Say what you 
 will, I have been well-behaved, because I have been as happy 
 as my nature allowed me to be. I have not looked for my 
 happiness in the far distance, but in myself ; and there I have 
 found it." . . . "When my sufferings make me sadly meas- 
 ure the length of the nights, what period of my life do you 
 suppose I recall most frequently and with most pleasure, in my 
 dreams?" ... " It is the period of my retreat, my solitary 
 walks, the swift but dehcious days I have passed all by my- 
 self, with my good, simple housekeeper, my beloved dog, my 
 old cat, the birds of the field and the deer of the forest, the 
 whole of nature and its inconceivable author. When, rising 
 with the sun, in order to see him rise ... I saw the approach 
 of a fine day, my first wLsh was that neither letters nor visits 
 would come to spoil its charm. After giving up the forenoon 
 to different chores, all of which I did with pleasure, because I 
 
76 ROUSSEAU 
 
 might have put them off till another time, I hastened to dine, in 
 order to escape intruders, and secure a longer afternoon. By 
 one o'clock, even in the hottest days, I set out." ..." When 
 once I had turned a certain corner, with what palpitation of 
 heart, with what flashes of joy, I began to breathe, feeling my- 
 self safe, and saying : ' Here I am, my own master for the rest 
 of the day ! ' Then I went along more quietly to find some 
 wilderness, where nothing showing the hand of man bore wit^ 
 ness to servitude or mastership, some retreat into which I could 
 suppose I had been the first to penetrate, and where no third 
 intruder could come between Nature and me. It was there that 
 she seemed to display an ever new splendor before me." . . . 
 "My imagination did not long leave unpeopled the land thus 
 adorned. I soon peopled it with beings according to my own 
 heart, and, driving far away opinion, prejudice, and all facti- 
 tious passions, I brought into the retreats of Nature men worthy 
 to inhabit them. I formed them into a delightful society, of 
 which I did not feel myself unworthy to be a member ; I made 
 a Golden Age, to please myself ; and, filling these beautiful days 
 with all those scenes in my life which had left behind pleasant 
 recollections, and with all those which my heart could still desire, 
 I melted into tears over the true pleasures of humanity, pleas- 
 ures which are so delicious and so pure, and henceforth so far 
 from men ! Oh, if in these moments my dreams were broken 
 by any idea of Paris, of my time, of my little literary aureole, 
 with what disdain did I at once send it flying, in order to give 
 myself up, without distraction, to the exquisite feelings which 
 filled my soul ! Nevertheless, in the midst of all this, I confess, 
 the unreality of my chimeras sometimes suddenly saddened me. 
 If my dreams had all turned into realities, they would not have 
 satisfied me. I should still have imagined, dreamed, desired. 
 I found in myself an inexplicable void, which nothing could fill, 
 a certain rising of the heart toward another sort of enjoyment, 
 of which I had no idea, but yet of which I felt the need." . . . 
 ' ' I will not hide from you that, notwithstanding my conscious- 
 ness of my vices, I hold myself in high esteem." 
 
 Such was the man who undertook to be the educator 
 of his kind! 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 
 
 The State is prior to the individual. 
 
 Aristotle, Politics. 
 
 All men are equally by nature free. 
 
 HoBBES, Leviathan, Cap. XXI. 
 
 All public regimen, of what kind soever, seemeth evidently 
 to have risen from the deliberate advice, consultation, and com- 
 position between men, judging it convenient and behoveful, 
 there being no impossibility in Nature, considered by itself, but 
 that man might have lived without any public regimen. 
 
 Hooker, Ecclesiastical Polity, Bk. I., § 10. 
 
 Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
 From out the storied Past, and used 
 Within the Present, but transfused 
 Through future time by power of thought. 
 
 But pamper not a hasty time, 
 Nor feed with crude imaginings 
 The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings 
 That every sophister can lime. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Rousseau, in his second letter to M. de Males- 
 lierbes, tells us that his discourse on the Sciences and 
 Arts, that on the Origin of Inequality among Men, 
 and Emile, are "three inseparable works, which 
 together form a single whole." He ought to have 
 added, as a fourth, the Social Contract; but it was 
 not then published, though written, and he had his 
 
 77 
 
78 ROUSSEAU 
 
 reasons for not speaking of it. Since it is thus im- 
 possible to /understand his educational theory, as laid 
 down in Emile, without having first grasped his social 
 and political doctrines, as expounded in the other 
 three, we must now consider these works. 
 
 We have already, in Chapter I., briefly traced the 
 course of the reaction against the theocentric, authori- 
 tative teachings and institutions of the Middle Age, 
 in favor of that anthropocentric, autonomous indi- 
 vidualism which is the distinguishing characteristic 
 of recent times, and have seen how the source of 
 political authority was gradually transferred from 
 the inscrutable will of God, supernaturally revealed, 
 and embodied in kings and princes, to the manifold 
 minds and wills of men. We have further seen that, 
 when the question came to be asked : How did these 
 minds and wills, being manifold and discordant, pro- 
 duce an authority which they are all bound to acknow- 
 ledge? the answer was, Through a Social Contract, by 
 which men voluntarily agreed to defend the rights 
 which had previously belonged to them in the state 
 of Nature. Finally, we have seen that, while at first 
 this contract was believed to be irrevocable, and the 
 sovereign, once chosen, to be, through succession, 
 perpetual and absolute, this belief gradually gave 
 place to another, according to which the contract with 
 the sovereign ^ might at any time be annulled or altered 
 
 1 We must always distinguish between the Social Contract proper, 
 which is an agreement among men to submit to a sovereign (com- 
 posed of one person or many) , from the contract with the sovereign 
 elected. The latter is the institution of government; the former is 
 the creation of a state or commonwealth. Rousseau, unlike Locke, 
 is clear enough on this point. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 79 
 
 by the will of tlie people, and the sovereign deposed. 
 Thus the conviction gradually grew up that men, in- 
 stead of being the creatures and slaves of institutions, 
 are their creators and masters ; that institutions exist 
 for men, and not men for institutions, which should, 
 accordingly, be modified to suit them. Thus, man 
 and his desires became the ultimate end to which 
 institutions, like all other things, are but means. It 
 required but one unguarded step to pass from this to 
 the notion that institutions are mere arrangements 
 for enabling each individual man to give free play to 
 his natural impulses — his animal spontaneity — with- 
 out fear of being interrupted or disturbed.^ Rousseau 
 took this step, and upon the notion so reached built 
 up his political, social, and educational theories. 
 They are all attempts to answer the question : How 
 is it possible, through social institutions, which, under 
 certain circumstances, become a painful necessity, for 
 man's natural spontaneity, wherein consists his hap- 
 piness, to find unthwarted expression? This, indeed, 
 is the question which Rousseau supposed he was 
 answering; but, as a matter of fact, he went a step 
 further, and asked, instead : How would social insti- 
 tutions have to be arranged in order that my spon- 
 taneity might have free expression? Now, as we 
 have seen (Chapters II., III.), Rousseau's spontaneity 
 was both excessive and peculiar. He was almost the 
 last man to be adopted as the type of men in general, 
 and this he knew very well.'^ He belonged, indeed, 
 
 1 This was exactly the Sophists' position, which Socrates trium- 
 phantly refuted. See my Aristotle, pp. 100 sqq. 
 
 2 See the ojjeuing sentences of the Confessions. 
 
80 ROUSSEAU 
 
 to the very numerous class of self-centred, unenter- 
 prising dalliers; but he was an extreme and, there- 
 fore, a rare specimen of it. Being, according to his 
 own admission, at once ardently sensuous and hope- 
 lessly indolent, he craved those kinds of half-animal 
 enjoyment that could be attained Avith the small- 
 est amount of reflection, will, and physical energy. 
 Hence, his ideal was a quiet, simple, easy-going life, 
 with no duties and no aims, with plenty of time for 
 dallying, dreaming, and love-making, and with the 
 hope of a divinely provided future eternity of the 
 same sort. He desired aboVe all things to feel, and 
 to avoid the trouble of thinking or acting,^ With the 
 story of Eden and the theories of Hobbes and Locke 
 in his mind, he was fain to believe that this was man's 
 natural condition; but, instead of holding with these 
 that men had risen, by combining into societies through 
 a rational contract, he maintained that they had fallen, 
 and that thought and knowledge were evidences of 
 depravity. To prove this, and to recommend a return 
 to Nature and savagery, was the aim of his two dis- 
 courses; while, in the Social Contract, he tried to 
 rescue as much of " Nature " as he could, in the midst 
 of Culture. Still deep in mediaeval notions, he had no 
 conception of evolution through struggle, or of the 
 only blessedness worthy of man, — the consciousness 
 of continual moral victory in such struggle. 
 
 1 He never did either except under the influence of passion. 
 Hume said of him, "He has or\\j felt during the whole course of 
 his life, and in this respect his sensibility rises to a pitch, beyond 
 what I have seen any example of; but it still gives him a more 
 acute feeling of pain than of pleasure." Quoted in Morley's 
 Rousseau, Vol. H., p. 299. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 81 
 
 Bearing these facts in mind, we have no difficulty 
 in realizing the perturbation caused in Rousseau's 
 unstable nature by the Dijon Academy's question, 
 which called forth his first discourse. He believed, 
 with all his heart, ^ that not only art and science, but 
 everything that presupposes discipline and continuous 
 thought or labor, was prejudicial to morals, that is, 
 to the sort of life he coveted; and he undertook to 
 show this by an appeal to present experience and past 
 history. Having, in his contact with men, learnt 
 what all of us learn, — that the external polish of 
 manners and the elegant? accomplishments which earn 
 for a man the character of gentleman, and make him 
 a social favorite, are not only compatible, but fre- 
 quently coexist, with inner meanness, heartlessness, 
 vulgarity, and treachery, whereas rusticity of manners 
 and slowness of intellect often conceal an inner core 
 of sterling gentlemanliness and worth, — he jumps to 
 the conclusion that polish and culture, by furnishing 
 a uniform style of mask for the virtuous and the 
 vicious alike, make all human intercourse a mere 
 masquerade, destroy simplicity, and so corrupt so- 
 ciety. This conclusion he finds confirmed by a sur- 
 vey of the ancient nations, which he affirms, with a 
 fair show of truth, to have been virtuous, strong, and 
 progressive as long as they were ignorant of the sci- 
 ences and arts, and to have declined from the moment 
 when these were introduced. Though admitting that 
 great thinkers and artists may be useful, if they are 
 
 1 One thing about Rousseau can never be doubted, — and it is 
 a great thing, and due to his spontaneity, — his complete emotional 
 sincerity. His desires were very real to him. 
 o 
 
82 KOUSSEAU 
 
 also great and virtuous citizens, like Cicero and Bacon, 
 he has only scorn for the ordinary run of pliilosophers, 
 scientists, and literary panderers to popular taste, 
 bewailing, as an almost unmixed evil, the invention 
 of printing, which makes it possible to perpetuate their 
 productions. Expressed briefly, his argument is, that 
 scientific and artistic culture is incompatible with vir- 
 tue. He concludes that such culture should be eschewed, 
 and men return to the simplicity of primitive life and 
 blissful ignorance, unprovocative of ambition. 
 
 Paradoxical and untenable as Rousseau's general 
 position is, it contains a large amount of truth, which 
 won it adherents in an age of universal unreality, 
 hypocrisy, and corruption, masked by politeness. It 
 is true that polish without virtue, gentlemanly bearing 
 without generosity and sympathy, erudition without 
 insight, brilliancy without earnestness, and charity 
 without self-sacrifice, are evil and not good. It is 
 true that mere occupation with science for science' 
 sake, without any sense of its relation to moral life, 
 and with art for the sake of the passive pleasure it 
 yields, is a sure sign of moral decadence and national 
 enfeeblement. It is true that that culture alone is good 
 which leads to lofty simplicity and robust virtue. It 
 was no small merit on the part of Eousseau to have 
 given these truths energetic expression; but, when he 
 confounded true culture of mind, affection, and will 
 with mere superficial polish, and refined simplicity 
 with ignorant savagery or rusticity, he was misleading 
 the world and defeating his own ends, by a display 
 of that hollow and pernicious rhetoric which he so 
 heartily despised and stigmatized. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 83 
 
 Eousseau's first discourse was attacked from many 
 quarters; but this by no means daunted him. His 
 passions being concerned, he not only replied to all 
 objectors, but returned to the charge with fresh am- 
 munition in his second discourse, in which he sought 
 to answer the question: What is the Origin of Ine- 
 quality among Men, and is it authorized by the Natural 
 Laiv? In this, true to his love of feeling and his 
 hatred of thinking, and mindful of his lonely, sensu- 
 ous reveries in the forest of Montmorency, he assures 
 us that " the state of reflection is a state contrary to 
 Nature, and the man who thinks is a depraved ani- 
 mal." He draws a picture of man in his purely animal 
 state, when he " wandered in the forests, without in- 
 dustry, without speech, without home, without war or 
 tie, with no need of his fellows and no desire to hurt 
 them, perhaps even not knowing any one of them in- 
 dividually." Being endowed with the sentiment of 
 pity, he was naturally kind and good, inclined rather 
 to help than to hurt his fellows when they came in 
 his way; and, as there was as yet no inequality, he 
 had no ground for hatred, envy, pride, or any of the 
 numerous vices that follow in their train. Following 
 Nature, he was free, strong, and happy. 
 
 Rousseau next proceeds to show how, as men, mul- 
 tiplying, found more and more difficulty in obtaining 
 food, they invented traps and similar devices, and so 
 began to have private property, and how, finally, 
 learning that they could accomplish their ends better 
 by combining, they entered first into momentary, and 
 then into permanent, relations with each other. With 
 the rise of the latter, they began to settle together, to 
 
84 ROUSSEAU 
 
 build themselves huts, and to have their families 
 about them. Division of labor began, and with it a 
 certain loss of robust, savage courage. Civilization 
 was beginning, and with it corruption. Still, as 
 there was yet no marked inequality, there was almost 
 no vice, and, indeed, this was perhaps the happiest 
 of all human conditions. The great evil of inequality 
 began when what had previously been common to all, 
 was claimed as private property. "The first man 
 who, having enclosed a piece of land, took upon him 
 to say, 'This is mine,' and found people simple 
 enough to believe him, was the true founder of civil 
 society. How many crimes, wars, murders, miseries, 
 horrors, would have been spared the human race by 
 him who, tearing up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, 
 should have called out to his fellows: 'Beware of 
 listening to this impostor ! You are lost, if you for- 
 get that the fruit belongs to all, the earth to none ! ' " 
 From this point on, it is easy to follow the develop- 
 ment of civil society, involving, as it does, the decay 
 of freedom, virtue, and happiness, and the growth of 
 slavery, vice, and misery. " If we follow the progress 
 of inequality," he says, "... we shall find that the es- 
 tablishment of law and of the right of private property 
 was its first term; the institution of magistracy, its 
 second; and the third and last, the transition from 
 legitimate to arbitrary power; so that the condition 
 of rich and poor was authorized by the first epoch; 
 that of strong and weak, by the second; and by the 
 third, that of master and slave, which is the last 
 degree of inequality, and the one to which all the 
 others finally come." And Rousseau draws a picture 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 85 
 
 of civilized society, which contrasts luridly enough 
 Avith his previous picture of the life of the "noble 
 savage." The conclusion is, that all inequality among 
 men is due to private property, and all vice, misery, 
 and slavery to inequality. The moral, of course, is, 
 Return to savage life — to the state of Nature. 
 
 No better commentary can be made on this book 
 than the one Avhich Voltaire made, in the letter in 
 which he thanked the author for a copy of it. "I 
 have received," he says, "your new book against the 
 human race, and return you my thanks. Never was 
 such ability put forth in the endeavor to make us all 
 stupid. On reading your book, one longs to walk on 
 all fours." The work, regarded as a whole, is indeed 
 the height of absurdity ; and yet it contains a large 
 amount of solid truth, and produced, in the practical 
 world, effects which determined, and are still deter- 
 mining, the fate of nations. What the author says 
 in regard to the origin of language and of ideas is 
 better than anything that had been said before him. 
 His views on the relations of property to social life 
 and ethics are more and more coming to be recognized 
 as true. His notions of the relation of thought to 
 reality, if they had been worked out into a system, 
 would have given us a saner and truer philosophy 
 than any that has ever appeared.^ And the book 
 
 1 Take, for example, the following: " The human understanding 
 owes much to the passions, which, by common consent, likewise 
 owe much to it. It is through their activity that our reason per- 
 fects itself ; we seek to know only because we desire to enjoy ; and 
 it is impossible to conceive how a being having neither desires nor 
 fears should take the trouble to reason. The passions, on the other 
 hand, originate in our needs, and their progress in our knowledge." 
 
86 ROUSSEAU 
 
 contains not only the tinder that kindled the French 
 Revolution, and the germ that burst into the Ameri- 
 can Declaration of Independence, but also the forces of 
 all those deeper and more pervasive movements that 
 are "toiling in the gloom," under the surface of our 
 present social order, — socialism, anarchism, nihilism, 
 and the like. Lastly, there is in the book an impor- 
 tant pedagogical truth, which may be summed up in 
 the Greek aphorism: Education is learning to love 
 and hate correctly. 
 
 The second discourse was written in 1753; nine 
 years later appeared the Social Contract, meant to be 
 merely a portion of a larger work on Political Institu- 
 tions. Rousseau having, meanwhile, come to recog- 
 nize that a return to the state of Nature is impossible, 
 that civil society and culture have come to stay, now 
 proposed to himself this problem: To find a form of 
 association lohich shall defend, with all the common force, 
 the person and property of each associate, and through 
 tvhich each, tcniting zvith all, shall, nevertheless, obey 
 only himself, and remain as free as before. In other 
 words, he wished to discover how the freedom lost 
 
 Had these thoughts beeu heeded, Kant would have been saved from 
 his dualism between the matter and form of thought ; and the world 
 would have been spared the whole laborious and futile attempt of 
 idealism to build up a i"eal world out of the forms or categories of 
 thought. We shall never get a philosophy worthy of the name, 
 until, with Rousseau, we see that all reality is feeling, and that 
 thought is merely the articulation of feeling. Feeling, in the form 
 of desire, is the ideal ; in the form of satisfaction, the actual. The 
 history of the categories of thought is the history of all evolution ; 
 not because the categories unfold themselves, but because desire, 
 in its effort toward ever fuller and more varied satisfaction, dif- 
 ferentiates itself into them. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 87 
 
 with the state of Nature might be recovered in the 
 state of Culture. His answer was, By means of a 
 Social Contract of this form : " Each of us places in a 
 common stock liis person and all his power, under the 
 supreme direction of the general will, and we further 
 receive each member as an individual part of the 
 whole." In other words, men, coming to recognize 
 that "they had reached a point where the obstacles 
 to their preservation in a state of Nature were too 
 much for the forces which each individual could put 
 forth to maintain himself in that state," and that, 
 therefore, they must perish if they tried to continue 
 in it, resolved to unite their forces in order to over- 
 come these obstacles. In this way, they gave up 
 their individual freedom and accepted, in exchange, 
 social freedom; that is, such freedom as is possible 
 when each individual submits himself to rules reached 
 through a compromise between the wills of all. 
 Whereas, previously, each individual was a sovereign 
 in his own right, now the only sovereign is the whole 
 of society, of which each individual is a member. 
 Or, to put it otherwise, men, to escape complete bond- 
 age to Nature, accepted partial bondage to society, in 
 which each will is free only in so far as it is a part of 
 the general will, influencing all and being influenced 
 by all. This will, in any particular case, is found in 
 the vote of the majority. Of course, this social free- 
 dom, according to Rousseau, is not an equivalent for 
 natural freedom, which should be preserved wherever 
 it is possible; but it is the next best thing. Only, 
 care must be taken that it does not, as at present, 
 degenerate into tyranny on the one hand and slavery 
 
88 ROUSSEAU 
 
 on the other. ^ Though the authority of the sovereign 
 is absolute, inalienable, indivisible, and the source of 
 all laws, yet, since the execution of laws must be 
 entrusted by law to a part of the sovereign, there is 
 always danger that this part, tliough possessing no 
 independent authority, will either use the laws for 
 its own benefit or act contrary to the laws, and thus 
 enslave the other part. When this happens, the 
 Social Contract is broken, and the parties to it return 
 to a state of Nature, free from all authority, but free, 
 at the same time, to make a fresh contract. Here we 
 have at once the conditions and the justification of 
 revolution. 
 
 Such, in very brief form, is the main gist of the 
 Social Contract, which has played such a dissolvent 
 part in the history of the last hundred years. It is, 
 from our present point of view, easy to criticise it, 
 but it is also easy to misunderstand its main thesis. 
 It may be, and is, true that Rousseau conceives all 
 social order to rest upon an original compact, made 
 in the distant past ; but this is as good as irrelevant 
 to his purpose. His book is meant to solve a prob- 
 lem, not to reason from a fact. His contention is, 
 that all the relations of the individual to society 
 ought, at every moment, to be such as would result 
 from a free contract entered into by persons all enjoy- 
 ing the same natural rights, all free and all equal, on 
 the understanding that all these rights should be 
 maintained, and that all the contractants should re- 
 
 1 " Man is born free, and is everywhere in chains." These 
 are the opening words of the first chapter of the Social Con- 
 tract. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 89 
 
 main free and equal under the contract. Is this true? 
 that is the question. It is not. 
 
 Starting from false premises, Rousseau naturally 
 arrived at false conclusions. His "state of Nature" 
 is a pure fiction of the imagination. Man, in such a 
 state, would not be man at all ; for all that makes him 
 man is evolved through association. He is not born 
 free ; for freedom and slavery are terms that have no 
 meaning except in a social order. Animal caprice is 
 not freedom. Man does not lose, but gain, freedom 
 by association, and the more extensive the associa- 
 tion the greater the freedom. The phrase "natural 
 rights," which has played so mischievous a part in 
 thought and practice since Rousseau's day, is actually 
 self-contradictory, or, as logicians say, contains a 
 contradictio in adjecto. Where there is no social 
 order, there are no rights at all ; in so far, all beings 
 are equal. Rights imply duties, and both imply 
 mutuality, which involves association. Society is 
 not due to an agreement whereby men pool rights 
 previously and independently possessed; it is a com- 
 bination whereby rights are created. If we insist 
 upon giving a meaning to the phrase "natural rights," 
 it must be those rights which a man, born into a 
 society already constituted, may fairly claim, on the 
 ground that certain duties are demanded of him, even 
 though he has had no voice in the organization of 
 that society. At the present day, when all men are 
 held to be born into human society,^ and therefore to 
 have certain duties, all are held to have such natural 
 
 1 Aristotle was far wiser than Rousseau, when he said, " Man is 
 hy nature a political animal." 
 
90 KOUSSEAU 
 
 rights. But tins view is of very recent origin, even 
 in the most civilized countries. 
 
 Again, "general will" is a nonsensical phrase; for 
 will is always individual, and, even if we substitute 
 "aggregate of individual wills," this aggregate is not 
 found by pairing off, and setting aside, opposing wills, 
 and counting only those that can find none to pair off 
 with. One Avill does not cancel another, however 
 much it may be opposed to it. But Rousseau's chief 
 error lay in this, that, like Plato, the first and great- 
 est of Utopians, he supposed that human nature could 
 be suddenly transformed by the fiat of the legislator, 
 and society be made to assume any arrangement which 
 he, with his geometrical wisdom or landscape-garden- 
 ing fancy, might choose to give it. Neither of these 
 men based his theories upon a careful study of human 
 nature and progress, or inquired what, given humanity 
 such as it is, with its ignorance, caprice, and wilful- 
 ness, was possible for it at any given stage in its 
 career. Both of them set out with their own feelings 
 and preferences, and, finding that these were thwarted 
 and confined by the sotual order about them, went to 
 work, with their imaginations, to construct another, 
 in which these feelings and preferences should have 
 full play. This is the fatal vice of all Utopians and 
 sentimentalists. They make the satisfaction of their 
 own needs and imaginary desires the aim of social 
 endeavor, forgetting the homely proverbs, that "you 
 cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," and 
 that "one man's meat is another man's poison." 
 Moreover, since all sentimentalists belong to the 
 dalliant class (see p. 24), they are always trying to 
 
KOUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 91 
 
 make arrangements for dalliance, that is, for the ces- 
 sation of struggle and energetic enterprise, and for 
 the realization of an earthly paradise of sweet rest 
 and dreamy emotions. They cannot be made to see 
 that all true life is struggle, and that, if the struggle 
 should cease, life would cease to have any value, and 
 become a mere opium-eater's dream. 
 
 But it is the very vice of these subjective Utopians 
 that wins fanatical adherents for their theories ; for 
 the fanatic is simply the man who, by calling the 
 imagined satisfaction of his own desires the sacred 
 ideal of humanity, can proclaim it, without fear or 
 shame, to the whole world, and, in words fledged with 
 passion and tipped with sympathetic poison, call upon 
 it to aid him in giving it reality, not hesitating, if 
 the opportunity occurs, to employ, in the process, 
 fire, sword, gibbet, or guillotine. If he is of the 
 extreme sort, he will announce that he speaks with 
 the voice of God, and command all men to believe 
 in him and follow his lead, on pain of eternal tort- 
 ure. Thus did Muhammad, Joseph Smith, and "the 
 Bab " of modern Persia. 
 
 As the virus of Rousseau's social theories, of which 
 his educational system confessedly forms a part, has 
 not yet ceased to poison the minds of men and women 
 of the dalliant order, it may be well to bring out here 
 the nature of this virus, and to show its pernicious 
 effects in social life. 
 
 A rapid glance at the world, as we know it, suffices 
 to show us that it is composed of clusters of feelings, 
 distinguished, grouped, and generalized into things, 
 by what we call the categories of thought. Mat- 
 
92 ROUSSEAU 
 
 ter,^ force, love, hate, self, are feelings, differentiated 
 by time, space, relation, and the like. If, now, we 
 follow the course of evolution, as revealed to us by 
 recent investigation, we shall see that it is a progress 
 in feeling from indistinction to distinction, from un- 
 consciousness to consciousness, and, finally, to self- 
 consciousness, which appears to be the ultimate 
 distinctness. To this last, man alone, so far as we 
 know, has attained, and even he has not attained to it 
 completely. He is still "half-akin to brute,'"* still 
 swayed by impulses which he is not able to differen- 
 tiate, analyze, or make completely subservient to his 
 ultimate end. His passions — even his love and pity 
 — are, to a large extent, still blind, and he acts from 
 motives whose rationality he often does not see. In 
 like manner, his social relations are still half instinc- 
 tive, being due, not to conscious contract, but to use 
 and wont. He thus finds himself in a certain status, 
 which, if one wishes to abuse language, may be called 
 thraldom, or even slavery, but which, in fact, is 
 merely the natural condition of all beings that have 
 not, as the result of complete self -consciousness, at- 
 tained perfect self-determination. It is a familiar 
 saying that all social advance is from status to con- 
 tract,^ which means from relations contracted through 
 instinct, use, and wont, to relations entered into with 
 a conscious purpose. Since this advance cannot reach 
 
 1 If we abstract from matter what is plainly feeling, e.g. shape, 
 color, hardness, impenetrability, there is nothing left. Matter is 
 a group of feelings. See Huxley, Descartes' Discourse touching 
 the Method of using one's Reason, pp. 373 sq. 
 
 2 Tennyson, In Memoriam, epilogue. 
 
 8 See Sir H. S. Maine, Ancient Laiv, pp. 165 sq. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 93 
 
 its goal until men, grown completely self-conscious, 
 can undertake to conduct their lives in view of an 
 all-embracing, freely-set purpose, it is evident that 
 a social contract in Rousseau's sense, a contract ex- 
 tending to all the relations of life, can come only at 
 the end, and by no means at the beginning, of social 
 life. It is the failure to grasp this simple result of 
 historic induction that makes it possible seriously to 
 construct Utopias and, at the same time, makes their 
 failure almost certain. An Utopia is simply a pro- 
 posal to impose one man's notion of the conditions 
 that would insure his happiness upon his fellows, an 
 arrangement which, instead of securing their free- 
 dom, would completely enthral them. Every Utopian, 
 from Plato down, places himself in the ruling class. 
 Imagine how Rousseau would feel as a member of the 
 warrior class in Plato's Republic, or as an operative 
 in Mr, Bellamy's industrial commonwealth! In all 
 history, we know but of one man who succeeded in 
 imposing his private ideal upon his race and, through 
 it, upon a large portion of the world; and that was 
 Muhammad ; but we must not forget that he did so by 
 means of supernatural claims, and that the results have 
 been fanaticism and slavery.^ 
 
 1 Rousseau has some excellent remarks on the efforts of Peter 
 the Great to force his ideal upon Russia. "The Russians," he 
 says, "will never be truly civilized, because they were so too 
 soon. Peter had an imitative genius: he had not true genius, 
 such as creates and makes everything out of nothing. Some of 
 the things he did were good ; the greater part were ill-timed. He 
 saw that his people was barbarian ; he did not see that it was not 
 ripe for civilization. He tried to civilize it, when he ought to have 
 inured it to war. He wished at once to make Germans and Eng- 
 lishmen, when he ought to have begun by making Russians. He 
 
94 KOUSSEAU 
 
 No good can ever be done to a people by trying to 
 force it into any mould prepared for it from without. 
 Even if for a time it submits to the mould, it will, 
 sooner or later, either burst it or perish through 
 cramping. In a healthy state, peoples feel their way 
 forward, so to speak, spontaneously, forming new 
 ideals at every step, and freely realizing them at the 
 next. All that the enthusiastic lover of his kind, the 
 wise reformer, can do, is to hasten this process by 
 diffusing such knowledge and culture as shall give a 
 deeper and wider meaning to experience, and so make 
 possible higher ideals. Any attempt to force the 
 process, or to substitute for its slowly, but freely, at- 
 tained results, a rigid, unprogressive scheme, such as 
 Utopias are sure to be, can lead to nothing but slavery 
 and death. Equally fatal to liberty and well-being 
 are all attempts to induce a people to alter its whole 
 social system in favor of some scheme that seems to 
 promise greater material prosperity, greater ease, 
 comfort, and dalliance. This is the mistake made by 
 the socialists and many other well-meaning, but ill- 
 advised, reformers of the present day. This was the 
 mistake made by Rousseau, whose Social Contract 
 may be said to be the bible of both socialism and 
 anarchism.^ Holding that the bonds of civil society 
 were, or might be, created by a contract, he concluded 
 that they were dissolved when the terms of that con- 
 tract were violated, and that thereupon the contract- 
 prevented his subjects from becoming what they might have been, 
 by persuading them that they were wliat they were not. . . . The 
 Russian empire will try to subjugate Europe, and will itself be 
 subjugated." / ■ 
 
 1 See below, Cap. XI. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S SOCIAL THEORIES 95 
 
 ants or their representatives could revert to their 
 original condition of savage individualism, with free- 
 dom to slay each other to their heart's content, and, 
 when tired of that, to return — a battered remnant — ■ 
 to civic life, by making a new contract to suit their 
 tastes. The premise of this argument being false, 
 the conclusion was necessarily so likewise; but this 
 was not the worst. Eousseau forgot three most im- 
 portant things: (1) to state the precise terms of the 
 social contract; (2) to determine what would consti- 
 tute a violation of these terms ; (3) to say who should 
 have the right of declaring authoritatively when they 
 were violated. On his principles it would be entirely 
 competent for any body of men, at any time, to declare 
 the contract broken, and to revert to anarchy. 
 
 Thus the Social Contract is mistaken in theory, and 
 pernicious, or impossible, in practice. It rests upon 
 a false conception of human nature and its laws, and 
 ])laces, as a fact, at the beginning of social evolution, 
 what can only be an ideal to be gradually approached 
 as an end. It places the perfection of human nature 
 in a condition of savage isolation, governed by pure 
 caprice, and regards all advance toward moral liberty, 
 through social organization, as a decline and a degen- 
 eration. It makes liberty and equality conditions 
 prior and external to civilization, instead of, as they 
 are, the highest results of the social process. It 
 teaches men to regard social restraints and institutions 
 as something artificial and conventional, which it is 
 their duty to cast aside, whenever they can, in favor 
 of savage freedom, with its animal immediateness and 
 spontaneity. If it reluctantly admits the necessity 
 
96 ROUSSEAU 
 
 of a social order, it regards this, not as a means of 
 moral training in conscious self-control, which is true 
 freedom, but as a contrivance for conserving animal 
 spontaneity and caprice. 
 
 From Rousseau's views regarding the truly impor- 
 tant in life and the value of social organization, we 
 can easily divine the character of his educational 
 system. With that we shall begin to deal in the next 
 chapter. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Infancy 
 
 {l^mile, Bk. I.) 
 
 To live alone, one must be a god or a beast. 
 
 Aristotle, Politics. 
 
 An illustrious author says that it is only the bad man that is 
 alone. I say it is only the good man that is alone. 
 
 Rousseau, iSmile, Bk. II. 
 
 The whole universe can be only a point for an oyster. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 We have seen that Rousseau's social and political 
 theories had their origin in two things : (1) a group of 
 notions, of naturalistic and individualistic tendency, 
 current in his day; (2) his own sensuous, indolent, 
 dalliant nature, which continually craved a life of bo- 
 vine satisfaction, unencumbered by thought, or sense 
 of duty. Seizing upon the distinction between natural 
 and civic life, and temperamentally hating the latter, 
 he proceeded, in direct opposition to Hobbes and 
 Locke, to decry it, as slavish and depraved, and to 
 glorify the former, as alone free and healthy. In a 
 word, he set up his own dreams )f dalliance as the 
 ideal of human life. Such a cou -se will always be 
 open and tempting to men of his i npatient, undisci- 
 plined character, so long as we pe -sist in drawing a 
 hard and fast distinction between he life of Nature 
 H 97 
 
98 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and the life of Culture, and, failing to see that they 
 are simply two commergent stages in one process, 
 attribute them to different principles. It is always 
 perilous to introduce any sort of dualism into exist- 
 ence, or to seek for the explanation of the lower forms 
 of it elsewhere than in the laws manifested in the 
 higher. If we cannot show that ethical life is natural, 
 we can, at least, show that natural life is rudimen- 
 tarily ethical. Thus viewed, the lower manifestation 
 will hardly be preferred to the higher. Ko errors are 
 so fatally mischievous as metaphysical errors. To 
 one such error were due most of the horrors of the 
 French Revolution. 
 
 For a century preceding Eousseau's time, educa- 
 tional theories had been rife in a world awakening 
 from the lurid, Dantesque dreams of the Middle Age. 
 The old belief, that man's nature is fallen and de- 
 praved, had gradually been replaced by a belief that it 
 is fundamentally sound and good; and, at the same 
 time, education had come to be regarded, not as a 
 cleans of eradicating vile human nature, and replacing 
 it by a new divine nature, but as a means of develop- 
 ing human nature itself. In England, Locke had 
 written a plain, common-sense treatise on education ^ 
 from the latter point of view, and from this Rousseau 
 - drew his chief inspiration. About 1760 the Jesuits, 
 who had done so much to promote education of the 
 repressive and eradicative sort, were losing their 
 hold,^ and thus an -pportunity was offered for educa- 
 tional theories an I practices of the opposite kind. 
 
 1 Some Thou 'hts coricernlng Education (1688) 
 
 2 They were xpelled from France iu 1764. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 99 
 
 Of this Rousseau, among others, took advantage, and, 
 in 1762, produced £mile, which assumes that all edu- 
 cation ought to be the development of Nature. 
 
 Rousseau's educational system was meant to be a 
 preparation for that sort of life which his own nature 
 pictured to him as the highest — a quiet, uneventful, 
 unreflective, half -animal, half-childish " natural " life, 
 free from serious tasks, aims, or duties, — the life of 
 a savage, conceived as sensitive and capricious, but 
 kind and lazy.^ Had he been logical, he would have 
 simply advised parents to send their children at birth, 
 for nurture and education, to a tribe of savages or 
 nomads, as the Meccans are said to have done in the 
 time of Muhammad. But, logicality not being one of 
 his virtues, he propounded this problem : How can a 
 child, born in civil society, be so reared as to remain 
 unaffected and uncorrupted by the vices inseparable 
 from civilization? His solution is J^mile. In this 
 work, education is conceived as a negative, protective 
 process, warding off external evil, that the good native 
 to the child ^ may be free to unfold itself, in all its 
 
 1 Savage life, as conceived by Rousseau, is mainly the product 
 of his own imagination. His ideal savage is simply himself. 
 
 2 Wordsworth was under the sentimental glamor of Rousseau's 
 influence, when he wrote, in his Ode to Imitiortality, the incautious, 
 flattering lines : — 
 
 " Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness ; 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From God, who is our home." 
 
 And so was Lowell, when he wrote : — 
 
 "All that hath been majestical 
 In life or death, since time began, 
 
 Is native in the simple heart of all, 
 The angel heart of man." 
 
 An Incident in a Railroad Car. 
 
100 EOUSSEAU 
 
 spontaneity. It will be the proper time to consider 
 the justice of this conception after we have examined 
 the work in detail. 
 
 Rousseau flaunts his colors from the outset. The 
 opening words of the first book of ^'mile are : " Every- 
 thing is well, as it comes from the hands of the 
 Author of things; everything degenerates in the 
 hands of man." Here a strong line is drawn between 
 Nature, as the work of God, and Art, or Culture, as 
 the work of man, and the latter, instead of being con- 
 ceived, as Shakespeare and Hobbes conceived it, as 
 the continuation and crown of the former, is regarded 
 as something meanly opposing and thwarting it.^ 
 Man distorts and disfigures everything, and, indeed, 
 if he is to live in society, he must do so; for only 
 distorted men can so live. " In the condition which 
 things have now reached, a man left to himself, in 
 the midst of others, at his birth, would be the most 
 disfigured of all. Prejudices, authority, necessity, 
 example, all the social institutions in which we find 
 ourselves submerged, would stifle Nature in him, with- 
 out putting anything in its place." To prevent this, 
 "the springing shrub must be protected from the shock 
 of human opinions," by education. "This education 
 comes to us from Nature, or men, or things.* The 
 internal development of our faculties and organs is 
 due to Nature ; the use which we are taught to make 
 of this development is the education by men ; and the 
 
 1 See p. 9, and note, and compare the soliloquy of Edmund, in 
 King Lear, Act I., sc. ii. Edmund is, indeed, the natural man, 
 whose character Rousseau might have studied with advantage. 
 
 2 Cf. my Aristotle, in this series, pp. 9 sqq. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 101 
 
 acquisition of our own experience, through the objects 
 which affect us, is the education by things." ^ A com- 
 plete education is possible only when these three kinds 
 of education are in harmony. "Now, . . . that by 
 Nature does not depend upon us ; that by things de- 
 pends only in certain respects; that by men is the 
 only one of which we are really masters." It follows 
 that, since the first two cannot be conformed to the 
 third, the third must be conformed to them, if there 
 is to be harmony. Men, in endeavoring to impart 
 education, must conform to the methods of Nature and 
 things, which exert resistance but never authority. 
 Hence, all authority must be excluded from methods 
 of education. Ignoring things, Rousseau maii.'/jins 
 that all education must conform to Nature. But 
 what is Nature? It is the sum of man's instinctive 
 or spontaneous tendencies, before they are altered 
 by opinion or reflection. Education, therefore, must 
 conform to these tendencies, and would do so, if its 
 only aim were to produce men out of all relations to 
 other men. But what are we to do, when, instead of 
 educating man for himself, we wish to educate him for 
 others? Then harmony is impossible. "Compelled 
 to oppose either Nature or social institutions, we must 
 choose between the man and the citizen; for we cannot 
 make both at the same time." . . . "The natural 
 man is all for himself:- he is the numerical unit, the 
 absolute integer, having no relations save to himself 
 
 1 This is a false classification. Gur experience extends to Nature 
 and man, as well as to things. 
 
 2 See Dante, Hell, III., 22-69, where the lot of those who " werere 
 for themselves " {per seforo) is foircibly depicted. jnt. 
 
102 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and his equal. The civil man is but a fractional 
 unit, depending on its denominator, and deriving its 
 value from its relation to the integer, which is the 
 body social. Good social institutions are those which 
 best understand how to disnature man, to take away 
 his absolute existence and give him in exchange a 
 relative one, transferring his ego to the common 
 unit; so that each individual thinks himself no 
 longer a one, but a part of the unit, and is sensible 
 only in the Avhole." 
 
 Holding that education for manhood and education 
 for citizenship are altogether incompatible, Rousseau 
 insists, that we must frankly choose between the two, 
 ^^•otl^ r'vvise we shall make "one of the men of the pres- 
 ent day, a rrenchman, an Englishman, a bourgeois — 
 a nothing." "The choice," he adds, "is not difficult 
 to make; for at tlie present day there is neither coun- 
 try, nor citizen, nor public institution for educating 
 citizens."^ There remains only family education, or 
 the education by -Mature. Though aware that this 
 will not qualify for civic functions, Rousseau, never- 
 theless, proposes to :ido23t it, on the ground that it will 
 restore the natural, vnsophisticated man, whose sole 
 function is to be a n an, "and that whoever is well 
 trained for that, canno '"- fail to perform those which are 
 related to it. Whether my pupil be intended for the 
 
 1 This is just as true of our time as it was of Rousseau's, and he 
 is in part to blame for the fa ?t. We make the same unwise dis- 
 tinction between Nature and Ct Iture, between man and citizen, that 
 he did, as if Culture were not ' 'an art that Nature makes," and as 
 if citizenship were not an essen "ial function of man, as man! We 
 v.annot possibly educate a man, as man, without educating him as 
 citizen. ( 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 103 
 
 army, the church, or the bar, is of small consequence. 
 Prior to the calling of his family, Nature calls him to 
 human life. To live is the craft I desire to teach 
 him. When he leaves my hands, I admit he will be 
 neither magistrate, soldier, nor priest; he will be, 
 first of all, a man ; all that a man may be, he will be 
 able to be, as well as any one. Whatever changes 
 Fortune may have in store for him, he will always be 
 in his place." ^ "To live," according to Rousseau, 
 "is not to breathe; it is to act, to use our organs, our 
 senses, our faculties, and all the parts of us that give 
 us the feeling of our existence. Tlie man who has 
 lived most is not he who has counted the greatest 
 number of years, but he Avho has felt life most." ^ 
 
 Rousseau, then, undertakes to train men to live, 
 that is, to enjoy the maximum of feeling, with as little 
 
 1 Rousseau everywhere fails to distinguish between those social 
 functions which are essential to man as man — family duties, citi- 
 zenship — from those which are not, such as particular crafts and 
 professions. It is not incumbent upon every man to be a black- 
 smith or a physician, but it is incumbent on every one to be a good 
 citizen. This failure vitiates his entire educational system, and 
 has led to serious practical consequences. 
 
 2 This is another of Rousseau's cardinal errors. He makes life 
 consist in feeling, but forgets that all the distinctness, variety, and 
 wealth of feeling are due to intellectual categories. Without these, 
 feeling, if it were anything, would be, at best, but a vague, mean- 
 ingless stirring. Rousseau was led into this error by the prevalent 
 thought of his time, which divorced ideas from sensible things, and 
 tried to construct a dogmatic system out of them, as so divorced. 
 Hume and Kant partly put an end to this kind of thought ; but the 
 world has been slow to find it out. The truth is, that the man who 
 lives most, is he who most completely translates feeling (which 
 includes sensation and desire) into thought and will, and thus rises 
 above animality and instinct. Feeling is but seed-life. The " tree 
 of life," of which whoso eats lives forever, is made up of knowledge 
 and will, continuous thought, and moral self-direction and restraint. 
 
104 ROUSSEAU 
 
 reflection and restraint as may be.^ In dealing with 
 the earliest years of the child's life, when undiffer- 
 entiated feeling and desire predonainate, he lays down 
 many sensible, mostly negative, rules. The young 
 child is not to be swaddled, confined, or rocked, but 
 to be allowed the utmost freedom of limb and voice; 
 it is to be nursed and tended by its mother, and not 
 by a hired nurse, and exposed to a reasonable amount 
 of heat, cold, and risk, in order that it may become 
 robust and courageous. Its cries must be attended to 
 at once, in so far as they express real needs, but no 
 further. If it wilfully uses crying in order to obtain 
 what it wants, but does not need, it must neither be 
 awed into silence nor indulged. In the former case 
 it will learn to submit to authority, in the latter, to 
 exercise it. " A child spends six or seven years in 
 this way, in the hands of women, a victim of their 
 caprices or of his own, and . . . after Nature has 
 been stifled by passions artificially created, this fac- 
 titious creature is turned over to a tutor, who com- 
 pletes the development of the artificial germs which 
 he finds already formed, and who teaches him every- 
 thing except to know himself, to make the most of 
 himself, to live and make himself happy. ^ Finally, 
 when this slavish and tyrannical child, crammed 
 
 1 Cf. Goethe, Faust, Pt. I., lines 38-50. The passage is quoted 
 on p. 113. Faust is everywhere a protest against the teaching of 
 Rousseau, represented by Mephistopheles. 
 
 2 Happiness, or what we call "a good time," Rousseau desired, 
 above all things, for himself, and, therefore, for children — which 
 was the surest way not to get it, as he discovered to his cost. 
 Happiness, as such, can never be a true or worthy human aim. 
 See the closing sections of Romola. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 105 
 
 with knowledge and devoid of sense, as weak of body 
 as of soul, is thrown into the world, to display his 
 ineptitude, his pride, and all his vices, he makes us 
 deplore human misery and perversity. But we are 
 mistaken: he is the child of our whims. Nature's 
 child is quite different." 
 
 But how is this sad result to be avoided? Rousseau 
 answers : " Stand guard over him from the moment he 
 oomes into the world. Take possession of him, and 
 do not leave him till he is a man. You will not suc- 
 ceed otherwise." Father and mother, as the natural 
 tutor and nurse, must combine all their efforts to de- 
 velop the nature of the child. And Eousseau says 
 some admirable and much-needed things on the duty 
 of parents in this respect. The bosom of the family 
 is the proper place for early education, and there is 
 no more sacred or delightful duty than that of educat- 
 ing children. "A father, when he begets and feeds 
 his children, performs but one-third of his task. He 
 owes men to his kind, sociable men to society, citizens 
 to the state. Every man who can pay this triple debt, 
 and fails to do so, is culpable, and perhaps more cul- 
 pable when he half pays it. Neither poverty, nor 
 work, nor any human consideration relieves a man 
 from the duty of rearing and educating his children 
 himself. Reader, you may take my word for it: I 
 warn every one who has a heart and neglects such 
 sacred duties, that he will long shed bitter tears over 
 his fault, and will never be consoled." ^ 
 
 1 In writing this, Rousseau thought of his own sad example ; see 
 Confessions, Bk. XIII. At the same time, he was glad that the 
 Duchess of Luxembourg, who tried to find his abandoned chil- 
 
106 ROUSSEAU 
 
 In spite of this, Rousseau, with singular inconsist- 
 ency, shrinks from attempting to show in detail how 
 parents may educate their own children. Instead of 
 this, he selects circumstances altogether exceptional 
 and artificial. "I have resolved to give myself an 
 imaginary pupil, to suppose myself of the proper age, 
 and possessed of health, knowledge, and all the talents 
 required by one who would labor on his education, 
 and to guide him from the moment of his birth to the 
 moment when, as a full-grown man, he will require 
 no guide but himself." The model tutor must be 
 young, boyish in tastes and feeling, and above accept- 
 ing money for his services. "There are professions 
 so noble, that no one can pursue them for money 
 without showing that he is unworthy to pursue them." 
 He must be willing to take charge of his pupil for 
 twenty-five years; for change of tutors is fatal. He 
 must realize that he has but one duty, — to teach his 
 pupil the duties of man. As to the pupil, he must be 
 of good family, of robust health, of ordinary ability, 
 rich,^ born in a temperate climate, preferably in 
 France, and — an orphan. The tutor will choose for 
 his ward, at birth, a nurse healthy in body and in 
 heart, of good character and temperate habits, cleanly, 
 gentle, patient, and willing to remain with the child 
 as long as it needs a nurse. The tutor and the nurse 
 must be in complete accord, and the child never dream 
 of any change of government ; in short, the tutor will 
 
 dren, did not succeed. Rousseau's finest theories had nothing to 
 do with his practice. He was moral only for rhetorical purposes, 
 and in imagination. 
 
 1 "The poor," he says, "need no education; that furnished by 
 their condition is compulsory ; they can have no other." 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 107 
 
 order everytliing. The directions which Eousseau 
 gives regarding the treatment and food of the infant, 
 and the regimen and mode of life of the nvirse are, in 
 the main, excellent. They may be summed up in the 
 one precept : Let Nature have her way. " The child 
 at birth is already the pupil, not of the tutor, but of 
 Nature. The tutor merely studies under this first 
 teacher and prevents her efforts from being balked. 
 He watches the baby, observes it, follows it, descries 
 the first dawning of its feeble intelligence." 
 
 Kousseau rightly insists that man's education begins 
 at his birth, and that what is acquired unconsciously 
 far exceeds, in amount and importance, what is ac- 
 quired consciously and through instruction,^ "All is 
 instruction for animate, sensible beings." What he 
 says with regard to the gradual growth of a world in 
 the child's consciousness ^ is in every way admirable, 
 and forestalls many of the results of our latest psy- 
 chology. Eousseau, indeed, was a psychologist of 
 the first rank. *'The first sensations of children," he 
 says, "are purely affective; they perceive only pleas- 
 ure and pain. Being unable either to walk or grasp, 
 they require a great deal of time for the gradual for- 
 mation of those representative sensations ^ which show 
 
 1 This is a truth to which kindergfertners ought to give serious heed, 
 
 2 Had he pursued this thought, and not been led astray by his 
 own personal feelings, he would have told us that education is 
 nothing more or less than the formation, in the child's conscious- 
 ness, of a rational world, that is, of a world in which every object 
 and act has its true distinguishing relations for intellect, and its 
 true distinguishing value for affection. 
 
 3 Pre-Kantian metaphysics still allowed people to use such ex- 
 pressions as this ; but in the next clause Rousseau shows that he 
 has a glimpse of the truth. 
 
108 ROUSSEAU 
 
 them the objects outside of themselves; but, while 
 these objects are multiplying, withdrawing, so to 
 speak, from their eyes, and assuming for them dimen- 
 sions and shapes, the return of the affective sensations 
 begins to subject them to the rule of habit"; and 
 habit is something to be avoided. " Food and sleep, 
 too exactly measured, become necessary for them at 
 stated intervals ; and soon tlie desire arises, not from 
 need, but from habit ; or, rather, habit adds a new need 
 to that of Nature. This must be prevented." . . . 
 *' The only habit which the child should be allowed to 
 contract is the habit of contracting none. Let it not 
 be carried on one arm more than on the other; let it 
 not be accustomed to offer one hand rather than the 
 other, or to use it more frequently, to eat, sleep, act 
 at stated times, or to be unable to remain alone either 
 night or day. Prepare, a long way in advance, for 
 the dominion of its freedom, and the use of its 
 powers, by leaving its body to its natural habits, and 
 placing it in a condition to be always its own mas- 
 ter, and in all things to carry out its own will, as 
 soon as it has one." ^ 
 
 1 These precepts are both unnatural and un-wise. Even in a 
 "state of Nature," children learn habits from the very first. In- 
 deed, it may be safely said that all evolution, whether in Nature or 
 Culture, is due to the acquisition of habits. Habit is merely the 
 incarnation and organization of experience and action, by which 
 both become easier and richer, and leave room for advance. It is 
 economy of energy. To be consistent, Rousseau ought to have 
 said : Do not allow the child to see with its eyes, rather than its 
 ears, or to walk on its feet rather than on its head. Seeing with 
 the eyes is no less the result of habit than right-handedness. And 
 what is all excellence but perfected habit? How does the great 
 musician learn to play or sing except by habit ? What is all social 
 life but an agreement about habits? What is language but the 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 109 
 
 What Kousseau next says of the necessity and the 
 method of freeing the chikl early, by careful habitua- 
 tion (!), from those irrational fears and repulsions 
 which derange so many lives — fear of spiders, toads, 
 mice, masks, detonations, darkness, etc. — is excel- 
 lent; but he records a very exceptional experience 
 when he says, " I have never seen a peasant — man, 
 woman, or child — afraid of spiders." Much of that 
 unlovely trait of fastidiousness, Avhich at the present 
 day so often degenerates into cruel unsympathy for all 
 that is not immaculate, sweet-scented, and aesthetic, 
 is due to a neglect of Rousseau's precepts. 
 
 In course of time, the child emerges from mere 
 "affective " sensations, and begins to construct, out of 
 that portion of these which is less urgent, a world of 
 things in time and space. What Rousseau has to say 
 of this transition contains much truth, and testifies 
 to fine observation ; but it is marred throughout by a 
 false metaphysics, which made him think that the 
 world of external objects is one thing, and the sys- 
 tem of his organized sensations another. What can 
 we say to a passage like the following, for example ? 
 " In the early part of life, when memory and imagina- 
 
 habit of using the same sounds for the same thoughts ? Had Rous- 
 seau said that, while education is the acquisition of habits that 
 create a world of harmony between the individual and his fellow- 
 beings, conscious and unconscious, and, therefore, the very condi- 
 tion of life and progress, yet the individual should be careful not 
 to allow any habit to master him, when it proves prejudicial to 
 such life or progress, he would have uttered a great and fruitful 
 truth. But his whole vision was dimmed by the false notion that 
 the normal man is the natural man, and the latter a solitary sav- 
 age, obedient to his momentary instincts and caprices. Such a 
 man never did, or could, exist. 
 
110 ROUSSEAU 
 
 tion are still inactive, the cliild attends only to what 
 affects its senses. Its sensations being the first mate- 
 rials of its knowledge, by offering them to it in a 
 suitable order we are preparing its memory to fur- 
 nish them, later, in the same order, to its understand- 
 ing; but, since it attends only to its sensations, it 
 is enough at first to show it very distinctly the 
 connection of these same sensations with the objects 
 that cause them." Just as if the very objects were 
 not groups of sensations, already organized into things 
 in time and space, by the activity of the distinguish- 
 ing understanding ! And as if a child, attentive only 
 to sensations, could be conscious of any objects to 
 refer them to! When it is conscious of such objects, 
 its understanding has already been at work in com- 
 plicated and far-reaching ways. Rousseau's prejudice 
 in favor of sensation, and against understanding, 
 closed his eyes to the most obvious facts, and led him 
 into the gravest errors with regard to early education.^ 
 Man is a " rational animal " from the first moment of 
 his existence. His first conscious feeling, however 
 vague, implies an act of the understanding, which is 
 busy organizing sensations long before it knows any- 
 thing of an "external world." His very body is but 
 organized sensation. Rousseau, however, failing to 
 see this, but recognizing that the notions of good and 
 evil are due to reason, maintains that, in its earliest 
 years, the child is incapable of any moral education : 
 if controlled at all, it must bo controlled by simjile 
 
 1 In this connection should be read Rosmini's unfinished work, 
 The Ruling Principle of Method in Education, translated by Mrs. 
 William Grey. Boston: D. C Heath & Co. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 111 
 
 force. "Reason alone," he says, "acquaints us with 
 good and evil. The conscience, which makes us love 
 the one and hate the other, though independent of 
 reason, cannot develop without it.^ Before the age of 
 reason, we do good and evil without knowing that we 
 do, and there is no morality in our actions, although 
 there sometimes is in the feeling about others' actions 
 having relation to us. A child tries to upset every- 
 thing he sees; he breaks or rends everything he car. 
 lay his hands upon ; he grasps a bird as he Avould a 
 stone, and chokes it without knowing what he is 
 doing." 
 
 Eousseau is entirely right in maintaining that such 
 actions imply no innate evil on the part of the child, 
 being merely so many modes in which it gives effec- 
 tive expression to its undisciplined activity; nor is 
 he wrong when he says that the child's desire to 
 dominate others and make them act for it — a desire 
 which readily degenerates into tyranny, impatience, 
 badness — proceeds from the same source. To pre- 
 vent such degenerations, he lays down four maxims, 
 whose intent, he says, is "to give more real liberty 
 and less authority (empire) to children, to allow them 
 to do more for themselves, and exact less from others." 
 The gist of them is, that the child should be helped, 
 as far as necessary, to do whatever is really necessary 
 for its physical Avell-being, and no farther; that no 
 attention should be paid to its whims, opinions, or 
 
 1 Here again we have both had psychology and had metaphysics. 
 That which cannot develop without something else is surely not 
 independent of that something; for a thing is not distinct from its 
 development. And surely the love of good is not something irra- 
 tional ; nor is the mind a group of separate " faculties." 
 
112 EOUSSEAU 
 
 irrational desires. This would be unexceptionable, 
 if the child's spiritual needs had been taken into ac- 
 count; but the omission is characteristic of Eousseau. 
 The first book of jSmile closes with a number of 
 disconnected precepts, such as, that a child should 
 never be allowed to have anything because it cries 
 for it; that it shoukl not be weaned too soon; that it 
 '\ should not be fed on milk gruel ; that it should not 
 ^lave heaps of gaudy and expensive toys; that it 
 Should be made to cut its teeth on soft objects; that 
 it should be confined to a small vocabulary, but 
 taught to articulate its words correctly from the first. 
 Most of these are wise, and certainly " according to 
 Nature ! " 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Childhood 
 
 {iSmile, Bk. II.) 
 
 Despise but Reason and Science, man's supreme power; 
 allow thyself but toJse confirmed by the Spirit of Lies in works 
 of glamor and enchantment, then I htfve thee already without 
 condition. — (Mephistopheles in) Faust, Vt. I., Imes 1498-1502 
 (Schroer). . 
 
 With the advent of language, infancy closes, and 
 cliildliood, in the narrower sense, begins. Tears and 
 cries, having now found a substitute, should be dis- 
 couraged, and every effort made to free the child from 
 timidity and querulousness. Dangerous weapons and 
 fire should be kept out of his way ; but otherwise he 
 should be allowed the utmost freedom, and as little 
 notice as possible taken of his occasional bumps and 
 bruises, which are valuable experiences. He should 
 not be taught anything that he can naturally find out 
 for himself — not even to walk or climb. Having 
 complete freedom, he will get a few contusions, but 
 therewith a great deal of invaluable training. " It is 
 at this second stage," says Eousseau, "that the life 
 of the individual properly begins ; it is now that he 
 attains self-consciousness. Memory extends the feel- 
 ing of identity to all the moments of his existence; 
 I 113 
 
114 ROUSSEAU 
 
 lie becomes truly one and the same, and consequently 
 already capable of happiness or misery. He must 
 henceforth be considered as a moral being." This is, 
 indeed, a new stage ! 
 
 To Rousseau, moral existence obviously means 
 capability of happiness or misery. To be moral is to 
 be happy; to be immoral is to be miserable; and, 
 given his point of view, no other conclusion could 
 well have been reached. It follows that every effort 
 ought to be made to insure the happiness of the child. 
 "Of children that are born," he says, "half, at most, 
 reach adolescence, and your pupil will probably never 
 reach manhood. What, then, are we to think of that 
 barbarous education which sacrifices the present to an 
 uncertain future, which loads a child with all sorts 
 of chains, and begins by rendering it miserable, in 
 order to prepare for it some distant, pretended hap- 
 piness, which it will probably never enjoy ? " . . . 
 "Who knows how many children perish victims of 
 the extravagant wisdom of a father or a teacher ? 
 Happy to escape from his cruelty, they derive no other 
 advantage from the woes he has made them suffer 
 than this, that they die without regretting a life of 
 which they have known only the torments." . . . 
 " Fathers, do you know the moment when death awaits 
 your children ? Do not prepare regret for yourselves 
 by depriving them of the few moments which Nature 
 lends them. As soon as they are able to feel the 
 pleasure of being, see that they enjoy it; take care 
 that, whenever it may please God to call them, they 
 do not die without having tasted life." . . . "You 
 will tell me that this is the time for correcting man's 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 115 
 
 evil inclinations ; that it is in childhood, when pains 
 are least felt, that we should multiply them, in order 
 to forestall them for the age of reason. But who has 
 told you that this arrangement is within your power, 
 or that all these fine instructions, with which you load 
 the weak mind of a child, will not one day be more 
 pernicious than useful to him? "... " Why do you 
 impose on him more evils than his condition can bear, 
 without being sure that these present evils will be 
 made up for in the future? And how will you prove 
 to me that those evil inclinations, Avhich you pretend 
 to cure, do not come from your ill-advised care, far 
 more than from Nature? Miserable foresight, which 
 renders a being unhappy in the present, in the ill- 
 founded hope of making him happy in the future ! " 
 ... " We do not know what absolute happiness or 
 unhappiness is. Everything is mixed in this life. 
 We never taste a pure feeling ; we are never two min- 
 utes in the same state." . . . "Good and evil are 
 common to us all, but in different degrees. The hap- 
 piest is he who suffers fewest pains; the unhappiest 
 he who feels fewest pleasures. Always there are 
 more sufferings than enjoyments: that is the differ- 
 ence common to all. The felicity of man here below 
 is, therefore, only a negative state. It must be esti- 
 mated by the smallness of the number of evils which 
 he suffers." 
 
 " Every feeling of pain is inseparable from the desire 
 to be delivered from it ; every idea of pleasure is in- 
 separable from the desire to enjoy it; every desire 
 supposes privation. Hence, it is in the disproportion 
 between our desires and our faculties that our misery 
 
116 ROUSSEAU 
 
 lies." . . . "Where, then, lies human wisdom or the 
 way to true happiness ? " . . . "It lies in diminish- 
 ing the excess of our desires over our faculties, and 
 establishing a perfect equality between power and 
 will. It is only when this is done that, though all 
 the powers are in action, the soul will, nevertheless, 
 remain peaceful, and man be well ordered. It is thus 
 that Nature, which does everything for the best, ar- 
 ranged matters at the beginning." ... "It is only 
 in this primitive state that equilibrium between 
 power and desire is found, and that man is not un- 
 happy." ... "It is the imagination that extends 
 for us the measure of things possible, whether in good 
 or evil, and which, consequently, excites and nourishes 
 the desires with the hope of satisfaction. But the ob- 
 ject, which at first seemed close at hand, flees quicker 
 than we can pursue it. When we think we are reach- 
 ing it, it transforms itself and appears afar off." . . . 
 "Thus we exhaust ourselves, without reaching our 
 goal, and the more we gain on enjoyment, the further 
 happiness withdraws from us. On the other hand, 
 the nearer man remains to his natural condition, the 
 smaller is the difference between his faculties and his 
 desires, and, therefore, the less distance is he removed 
 from happiness. He is never less miserable than 
 when he seems deprived of all; ^ for misery does not 
 consist in being deprived of things, but in the need 
 which is felt for them." . . . "The real world has 
 its limits; the world of the imagination is infinite. 
 Being unable to enlarge the one, let us contract the 
 
 1 It is Rousseau the vagabond that speaks here. See pages 
 33 sq. 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 117 
 
 other." . . . "When we say that man is weak, what 
 do we mean? The word weakness signifies a rela- 
 tion." . . • "He whose power is greater than his 
 needs, were he an insect or a worm, is a strong being. 
 He whose needs are greater than his power, were he 
 a conqueror, a hero, or a god, is a weak being. Man 
 is very strong when he is content to be what he is ; he 
 is very weak when he tries to rise above humanity.'- 
 Do not, tlierefore, imagine that, in enlarging your 
 faculties, you are enlarging your powers. On the 
 contrary, you are diminishing them, if your pride en- 
 larges more yet." . . . " It is by laboring to increase 
 our happiness that we turn it into misery. Any man 
 who should be contented to live merely, would live 
 happy, and therefore would live good; for what ad- 
 vantage would he have in being bad ? " 
 
 "Everything is folly and contradiction in human 
 institutions." . . . "Foresight ! foresight, which 
 continually carries us beyond ourselves, and often 
 places us where we shall never really arrive, is the 
 true source of all our miseries. "What folly for an 
 ephemeral being, like man, to be looking forever into 
 a distant future, which rarely comes, and to neglect 
 the present, of which he is sure ! " . . . " Is it 
 Nature that thus carries men so far from tliemselves ? " 
 . . . "0 man! concentrate thine existence within 
 thyself, and thou wilt no longer be miserable. Re- 
 main in the place which Nature has assigned thee in 
 the scale of beings ; nothing can make thee leave it. 
 Do not recalcitrate against the hard law of necessity, 
 
 1 Goethe, Faust, Prologue in Heaven, puts this sentiment in the 
 mouth of Mephistopheles. Lines 45-50, 58-65. 
 
118 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and do not, by trying to resist it, exhaust the powers 
 which heaven has lent thee, not to extend or prolong 
 thine existence, but merely to preserve it, as, and as 
 long as, it pleases the same. Thy liberty, thy power, 
 extend only as far as thy natural forces, and no 
 further. All the rest is but slavery, illusion, pres- 
 tige." . . . "Even dominion is servile, when it rests 
 on opinion; for thou dependest on the prejudices of 
 those thou governest through prejudice." . . . "The 
 only man who does his will is he who, in order to do 
 so, has no need to eke out his own arms with those of 
 another ; whence it follows that the first of all blessings 
 is not authority, hut liberty. This is my fundamental 
 maxim. We have but to apply it to childhood, and 
 all the rules of education will flow from it." 
 
 It has seemed well to make this long quotation, 
 because it contains Rousseau's fundamental view of 
 life, and the kernel of his educational theory. The 
 end of life is happiness, and happiness is the sensu- 
 ous enjoyment of each moment, as it passes, without 
 thought, plan, or aspiration for higher things, nay, 
 without regard to others. All efforts after a divine 
 life of deep insight, strong, just affection, and far- 
 reaching beneficent will; all unions among men for 
 the realization of this life, in and through society, are 
 folly and contradiction. To live as the beast lives, in 
 his appointed place, is the chief end of man. Because 
 some children die before they reach youth or man- 
 hood, it is cruel to deprive any, through discipline, 
 self-denying, continuous tasks, or thought of the 
 future, of the manifold, thoughtless delights of the 
 present. 1 Discipline and self-control have no value in 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 119 
 
 themselves; at best they are but means for future 
 pleasure. The child that dies without having enjoyed 
 pleasure has not "tasted of life."J Ko matter what 
 his spiritual attainments, or the beauty and nobility 
 of his character, his existence has been a failure. 
 L_Whatever interferes with present pleasure is eviQ 
 It would hardly be possible to form a more pitiful 
 conception of human life and education than this. 
 There is not a moral or noble trait in it.] The truth 
 is, Rousseau was so purely a creature of sense and 
 undisciplined impulse that he never, for one moment, 
 rose to a consciousness of any moral life at all. He 
 could not, therefore, take delight in it. Noblesse 
 oblige, the ruling maxim of the unselfish, moral, and 
 social man, was in him replaced by the maxim of the 
 selfish, undutiful churl and reprobate, Bonheur invite. 
 But, in spite of all this, nay, by reason of it, Rousseau 
 and his theories are most interesting and fruitful ob- 
 jects of study. In days when uncontrolled individual- 
 ism still has its advocates, it is well fully to realize 
 what it means. And this is what Rousseau has told 
 us, in a siren song of mock-prophetic unction, which 
 readily captivates and lures to destruction vast crowds 
 of thoughtless sentimentalists. He has told us, fur- 
 ther, in the same tone, how children may be prepared 
 for a life of individualism ; and his sense-drunk rav- 
 ings, in denunciation of all moral discipline, have 
 been, and still are, received as divine oracles by mil- 
 lions of parents and teachers, who have the training 
 of children in their hands. / And hence it has come to 
 pass that the old maxim : Train up a child in the way 
 that he should go, has been replaced by this other : 
 
120 ROUSSEAU 
 
 See that the child have a "good time." No wonder 
 that Good Time has become the chief American god! 
 
 Rousseau's education according to Nature, starting 
 from an utterly calumnious notion of child-nature, 
 and of human nature in general, and ignoring all that 
 is characteristic and noble in both, proves to be an 
 education for pure, reckless individualism, destruc- 
 tive of all social institutions, and all true civiliza- 
 tion. Its aim is the undisputed rule of caprice. 
 
 But to proceed. True to his principles, Rousseau 
 maintains that children should not be taught obedi- 
 ence : ^ their relations to persons should be exactly the 
 same as their relations to things, which resist, but do 
 not command. Human relations should be replaced 
 by mechanical relations, if the precious individuality 
 of the child is to be safeguarded. When a child tries 
 to go beyond his natural limitations, he is not to be 
 forbidden, but prevented. He is to meet the iron law 
 of Nature everywhere, the love of humanity nowhere. 
 Nature is to be all in all. 
 
 If children are not to obey, neither are they to com- 
 mand-^ not even when they accompany their com- 
 mands with Please, or If you please. They are to be 
 listened to only when they ask for things good for 
 them. " The surest way to render your child miser- 
 able is to accustom him to obtain everything he 
 wants." His needs are really few, and the fewer the 
 better. By humoring him, you make him a despot, 
 
 1 " No one," he says, "not even the father, has a right to 
 command a child to do what is of no good to him." Were he com- 
 manded to do what is good for others, he miglit in time become 
 generous, and degenerate into civilization. Cf. Carpenter's Civili- 
 zation, its Cause and Cure. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 121 
 
 " at once tlie vilest of slaves and the wretchedest of 
 creatures." . . . " AVeakness, united with despotism, 
 begets but folly and misery." The rule is: "Give to 
 children, as far as possible, everything that can afford 
 them a real pleasure; refuse them whatever they ask 
 from a mere whim, or to perform an act of authority." 
 Of course, children, as natural creatures, are never 
 to be reasoned with : Nature never reasons. "I see 
 nothing more stupid, " says Eousseau, " than children 
 that have been reasoned with." . . . "Use force 
 with children, and reason with men; such is the 
 natural order." Moreover, such things as loyalty to 
 parents, and affectionate respect for their wishes, as 
 such, must never be appealed to. The result might 
 be deference, something altogether unknown to Nature 
 and hostile to liberty. The child must be guided 
 solely by the hard yoke of natural necessity, " Thus 
 you will render him patient, equable, resigned, and 
 peaceful, even when he does not get what he wishes ; 
 for it is in the nature of man to endure patiently the 
 necessity of things, but not the ill will of others." 
 . . . "No one ought to undertake to rear a child, 
 unless he knows how to guide him where he wishes 
 by the sole laws of the possible and the impossible. 
 The sphere of both being equally unknown to him, 
 may be widened or narrowed about him as one pleases. 
 He may be bound, pushed, or held back, with merely 
 the chain of necessity, without his murmuring. He 
 may be rendered supple and docile by the mere force 
 of things, and vice have no occasion to spring up in 
 him ; for the passions are never roused so long as they 
 are without effect." In this way he will never learn 
 
122 KOUSSEAU 
 
 what kindness is, and so acquire the unnatural sen- 
 timent of gratitude, or, indeed, any sentiment of a 
 human sort. He will be as natural as a kitten ! 
 
 It follows from such principles that the child must 
 neither be chidden, punished, nor called upon to beg 
 pardon. " Devoid of all moi'ality in his actions, he 
 can do nothing that is morally evil, or that deserves 
 chastisement or reprimand.^' And yet the child was 
 declared, a little before, to be a moral being (see p. 114). 
 
 Returning once more to his favorite incontestable 
 maxim, " that the first movements of Nature are always 
 right: that there is no original perversity in the 
 human heart," Rousseau insists that "the greatest, 
 most important, and most useful rule of all education 
 is, not to gain time, but to lose it." . . . "Early 
 education must, therefore, be purely negative. It 
 consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but in guard- 
 ing the heart from vice and the mind from error. If 
 you could do nothing, and allow nothing to be done; 
 if you could guide your pupil, healthy and robust, to 
 the age of twelve years, without his being able to dis- 
 tinguish his right hand from his left, — the eyes of his 
 understanding would open to reason at your first les- 
 sons. Without prejudices, without habits, he would 
 have nothing to counteract the effect of your solici- 
 tude. He would soon become in your hands the 
 wisest of men ; and, by beginning with doing nothing, 
 you would have made a prodigy of education." . . . 
 " Do the opposite of what is usually done, and you 
 will always do well." . . . "Exercise the child's 
 body, his organs, his senses, his strength; but keep 
 his mind indolent as long as possible." . . . "Look 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 123 
 
 upon all delays as advantages ... let childhood 
 ripen in children." ... "If a lesson has to be 
 given, do not give it to-day, if it can be put off till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 This is what Rousseau calls natural education; but 
 it is, in fact, almost the most artificial education con- 
 ceivable. It is cloistral and worse. Nature is made 
 to exclude its highest manifestations, and then the 
 child, instead of being allowed to come freely in con- 
 tact with the brute remainder, is watched, dogged, 
 guided, and forcibly controlled at every step; and all 
 for the sake of keeping him in a condition of sub- 
 moral, sub-human innocence. Rousseau forgot that 
 a child's capacity for enjoyment even is proportioned 
 to his intelligence; and so, while he maintained that 
 a child should not be deprived of present, for the sake 
 of future, pleasure, for fear that the latter might 
 never come, he insisted that he should be deprived of 
 present, for the sake of future, instruction, though 
 the latter is subject to the same risks. But Rousseau 
 thought of his own early corruption, and despised 
 logic. We have only to compare the twelve-year-old 
 American boy, who, mixing freely with Nature, in 
 its broadest sense, contrives, by pluck, intelligence, 
 and cloisterless self-control, to earn his own, and per- 
 haps others', livelihood, with Rousseau's helpless, 
 artificial product, to realize the value of his educa- 
 tional system. 
 
 " But where, " says Rousseau, " shall we place this 
 child, in order to rear him thus, like an insensible 
 being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in the 
 moon? Or in a desert island? Shall we remove him 
 
124 ROUSSEAU 
 
 from human kind? Will he not have continually 
 before him, in the world, the spectacle and example 
 of others' passions? Will he never see other children 
 of his own age? Will he not see his relations, nurse, 
 governess, footman, and even his tutor, who, after all, 
 will not be an angel ? " Rousseau feels the difficulty 
 of these questions, and answers that the tutor must 
 do his best to be an angel, and then retire, with his 
 pupil, to a remote country village, where, by inspir- 
 ing the villagers with respect and affection, he can 
 practically control everybody and everything, and be 
 beyond reach of the evil influence of cities. In this 
 retreat, the child, entirely in the hands of his unpaid 
 tutor, and dependent on his resources for everything, 
 will vegetate, and learn what he cannot help, by ex- 
 amples. When he sees a peasant angry, he will be 
 told that he is ill, and thus learn to avoid anger. 
 When he plants beans in a peasant's melon-patch, and, 
 after he has spent much care on them, the peasant 
 comes and pulls them up, "the heart-broken child 
 will fill the air with sobs and screams,"^ and have 
 his first feeling of injustice.^ On learning, however, 
 that the peasant has only done to him what he has 
 first done to the peasant, and that, besides, the land 
 belongs to the peasant, he will come to have a feeling 
 of justice. One of the tutor's chief duties will be to 
 arrange for practical lessons of this sort. If the pupil 
 breaks a pane of glass in his room, the tutor will say 
 
 1 Is this one of the results of "peaceful" Nature-education? 
 
 2 This is incorrect. He would feel merely disappointment, not 
 even resentment. The catastrophe might be due to "Nature," for 
 aught he knew. There are no feelings of justice and injustice. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 125 
 
 nothing, but leave it unrepaired until the pupil catches 
 a violent cold,^ and then have it replaced. If he 
 breaks it a second time, the tutor will remove him to 
 a dark room, and shut him up there, until he volun- 
 tarily agrees to break no more panes. How this dif- 
 fers from punishment, it is not easy to see.^ Kousseau 
 evidently thinks that moral feelings can be roused in 
 a child by bringing home to him the consequences of 
 his deeds. There is no greater mistake in the world. ^ 
 A child may learn selfish prudence in this way ; but 
 the morality of acts has nothing to do with their 
 actual consequences, but only Avith their motives, or 
 intended consequences. An immoral act does not 
 become moral, because it brings desirable conse- 
 quences. Even brute beasts learn prudence by Rous- 
 seau's moral method; but they never rise to morality. 
 All the morality there is connected with an act is 
 realized, as a personal quality, before the performance 
 of the act. 
 
 With the rise of the moral consciousness comes the 
 possibility of evil, and, among other things, of lying, 
 with a view to escape consequences. Eousseau justly 
 distinguishes two kinds of lies : (1) intentional mis- 
 statements of facts; (2) promises not intended to be 
 kept ; and he has some sensible remarks about what 
 lying means to young children ; but, when he tells us 
 that "trying to teach them to tell the truth is simply 
 teaching them to lie," those who have had experience 
 
 1 This result is purely arbitrary, depending not only on the sea- 
 son, hut upon the position of the child's bed. 
 
 2 In any case, he is not being educated by Nature. 
 
 3 Herbert Spencer's work on education is vitiated throughout by 
 this error. 
 
126 ROUSSEAU 
 
 with children can only express utter disagreement 
 with him. Again, when he tells us that the true way 
 to cure a child of lying is to make him see that it is 
 not his interest to lie, we can only say that he is pro- 
 pounding a most immoral and pernicious doctrine — 
 albeit it is of a piece with his whole ethical teaching. 
 A child that tells the truth only when he thinks it 
 profitable so to do, will tell lies under the same cir- 
 cumstances. Lying is simply one manifestation of 
 cowardice, or feebleness of will, as against undiffer- 
 entiated instinct, and can be cured only by a process 
 which strengthens the will, by the development of 
 intelligence, and the subjection of instinct. But 
 Rousseau's whole system is intended to enable men to 
 dispense with the need of willing, by arranging things 
 so that they shall always be able to follow their in- 
 stincts — as he did! 
 
 Generosity, meaning almsgiving, is to be taught in 
 this way : " Instead of being in haste to exact acts of 
 charity from my pupil, I prefer to perform them in 
 his presence, and to deprive him of the means of imi- 
 tating me in that, as an honor that does not belong to 
 his age." . . . "If, seeing me assist the poor, he 
 questions me about it, and it is the proper time to 
 reply, I shall say to him: 'My friend, when the poor 
 agreed that there should be rich people, the rich prom- 
 ised to maintain all those who should not have the 
 means of living, either from their property, or their 
 labor.' ^ 'And you also have promised that? ' he will 
 ask. 'Of course (I will say); I am master of the 
 wealth that passes through my hands, only on the 
 1 This is, of course, a pious lie. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 127 
 
 condition attached to owning it.' After hearing these 
 words . . . another than Emile would be tempted to 
 imitate me, and play the rich man; in such case, I 
 should at least prevent him from doing so with osten- 
 tation. I should prefer to have him usurp my right, 
 and give surreptitiously. This is a fraud natural to 
 his age, and the only one I should forgive in him." 
 In other words, Emile would not give at all, or give 
 through vanity, as a rich man! 
 
 Rousseau admits that all virtues acquired in this 
 way are merely monkey virtues, unreflective imita- 
 tions, and therefore not moral; and, though fully 
 conscious of the possible evils springing from imita- 
 tion, he yet insists that no other virtues are possible 
 for the child. In this, he modestly makes his own 
 nature the measure of possibility for the race. 
 
 I The only moral lesson that he would teach children 
 
 is "to do harm to nobodyj The injunction to do 
 good, unless subordinate to this, is dangerous, false, 
 and contradictory. Who is there that does no good ? 
 The wicked man does good, like other people; he 
 makes one happy by making a hundred unhappy ; and 
 hence come all our calamities. The loftiest virtues 
 are negative ; they are also the most difficult, because 
 they are without show, and above the pleasure, so 
 dear to the heart of man, of knowing that some one 
 else is pleased with us." This is, of course, the purest 
 sophistry — as if doing good to one, at the expense of 
 a hundred, were doing good at all! The precept. Do 
 good, includes the precept. Do no evil. But Eous- 
 seau always wanted a plea for doing nothing, and he 
 was not above resorting to the most pitiful sophistry 
 
128 ROUSSEAU 
 
 in order to obtain one — as, for instance, in his at- 
 tempt to justify himself for turning his children over 
 to the foundling hospital.^ The fact here referred 
 to must be allowed to have its full weight in our esti- 
 mate of Rousseau's educational theories. It shows 
 
 (1) that he had no natural love for children, and no 
 interest in them — except, of course, a picturesque 
 one: they were touching features in a landscape; 
 
 (2) that, while devoted to sensuality, he had no sense 
 of even the most sacred of duties. Hence his at- 
 tempt to show that the most sublime virtues are 
 negative — a most comfortable doctrine, amounting to 
 this: Do nothing, and you will do sublimely well. 
 From this maxim Rousseau drew the following con- 
 clusion, whose bearing is but too obvious :p' The in- 
 junction never to injure others, involves the injunction 
 to have as little to do with society as possible; for in 
 the social state, the good of one is necessarily the evil 
 of another. This relation being in the essence of the 
 thing, nothing can alter it.'"^ 
 
 It is impossible here to enumerate all the educa- 
 tional precepts that Rousseau, from this point of view, 
 lays down; but they may be summed up under three 
 general heads : (1) Do everything to place children in 
 easy, fearless contact with sub-human nature and its 
 
 1 Confessions, Bks. VII., VIII. 
 
 2 Then follows the second quotation at the head of Chapter II. 
 It is needless to say that the assertion itself is the exact opposite 
 of the truth, and subversive of all civilization. Cf. Lowell's fine 
 line in The Present Crisis : 
 
 " In the gain or loss of one race, all the rest have equal claim," 
 
 and Creon's first speech in Sophocles' Antigone. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 129 
 
 necessary laws; that is, make them, as far as possible, 
 automata; ^ (2) Do everything to prevent their having 
 any relations to human nature, as such, by with- 
 drawing them, as far as possible, from society, and 
 turning those persons with whom they must come in 
 contact into automata; (3) Hoodwink them into think- 
 ing that everything which you, as the representative 
 of Nature, desire them to do, is imposed by natural 
 necessity.^ 
 
 In accordance with the first of these, children are 
 to have their muscles, nerves, and senses carefully 
 trained, in savage fashion. They are to be encour- 
 aged, or bribed,^ to run, leap, climb, balance them- 
 selves, and to move heavy masses. They are to 
 
 1 Cf. quotation on p. 123. 
 
 2 "Are not all his surroundings, as far as they relate to him, under 
 your control ? " . . . " Of course, he must do only what he wishes; 
 but he must wish only what you wish him to do. He must take no 
 step that you have not foreseen, nor open his mouth without your 
 knowing beforehand what he is going to say." — Emile, Bk. II. 
 Such is Education according to Nature! Rousseau's long intimacy 
 with the Jesuits had not been for nothing. Their cadaver is Rous- 
 seau's automaton ; and his methods match theirs. Grimm said of 
 him: " I know but one man who might have written an apology 
 for the Jesuits in fine style . . . and that man is M. Rousseau." 
 After all, a God-animated corpse is better than an automaton. 
 But neither has any moral freedom. 
 
 3 Chiefly with cakes and candy, of which Rousseau himself was 
 very fond. " The proper way to govern children," he says, " is to 
 guide them by the mouth. Gluttony, as a motive, is, of all things, 
 preferable to vanity, because the former is a natural appetite, 
 directly connected with the senses, whereas the latter is the prod- 
 uct of opinion, subject to human caprice and all sorts of abuses." 
 This is, of course, untrue. Darwin has shown that vanity is a 
 common passion even among the lower animals, while Rousseau 
 himself maintains that the animals are never gluttonous, — which 
 again is untrue ! 
 
130 ROUSSEAU 
 
 swim,^ to go about bareheaded and barefooted, in 
 light, loose, gay clothing; to sleep on a hard bed; to 
 be waked up at any hour; to be inured to heat, cold, 
 knocks, and bruises ; to eat when they are hungry, and 
 drink when they are thirsty — cold water, even when 
 they are in a flood of perspiration. They are to play 
 nightly games, involving lonely visits to forests, 
 churches, and graveyards ; they are to walk, and to 
 find things, in the dark, without fear or hesitation. * 
 They are not to be vaccinated, because vaccination, 
 though bringing certain advantages, requires the ser- 
 vices of a physician — which must be avoided like 
 poison.' Riding is not favored, because it is an exer- 
 cise not within the reach of everybody. Besides, 
 Rousseau himself disliked it. The different senses 
 are to be carefully cultivated. "To exercise the 
 senses is not merely to make use of them, but to 
 learn to judge by means of them, to learn, so to 
 speak, to feel; for we can neither touch, see, nor 
 hear, except as we have learnt." In exercising the 
 sense of touch, the nocturnal games, above referred 
 to, are especially valuable; they may even enable us 
 
 1 " Emile will be as much at home in the water as on land. Why 
 cannot he live in all the elements? If he could be taught to fly in 
 the air, I should make him an eagle ; I should make him a sala- 
 mander, if he could be inured to fire." 
 
 2 They are to be tempted to this, as usual, with candy! In this 
 way, their natural dread of the dark is to be overcome. And yet 
 we are told that " the caprice of children is never the work of Na- 
 ture, but of bad discipline: they have either obeyed or commanded." 
 
 3 " If we give a child small-pox, we shall have the advantage of 
 foreseeing and foreknowing his disease ; but if he takes it natu- 
 rally, we shall have saved him from the doctor, which is a still 
 greater advantage." 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 131 
 
 to dispense with the senses of sight and hearing — 
 apparently a great advantage.^ The use of keyless 
 stringed instruments dulls the sense of touch. The 
 ideal instrument is the piano — which Rousseau him- 
 self played! Numerous instructions are given as to 
 how the eye is to be trained to estimate weights, dis- 
 tances, etc. Some of the exercises are delightfully 
 complicated, involving the inevitable candy, which, 
 though rather a civilized product, seems to be Nature's 
 bribe. This is the place for drawing and painting; 
 but the objects selected must always be in Nature, 
 never copies or casts. ^ In connection with all this, 
 Eousseau has some admirable observations upon the 
 way in which the notion of space is acquired, although 
 there is a sad want of close thinking displayed in the 
 delightful remark that "the whole universe can be 
 only a point for an oyster." It would not even be a 
 point; for a point is a very complicated conception, 
 
 1 "We are blind half our lives, with this difference, that those 
 who are really blind can always guide themselves, while we do not 
 venture to take a step into the heart of the night. There are lan- 
 terns, I shall be told. Yes, yes! always machines! Who can 
 assure you that they will follow you everywhere when you want 
 them? I prefer that Emile should have eyes in the ends of his 
 fingers rather than in the chandler's shop." . . . "By putting 
 one hand upon the body of a violoncello, one may, without the 
 help of eyes or ears, distinguish, by the mere vibration or quiver- 
 ing of the wood, whether the sound produced is high or low." . . . 
 " If we would exercise our senses on these differences, I have no 
 doubt that in time one might feel a whole tune with his fingers. 
 If this be admitted, it follows that we might speak to the deaf in 
 music." But alas ! the violoncello is a machine, M. Rousseau! 
 
 2 Smile's room is to be adorned with his own drawings and 
 paintings, placed in more and more elaborate frames in propor- 
 tion to their badness. Thus the expression, " fit for a gilt frame," 
 is to suggest a moral lesson, valuable later on. 
 
132 . ROUSSEAU 
 
 involving the consciousness of space. For cultivating 
 the sense of form, practical geometry, a matter of 
 strings and cut paper, is recommended. Reasoned 
 geometry is, of course, forbidden. 
 
 For training the sense of hearing there are various 
 means, chief among which is music. This, being a 
 favorite occupation with Rousseau, is allowed the use 
 of civilized instruments. Taste, with which smell is 
 closely connected, is to be cultivated by the use of 
 simple, natural food. "The Supreme Goodness, 
 which has made the pleasure of sensible beings the 
 instrument of their preservation, shows us, by what 
 pleases our palates, what is suitable for our stomachs. 
 When Nature is allowed her way, there is no safer 
 physician for a man than his own appetite. In his 
 primitive state, I have no doubt that the foods which 
 he found most pleasant were also the most whole- 
 some." Gluttony, being natural, is excused in this 
 way. " Since the whole of childhood is, or ought to 
 be, merely a succession of games and gleesome amuse- 
 ments, I do not see why pure bodily exercises should 
 not have a material and sensible prize." On the same 
 principle, mental exercises ought to be rewarded with 
 an abstract triangle, a fair Platonic idea, or a pleas- 
 ant aspect of transcendental being! But of such 
 exercises he does not approve. Singularly enough, 
 Rousseau, who professes to give directions for rearing 
 children in a state of Nature, maintains that they 
 should not be allowed to touch animal food, which, 
 if not bad for health, is bad for character. "It is 
 certain that great meat-eaters are, generally, more 
 cruel and tierce than other men." . . . "The bar- 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 133 
 
 barity of the English is well known, whereas the 
 Gaures are the gentlest of men. All savages are cruel, 
 and this is not due to their character, but to their 
 food." This is one of those delicious inconsistencies 
 of which Rousseau is full. The truth is that, for 
 him, savage and Jean Jacques meant the same thing, 
 and of that thing he has a very good opinion. He says, 
 elsewhere, that savages, " known for their keen sensi- 
 bility, are still more so for their subtlety of mind." 
 But the gentle savage, Jean Jacques, did not like 
 meat, and so that must be a perversion of savagery. 
 His assertion, moreover, that the savage, " having no 
 prescribed task, obeying no law but his own will, is 
 forced to reason at every action of his life," only 
 shows that he knew nothing of real savage life. 
 
 In pursuance of the second maxim, children are to 
 receive no instruction that would carry them beyond 
 the range of their own actual sense-experience, or 
 even to reason to the conditions of that experience. 
 Every kind of instruction drawing upon the past or 
 present experience of the race — History, Geography, 
 Grammar, Languages, Literature (even La Fontaine's 
 Eables), Science — is to be excluded. There is to be 
 no learning by heart, no declamation, no examination, 
 no verbal expression of knowledge. "Emile will not 
 chatter, he will act." All efforts at cleverness and 
 bright remarks, all talkativeness, must be frowned 
 down. Books are to be tabooed. " By removing all 
 the duties of children," says Rousseau, "I remove the 
 instruments of their greatest misery, namely, books. 
 Reading is curse of childhood,^ and almost the only 
 1 This is not true ; but Rousseau read bad books. 
 
134 ROUSSEAU 
 
 occupation that people can invent for it. At twelve 
 years of age, Emile will hardly know what a book is. 
 But, I shall be told, he must at least know how to 
 read, when reading is useful to him." ... "If we 
 must demand nothing of children through obedience, 
 it follows that they can learn nothing of which they 
 do not feel the actual present advantage, in the form 
 either of pleasure or of use: otherwise, what motive 
 should prompt them to learn it ? The art of talking 
 and listening to absent friends ... is an art that 
 can be rendered sensible to human beings at any age. 
 By what miracle has this useful and pleasant art 
 become a torment to children ? Because we force 
 them to apply themselves to it against their wills, 
 and put it to uses of which they understand nothing. 
 A child is never very eager to perfect the instrument 
 with which he is tortured. But make this instrument 
 minister to his pleasures, and he will soon apply him- 
 self to it in spite of you." . . . "The present inter- 
 est is the great motive, and the only one that leads 
 safely and far. Emile sometimes receives from his 
 father, mother, relatives, friends,^ notes of invitation 
 for a dinner, a walk, a boating-party, a public festi- 
 val. These notes are short, clear, neat, and well 
 written. Some one must be found to read them. 
 This some one is not found at the right moment, or 
 pays the child out for some disobliging conduct of 
 the day before. Thus the opportunity, the moment, 
 passes. The note is at last read to him; but it is too 
 late! Oh! if he had only been able to read himself! 
 
 1 N.B. Emile is supposed to be an orphan, and to live apart from 
 society. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 135 
 
 Others are received: they are so short; the subject 
 of them is so interesting; he would like to decipher 
 them; sometimes he finds help and sometimes a re- 
 fusal. He exerts himself and finally deciphers half 
 of a note : it is an invitation to go to-morrow to eat 
 cream — he does not know where or with whom. 
 How he struggles to read the rest!" . . . "Shall I 
 speak now of writing ? No; I am ashamed to amuse 
 myself with such nonsense in a treatise on education." 
 This is a typical specimen of Rousseau's natural 
 method, which, assuming that the child has only 
 animal motives, makes no effort to correct or replace 
 them. What notion of man and society would be 
 suggested to a child, if the people about him, in order 
 to be even with him, — poor little animal! — should 
 refuse to read a note for him? It is safe to say that 
 it would be both hateful and false, — in fact, Kous- 
 seau's own diseased notion (see p. 74). For Rousseau 
 hated the human in humanity: he hated science,* 
 true love, and energy of will, being incapable of all 
 
 1 He says : " I teach ray pupil a very long and very painful art — 
 the art of being ignorant ; for the science of any one who does not 
 flatter himself that he knows more than he really does know, re- 
 duces itself to very small bulk." The martyrdom of study is 
 described in these affecting terms: "The clock strikes. What a 
 change ! In an instant, his eye loses its lustre ; his gayety van- 
 ishes. Good-bye to joy ! good-bye to gleesome games ! A severe, ill- 
 tempered man takes him by the hand, and gravely says to him: 
 ' Let us go, sir,' and leads him away. In the room which they 
 enter, I catch a glimpse of books. Books! what sad furniture for 
 his age ! The poor child submits to being dragged along, turns a 
 regretful eye upon everything about him, holds his peace, and goes 
 off, his eyes swollen with tears which he dare not shed, and his 
 heart big with sighs which he dare not give vent to." It is needless 
 to comment on such stuff ! 
 
136 ROUSSEAU 
 
 three. Hence lie deprecated all culture of intellect, 
 affection, and will, of all that makes man, life, and 
 the world human. 
 
 Of the third maxim it is sufficient to say that, ac- 
 cording to Rousseau, children are to be so managed 
 that what is, in reality, the result of the most careful 
 forethought, shall seem natural and necessary; in 
 other words, that they shall, from first to last, be vic- 
 tims of a pious fraud. By means of this, the child is 
 to be dehumanized, to be made a victim and a dupe. 
 How small must his intelligence and his observation 
 be, to make such dupery possible ! 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Boyhood 
 
 {j^mile, Bk. III.) 
 
 I slept and dreamt that life was Beauty : 
 I woke and found that life was Duty. 
 
 When a boy has learnt his letters and is beginning to under- 
 stand what is written, as before he understood only what was 
 spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which 
 he reads at school ; in these are contained . . . the encomia of 
 ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in 
 order that ... he may desire to become like them. 
 
 Plato, Protagoras. 
 
 EoussEAu's solitary pupil reaches the age of twelve 
 years without having learnt to do anything but pla v^ 
 In playing, he has exercised his muscles, nerves, and 
 senses. He has no knowledge of man; he does not 
 reason; his sole motive is sensuous pleasure. But he 
 is supple, alert, healthy, and docile, like a well-trained 
 young dog. Moreover, he is exuberantly happy, 
 because his strength is far in advance of his needs, 
 and because the absorbing passion of manhood has not 
 yet awakened in him. Thus the years from twelve to 
 fifteen form a period of altogether exceptional free 
 energy, which must be seized upon and directed — 
 surreptitiously, of course — to the best ends, as Rous- 
 
 137 
 
138 ROUSSEAU 
 
 seau conceives them. This, in fact, is the time to 
 cultivate the " sixth sense, which is called common 
 sense, not so much because it is common to all men, 
 as because it results from the well-regulated use of 
 the other senses, and because it instructs us in the 
 nature of things, through the convergence of all their 
 appearances." "This sense," he continues, "has no 
 special organ. It resides solely in the brain; and its 
 sensations, which are purely internal, are called per- 
 ceptions or ideas. It is by the number of these ideas 
 that the extent of our knowledge is measured; it is 
 their definiteness and clearness that constitutes cor- 
 rectness of thinking; it is the art of comparing them 
 that we call human reason. Thus, what I called sen- 
 sitive, or childish, reason consists in forming simple 
 ideas, by the union of several sensations ; and what I 
 call intellectual or human reason consists in forming 
 complex ideas, by the union of several simple ideas." 
 It is hardly worth while to comment upon this crude, 
 ocnsuous, chemical psychology. To have been con- 
 de^nned to it was the penalty paid by Rousseau for 
 his superficial acquaintance with philosophy, and his 
 contempt for it. 
 
 At this stage in their career, boys are still to be 
 guided by immediate, sensuous interests. Moral mo- 
 tives are to play no part. The subjects suitable for 
 study are few. Of the departments of knowledge 
 within our reach, some are false, others useless, others 
 only minister to the conceit of their possessors. The 
 few that really contribute to our well-being are alone 
 worthy of the attention of a wise man, and therefore 
 of a child whom we mean to turn into one. Of these 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 139 
 
 few, again, those must be excluded which demand for 
 their study a developed intelligence, such, for example, 
 as those dealing with the relations of man to man. 
 What remains is the experimental natural sciences, 
 whose objects are the visible heaven and earth. Curi- 
 osity now supervenes upon bodily restlessness, as a 
 motive. But this curiosity is no mere mental or spir- 
 itual need of man's. " The innate desire for well- 
 being, and the impossibility of completely satisfying 
 it, make him continually seek for new means of con- 
 tributing to it. Such is the first principle of curi- 
 osity, a principle natural to the human heart (!), but 
 one whose development strictly keeps pace with our 
 passions and our lights.-^ Banish a philosopher to a 
 desert island, with instruments and books, and con- 
 vince him that he must pass the remainder of his life 
 there : he will hardly trouble himself any more about 
 the system of the world, the laws of attraction, or the 
 differential calculus. He will perhaps not open a 
 book again in his life," This experiment, whose 
 result is, to say the least, very doubtful, suffices to 
 prove to Rousseau that these studies are not natural 
 to man : therefore, they are to be ruled out. 
 
 " The island of the human race is the earth. The 
 object that most strikes our eyes is the sun. As soon 
 as we turn away from ourselves, our attention must 
 direct itself to one or the other." Geography and 
 astronomy are therefore now in order. But these sub- 
 jects are not to be taught by means of books, maps, 
 
 1 It never seems to have dawned for an instant upon Rousseau 
 either that there could be any intellectual needs or motives, or that 
 there was any value in a developed intelligence, as such. 
 
140 ROUSSEAU 
 
 globes, or charts. They are to be studied in the pres- 
 ence of the objects themselves, and that, too, in the 
 most matter-of-fact fashion. No feeling in the pres- 
 ence of Nature's sublimities is to be looked for, " The 
 child perceives objects; but he cannot perceive their 
 relations; he cannot hear the sweet harmony of their 
 concert." . . . "How shall the song of birds cause 
 him a voluptuous emotion, if the accents of love and 
 pleasure are still unknown to him ? " 
 
 Rousseau reports various tricks and devices for 
 inducing children to think what is implied in such 
 natural phenomena as sunrise and sunset, and to 
 represent it to themselves by means of circles and 
 teetotums. The matter of geographical study is to 
 be the country where the child lives, and the features 
 of this he is to draw as well as he can. He is to be 
 initiated into the mysteries of magnetism by means 
 of wax ducks, modelled about a magnetic needle and 
 made to swim about after a magnet. But lest he 
 should plume himself upon this new and strange dis- 
 covery, and take to showing it off, an elaborate con- 
 spiracy is entered into with a professional magician 
 to humble his vanity, by trickery, in presence of an 
 assembled and gaping crowd; and the poor child, 
 guilty of having shown one natural feeling, is once 
 more reduced to the condition of a marionette. 
 Rousseau congratulates himself on the result. " All 
 the detail of this example means more than it seems. 
 How many lessons in one! How many mortifying 
 consequences flow from the first movement of vanity ! 
 Young teacher, carefully watch this first movement! 
 If you can make it produce humiliation and disgrace 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 141 
 
 in this way, be sure it will be long before a second 
 occurs. What elaborate preparations ! you will say. 
 I agree — and all to make a compass to take the place 
 of a meridian."^ This conspiracy is typical. In all 
 cases the main thing is, not to impart knowledge to 
 the child, but to guard him against the formation of 
 false ideas, or the acceptance of any that do not grow 
 out of his own individual experience. A secret eifort 
 may be made to secure his continuous attention ; but 
 constraint must never be applied. " It must always 
 be pleasure or desire that produces this attention." 
 ... " It is always of less importance that the child 
 should learn than that he should do nothing against 
 his inclination." All attempts to make the child over- 
 come his inclinations, in favor of moral action, are to 
 be avoided, as useless and denaturalizing. 
 
 In course of time — toward the age of fifteen ! — the 
 child will begin to grow self-conscious, to know what 
 is good for him, and to seek it. His good is simply 
 sensuous well-being, without moral regard. He must 
 now be induced to direct his mind to "useful objects," 
 and the notion of the useful must now become his 
 guiding star. He is to study nothing which he does 
 not see to be useful for his own special sensuous ends. 
 These are to be the limits of his curiosity. In fact, 
 he is to be carefully trained in sordid selfishness, lest 
 he should form false conceptions ! ^ If a child trained 
 in this way should express doubts regarding the use- 
 fulness of astronomy to him, he is to be cured of them 
 
 1 Quintilian was wiser when he said: "Vanity is a vice; but it 
 is the parent of many virtues." See my Aristotle, p. 220. 
 
 2 Compare the saying of Aristotle in my Aristotle, p. 189. 
 
142 ROUSSEAU 
 
 in this way. He and his tutor are to lose themselves 
 in the forest. " We no longer," says Rousseau, " know- 
 where we are,^ and when the time comes to return, 
 we cannot find our way. The time passes ; the heat 
 comes; we are hungry; we hasten; we wander vainly 
 from side to side." . . . " Much heated, much disap- 
 pointed, very hungry, we only lose ourselves more and 
 more. Finally, we sit down, not to rest, bat to de- 
 liberate." . . . "After a few moments of silence, 
 I say to him, in an anxious tone, 'My dear ^fimile, 
 how are we to get out of this ? ' " Emile, " dripping 
 with perspiration, and weeping bitter tears," replies, 
 "'I know nothing about it. I'm tired; I'm hungry; 
 I'm thirsty; I'm all used up.'" They finally look at 
 their watches (£mile carries a watch !) and find that 
 it is noon. Knowing that their home is to the south 
 of the forest, and remembering that at noon the sun 
 casts his shadow to the north, they thus find out the 
 direction of the south, and, following it, are soon in 
 sight of home. Hereupon Emile shouts: "Let us 
 breakfast ! let us dine ! let us run quick ! Astronomy 
 is good for something." Thus he learns that as- 
 tronomy is a useful science — useful in helping a big, 
 tired, hungry cry-baby, accompanied by his tutor, to 
 find his way home. And this is the child who has 
 been reared as a savage, and taught to bear heat, 
 cold, hunger, pain, fatigue, and to find his way in 
 the dark! 
 
 "I hate books," says Rousseau; "they only teach 
 us to talk about what we don't know." Nevertheless, 
 Emile is, at last, to learn to read. Then his one book 
 1 This, of course, is false as regards the tutor. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 143 
 
 is to be — Robinson Crusoe; and the reason is this: 
 "Robinson Crusoe, aloue on his island, deprived of 
 the aid of his fellow-nien and of the instruments of all 
 the arts, and, nevertheless, providing for his own sub- 
 sistence and protection, and even attaining a certain 
 sort of "well-being, is an interesting object for any 
 age, and may be ren'dered attractive to children in a 
 thousand ways." . . . "This state, I admit, is not 
 that of the social man . . . but it is by this same 
 state that he must value all the rest. jThe surest way 
 to rise above prejudice, and to shape one's judgment 
 by the true relations of things, is to put oneself in the 
 place of the isolated man, and to judge all things as 
 this man, having regard to his own usefulness, must 
 judge them." /Emile will be fascinated with Robin- 
 son Crusoe.~^"I want him," says Rousseau, "to lose 
 his head over it, to be continually absorbed by his 
 castle, his goats, his plantations; to learn in detail, 
 not by books, but by things, all that it is necessary 
 to know in such a case ; to imagine that he is Robin- 
 son himself, dressed in skins, wearing a big hat, a 
 great sabre, and all the grotesque trappings of the 
 figure, except the parasol, which he will not need. 
 I wish him to be anxious about what he would do, if 
 this or that should happen to fail, to examine his 
 hero's conduct, to see if he has omitted anything, or 
 if anything could be done better, to note carefully his 
 faults, and to profit by them, so as not to commit 
 similar ones; for you may be sure that he will plan 
 to go and set up a similar establishment. This is the 
 real air-castle of this blessed age, when one knows no 
 other happiness than necessities and freedom." With 
 
144 EOUSSEAU 
 
 these childish ^ thoughts in his head, he will be eager 
 to learn all the "natural arts," that is, such arts as 
 are necessary for the solitary man. He must, as long 
 as possible, be prevented from taking any interest in 
 those that require cooperation. "You see," says 
 Rousseau, "thus far I have not spoken to my pupil 
 about men. He would have too much good sense to 
 listen to me. His relations with his kind are not yet 
 pronounced enough to enable him to judge of others 
 by himself. He knows no human being but himself, 
 and himself very imperfectly; but, if he pronounces 
 few judgments on himself, those he does pronounce 
 are, at least, just. He knows nothing about the place 
 of others ; but he feels his own, and keeps himself in 
 it. Instead of social laws, which he cannot know, 
 we have bound him with chains of necessity. He is 
 still hardly anything more than a physical being; let 
 us continue to treat him as such." 
 
 With regard to the " natural arts " Rousseau says : 
 " The first and most respectable of all the arts is agri- 
 culture. I should give blacksmithing the second 
 place, carpentry the third, and so on." Nevertheless, 
 since agriculture is incompatible with vagabond free- 
 dom, and blacksmithing untidy, he chooses carpentry 
 for his pupil. "It is cleanly; it is useful; it may be 
 carried on in the house; it calls upon the workman 
 for dexterity and industry, and the usefulness of its 
 products does not exclude elegance and taste." Rous- 
 seau deprecates all crafts that are unhealthy or effemi- 
 
 1 Most children get over the Robinson Crusoe stage by the age 
 of seven. Henry Thoreau was a notable exception. See his Wal- 
 den, and of. Tennyson's Enoch Arden. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 145 
 
 nate, that deform the body, disgust the senses, or turn 
 those who practise them into automata or machines. 
 On the other hand, " if your pupil's genius should 
 show a decided bent for the speculative sciences, 
 then," he says, "I should not object to his being 
 allowed to follow a craft conformable to his inclina- 
 tions; to his learning, for example, to make mathe- 
 matical instruments,^ spectacles, telescopes, etc." 
 
 Eousseau, who may fairly claim the honor of being 
 the father of manual training, would have every child 
 learn a trade, and on this subject he makes some very 
 pungent remarks. In reply to a fond mother who 
 exclaims: "A handicraft for my son! My son an 
 artisan! Do you think of such a thing, Sir?" he 
 says, "Madam, I think better than you, who want 
 to reduce him to a state in which he can never be 
 anything but a lord, a marquis, a prince,^ and perhaps 
 some day less than nothing; while I want to confer 
 on him a rank which he cannot lose, a rank which 
 shall honor him at all times : I want to raise him to 
 the dignity of a man, and, say what you will, he will 
 have fewer equals in that rank than in those he may 
 inherit from you." While admitting that the isolated 
 man may do as he pleases, he insists that in society 
 everybody must work. "Work is a duty indispen- 
 
 1 Here he was evidently thinking of Spinoza. 
 
 2 Cf. Burns' A Man's a Man for a' That : — 
 
 " A king can make a belted knicht, 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; 
 But an honest man's abune his micht; 
 Guid faith ! he mauna fa' that." 
 
 Burns derived not only the thought of this poem, but many other 
 things, good and evil, from Rousseau. 
 
 L 
 
146 ROUSSEAU 
 
 sable for man in society. Eich or poor, strong or 
 weak, the citizen who does not work is a scoundrel." 
 And manual labor is to be preferred to every other, as 
 affording the greatest freedom. " Of all occupations 
 fitted to yield man a subsistence, that which comes 
 nearest to the state of Nature is manual toil; of all 
 conditions, the most independent of fortune and of 
 men is that of the artisan. He depends only on his 
 labor; he is as free as the ploughman is bound; for 
 the latter is tied to his land, whose crop is at the 
 mercy of others." . . . "By means of this land, he 
 may be harassed in a thousand ways ; whereas, if an 
 attempt is made to harass an artisan, he can directly 
 pull up his stakes, go off, and take his two arms with 
 him." 
 
 In learning a trade, Emile can hardly fail to realize 
 that cooperation in labor is valuable, and he may be 
 allowed to make some reflections on this matter, and 
 to think of men as united by industrial or material 
 ties, whose meaning is within his reach ; but no effort 
 must be made to make him understand any other ties, 
 since he has not the experience which would enable 
 him to understand them. The force of this rule we 
 shall see later. 
 
 In connection with the subject of industry, Rousseau 
 takes occasion to air some of his economic and socio- 
 logical doctrines; and, though the bearing of these 
 upon his educational theories is but indirect, it is no 
 less real and important on that account. We must, 
 therefore, refer to them. 
 
 According to Rousseau, it is every man's first 
 duty, imposed by Nature, to live. *' Since, of all the 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 147 
 
 aversions with which Nature inspires us, the strongest 
 is the aversion to die, it follows that Nature allows a 
 man to do anything that is absolutely necessary to 
 preserve his life. The principles through which the 
 virtuous man learns to despise his life, and sacrifice 
 himself to his duty, are far removed from this primi- 
 tive simplicity. Happy the peoples, among whom 
 one can be good without effort, and just without 
 virtue! ^ If there is any wretched nation in the world 
 in which it is not possible for every citizen to live 
 without doing wrong, and where the citizens are 
 rascals from necessity, it is not the wrong-doer that 
 should be hanged, but he who forces him to become 
 such." As if any one could be forced to do wrong 
 against his will! This illogical and immoral doctrine 
 has made dangerous fanatics without number, and 
 encouraged criminals to hold society responsible for 
 their crimes. It has, further, led to numerous at- 
 tempts to moralize men by merely altering their sur- 
 roundings, when the true method would have been to 
 strengthen their wills through discipline, and to teach 
 them that life without virtue is worthless. 
 
 Rousseau is opposed to inherited wealth. *'The 
 man or the citizen," he says, "whoever he be, has 
 nothing to contribute to society but himself. All his 
 other goods are in it in spite of him ; and when a man 
 is rich, he either does not enjoy his wealth, or the 
 public enjoys it also. In the former case, he steals 
 
 1 la other words, among whom goodness and justice are the 
 result of blind instinct, and not of progressive moral effort or 
 exertion of free choice. The whole of Rousseau's moral theory is 
 here. Having himself no moral will, he tried to prove that men 
 might be virtuous without such a thing. 
 
148 KOUSSEAU 
 
 from others what he deprives himself of; in the latter, 
 he gives them nothing. Thus his social debt remains 
 altogether undischarged, until he pays it with what is 
 his own. 'But my father earned it, as an equivalent 
 for services rendered to society' (you will say). 
 Granted; he paid his debt, but not yours. You owe 
 more to others than if you had been born penniless, 
 because you were born favored. It is not just that 
 what one man has done for society should relieve 
 another from the debt which he owes it; for every one, 
 owing his entire self to it, can pay only for himself, 
 and no father can bequeath to his son the right to be 
 useless to his fellows ; and yet this is what, according 
 to you, he does by bequeathing to him his wealth, 
 which is the proof and price of his labor. He who 
 eats in idleness what he has not himself earned, steals 
 it; and a bondholder, whom the state pays for doing 
 nothing, hardly differs, in my eyes, from a highway 
 robber who lives at the expense of travellers." This 
 specious nonsense, which contains the germs of the 
 worst forms of socialism, derives its entire force from 
 the fact that Rousseau, while granting a continuous 
 personality to society, denies it to the family. But, 
 surely, if society has a right to bequeath to future 
 generations what it obtains through an exchange, the 
 family, when it is the other party to the transaction, 
 cannot be denied the same right. Such transmission 
 does not remove wealth from society, and the mere 
 possession of wealth, whether earned or inherited, 
 has nothing whatever to do with a man's duty to 
 serve society. The idler is a rotten and burdensome 
 branch of the social tree, whether he be a penniless 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 149 
 
 tramp or a landed millionaire! But socialism is hos- 
 tile to the family. 
 
 Rousseau poured contempt upon the accumulated 
 treasures of human experience, and upon all the 
 means whereby they are made available to individual 
 minds — books, study, schools, colleges, universities, 
 social intercourse. Havkig himself very little know- 
 ledge and very little power of continuous thinking, he 
 could not conceive that other men should desire to be 
 unlike him. He despised "high thinking," and all 
 attempts, through sustained inquiry and rigorous 
 thought, to make the world rational, and to determine 
 the place and destiny of man, as a rational being, in it. 
 In the place of such thought, which is essentially uni- 
 versal and, therefore, social, he put vague sentiment 
 and emotional intuition, which, like mystic experi- 
 ences, depending upon temperament, are individual 
 and unsocial. " Since our errors come from our judg- 
 ments," he says, "it is clear that, if we never had to 
 judge, we should never have to learn, and never be lia- 
 ble to deceive ourselves. We should be happier in our 
 ignorance than we can be in our knowledge. Who de- 
 nies that scholars know a thousand true things which 
 the ignorant will never know? Are the scholars, there- 
 fore, nearer the truth? On the contrary, they get 
 further from it as they go on, because, since the vanity 
 of judging makes more progress than light does, every 
 truth they learn is sure to come with a hundred false 
 judgments. It is clear as daylight that the learned 
 societies of Europe are merely public schools of lies ; 
 and it is very certain that there are more errors in 
 the Academy of Sciences than among the whole Huron 
 
150 ROUSSEAU 
 
 race.^ Since the more men know, the more they 
 deceive themselves, the only way to avoid error is 
 ignorance. Do not judge, and you will never be 
 duped. This is the lesson of Nature as well as of 
 Reason. Apart from a very small number of very 
 sensible relations between things and ourselves, we 
 have naturally a profound indifference for all the rest. 
 A savage would not turn his foot to see the working 
 of the finest machine or all the prodigies of electricity. 
 What does it matter to me? is the phrase most familiar 
 to the ignorant, and most suitable to the wise." 
 Though, in spite of this, Rousseau admits that men, 
 when forced out of the savage state, must judge, ^ he, 
 nevertheless, continually speaks of science, learning, 
 and all that depends upon them, as degradations and 
 necessary evils. In this way he favored obscurantism 
 and superstition. 
 
 But alongside such evil teachings, Rousseau had 
 others which were of a different nature. His attacks 
 upon luxury, display, and the vain waste of wealth, 
 and his eloquent praises of plain, simple, modest liv- 
 ing, have laid humanity forever under deep obligations 
 to him. Here the fervid, passion-tipped arrows of 
 his rhetoric, which on other occasions turned men 
 into anarchic fanatics, roused them from their dull, 
 inertly blind lethargy, the inheritance from centuries 
 of use and wont, and made millions of them, who had 
 
 1 These judgments show what good reason Rousseau had to speak 
 of the " vanity of judging," and to praise ignorance. 
 
 2 It is needless to say that even the lowest savage, in so far as 
 he is conscious, judges; for consciousness, which even the brutes 
 possess, is nothing more or less than a complex of judgments. To 
 be aware of a feeling is to make a judgment, or several. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 151 
 
 been crouching before, and struggling after, wealth 
 and conventional position, see that under their very 
 hands and eyes were all the treasures of Nature, and 
 the possibilities of a life which made these things 
 seem contemptible. When, a century later, Emerson 
 said, " Give me health and a day, and I will make the 
 pomp of emperors ridiculous," he had been to school 
 to Eousseau.^ 
 
 According to Rousseau's plan, the three or four 
 years of boyhood are to be passed in physical exer- 
 cises, in learning a few necessary facts in regard to 
 the physical world, and a few simple processes called 
 the natural arts, and in drawing a few simple conclu- 
 sions from such facts and processes. He says: "If I 
 have made myself understood thus far, it will be 
 readily imagined how, along with the habits of bodily 
 exercise and manual training, I insensibly ^ impart to 
 my pupil a taste for reflection and meditation, to 
 counterbalance the sloth which would result from his 
 indifference to men's judgments and from the calm 
 of the passions. He must toil like a peasant and 
 think like a philosopher, in order not to be as indo- 
 lent as a savage. The great secret of education is to 
 make bodily and mental exercises always serve as 
 recreations from each other." 
 
 Looking back upon the progress made in this period, 
 Rousseau says: "At first our pupil had only sensa- 
 
 1 Indeed, as might easily be shown in detail, Emerson is, in the 
 main, an American (moral) Rousseau, just as Wordsworth is an 
 English one. " Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home," might 
 have been written by Rousseau. 
 
 2 So insensibly, indeed, that the reader fails to observe how, or 
 that, it is done. 
 
152 ROUSSEAU 
 
 tions; now he has ideas. ^ At first he only felt; now 
 he judges.^ For from the comparison of several suc- 
 cessive or simultaneous sensations, and from the judg- 
 ment pronounced on them, arises a sort of mixed or 
 complex sensation which I call idea." ^ " The manner 
 of forming ideas," he continues, "is what imparts 
 character to the human mind," and he gives a long 
 list of mental characteristics arising from diiferent 
 ways of doing so. Then follows a passage so charac- 
 teristic that it must be quoted. "Simple ideas are 
 but compared sensations. There are judgments in the 
 simple sensations, as well as in the complex sensations 
 which I call ideas. In sensation the judgment is 
 purely passive; it affirms^ that what is felt is felt. 
 In the perception, or idea, the judgment is active; it 
 brings together, it compares, it determines ^ relations 
 which the sense does not determine. This is all the 
 difference; but it is great. Nature never deceives us; 
 it is we^ that deceive ourselves." It seems plain 
 that, if the last statement is true, and self-deception 
 is a vice, we are innately vicious. 
 
 But to return to £mile : he " has few acquirements 
 in the way of knowledge ; but those he has are truly 
 his own: he knows nothing by halves. In the small 
 number of things which he knows, and knows well, 
 
 1 As if there were such things as simple sensations ! 
 
 2 As if he could feel without judging! 
 
 8 Judgment, it seems, is a chemical action among sensa- 
 tions. 
 
 * Surely affirmation is an act, not a passion (jrdtfos). 
 
 5 By what means can it do this ? 
 
 6 If we are so completely opposed to Nature, what reason can 
 there be for educating us according to Nature? 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 153 
 
 tlie most important is, that there are many which he 
 does not know, but which he may know some time; 
 many more which other men know, but which he will 
 never know all his life, and an infinity of others which 
 no man will ever know."^ . . . "Emile has only 
 natural and purely physical knowledge. He does not 
 know even the name of history, or the meaning of 
 metaphysics or morals. He knows the essential rela- 
 tions of men to things, but none of the moral relations 
 of man to man. He knows little about how to gener- 
 alize ideas, or to make abstractions.^ He sees quali- 
 ties common to certain bodies, without reasoning 
 about these qualities themselves. He knows abstract 
 extension by the help of geometrical figures, and ab- 
 stract quantity by means of algebraic signs.* These 
 figures and signs are the support of those abstractions 
 upon which his senses rest. He does not try to know 
 things through their nature, but only through the 
 relations which interest him. He estimates what is 
 foreign to him only by its relation to himself; but 
 this estimation is accurate and certain. Fancy and 
 convention play no part in it. He lays most stress 
 upon what is most useful to him, and, never depart- 
 ing from this way of estimating, he sets no store by 
 opinion. Emile is laborious, temperate, patient, 
 firm, courageous.* His imagination, not having been 
 
 1 That he, or anybody else, could arrive at such knowledge as 
 this is a miracle surely. 
 
 2 Rousseau does not see that every idea, whether simple or com- 
 plex, involves both generalization and abstraction. 
 
 3 It is certain that he would never know either by any such 
 means. 
 
 4 We find an exhibition of these virtues on p. 142. 
 
154 ROUSSEAU 
 
 fired in any way,^ never magnifies dangers for him. 
 He is sensible to few evils, and he can suffer with 
 firmness,^ because he has not learnt to wrangle with 
 fate." ... "In a word, Emile has all the virtues 
 that relate to himself. In order to have also the social 
 virtues, he merely requires to have the relations which 
 call for them, and the light which his mind is now 
 completely ready to receive. He thinks of himself 
 without regard to others, and is content that others 
 should not think of him. He asks nothing of any- 
 body, and does not feel that he owes anything to 
 anybody. He is also alone in human society, and 
 relies only on himself.^ As much as any one, he has 
 a right to do this ; for he is all that one can be at his 
 age.* He has no errors, or only such as are inevitable. 
 He has no vices, or only those against which no man 
 is safe.^ His body is healthy; his limbs agile; he is 
 fair-minded and unprejudiced, heart-free and passion- 
 less. Self-love even, the first and most natural of all 
 the passions, has hardly yet begun to stir. Without 
 
 1 Robinson Crusoe seems to have proved somewhat firing. 
 See p. 143. 
 
 2 See above, p. 142. 
 
 3 For what? we may ask. For his food and clothing? For 
 the roof over his head ? For self-guidance ? If so, his tutor may 
 vanish. 
 
 4 This is certainly verj"- wide of the truth. 
 
 5 We have to take Rousseau's word for this. He has furnished 
 us no proof for it. A boy of fifteen or sixteen, with no human rela- 
 tions but those of a puppet worked by the hidden wires of a magi- 
 cian tutor, cannot be said to have either virtues or vices. His will 
 having never been called into exercise, he is altogether in a sub- 
 moral condition, knowing neither good nor evil. At best, he is a 
 well-trained animal. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 155 
 
 disquieting any one, he has lived contented, happy, 
 so far as Nature has allowed. " ^ 
 
 Such is Emile, at the age of puberty, an altogether 
 fantastic and impossible creature, a human automa- 
 ton, neither man nor beast, utterly unloving and 
 unlovable. Instead of being richly and plastically 
 moulded by the manifold influences of society, he has 
 been cast in a rigid, beggarly mould, by one man's cold 
 caprice, calling itself natural necessity. 
 
 1 No, as far as Rousseau's utterly false views of Nature have 
 allowed. In fact, Emile has all the time been caged, watched, and 
 trained in ignorance into complete artificiality. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Adolescence 
 (^mi7e, Bk. IV.) 
 
 A warmth within the breast would melt 
 The freezing reason's colder part, 
 And, like a man in wrath, the heart 
 
 Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 
 
 Tennyson, In Memoriam, cxxiv. 
 
 In my dealing with my child, my Latin and Gresk, my 
 accomplishments, and my money stead me nothing ; but as 
 much soul as I have avails. If I am wilful, he sets his will 
 against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if I please, the degra- 
 dation of beating him by my superiority of strength. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 It is the misfortune of all those people who 
 despise or undervalue patient research, and careful 
 reasoning from the same, that, when they undertake 
 to write, they are forced to substitute for the true ar- 
 rangements of science, specious schemes drawn from 
 their own undisciplined imaginations. It was owing 
 to such a misfortune that Rousseau was led to adopt 
 the neat and pretty formula that, before the age of 
 puberty the human being, having no sympathetic 
 imagination, is guided entirely by selfish or egoistic 
 instincts, and that only after that, and through the 
 
 156 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 157 
 
 physical and emotional changes consequent upon it, 
 he begins to manifest social instincts. These, he 
 thinks, are awakened by the imagination, and the 
 imagination, which enables us to go beyond ourselves 
 and identify ourselves with others, springs up with 
 "the sexual instinct. That Eousseau should favor 
 this view, is intelligible enough. So portentous and 
 all-pervasive was the part played by the sexual pas- 
 sion in his own life, that it may fairly be said to have 
 extended to every human relation which had any 
 attraction for him. A relation without something of 
 this meant nothing to him. This is the secret of his 
 aversion to society, whose nobler relations have noth- 
 ing to do with sexuality. And the theory itself is 
 obtrusively untrue. Not only " is man by nature a 
 political animal," but almost from the dawn of con- 
 sciousness the child shows social sympathies, and 
 gives evidence of lively imaginations. Very small 
 children love their brothers, sisters, and jilaymates, 
 and grieve when separated from them. Their attach- 
 ment to their mothers and nurses is often deep and 
 genuine.^ Nor only so; but they learn quite early to 
 understand social relations and to make moral distinc- 
 tions. The latter may not always be correct; but that 
 has nothing to do with the matter. Many children, 
 at five or six, have very tender consciences, and are 
 inconsolable when they think that they have done 
 wrong, though they have no punishment to fear.^ 
 
 1 1 knew a child of four who cried bitterly, because some one had 
 said that his nurse, a very plain, almost grotesque, old woman, was 
 not handsome. 
 
 2 Rousseau, speaking of himself at the age of seven, says: "I 
 had no idea of things, though all the feelings were already known 
 
158 ROUSSEAU 
 
 The chief aim of education during the period of 
 adolescence is to " perfect reason by feeling." ^ When 
 the sexual feelings have begun to stir, but, not having 
 yet found, or concentrated themselves upon, their 
 proper object, go out through imagination to all sen- 
 tient beings indiscriminately, the time has come for' 
 the development and training of the social emotions,^ 
 — friendship, compassion, sympathy, etc. In the 
 first place, every care is to be taken lest the sexual 
 feelings should at once find their proper object, and, 
 through imagination, concentrate themselves upon it, 
 and Rousseau has some sensible remarks upon the way 
 to prevent this. If they should at once find their 
 object, the growing youth will, in all likelihood, 
 become a selfish sensualist, cruel, thoughtless, and 
 brutal, and never develop the social emotions at all.^ 
 If they do not, there will be an abundant overflow of 
 warm friendliness. "A young man reared in sim- 
 plicity is carried by the first movements of Nature 
 
 to me. I had conceived nothing; I had felt everything, and the 
 imaginary niit^fortmies of my heroes drew from me a hundred 
 times more tears in my childhood than even my own have ever 
 made me shed." Confessions, Bk. I. Surely there is no lack of 
 sympathy or imagination here ! 
 
 1 This completely inverts the order of fact. Feeling is primitive ; 
 reason merely makes distinctions in feeling. The world itself is 
 only a complex of feelings distinguished and analyzed by reason, 
 itself inherent in feeling. 
 
 2 Emotion is that residue of primitive desiderant feeling (pleasure 
 and pain) which has not been differentiated by perceptive or active 
 organs, but which naturally connects itself with the feelings par- 
 ticularized by these, after they are formed. 
 
 3 This was precisely Rousseau's own case. Here he could speak 
 from bitter experience ; and the sinner is by no means the worst 
 preacher against sin. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 159 
 
 toward tender and affectionate passions. His com- 
 passionate heart is moved by the sufferings of his 
 kind; he starts with delight when his comrade comes 
 back to him; his arms are able to find caressing em- 
 braces, his eyes to shed tears of tender emotion; he 
 feels shame when he incurs displeasure, and regret 
 when he causes offence. If the heat of his burning 
 blood makes him quick, impatient, angry, the next 
 moment all the goodness of his heart returns in the 
 effusiveness of his repentance. He weeps, he sobs 
 over the wound he has caused; with his own blood he 
 would be glad to redeem that which he has shed; all 
 his anger dies out; all his pride is humbled before 
 the feeling of his fault. If he is offended himself, at 
 the height of his fury, an excuse, a word, disarms 
 him ; he forgives the wrongs done him by others with 
 the same good heart with which he repairs those he 
 does to others." In an age when gush, embracing, 
 weeping, and fainting were fashionable,^ such a youth, 
 no doubt, seemed in the highest degree admirable : he 
 would hardly be the ideal of to-day among men of 
 Germanic blood. 
 
 Rousseau sums up " the whole of human wisdom in 
 the use of the passions " in two rules : (1) to feel the 
 true relations of man, both in the species and in the 
 individual; (2) to order all the affections of the soul 
 in accordance with these relations. Only by follow- 
 
 1 Hume, who had no superfluity of emotion, speaking of a scene 
 with Rousseau, writes: " I assure you I kissed him and emhraced 
 him twenty times, with a plentiful effusion of tears. I think no 
 scene of my life was ever more affecting." Burton, Life of Hume, 
 II., 315. 
 
160 EOUSSEAU 
 
 ing these does man become moral. With a view to 
 this Rousseau lays clown three maxims, viz., — 
 
 (1) It is not in the power of the human heart to 
 put itself in the place of those who are happier than 
 we, but only of those who are more to be pitied. 
 
 (2) We pity in others only the sufferings from 
 which we do not think ourselves safe. 
 
 (3) The pity Avhich we feel for others' ills is not 
 measured by the amount of those ills, but by what we 
 suppose they suffer from them. 
 
 It might easily be shown that these maxims are 
 untrue; but they are used by Rousseau to justify him 
 in directing his pupil's newly awakened social sym- 
 pathies to the sufferings, rather than to the joys, of 
 humanity — to the poor and oppressed, rather than to 
 the rich and overweening. And this furnishes hira 
 an opportunity, of which he makes masterly use, to 
 compare the world of wealth and fashion with the 
 world of poverty and simplicity — greatly to the ad- 
 vantage of the latter. He concludes that Emile must 
 be removed from cities, where fashion, immodesty, 
 and luxury contribute to sexu.al precocity and corrup- 
 tion, and taken to the country, to develop slowly in 
 simplicity. Here he is still to be caged, guarded, 
 and duped. If, in spite of all precautions, the pas- 
 sions prove incontroUable, he is to be taken to a hos- 
 pital and shown the physical effects of unbridled lust 
 in their worst form. At the same time every effort 
 must be made to direct the young man's affections 
 into broader and more peaceful channels. His tutor, 
 hitherto so rigid, representing necessity, must now 
 become his intimate friend, and strive to call out his 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 161 
 
 affection for both himself and others. Under his 
 guidance, Emile "must study society through men, 
 and men through society," beginning with the study 
 of the human heart. In this process, he will be able 
 to distinguish between "the real and indestructible 
 equality " due to Nature, and the chimerical and vain 
 equality found in society, in which "the many are 
 always sacrificed to the few, and public interests to 
 private, and the specious names of justice and subor- 
 dination always serve as instruments of violence and 
 weapons of iniquity." But, in order that such study 
 may not render him misanthropic and pessimistic, he 
 must use other experiences besides his own, and be 
 made acquainted with worthy people. His surround- 
 ings must be such that "he shall think well of those 
 who live with him, and become so well acquainted 
 with the world as to think everything that is done in 
 it bad." " Let him know," says Rousseau, "that man 
 is naturally good; let him feel it; let him judge his 
 neighbor by himself; but let him see how society 
 depraves and perverts men; let him find in their 
 prejudices the source of all their vices; let him be 
 brought to esteem each individual; but let him de- 
 spise the multitude; let him see that all men wear 
 pretty nearly the same mask; but let him also know 
 that there are faces fairer than the masks that cover 
 them." His personal experience may be widened and 
 corrected by the study of history,^ and especially of 
 
 1 Much of what Rousseau says on the subject of history and the 
 study of it is truly admirable, and deserves the most careful con- 
 sideration on the part of educators. His estimate of Herodotus, 
 Thucydides, Xenophon, Cffisar, Livy, Tacitus, etc., is entirely 
 correct. 
 
162 ROUSSEAU 
 
 ancient history, which is simpler and truer than 
 modern, as well as by the reading of well- written 
 biographies, such as those of the inimitable Plutarch. 
 But, after all, the best and most effective way of guid- 
 ing the affections of a young man, and of making him 
 acquainted with men, is to engage him in active 
 benevolence. Kindly sentiments and noble words, 
 which children learn at school, are impotent, compared 
 with the experience that comes of kindly acts. "Di- 
 rect your pupil," says Rousseau, "to all good actions 
 that are possible for him; let the interest of the poor 
 be always his interest; let him aid them, not only 
 with his purse, but with his care ; let him serve them, 
 protect them, and devote his time to them; let him 
 become their agent; he will never again, in all his 
 life, fill so noble a place." Without troubling him- 
 self about the epithets which the public may apply to 
 him, "he will do whatever he knows to be useful and 
 good." . . . " He knows that his first duty is toward 
 himself, that young people must be diffident, circum- 
 spect in their behavior, respectful to their elders, reti- 
 cent and discreet in talking without occasion, modest 
 in things indifferent, but bold in well-doing, and cour- 
 ageous in speaking the truth." ^ "To prevent pity 
 from degenerating into weakness, it must be gener- 
 alized and extended to the whole human race. Then 
 we yield to it only in so far as it is in accord with 
 justice, because, of all the virtues, justice is the one 
 
 1 By what process the animal, self-centred 6mile of sixteen be- 
 comes the bold philanthroi)ist of eighteen, Rousseau says he is not 
 bound to tell us, and we never find out ; but tlie new l^mile, if he 
 could be made a reality, is certainly a most admirable creature, 
 and deserves all the encomiums of his maker. 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 163 
 
 that contributes most to universal human well-being. 
 Both from reason, and for our own sake, we must 
 have pity on our race still more than on our neighbor; 
 and it is a great cruelty toward men to have pity upon 
 the wicked." In this way Emile acquires the two 
 great virtues of humanity and justice.^ Both are 
 generalized pity. 
 
 Rousseau feels that his new ideal may seem impos- 
 sible or fantastic to most people, who will say to him : 
 " Nothing of what you suppose exists : young people 
 are not made that way ; they have such and such pas- 
 sions; they do this and that." To such he replies: 
 " Just as if one were to deny that a pear-tree is ever 
 a large tree, because we see only dwarfs in our 
 gardens ! " 
 
 There is still one more influence which may now be 
 brought to bear, to calm the passions and give them 
 beneficent direction, and that is Religion. Of this 
 great subject no mention has thus far been made; it 
 has played no part in Emile's early education. In 
 recommending its introduction at the present stage, 
 Rousseau gives his reasons for excluding it before. 
 The most cogent of these is, that it could not with any 
 effect have been introduced earlier, because the con- 
 cepts with which it deals are unintelligible to the 
 child. He blames Locke for maintaining that spirits 
 should be studied before bodies, and declares that 
 "this is the method of superstition," and "only serves 
 
 1 Of course, this justice always remains an individual and sub- 
 jective thing, a mere principle of knight-errantry, and cannot do 
 otherwise, until it is embodied in a State capable of giving it uni- 
 versal effect. Plato showed this in his Republic; but Rousseau 
 bated states. 
 
164 ROUSSEAU 
 
 to establish materialism," since, in trying to think 
 spirits, children think only bodies, ghosts. " A spirit 
 means but a body both to the common people and to 
 children." . . . "Every child who believes in God 
 is, therefore, necessarily, an idolater, or, at least, an 
 anthropomorphist ; and, when once the imagination 
 has seen God, the understanding rarely conceives 
 him." And, even if we could impart to the child the 
 notions current in philosophy, and could make him 
 think a single substance, combining in itself the in- 
 compatible attributes of extension and thought,^ we 
 should not be much nearer the mark, or reach any 
 comprehension of the theological " ideas of crea.tion, 
 annihilation, ubiquity, eternity, omnipotence, and 
 those of the divine attributes." But not only are the 
 conceptions of religion beyond the reach of a child; 
 many of its teachings are apt to lead to the most fatal 
 results. " We tmist believe in God in order to be saved. 
 This dogma, wrongly understood, is the principle of 
 bloody intolerance, and the cause of all those vain 
 teachings which aim a mortal blow at human reason, 
 by accustoming it to satisfy itself with words. To 
 be sure, there is not a moment to be lost when eternal 
 salvation is to be won; but, if it can be obtained by 
 the mere repetition of certain words, I do not see 
 what hinders us from peopling heaven with jackdaws 
 and magpies, as well as with children." . . . "What 
 does the child, who professes the Christian religion, 
 
 1 Here Rousseau shows some slight knowledge of the philosophies 
 of Descartes and Spinoza, who held extension and thought to be 
 incompatible. This is so far from being true that extension apart 
 from thought is utterly inconceivable, as is also duration. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 165 
 
 believe? What he conceives; and he conceives so 
 little of what you say to him that, if you tell him the 
 contrary, he will adopt it with equal readiness. The 
 faith of children and many men is an affair of geog- 
 raphy. Are they to be rewarded for being born in 
 Rome, rather than in Mecca?" . . . "When a child 
 says he believes in God, it is not in God that he 
 believes. He believes Tom or Dick, who tells him 
 that there is something which is called God." Since 
 a child cannot believe in God, he cannot be punished 
 for not doing so. "Reason tells us that a man is 
 punishable only for the sins of his will, and that in- 
 vincible ignorance can never be imputed to him as a 
 crime." "Opinion triumphs in the matter of relig- 
 ion, more than in aught else. But, seeing that we 
 set out to shake off its yoke in everything, and to 
 allow no place for authority ... in what religion 
 shall we rear Emile? To what sect shall we assign 
 the man of Nature. The answer, it seems to me, is 
 very simple. We shall assign him to no sect; but we 
 shall put him in a position to select that which the 
 best use of his reason may lead him to." 
 
 Rousseau now undertakes to give an account of the 
 religion of Nature or Reason; but, instead of this, 
 really gives us his own beliefs, which sprang, not from 
 Reason, but from tradition, sentiment, and desire. 
 Moreover, instead of setting these forth in his own 
 name, he puts them into the mouth of a humble and 
 unfortunate Savoyard Vicar, whose traits are drawn 
 from two men whom he had actually known. -^ 
 
 1 See above, pp. 38, 40. 
 
166 KOUSSEAU 
 
 The Savoyard Vicar's Confession of Faith, though 
 it would now be considered a very harmless produc- 
 tion, made a great noise at the time of its appearance, 
 and brought down upon Rousseau the odium and per- 
 secution of the whole religious world of France and 
 Switzerland. It is nothing more or less than an 
 attempt to prove what, some twenty years later, Kant, 
 borrowing from Rousseau, called the three Postulates 
 of the Pure Reason, — God, Freedom, and Immortality, 
 — supposed to be the essentials of Natural Religion. 
 Rousseau had been both a Catholic and a Protestant, 
 had heard liis father tell about his experiences with 
 the Moslems in Constantinople, and had listened to 
 the negative teachings of Voltaire and the Encyclopse- 
 dists. The result was that, while sectarianism, with 
 its exclusive dogmas, lost all meaning and authority 
 for him, he still wished to retain what, listening to 
 his heart, he was fain to consider the essentials of 
 religion, and did his best to prove them true. His 
 proofs, however, have no validity. In so far as they 
 can be called proofs at all, they are mainly drawn 
 from the writings of Dr. Samuel Clarke (died in 1729) ; 
 but, in reality, they are mere feelings and desires trans- 
 lated into thoughts. The Vicar is made to say: "Im- 
 penetrable mysteries surround us on all sides ; ^ they 
 are above the sensible region; as a means of piercing 
 them we think we have intelligence, and have only 
 imagination. Through this imaginary world every 
 one clears the path that seems good to him; no one 
 can know whether his own leads to the goal. Never- 
 theless, we try to penetrate and to know everything. 
 1 The greatest mystery of all is, how any one can know this. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 167 
 
 The only thing we do not know how to do, is to be 
 ignorant of what we cannot know."^ . . . "The 
 first result of these reflections was, that I learnt to 
 limit my inquiries to what interested me immediately, 
 to remain in profound ignorance of all the rest, and 
 not even to take the trouble to doubt except about 
 things which it was important for me to know."^ 
 ... " Moreover, I realized that the philosophers, so 
 far from delivering me from my useless doubts, would 
 only multiply those that tormented me, without set- 
 tling any of them. I, therefore, took another guide, 
 and said: 'Let us consult the inner light; ^ it will not 
 lead me so far astray as they do; or, at least, my 
 error will be my own, and I shall be less depraved 
 by following my own illusions than by trusting to 
 their lies.'" . . . "Imagine all your philosophers, 
 ancient and modern, having first exhausted their gro- 
 tesque systems of force, chance, fatality, necessity, 
 animated world, living matter, and materialism of 
 every sort, and, after them, the illustrious Clarke, 
 explaining the world, proclaiming, at last, the Being 
 of beings and the dispenser of things ; with what uni- 
 versal admiration, with what unanimous applause 
 would this system have been received — a system so 
 grand, so consoling, so sublime, so calculated to uplift 
 
 1 In these sentences we have the germs both of Kantian Criticism 
 and of Huxleyan Agnosticism. 
 
 2 Good ; hnt what is important for us to know? 
 
 3 "They tell us," he says elsewhere, "that conscience is the 
 result of prejudice ; yet I know,/roni my experience, that it insists 
 upon following the order of Nature, in opposition to all the laws of 
 men." Here we have complete subjectivism, individualism, and 
 anarchism. 
 
168 ROUSSEAU 
 
 the soul, to furnish a foundation for virtue, and, at 
 the same time, so luminous, so simple, and, it seems 
 to me, offering fewer things incomprehensible to the 
 human mind than there are absurdities in any other 
 system!" . . . "Having thus, within myself, the 
 love of truth as my only philosophy, and, as my only 
 method, an easy and simple rule, which relieves me 
 from the vain subtlety of arguments, I resumed, in 
 accordance with this rule, the examination of those 
 parts of knowledge which interested me, being deter- 
 mined to accept, as evident, all those to which, in 
 the sincerity of my heart, I could not refuse my assent; 
 as true all those that might seem to me to have a 
 necessary connection ^ with the former, and to leave 
 all the rest uncertain, without either rejecting or ac- 
 cepting them, and without bothering myself to explain 
 them, seeing that they lead to nothing useful in prac- 
 tice." Proceeding on the lines of Descartes, Rous- 
 seau comes to this: "I exist, and I have senses, 
 through which I am affected.^ This is the first truth 
 that strikes me, and to which I am forced to assent." 
 It would be vain to waste time on these crudities. 
 They are not due to any accurate thinking, or to any 
 real, enlightened desire for the truth, but to an effort 
 to justify a lazy, intellectual habit, in belialf of a fore- 
 gone scheme of sensuous, unsocial life. If sectarian 
 beliefs are a matter of geography, these emotional prej- 
 udices are matters of both geography and individual 
 
 1 It requires considerable philosophy to find out what is a neces- 
 sary connection, and what " necessary " means. 
 
 2 Yes; but what is the meaning of 'I,' 'exist,' 'senses,' 'affected'? 
 To tell that requires a subtle philosophy. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 169 
 
 temperament. Neither Rousseau's acquaintance, 
 Helvetius, nor any Singhalese Buddhist would have 
 found any difficulty in refusing assent to Rousseau's 
 self-evident truths. He may well be spoken of as a 
 mystic voluptuary, — 
 
 " Quenching all wonder with omnipotence, 
 Praising a name with indolent piety." i 
 
 We are interested in his scheme only because it 
 furnishes the method by which jfimile is to be led to 
 religion, to that view of higher things supposed to be 
 necessary for the direction of his passions and imagi- 
 nation. "By developing the natural," says Rousseau, 
 "we have been able to control his nascent sensibility; 
 by cultivating the reason, we have regulated it. In- 
 tellectual objects moderated the expression of sensible 
 objects. By rising to the principle of things, we have 
 withdrawn him from the dominion of the senses. It 
 was a simple matter to rise from the study of Nature 
 to the search for its author." 
 
 The recently unimaginative, unreflective ^mile, 
 being thus daily sentimentalized, will be very unlike 
 other youths. "You always imagine him," says 
 Rousseau, "like your young men, always heedless, 
 always petulant, flighty, wandering from fete to fete, 
 from amusement to amusement, without being able to 
 adhere to anything. You will laugh to see me make 
 a contemplative being, a philosopher,^ a true theolo- 
 gian, out of an ardent, quick, high-tempered, high- 
 spirited young man, at the most ebullient time of his 
 
 1 George Eliot, Spanish Gypsy, Bk. I. 
 
 2 If he had submitted to this indignity, Roussean would have 
 disowned him. 
 
170 KOUSSEAU 
 
 life.". . . *'I, comparing my pupil with yours, find 
 that they can hardly have anything in common." . . . 
 "Yours think they escape from childhood only by 
 shaking off all sort of yoke; they then make up for 
 the long constraint to which they have been subjected, 
 as a prisoner does, who, when delivered from his 
 fetters, puts forth, shakes, and bends his limbs. 
 Emile, on the contrary, is proud to become a man, 
 and to submit to the yoke of nascent reason. His 
 body, already formed, has no need of the old move- 
 ments, and begins to stop of itself, whilst his mind, 
 half-developed, now, in turn, seeks to soar. Thus, 
 while the age of reason is, for the former, the age of 
 license, it becomes for the latter the age of reasoning." 
 But, in spite of all efforts to drain off into side 
 channels the rising tide of sexual instinct, the time at 
 last comes when this can no longer be done. " From 
 this moment," says Rousseau, your ward, "though 
 still your disciple, is no longer your pupil. He is 
 your friend; he is a man. Treat liim henceforth as 
 such." . . . "Hitherto you have got nothing from 
 him except by force or wiles : authority and the law 
 of duty were unknown to him ; he had to be forced or 
 duped, before he would obey you." . . . "In order to 
 guide an adult, you must do the very opposite of all 
 that you have done in order to guide a child." In 
 accordance with this, Emile is now to be informed of 
 all that has been hitherto concealed from him — the 
 purpose and method of his past education, the dupery 
 that has been practised on him, the course he has to 
 pursue in the future, and the perils that await him, 
 especially those arising from his own passions. In 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 171 
 
 regard to these he is now to receive clear aud earnest 
 instruction. To protect him from passion-suggested 
 imaginings, he is to be withdrawn from all lonely, 
 sedentary, lazy occupations, as well as from the so- 
 ciety of women and young men, and made to engage 
 in vigorous pursuits, such as hunting, which will not 
 only occupy his mind, but tire out his body. At the 
 same time the sexual relation is, in various ways, to 
 be surrounded with a halo of sacramental awe, as the 
 portal to supreme bliss. "Thereupon," says Rous- 
 seau, " I will call the Eternal Being, whose work he 
 is, to attest the truth of my words ; I will make him 
 judge between Emile and me; I will mark the place 
 where we are, the rocks, the woods, the mountains 
 that surround us, as monuments of his pledges and 
 mine. I will throw into my eyes, my voice, my gest- 
 ures, the enthusiasm and the ardor with which I 
 wish to inspire him. Then I shall speak, and he will 
 listen to me. I shall melt, and he will be moved. 
 By thus suffusing myself with the sanctity of my 
 duties, I shall render his more worthy of respect; I 
 shall strengthen and animate my reasoning with 
 images and figures; I shall not be prolix and diffuse 
 in cold maxims, but abounding in overflowing feel- 
 ings ; my reason will be grave and sententious ; but 
 my heart will never have said enough. Then, in 
 showing him all that I have done for him,^ I shall 
 show him that I have done it for myself : he will see 
 in my tender affection the reason of all my care. 
 What surprise, what agitation I shall cause him, by 
 
 1 The tutor, it must be remembered, gives his services gratui- 
 tously. 
 
172 ROUSSEAU 
 
 this sudden change of language ! Instead of belittling 
 his soul by continually talking to him about his own 
 interests, I shall henceforth talk to him of mine, and 
 I shall touch him more deeply. I shall inflame his 
 young heart with all the feelings of friendship, gen- 
 erosity, and gratitude which I have already called 
 forth, and which are so sweet to nourish. I shall 
 press him to my bosom, shedding over him tears of 
 tenderness : I shall say to him : ' You are my property, 
 my child, my work; from your happiness I expect 
 mine: if you frustrate my hopes, you steal twenty 
 years of my life, and you cause the unhappiness of 
 my declining years.' It is in this way that one can 
 make a young man listen to him, and engrave on the 
 bottom of his heart the remembrance of what one says 
 to him." 
 
 Alas for iSmile, if he can be caught by any such 
 lachrymose discharge as this ! It is needless to say 
 that it is at once ungenerous and immoral, as all at- 
 tempt to guide a human being by any other motive 
 than moral insight always is. If ifimile were properly 
 educated, he would repel all such suggestions with 
 scornful indignation, or, if he had any sense of humor, 
 with pitying laughter. Instead of this, he is made 
 to reply: "0 my friend, my protector, my master! 
 resume the authority which you proposed to lay down 
 at the moment when it was most necessary that you 
 should retain it. Thus far you have possessed it 
 only through my weakness ; now you shall possess it 
 through my will; and it will be all the more sacred 
 to me for that reason. Defend me from all the ene- 
 mies that assail me, and especially from those that I 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 173 
 
 carry within myself, and that betray me. Watch 
 over your work, that it may remain worthy of you. 
 I wish to obey your laws ; I wish it always : it is my 
 constant will. If ever I disobey you, it will be in 
 spite of myself. Make me free, by protecting me 
 against my passions, which do me violence; save me 
 from being their slave, and compel me to be my own 
 master, by obeying, not my senses, but my reason." 
 
 Emile, having thus, like a coward, voluntarily re- 
 nounced his moral autonomy, for the sake of being 
 protected from himself, reverts once more to automa- 
 tism. "To be sure," says Rousseau, "I leave him 
 the semblance of independence ; but his subjection to 
 me is more complete than ever, because he wishes it 
 to be so. So long as I could not make myself master 
 of his will, I remained master of his body. Kow I 
 sometimes leave him to himself, because I always 
 govern him. When I leave him, I embrace him, and 
 say in a confident tone: 'Emile, I entrust you to my 
 friend; I commit you to his upright heart: he will 
 be responsible to me for you. ' " On the very next 
 page, however, he says : " Do not leave him alone day 
 or night; sleep, at the very least, in his room. See 
 that he does not go to bed until he is overcome with 
 sleep, and that he gets up as soon as he awakes." In 
 this state of complete tutelage, his imagination is to 
 be filled with fairy-tales of his future spouse, and 
 glowing descriptions of the idyllic life of love ^ that 
 
 1 Here is Rousseau's notion of love: " What is true love itself 
 but chimera, lie, illusion ? We love far more the image which we 
 form than the object to which we apply it. If we saw the object of 
 our love exactly as it is, there would be no more love in the world." 
 
174 ROUSSEAU 
 
 is in store for him and her. Such fanciful pictures 
 will destroy in him all taste for real women, until he 
 can be induced to believe that he has met one corre- 
 sponding to his chimera. In order that he may do 
 this, he is now, for the first time, to be introduced 
 into society; and Rousseau draws a vivid contrast 
 between him, in his noble, savage simplicity and ab- 
 sence of self-consciousness, and the ordinary youth of 
 his time, with his vanity and veneer of politeness. 
 In this connection he quotes, from his friend Duclos, 
 a few sentences which may here be transcribed: — 
 
 " The most unfortunate effect of ordinary politeness 
 is, that it teaches the art of dispensing with the 
 virtues which it imitates. Let education inspire us 
 with humanity and kindliness, and we shall either 
 have politeness, or else no need for it. 
 
 "If we have not that politeness which is marked 
 by the graces, we shall have that which marks the 
 upright man and the citizen; we shall not need to 
 have recourse to falseness. 
 
 "Instead of being artificial in order to please, it 
 will be enough to be kind: instead of being false, in 
 order to flatter others, it will be enough to be indulgent. 
 
 "Those with whom we stand in such relations will 
 be neither puffed up with pride nor corrupted. They 
 will only be grateful and become better." 
 
 Emile, thrown into society, will — one does not see 
 how — find himself completely at home in it, and will 
 at once earn respect and confidence, although he have 
 no brilliant qualities. In studying men, "he will 
 often have occasion to reflect on what flatters or 
 shocks the human heart, and so he will find himself 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 175 
 
 philosophizing on the principles of taste — a study- 
 suitable for this stage in his career." Eousseau's 
 aesthetic theory is delightfully simple : " The further 
 we go in search of definitions of taste," he says, "the 
 further we go astray. Taste is simply the faculty of 
 judging what pleases or displeases the greater num- 
 ber." Taste depends, at bottom, on innate sensibility; 
 but three conditions are necessary for its cultivation. 
 " First, one must live in numerous societies in order 
 to make many comparisons. Second, there must be 
 societies devoted to amusement and indolence; for in 
 societies devoted to business the rule is not pleasure, 
 but interest. Tliird, there must be societies in which 
 the inequality of conditions is not too great, and in 
 which pleasure, rather than vanity, prevails. Where 
 this is not the case, fashion stifles taste, and people 
 seek no longer what pleases, but what distinguishes." 
 In seeking to cultivate his taste, that is, the art 
 of pleasing, Emile will look to Nature, rather than to 
 Culture. "There is at present no civilized place in 
 the world where the general taste is worse than in 
 Paris." . . . "Those who guide us are the artists, 
 the great, the rich; and what guides them is their in- 
 terest or their vanity. The rich, in order to display 
 their riches, and the others, in order to profit thereby, 
 vie with one another in seeking out new means of ex- 
 pense. In this way excessive luxury establishes its 
 empire, and makes people love what is difficult and 
 costly. Then the pretended beautiful, far from imi- 
 tating Nature, is beautiful only because it thwarts 
 Nature. This is why luxury and bad taste are insepa- 
 rable. Wherever taste is expensive, it is false." 
 
176 KOUSSEAU 
 
 But "it is chiefly in the intercourse between the 
 two sexes that taste, good or bad, is formed." . . . 
 "Consult woman's taste in physical things, things 
 dependent on the judgment of the senses, men's in 
 things moral, dependent on the judgment of the un- 
 derstanding." ... " Inasmuch as it is necessary to 
 please men, in order to serve them ; and the art of 
 writing is anything but a useless study, when it is 
 employed to make them listen to the truth," ^fimile 
 Avill now study the best literary models, and espe- 
 cially the works of the ancients. " In eloquence, in 
 poetry, and in every species of literature, as well as 
 in history, he will find them abounding in things, and 
 sober in judgment, wliereas our authors speak much 
 and say little." In view of this, he will now learn 
 Latin, Greek, and Italian. " Latin he must learn in 
 order to know French well." . . . "These studies 
 will now be amusements for him, and he will profit 
 by them all the more that he is not forced to them." 
 He will thus "go back to the sources of pure litera- 
 ture," and learn to despise "the sewerage in the 
 reservoirs of modern compilers, journals, translations, 
 dictionaries; he will cast a glance at all that, and bid 
 it good-bye forever." As to the babblings of acade- 
 mies, they will merely be fun to him. "My principal 
 object," says Rousseau, in conclusion, "in teaching 
 him to feel and love the beautiful in all its forms, is 
 to fix his affections and his tastes, to prevent his nat- 
 ural appetites from degenerating, and himself from 
 one day seeking in his riches the means of happiness 
 which he ought to find nearer home." 
 
 Having thus become acquainted with society, and 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 177 
 
 learnt the art of pleasing, fimile is now, at last, in a 
 position to look out for a wife in good earnest. 
 "Therefore, good-bye, Paris, famous city, city of 
 noise, smoke, and mud, where the women no longer 
 believe in honor, nor the men in virtue ! Good-bye, 
 Paris ! We are in quest of love, happiness, innocence. 
 We shall never be far enough from you." 
 
 Lest we should misunderstand the meaning of these 
 last words, Eousseau has taken care, in the closing 
 pages of this book, to give us his own ideal of life. 
 It is simply that of an accomplished voluptuary, 
 whose aim is to get as much real pleasure (voluptS 
 r&elle) as possible out of life, and who, therefore, 
 avoids everything that would entail envy, strife, and 
 unpleasantness, all formalities that would cause 
 tedium, and all excesses that would diminish the 
 power of sensual enjoyment. He tells us, indeed, 
 that he is here speaking "not of moral possessions, 
 which relate to the dispositions of the soul, but to 
 those of sensuality and real pleasure, in which preju- 
 dice and opinion have no part." We know, however, 
 through his Confessions and otherwise, that morality 
 meant nothing to him but a careful calculation of the 
 possibilities of undisturbed sensual enjoyment. We 
 may fairly conclude, therefore, that the aim of Emile's 
 education, thus far, has been to prepare him, not for 
 a life of earnest, determined moral struggle and self- 
 sacrifice, but for a life of quiet, cleanly, assured sen- 
 suous delight; not for a life of active enterprise, but 
 for a life of passive dalliance. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Youth 
 
 {l^mile, Bk. V.) 
 
 Willst du genau erfahren was sich ziemt, 
 So frage nur bei edeln Frauen an. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 And manhood fused with female grace, 
 In such a sort, the child would twine 
 A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine. 
 
 And find his comfort in thy face. 
 
 Tennyson, In Memoriam, CIX. 
 
 Love seeketli not its own. 
 
 Paul. 
 
 Rousseau's Emile is now a young man, whose 
 chief purpose is to find a suitable wife, to complete his 
 sensuous happiness. Rousseau, like all sensualists, 
 has a low opinion of women. They live in their 
 senses, and not in their understanding. While man 
 must be active and strong, woman must be passive 
 and weak. " The one must necessarily have will and 
 power; it is enough if the other offer but little resist- 
 ance." ... "It follows that woman is made to 
 please man." ... "If woman is made to please 
 man and to be subjugated, she must make herself 
 agreeable to him, instead of provoking him: her 
 violence lies in her charms." . . . "The minds of 
 
 178 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 179 
 
 women correspond exactly to their constitution. Far 
 from being ashamed of their weakness, they glory in 
 it. Their tender muscles are without resistance, they 
 pretend not to be able to lift the lightest burdens; 
 they would be ashamed to be strong. Why? It is 
 certainly not for the sake of seeming delicate ; it is 
 from a far shrewder precaution : they are preparing, 
 a long way beforehand, excuses for being weak, and 
 the right to be so on occasions." . . . "Thus all the 
 education of women must have relation to men. To 
 please them, to be useful to them, to rear them when 
 they are young, to tend them when they are grown, 
 counsel and console them, to make their lives pleas- 
 ant and sweet, — these are the duties of women in 
 all times, and what they ought to learn from earliest 
 childhood." , . . "Woman is a coquette b}^ profes- 
 sion; but her coquetry changes form and object 
 according to her views. Let us regulate these views 
 by those of nature, and woman will have the educa- 
 tion that befits her." She is different from man and 
 has different functions; she must, therefore, receive a 
 different education. Rousseau has much to say about 
 these differences. They rest largely on the notion 
 that command and independence belong to man; obe- 
 dience and dependence upon woman. While he is to 
 be taught to be strong, and defiant of public opinion, 
 she must learn to be agreeable, and sensitive to such 
 opinion. " Opinion is virtue's tomb among men, and 
 its throne among women." At the same time, a girl's 
 education must, in many respects, resemble that of a 
 boy. She must at first have plenty of exercise and 
 frolic. "All that confines and constrains Nature is 
 
180 ROUSSEAU 
 
 in bad taste; this is as true of the decorations of 
 the body as of those of the mind. Life, health, rea- 
 son, well-being, must take precedence of everything. 
 There is no grace without ease ; delicacy is not languor ; 
 one need not be unhealthy in order to please." The 
 amusements of a girl will be gentler than those of a 
 boy, aiming at refinement rather than strength. In- 
 stead of learning to read and write, as girls usually 
 do, she will play with dolls, sew, embroider, make 
 lace, and paint flowers, fruit, and such things, 
 carefully avoiding figures and landscapes. A little 
 arithmetic will not be out of place. " Girls must be 
 wide-awake and laborious ; more than that, they must 
 be early subjected to repression {gene). This misfort- 
 une, if it is one for them, is inseparable from their 
 sex; and they can free themselves from it only by 
 exposing themselves to suffer others more cruel. All 
 their lives they will be subjected to the most continu- 
 ous and severe repression, that of propriety. From 
 the first they must be exercised in constraint, so that 
 it may never cost them anything; and taught to over- 
 come all their fancies, in order to subject them to the 
 will of others." They must be educated at home, 
 under the eyes of their parents, and " never for one 
 instant in their lives be allowed not to feel the bridle," 
 "Accustom them to be interrupted in the midst of 
 their games, and to be carried off to other occupations 
 without a murmur." . . . "From this habitual con- 
 straint there results a docility, which women have 
 need of all their lives, since they never cease to be 
 subjected either to a man or to the judgments of men, 
 without their ever being allowed to set themselves 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 181 
 
 above these judgments. The first and most important 
 attribute of a woman is sweetness. Being made to 
 obey an imperfect being like man, often so full of 
 vices, and always so full of faults, she must early learn 
 to submit even to injustice, and to bear the misdeeds 
 of a husband without complaining." . . . "She must 
 never scold." Her weapon of defence is cleverness 
 or address. If she were not artful, she would be 
 man's slave. She must, therefore, cultivate artful- 
 ness. *' Let us not destroy the instruments of happi- 
 ness, because the wicked use them for mischief." 
 A girl is to cultivate taste, but to be simple in her 
 adornments. Setting fashion at defiance, she will 
 consider only what is becoming to her, what makes 
 her pleasing. She must not try to be a mediaeval 
 saint, knowing only the command Ora et Idbora, nor 
 "live like a grandmother. She must be lively, 
 hearty, merry; she must sing and dance to her heart's 
 content, and enjoy all the innocent pleasures of her 
 years." Her singing must not be of the professional 
 sort, but simple and natural; and she may learn to 
 play her own accompaniments "without being able to 
 read a single note." Since "the talent for conversa- 
 tion takes the first place in the art of pleasing," she 
 must early acquire it. "While a man speaks what 
 he knows, a woman speaks what pleases. In order 
 to talk, the one requires knowledge, the other taste; 
 the object of the one should be useful things, that 
 of the other, agreeable things." . . . "We ought 
 not, therefore, to stop the chatter of girls, as we 
 would do that of boys, by the question : What is the 
 use of that ? but with this one, which is not more 
 
182 ROUSSEAU 
 
 easy to answer : What effect will that produce ? " 
 . . . "They must make it a rule never to say 
 anything but what is agreeable to those with 
 whom they talk." At the same time, they must 
 never lie. 
 
 Religion ought to be taught earlier to girls than to 
 boys, — the religion of their parents. "Since the 
 conduct of woman is enslaved to public opinion, her 
 belief is enslaved to authority. Every girl ought to 
 follow the religion of her mother, and every wife that 
 of her husband. If this religion be false, the docility 
 which makes the mother and the daughter submit to 
 the order of Nature wipes out, in God's sight, the sin 
 of error. Being incapable of judging for themselves, 
 they ought to accept the decision of their fathers and 
 husbands, as that of the Church." . . . "Since 
 authority must regulate the religion of women, it is of 
 less importance to explain to them the grounds you 
 have for believing than to set clearly before them 
 what you do believe." . . . "When you explain 
 articles of faith to them, let it be done in the form of 
 direct instruction. In replying, they must say only 
 what they think, not what has been dictated to them. 
 All the answers in the catechism are preposterous : it 
 is the scholar instructing the teacher. They are even 
 lies in the mouths of children." In religious instruc- 
 tion no notice should be taken of those dogmas which 
 have no direct bearing on practice. " That a virgin 
 is the mother of her Creator; that she gave birth to 
 God, or merely to a man with whom God united him- 
 self; that the Father and the Son have the same sub- 
 stance, or only a similar one; that the Holy Spirit 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 183 
 
 proceeds from one of the two who are the same, or 
 from the two conjointly — I do not see that the de- 
 cision of these questions, in appearance essential, is 
 of any more importance to the human race than to 
 know on what day of the moon Easter ouglit to be 
 celebrated, whether we ought to say the rosary, fast, 
 eat fish and eggs, speak Latin or French in church, 
 adorn the walls with images, say or listen to mass; 
 and have no wife of one's own. Let everybody think 
 about these things as he pleases. I do not know how 
 far they may interest other people; they do not inter- 
 est me at all. But what interests me, and others like 
 me, is, that every one should know that there exists 
 an arbiter of the lot of men, whose children we all 
 are, who orders us all to be just, to love one another, 
 to be kindly and merciful, to keep our agreements 
 with everybody, even with our enemies and his ; that 
 the apparent happiness of this life is nothing; that 
 after it there comes another, in which this Supreme 
 Being will be the rewarder of the good and the judge 
 of the wicked. These are the dogmas which it is 
 important to teach young people, and to impress upon 
 all citizens. Any one who contests them certainly 
 deserves punishment; he is the disturber of order, and 
 the enemy of society. Whoever goes beyond them, 
 and seeks to subject us to his private opinions, comes 
 to the same point by an opposite path : to establish 
 order after his fashion, he disturbs the peace; in his 
 forward pride he makes himself the interpreter of the 
 Divinity; he demands, in his name, the homage and 
 respect of men, and puts himself, as far as he can, in 
 the place of God. He ought to be punished for sac- 
 
184 ROUSSEAU 
 
 rilege, if not for intolerance."^ "Ignore, therefore," 
 he continues, " all those mysterious dogmas which are 
 for us words without ideas." , . . "Keep your chil- 
 dren always within the narrow circle of tliose dogmas 
 which relate to morality. Persuade them that there 
 is nothing useful for us to know but what teaches us 
 to do good. Do not make your daughters theologians 
 or reasoners; . . . accustom them to feel themselves 
 under the eyes of God, to take him as witness of all 
 their actions and thoughts, of their virtue and pleas- 
 ures ; to do good without ostentation, because he loves 
 it; to suffer evil without a murmur, because he will 
 one day make it up to them ; ^ finally, to be, during 
 all the days of their life, what they would wish to 
 have been, when they shall appear before him. This 
 is the true religion; this is the only one that is liable 
 to neither abuse, impiety, nor fanaticism. Let others 
 preach sublimer ones as much as they please ; I know 
 of none but this." 
 
 But though, according to Rousseau, women are des- 
 titute of reason, such as would enable them to discuss 
 questions of theology and ethics, yet they have some- 
 thing which takes its place. " There exists, for the 
 whole human race, a rule anterior to opinion." . . . 
 " It judges prejudice even ; and it is only in so far as 
 the judgment of men agrees with it, that this judg- 
 
 1 This somewhat lengthy quotation has been made with the view 
 of bringing out three things : (1) Rousseau's religious views ; (2) his 
 ethical sanctions, which are of a supernatural sort ; (3) his religious 
 intolerance, which matches even that of Calvin, and reveals the 
 unphilosophical fanatic. Cf. p. 215. 
 
 2 In ethics Rousseau never rises above this other-worldly self- 
 interest. Of nobility, as an end, he has no notion. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 185 
 
 raent can be authoritative for us. This rule is the 
 inner sentiment." It follows from this, that the 
 moral guide of women is, after all, a subjective feel- 
 ing. How treacherous this may be, when separated 
 from reason, hardly needs to be remarked. It must 
 be admitted, however, that Rousseau rarely appeals 
 to it. Religion and ethics are with him mostly 
 matters of rhetoric; his real sanctions are always 
 happiness and self-interest. He is a hedonist of the 
 first rank. "The consideration of duty," he says, 
 " has force only in so far as it is sujDported by motives 
 that prompt us to fulfil it." 
 
 We are now introduced to Sophie, the young woman 
 who, for a long time, has been in process of education 
 on these principles, with a view to union with !lSmile. 
 She is, for a woman, what Emile is, for a man. She 
 has had the education of Nature. Her parents, people 
 of good family, and once rich, having lost the bulk of 
 their property, have retired to a charming situation 
 in the country, where they have led a simple and 
 retired life, and reared their only daughter. This 
 daughter is described to us at great length. She is 
 good-natured, sensitive, imaginative, attractive but 
 not pretty; she has a sweet expression, a fine com- 
 plexion, a white hand, a tiny foot, and a touching 
 physiognomy. She is fond of adornment, and dresses 
 well. " Her attire is very modest in appearance, and 
 very coquettish in fact." She has natural talents. 
 She sings sweetly and tastefully; she walks lightly 
 and gracefully; she makes pretty curtsies. She is 
 well versed in all feminine occupations ; she cuts and 
 makes her own clothes, and manufactures lace — 
 
186 ROUSSEAU 
 
 "because there is no other occupation that imparts a 
 more agreeable attitude, or in Avhich the fingers are 
 plied with more grace and lightness " ! She can keep 
 house ; but, though she is fond of good things to eat, 
 she does not like cooking, because it is not altogether 
 cleanly. In this matter she is extremely fastidious. 
 " She would rather let a whole dinner burn up than 
 have a spot on her cuff." She likes pastry and sweets, 
 but cares little for meat. She is agreeable, without 
 being brilliant, gay without being boisterous, sensi- 
 tive, but easily pacified and forgiving. She has a 
 simple, rational religion, with few dogmas, and yet 
 fewer devotional exercises. She devotes her life to 
 serving God by doing good; she loves virtue with 
 devouring passion — because there is nothing so beau- 
 tiful as virtue. She knows all the duties of both 
 sexes, and longs to make one upright man happy. 
 She never speaks ill of any one, and never uses vain 
 forms of politeness. She hates officious gallantry, 
 and, though rather short, does not wear high heels. 
 She receives the flirtatious compliments of young 
 men "with an ironical applause which disconcerts." 
 When she reaches marriageable age, she receives 
 an instructive lecture from her father, and makes a 
 confidante of her mother. She reads by chance Fene- 
 lon's Telemaqiie and falls in love with the hero, Avhose 
 image makes all the young men she knows distasteful 
 to her. In this situation she exclaims : " Let us not 
 think that a lovable and virtuous man is only a chi- 
 mera. He exists, he lives ; he is perhaps looking for 
 me — looking for a soul that can love him. But what 
 is he? Where is he ? I do not know; he is not 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 187 
 
 among those whom I have seen, and surely will not 
 be among those whom I shall see. O mother! why 
 have you made virtue too dear to me? If I can love 
 but it, the fault is yours rather than mine ! " 
 
 She is now ready for Emile, and Emile is ready for 
 her. They must, therefore, be brought together, but 
 without their knowing that this is done intentionally. 
 Everything is arranged behind their backs, and they, 
 with all their supposed penetration, — now height- 
 ened by budding passion, — are mere innocent dupes. 
 Emile's tutor, as the representative of Nature, claims 
 the sole right of arranging for his marriage. "It is 
 not I," he says, "who destine them for each other; it 
 is Nature; my business is to discover her choice. I 
 say 'my business,' and not his father's. In entrust- 
 ing his son to me, he yields me his place, puts my 
 right in place of his own: it is I who am Emile's real 
 father; it is I who have made him a man. I should 
 have refused to bring him up, had I not been per- 
 mitted to marry him according to his own, that is, 
 to my, choice." 
 
 Before bringing the future lovers together, Rousseau 
 enters, at some length, into the conditions of a happy 
 marriage, the semi-sensuous, dalliant delights of which 
 Hre to him the all-in-all of life.^ The details of these 
 do not concern us here ; but three points may be noted. 
 He holds (1) that, while natural love should be the 
 
 1 It is impossible not to feel, in all Roiisseau's descriptions of 
 wedded bliss, that he has before his miud bis own life with Madame 
 de Warens at Les Charmettes. He seems to be continually compar- 
 ing that with his life with Therese, and asking by what means the 
 former could be rendered permanent. The abode of Sophie's 
 parents is just Les Charmettes. See p. 45. 
 
188 ROUSSEAU 
 
 determining motive of marriage, similarity of tastes 
 and culture should not be disregarded; (2) that great 
 beauty should be avoided, rather than sought, by a 
 man in wooing; (3) that a woman with anything like 
 a literary or scientific education is to be avoided like 
 a pestilence. " A woman of culture " {bel esprit), he 
 says, " is the plague of her husband, her children, her 
 friends, her servants, everybody." 
 
 At the proper moment, £mile and his tutor joyously 
 shake the dust of corrupt and corrupting Paris from 
 their feet, and start on a foot-tour, without any fixed 
 destination. Rousseau's description of this tour, and 
 its manifold fresh, simple delights, is masterly. Per- 
 haps no man that ever lived knew the sensuous charms 
 of free Nature, and of vagabond freedom, so well as 
 he, and no one ever described them in such glowing 
 terms. After a few days, the wanderers lose their 
 way (they are always conveniently doing that!) and 
 have to appeal to a kindly peasant for food. When 
 they part with him, he says : " If God had graciously 
 guided you to the other side of the hill, you would 
 have had a better reception; you would have found a 
 house of peace — such charitable, such good people ! 
 They have no better heart than mine ; but they are 
 better off, although I am told they were much more so 
 formerly. . . . They don't suffer, thank God, and 
 all the country round is better for what is left." 
 Emile, of course, comes up to the occasion, being a 
 
 1 It is needless to say that this speech has been prearranged 
 with a view to producing upon Iilmile a favorable impression of 
 these people. It implies in Rousseau a correct knowledge of sug- 
 gestive psychology. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 189 
 
 most satisfactory puppet. "At these words about 
 good people, Emile's kind heart expands. 'Master,' 
 he says, looking at me, 'let us go to this house whose 
 owners are blessed in the neighborhood. I should be 
 glad to see them; perhaps they would be glad to see 
 us too. I am sure they will receive us well. If they 
 are ours, we shall be theirs.'" They, accordingly, 
 repair to the house, and are most graciously received, 
 so graciously, indeed, that Emile, so often duped for 
 his benefit, exclaims, in the simplicity of his heart: 
 "Why, one would think we had been expected! How 
 right the peasant was! What attention! What 
 kindness! What foresight! And for strangers! I 
 could imagine myself in the time of Homer." It is 
 needless to say that we are in the home of Sophie, 
 for whom Emile's imagination has so long been 
 prepared. 
 
 Sophie duly appears, behaves properly and sweetly, 
 and the two fall in love with each other almost at first 
 sight. The details of their courtship do not belong 
 here. They form a charming idyl, one of the most 
 charming ever written, which has only one drawback : 
 the characters are all puppets, whose wires are in the 
 hands of the all-knowing, all-designing tutor. £mile 
 and this tutor establish themselves in a town some 
 two leagues distant from Sophie's home, and she, with 
 the consent of her parents, allows them to visit her 
 about twice a week. The tutor takes care that things 
 shall not proceed very rapidly; indeed, he prolongs 
 the season of wooing as much as he can, on the ground 
 that love's "supreme bliss is a hundred times sweeter 
 to look forward to than to enjoy." Meanwhile, £mile 
 
190 ROUSSEAU 
 
 is spending his time in examining the surrounding 
 country, in entering into relations with peasants, 
 learning their needs, giving them aid and instruction, 
 showing his ability in ploughing and in the arts of 
 agriculture, earning his daily bread by working as a 
 carpenter, and in playing Lord Bountiful generally. 
 At the end of two months, an engagement takes place, 
 and Emile is in the seventh heaven. He still remains 
 in Sophie's neighborhood, and is now allowed to visit 
 her more frequently. He sings, plays, races, and 
 dances with her, mends her piano, teaches her phi- 
 losophy,^ physics, mathematics, history; indeed, 
 everything he knows. They draw and paint together, 
 and decorate Sophie's home with the results. At the 
 end of three months, Emile fondly thinks that the 
 consummation of all his hopes is near. But alas ! his 
 tutor, whom he has undertaken to obey, has a bitter 
 disappointment in store for him. He must postpone 
 the realization of his dearest wishes, control his pas- 
 sion, and leave Sophie for two years. He is not ready 
 to marry. He does not know either himself or Sophie 
 sufficiently ; he has not sufficiently realized the duties 
 of husband and father; he has almost no acquaintance 
 with social and political relations. The tutor, who 
 has hitherto spoken and acted like an optimistic Epi- 
 curean, declaring that his sole desire was to secure 
 the happiness of his pupil, ^ now suddenly changes his 
 tone and adopts that of a severe, pessimistic Stoic, 
 
 1 Here Rousseau is careful to tell us that " the art of thinking is 
 not foreign to women ; but they must do no more than graze the 
 sciences of reasoning." 
 
 2 He says, in so many words: "I have not educated my ;6 mile 
 to desire or to wait, hut to enjoy." 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 191 
 
 Man must rise above his natural desires and passions, 
 and take Keason for his guide. He must detach him- 
 self from all dependence upon transient and earthly- 
 things, and be prepared for every change of fortune. 
 The man " who has no laws but the wishes of his 
 heart, and can resist no desire," is guilty of a crime. 
 "Who, then, is the virtuous man? He who can 
 govern his affections ; for then he follows reason and 
 conscience. He does his duty, and nothing can make 
 him swerve from it." . . . "All the passions are 
 good, so long as we are masters of them ; all are bad, 
 as soon as we become enslaved to them." . . . "All 
 the feelings which we master are legitimate ; all those 
 which master us are criminal. A man is not to blame 
 for loving his neighbor's wife, so long as he keeps his 
 unfortunate passion in subjection to the law of duty ; 
 he is to blame for loving his own wife, when he goes 
 so far as to sacrifice everything to this love." . . . 
 " If you wish to live virtuous and wise, let your heart 
 cleave only to the beauty that perishes not, . . . ex- 
 tend the law of necessity to things moral; learn to 
 lose what may be taken away ; to give up all at the 
 command of virtue, and to place yourself beyond the 
 reach of events." . . . "Then you will be happy in 
 spite of fortune, and self-controlled in spite of pas- 
 sion. Then you will find in the possession of tran- 
 sient things a delight which nothing can disturb. 
 You will possess them, without their possessing you, 
 and you will come to feel that man, from whom every- 
 thing drops away, enjoys only that which he knows 
 how to lose." ]fimile is, of course, outraged, at such 
 unwonted talk, and declares that he cannot leave 
 
192 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Sophie without being "a traitor, a scoundrel, and a 
 perjurer." The tutor lets him vent his first indigna- 
 tion, and then continues, saying, among other things: 
 "Sensual happiness is transient." . . . "The imagi- 
 nation, which tricks out the objects of desire, leaves 
 them bare, when they become objects of possession. 
 Except the one self-existent Being, there is nothing 
 beautiful but what is not. If your present condition 
 could have lasted always, you would have found the 
 supreme good. But all that relates to man withers 
 as he does; all is finite, all is transient in human 
 life." . . . " Not yet trained to battle with himself, 
 not yet accustomed to desire one thing and will 
 another, the young man refuses to yield; he resists 
 and disputes." He does not see why he must go 
 away; or, if he must go, why he cannot make sure 
 of Sophie, by marrying her first. The tutor points 
 out to him the impropriety of leaving a wife, and, 
 when Emile still recalcitrates, puts an end to further 
 dispute by a fiat of authority. " Since you will not 
 obey reason," he says, "then recognize another mas- 
 ter. You have not forgotten the compact which you 
 entered into with me. Emile, you must leave Sophie : 
 I desire it." At this the young man yields, and their 
 departure is fixed for a week later. 
 
 Sophie and her parents have to be won over to the 
 new scheme, and this is a matter of no small diffi- 
 culty. Sophie tries to bear up under her sad trial, 
 but in secret weeps and wails in spite of herself. The 
 tutor comforts and reassures her; and one day says to 
 her: "Sophie, exchange books with !lSmile. Give 
 him your Telemaque, in order that he may learn to be 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 193 
 
 like him ; and let him give you the Spectator, which 
 you are so fond of reading. Study in it the duties of 
 virtuous women, and think that in two years these 
 duties will be yours." The lovers at last part in this 
 fashion: "Emile, impatient, ardent, agitated, beside 
 himself, shrieks, sheds torrents of tears on the hands 
 of father, mother, and daughter, embraces with sobs 
 all the people in the house, and repeats the same 
 things over and over again a thousand times, with a 
 disorder that would excite laughter on any other oc- 
 casion.^ Sophie, sad, pale, with lustreless eye and 
 mournful look, remains quiet, utters not a word, 
 weeps not, sees no one, not even Emile. In vain he 
 takes her hands, and clasps her in his arms; she re- 
 mains motionless and insensible to his tears, his 
 caresses, to everything that he does. How much 
 more touching this object is than the importunate 
 wails and noisy regrets of her lover! He sees it, 
 feels it, is torn by it. I have difficulty in dragging 
 him off. If I leave him a moment, I shall never 
 get him to leave. I am delighted that he carries with 
 him this sad image. If ever he is tempted to forget 
 what he owes to Sophie, and I recall her to his mind, 
 as he saw her at the moment of his departure, his 
 heart will have to be sadly alienated, if I cannot bring 
 him back to her." 
 
 There may be differences of opinion in regard to 
 the value of travelling at this juncture in a young 
 man's life; but there can hardly be any in regard to 
 the method by which Emile is induced, or rather 
 forced, to undertake it. That a young man who, up 
 1 6raile did, indeed, need to learn self-coutrol. 
 
194 ROUSSEAU 
 
 to the age of twenty-two, has always followed, or 
 thought he followed, his own inclination, should 
 suddenly be commanded to set his strongest inclina- 
 tion at defiance, is a piece of the most wanton tyranny 
 and cruelty, an attempt to reap where one has not 
 sowed. That the young maxi, who does not know 
 what obedience means, and who does not see his own 
 interest or utility in what he is called upon to do, 
 should obey, is not only extremely improbable, but 
 very discreditable, showing that he has not escaped 
 from the tyranny of his fellows, or become self- 
 determining. He has taken a vow, like a mediaeval 
 monk, and is still subject to "obedience."^ Still 
 more improbable and discreditable is it that he should 
 suddenly exchange his life-long, thoughtless, joyous 
 optimism for a gloomy, disheartening, brooding pes- 
 simism, to which 
 
 " The world is all a passing show, 
 For man's illusion given." 
 
 But the worst feature of the whole matter is that, 
 while calling upon his pupil to obey the voice of 
 reason and conscience, Rousseau shows no reason 
 why this voice should be obeyed, any more than the 
 voice of passion and interest. So far as we are 
 shown, both are equally subjective and blind, and 
 there is no third faculty to be umpire between them. 
 The moral law cannot remain a mere ungrounded 
 ''categorical imperative," but must be shown to be 
 
 1 It is astonishiug how many of the worst features of mediseval- 
 ism — religious intolerance, mystic fanaticism, vows, confession, 
 etc. — still survive in Rousseau. He had learnt much from the 
 Jesuits. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 195 
 
 the expression of man's essential relations to the uni- 
 verse. Tliis, however, cannot be shown without a 
 profound, painfully acquired, scientific knowledge of 
 the world, and of man, as a cooperant, essentially 
 social member of the same, nor without a carefully 
 reasoned philosophy resting on this knowledge; and 
 with these conditions, Rousseau, in his supercilious, 
 unsocial subjectivism, claiming for itself supernatural 
 inspiration, would have nothing to do.^ It is not, 
 therefore, wonderful that he landed in all sorts of 
 contradictions, and, in the end, proved unfaithful to 
 his own principles. 
 
 Emile leaves his Sophie, and sets out upon his 
 travels, still accompanied by his despotic tutor. The 
 purpose of these travels is ostensibly one of self-inter- 
 est, — to enable Emile to discover the country in 
 which he can settle down to quiet family life, with 
 the best hope of independence and liberty, Rousseau 
 holds that every man, when he comes to the age of 
 discretion, has a right to choose his country. He 
 tells us very little about Emile's travels; but he says 
 many wise things regarding the value and method of 
 travelling, as a means of education. Its value lies in 
 the fact that it does away with local and national 
 prejudices, puts experience in place of imagination, 
 widens the sympatliies, enables one to distinguish 
 humanity under all guises, to reject what is accidental 
 and spurious in it, and to cling to what is natural and 
 
 1 Any one who claims a knowledge of theoretic or ethical princi- 
 ples, not grounded on experience, must be regarded as claiming 
 inspiration. Even Kant, with his Rousselian "categorical impera- 
 tive " was not exempt from this weakness. 
 
196 ROUSSEAU 
 
 genuine. Its method is that which brings the trav- 
 eller most directly and closely in contact with the 
 people of each country, enabling him to learn their 
 language and become acquainted with their habits, 
 customs, and ways of regarding things. The method 
 of the ordinary tourist, whose main objects are scen- 
 ery, cities, churches, galleries, museums, and public 
 exhibitions, is altogether to be eschewed. Cities and 
 city-people are pretty much the same all over Europe : 
 they are all equally depraved by culture. " It is the 
 country {campagne) that makes the country (pays), 
 and the country people that make the nation." . . . 
 "It is always in capitals that human blood is sold 
 cheapest. Thus one becomes acquainted only with 
 the great peoples, and the great peoples are all alike." 
 ... " The Europeans are no longer Gauls, Germans, 
 Iberians, Allobroges; they are merely Scythians that 
 have variously degenerated in face, and still more 
 in morals." £mile, therefore, will merely glance at 
 cities, and spend most of his time in remote country 
 districts, where the people are still simple and unde- 
 praved. And he will not merely see and hear: he 
 will also think. With his tutor he will discuss the 
 origin and nature of social institutions, and of those 
 relations and duties that arise under them. In this 
 matter, little aid can be derived from books. " Politi- 
 cal Eight is a science which has yet to be born; and 
 we may presume it never will be born. Grotius, the 
 master of all our scholars in this matter, is but a 
 baby, and, what is worse, a baby of bad faith. When 
 I hear Grotius lauded to the skies, and Hobbes loaded 
 with execrations, I see how much sensible men read 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 197 
 
 or understand of these authors. The truth is, their 
 principles are exactly similar; they differ only in 
 expression. They differ also in method. Hobbes 
 takes his stand on sophisms, Grotius on the poets; 
 all the rest they have in common." . . . "The only 
 modern man who might have created this great and 
 useful science, was the famous Montesquieu. But 
 he never thought of dealing with the principles of 
 political right: he stopped short with the positive 
 right of established governments ; and no two things 
 in the world are more different than these two studies." 
 Such being the condition of things, Smile's tutor must 
 help himself, as best he can, by means of original 
 thinking. 
 
 It is but fair to say that the above criticisms of 
 Hobbes, Grotius, and Montesquieu are, in the main, 
 correct, and that to Rousseau himself is due a large 
 share of the credit for originating the science of Politi- 
 cal Right. With all its obvious mistakes, his Social 
 Contract was an epoch-making book. We need not 
 wonder, therefore, that the questions which Emile is 
 led to consider are, in the main, those dealt with and 
 answered in that book, or that he comes to the conclu- 
 sions therein reached. Rousseau plainly admits this; 
 and whatever we may think of these conclusions, we 
 ought cheerfully to admit that hardly any book more 
 provocative of thought — and such provocativeness is 
 the greatest merit of any decent book — could be put 
 into the hands of a young man of serious mind. If, 
 while reading it, he have a wise and learned guide, 
 he will see the extreme importance of the questions 
 broached, and be led to inquiries and considerations 
 
198 ROUSSEAU 
 
 ■which will reveal to him the fallacies involved in the 
 attempt to answer them ; and even if, for a short time, 
 left to himself, he fall a victim to Rousseau's pas- 
 sionate and specious rhetoric, he will free himself as 
 soon as the glamour of that has worn off, and through 
 experience, study, and careful thought, seek other 
 solutions of his own.^ 
 
 After an absence of two years, devoted to experience 
 and thought in social matters, Emile, who has all the 
 time been looking out for a place to settle in, comes to 
 the conclusion that one place (provided it is not in a 
 city) is as good as another. "I remember," he says 
 to his tutor, " that my property was the cause of our 
 researches. You proved to me very cogently that I 
 could not retain at once my riches and my liberty; 
 but, when you wished me to be at once free and with- 
 out needs, you were suggesting two things that are 
 incompatible; for I cannot withdraw myself from de- 
 pendence upon men, without reverting to dependence 
 upon Nature, What, then, shall I do with my in- 
 herited fortune ? I shall begin by ceasing to depend 
 upon it; I shall slacken all the ties that bind me to 
 it: if it is left to me, I shall keep it; if it is taken 
 from me, I shall not be dragged off along with it. I 
 shall not torment myself to retain it; but I shall 
 
 1 The Social Contract ought to be a leading text-book in all 
 classes in political science. It should be remembered that, in the 
 hands of an able teacher, a bad book, calling for strong adverse 
 criticism, is often far better than a good one, which leaves teacher 
 and pupil nothing to do but to repeat and accept. Moreover, in 
 these days, it is of no small importance that the false teaching of 
 the Social Contract, still influential wherever there is not a pro- 
 found acquaintance with political science, should be dragged to the 
 light and exposed. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 199 
 
 remain firm in my place. Kich or poor, I shall 
 be free. I shall be so not only in such or such a 
 country or region : I shall be so all the world over. 
 For me all the chains of opinion are broken. I know 
 only those of necessity. I have learnt to wear them 
 since my childhood, and I shall wear them till the 
 day of my death ; for I am a man. And why should 
 I not wear them in freedom, since I should still have 
 to wear them in slavery, and those of slavery besides. 
 What matters my position in the world ? What mat- 
 ters it where I am ? Wherever there are men, I am 
 among my brothers : wherever there are none, I am at 
 home with myself. As long as I can remain indepen- 
 dent and rich, I have the means of living, and I shall 
 live. When my property enslaves me, I shall aban- 
 don it without difficulty : I have arms to work with, 
 and I shall live. When my arms fail me, I shall live, 
 if I am supported; I shall die, if I am deserted. I 
 shall die, even if I am not deserted; for death is not a 
 punishment for poverty, but a law of Nature. Let 
 death come when it will, I defy it : it Avill never find 
 me making preparations to live : it will not prevent 
 me from having lived. Such, father, is my fixed 
 purpose. If I were without passions, I should, in 
 my human condition, be independent as God himself, 
 since, desiring only what is, I should never have to 
 struggle with fate. At least, I shall have but one 
 chain: it is the only one I shall always wear, and I 
 may well be proud of it. Come, then, give me 
 Sophie, and I am free." 
 
 fimile, having thus reached the desired mood of 
 pessimistic, Stoic independence, and learnt to look 
 
200 ROUSSEAU 
 
 upon life as a passing show, receives the commenda- 
 tions of his tutor, but is, at the same time, warned 
 that he will not be quite so Stoical when he has chil- 
 dren, and that he must submit to other yokes besides 
 that of marriage. " £mile ! " says his tutor, " where 
 is the good man that owes nothing to his country ? 
 Whoever he may be, he owes it man's most precious 
 dower, the morality of his actions and the love of 
 virtue. Born in the depths of a forest, he would 
 have lived happier and freer; but, having nothing to 
 resist in order to follow his passions, he would have 
 been good without merit: he would not have been 
 virtuous, whereas now he can be so in spite of his 
 passions. The mere appearance of order prompts him 
 to know and love it. The public good, which serves 
 but as a pretext to others, is to him alone a real mo- 
 tive. He learns to battle with himself, to conquer 
 himself, to sacrifice his own, to the common, inter- 
 est. It is not true that he derives no benefit from 
 the laws; they give him the courage to be just even 
 among the wicked. It is not true that they have 
 not made him free; they have taught him to rule 
 himself."^ 
 
 ]Smile is then shown that his place of abode ought 
 not to be indifferent to him, and that "one of his 
 duties is attachment to the place of his birth " and to 
 his countrymen. "Live in the midst of them," ex- 
 claims the tutor; "cultivate their friendship in gentle 
 intercourse ; be their benefactor, their model. Your 
 example will avail them more than all our books, and 
 
 1 It is needless to remark that Rousseau here abandons the posi- 
 tion toward civil life taken in the Discourses. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 201 
 
 the good they see you do will touch them more deeply 
 than all our vain talk. I do not advise you, on this 
 account, to go and live in great cities; on the con- 
 trary, one of the examples which good men ought to 
 set to others is to live a patriarchal, country life, the 
 primitive life of man, the most peaceful, the most 
 natural, and the sweetest for a mail of uncorrupted 
 heart." Following this advice, iSmile resolves to take 
 up his abode with Sophie's parents, and the long- 
 desired marriage at last takes place, to the infinite 
 joy of the lovers. When the ceremony is over, the 
 tutor takes them aside, and, in a sensible, but ill-timed 
 discourse, which makes the one protest and the other 
 blush, shows them how they may indefinitely prolong 
 their happiness, and remain lovers in the married 
 state. He thereupon abdicates his authority, turning 
 it over to Sophie. 
 
 When the honeymoon is over, the lovers settle down 
 "to enjoy, in peace, the charms of their new con- 
 dition." The tutor is happy over the results of his 
 twenty-five years' labor. "How often," he says, "do 
 I join their hands in mine, blessing Providence, and 
 breathing ardent sighs ! How many kisses do I pour 
 upon these two hands that clasp each other! With 
 how many tears of joy do they feel me water them ! 
 They, in turn, sharing my transports, melt with ten- 
 derness." At the end of some months Emile enters 
 his tutor's room and, embracing him, informs him 
 that he (Emile) will soon be a father. "But," he 
 continues, "remain the master of the young masters. 
 Advise us, govern us : we will be docile. As long as 
 I live, I shall need you.. I have more need of you 
 
202 ROUSSEAU 
 
 than ever, now that my functions as a man are begin- 
 ning. You have fulfilled yours ; teach me to imitate 
 you; and rest, for it is high time." 
 
 So, with the culmination of ^fimile's bliss, the book 
 ends. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 
 
 Manhood 
 
 {l^mile and Sophie, or the Solitaries) 
 
 Dein eigen ist Alles, 
 Dein Heil, wie dein Unheil, 
 Dein Wollen und Wahnen, 
 Dein Sinnen und Sein. 
 
 Jordan, Die Nihelunge. 
 
 For man is man, and master of his fate. 
 
 Tennyson, Idyls of the King. 
 
 Deus ipse voluntatem cogere non potest. 
 
 Thomas Aquinas. 
 
 There is no house prepared for thee after thy death, but that 
 of which, before thy death, thou hast been the architect. 
 
 Al Ghazzali. 
 
 There can be little doubt that, when Rousseau fin- 
 ished i^mile in 1762, he meant to end it, like other 
 fairy tales, with " And so they were married, and lived 
 happily ever after." In course of time, however, it 
 seems to have struck him that an education which was 
 good enough for well-mated, prosperous, and happy 
 people, might be utterly useless for people otherwise 
 situated. Accordingly in JiJmile and Sophie, or the 
 Solitaries,''- he undertook to show how his system 
 
 1 This work, which was never finished, takes a form of a series 
 of letters from Emile to his tutor. See p. 70. 
 
 203 
 
204 , ROUSSEAU 
 
 would work in adversity. To do this, he had to 
 break in upon the peaceful, patriarchal life of his 
 wards, and to render both of them profoundly miser- 
 able, in fact, to drive them to the brink of despair. 
 
 After several years of undimmed happiness, during 
 which a son and a daughter are born to them, jfimile 
 and Sophie are suddenly visited with a series of 
 calamities, all the more terrible that the tutor has 
 ceased to live with them. First, Sophie's father dies, 
 then her mother, and, lastly, her idolized daughter. 
 Untrained to misfortune, the poor young wife is 
 utterly inconsolable, and f:lls the house and its sur- 
 roundings with tears, sobs, and cries. In order to 
 give her a needful change of environment, her hus- 
 band, who now for the first time has " what is called 
 business" in the capital, resolves to remove her 
 thither, and take her to be near a friend whose 
 acquaintance she has made in the neighborhood. 
 Gloomy forebodings seize upon J^mile as he ap- 
 proaches the city; but he shakes them off and pro- 
 ceeds. In the course of his two years' residence, 
 amid the corrupting influences of city life, his whole 
 being undergoes a change. Unguarded now by any 
 tutor, and not subject to obedience, he forms new 
 connections, acquires frivolous tastes, becomes a 
 pleasure-seeker, and, though never unfaithful to his 
 wife, finds his heart gradually losing all warmth and 
 force. He becomes " gallant without tenderness, a Stoic 
 without virtues, a sage given up to follies." At last 
 he finds, or thinks he finds, that he no longer loves 
 his wife. Meanwhile, his wife, as inexperienced as 
 himself, and in need of distraction to lighten her 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 205 
 
 sorrow, allows herself to be drawn by her friend into 
 corrupt society, where she becomes familiarized, not 
 only with frivolity, but with vice, so that she gradu- 
 ally loses interest both in her husband and in her son. 
 Husband and wife, though still living under the same 
 roof, now become estranged from each other, and 
 lead separate lives. Finally, Sophie, under the influ- 
 ence of her corrupt, virtue-despising friend, and 
 apparently with but slight blame on her own part, 
 falls from virtue.^ From this moment she avoids all 
 society, and sits lonely, gloomy, and tearful in her 
 own room. She expresses great horror of her friend 
 and her friend's husband, and !fimile is obliged to 
 forbid them the house. Alarm at his wife's condition 
 now fans into a flame his smouldering affection, and 
 he tries to reestablish the old intimate relations, but 
 finds her completely cold and irresponsive. His per- 
 sistent attentions, however, finally move her; but, 
 instead of deceiving him, as she might easily have 
 done, she heroically tells him : " I am no longer any- 
 thing to you. ... I am enceiyite, " darts into her room 
 and closes the door after her. Emile, completely 
 crushed and annihilated by this revelation, wanders 
 about for thirty-six hours, like a madman, without 
 sleep or food, devoured by the most poignant reflec- 
 tions and regrets. At last he reaches a village, 
 where he sups and sleeps soundly. The next day 
 he finds his way to a city, and enters the shop of a 
 
 1 We are not permitted to know the details of this fall. "No, 
 never," writes l^mile, "shall these hideous details escape my pen 
 or my mouth. It were too unjust to the memory of the worthiest of 
 women." . . . "Worldly morality, snare of vice and of examx^le, 
 treason of false friendship, which of us is proof against you! " 
 
206 KOUSSEAU 
 
 carpenter, as an ordinary workman. Here lie gradu- 
 ally comes to himself, realizes the nobility of his 
 wife's declaration, and begins to feel that she may, 
 after all, be far less culpable than he has thought. 
 Unable to trust her, however, he resolves to remove 
 his son from her keeping, a.nd is making preparations 
 to do this, when he learns that a lady with a child 
 has come and, unseen, watched him at his work; that 
 she has shown signs of great mental anguish; and 
 that, after kneeling for a long time, she has risen 
 and, pressing her cheek against that of the child, ex- 
 claimed in stifled tones : " No, he will never take your 
 mother from you!" Emile at once recognizes the 
 secret visitors to have been his wife and child, and is 
 struck by his wife's sad words. They present to him 
 a new aspect of the case. While he might be willing 
 to remove the child from the guilty mother, he can- 
 not think of removing the mother from the innocent 
 child. So he resolves to do nothing in the matter. 
 Having now, however, become an object of curiosity 
 to his fellow-workmen and their wives, he resolves to 
 avoid recognition and go further off in search of em- 
 ployment. He, accordingly, makes his way on foot 
 to Marseilles, and takes passage on board a vessel 
 bound for Naples, along with a number of other per- 
 sons. The skipper proves to be a jolly, rollicking 
 fellow, who does his best to keep his passengers in 
 good humor; but Emile, who knows about the sun's 
 course and about compasses, begins, after a time, to 
 suspect that they are not going in the direction of 
 their proposed destination. His suspicion is soon 
 confirmed; for no sooner do they come in sight of 
 
KOUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 207 
 
 land than they see a corsair coming toward them. 
 Being without means of defence, they are soon 
 boarded by the corsair's crew, whereupon it becomes 
 evident that the skipper is in collusion with them, 
 and that all the passengers, having been drawn into a 
 trap, are destined to be the slaves of the Moors. The 
 skipper does not long enjoy the success of his roguery; 
 for ^rnile strikes off his head with a sabre, and sends 
 it flying into the sea. By this act he earns the re- 
 spect of his captors, and is not put in irons, like the 
 rest of the passengers. On landing, however, he is 
 sent, like the rest, to the galleys. Here, having time 
 to reflect, he concludes that slavery, after all, is 
 nothing so terrible. "Who can make me wear two 
 chains ? " he says. " Did I not wear one before ? 
 There is no real servitude but that to Nature ; men are 
 only its instruments. Whether a master finish me, 
 or a rock crush me, the event is the same in my eyes, 
 and the worst that can happen to me in slavery is not 
 to be able to move a tyrant more than a stone. And, 
 indeed, if I had my freedom, what should I do with 
 it ? In my present state, what can I desire ? Alas ! 
 to prevent me from sinking into annihilation, I need 
 to be animated with another's will in default of 
 my own." This piece of characteristic Eousselian 
 sophistry, which would justify any form of slavery, 
 convinces him that his change of condition is more 
 apparent than real, " that, if liberty consisted in doing 
 what one wishes, no man would be free ; that all are 
 weak, dependent upon things and upon stern neces- 
 sity ; that he who can best will all that it ordains is 
 the most free, since he is never forced to do what he 
 
208 ROUSSEAU 
 
 does not wish,"^ And so, says Emile, "the days of 
 my slavery were the days of my sovereignty, and I 
 had never more authority over myself than when I 
 was wearing the chains of the barbarians." 
 
 Emile comes into the possession of several masters, 
 and is at first treated kindly, his owners hoping that 
 friends will ransom him; but, as no efforts are made 
 in his behalf, he is sent to work, and works cheerfully 
 and well, while his companions, reared to be gentle- 
 men and philosophers, and not to be men, only suffer 
 and bewail their lot, many of them dying off from ill 
 treatment. At last, Emile himself comes under a 
 brutal overseer, who, observing him attempt to help 
 his weaker comrades, so overloads him with work 
 that he feels he must soon succumb under it. Seeing 
 that, at the worst, he can only die, he foments a re- 
 bellion among his fellows, which the overseer vainly 
 tries to lash down. This brings the owner upon the 
 scene. Emile explains the facts to him, and appeals 
 to his interest in such a way that the cruel overseer 
 and Emile are made to exchange places. The latter 
 proves an excellent overseer, and his conduct, getting 
 noised abroad, comes to the ears of the Dey of Algiers, 
 who desires to see him. This dey, a sensible man, 
 who has worked his way up from the ranks, having 
 taken a liking to him, receives him, as a gift, from 
 his master. Thus, in every relation of life, even the 
 most difficult and trying, Emile finds the value of 
 
 1 Here we have the germs of the Schopenhauerian doctrine that 
 true freedom consists in renouncing all will, even the " will to live," 
 which means that to be happy is not to be at all — the last conclu- 
 siou of pessimism. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S EDUCATIONAL THEORIES 209 
 
 his education, and its superiority to that of other 
 men. 
 
 The work breaks off at this point; but its aim and 
 outcome are obvious enough. The providential tutor, 
 who has evidently foreseen everything, now goes to 
 work to bring good ou.t of evil. Thanks to the 
 meniory of a Genevese pastor, who was on friendly 
 terms with E-ousseau in his closing years, we know, 
 in a general way, the close. " A succession of events 
 brings Emile to a desert island. He finds on the 
 shore a temple adorned with flowers and delicious 
 fruits. He visits it every day, and every day he finds 
 it decked out. Sophie is the priestess. Emile does 
 not know this. What events can have brought her 
 to these regions ? The consequences of her fault and 
 the actions which efface it. Sophie finally reveals 
 herself. Emile learns the tissue of fraud and vio- 
 lence to which she has succumbed. But, unworthy 
 henceforth to be his mate, she desires to be his slave 
 and to serve her rival. This rival is a young person 
 whom other events have joined to the lot of the former 
 husband and wife. This rival marries Emile; Sophie 
 is present at the wedding. Finally, after some days 
 spent in the bitterness of repentance, and the tor- 
 ments of ever-renewed pain, all the more keen that 
 Sophie makes it a duty and a point of honor to dis- 
 semble it, Emile and Sophie's rival confess that their 
 marriage was only a make-believe. This pretended 
 rival has a husband of her own, who is introduced to 
 Sophie, and Sophie gets back her own, who not only 
 forgives her involuntary fault, atoned for by the most 
 cruel sufferings and redeemed by repentance, but 
 
210 EOUSSEAU 
 
 values and honors, in her, virtues of which he had had 
 but a faint notion, before they had found opportunity 
 to unfold to their full extent." 
 
 Thus Rousseau has proved, to his satisfaction, two 
 things : (1) that his education according to Nature will 
 enable men and women to stand the test of the sever- 
 est adversity, defying not only suffering, but also 
 public opinion, and (2) that the life of cities is alto- 
 gether corrupt and corrupting. 
 
 What becomes of Emile and Sophie, after their 
 reconciliation, we are not told; but perhaps we may 
 conclude that, finding themselves self-sufficient, they 
 conclude to end their days, living after the fashion of 
 Robinson Crusoe, or, rather, of Franz von Kleist's 
 Zamori and his mate, on their desert island, thus 
 returning to a state of Nature, whose charms are 
 heightened by the bitter experiences of civilization.^ 
 It is just possible, however, that we have in the later 
 books of The New Helo'ise a picture of their conjugal 
 happiness. Julie and Sophie have much in common, 
 even their fall. 
 
 1 See Emerson's poem, The Adirondacks. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 CONCLUSION. — ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 
 
 The history of the world is the judgment of the world. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 Let him, the wiser man who springs 
 Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
 His action like the greater ape ; 
 
 But I was born for other tilings. 
 
 Tennyson, In Memoriam, cxx. 
 
 The history of mankind is a progress in the consciousness of 
 freedom. Hegel. 
 
 Having followed Rousseau's educational scheme 
 from its beginning to its last effects upon manhood 
 and womanhood, we have now to consider its value, 
 to estimate its moral bearings, and to see whether it 
 could properly lead to the results claimed for it. 
 
 That the influence of Rousseau's ideas upon educa- 
 tional theory and practice was, and is, great, no one 
 will deny. In education, as in other things, his pas- 
 sionate rhetoric and his scorn for the conventional 
 existent, as contrasted with the ideal simplicity of 
 Nature, roused men from their slumbers, and made 
 them reconsider all that they had so long blindly 
 taken for granted and bowed before. And in so far 
 his work was invaluable. His bitter, sneering con- 
 demnation of the corrupt, hypocritical, fashionable 
 life of his time, with its distorting, debasing, and 
 
 211 
 
212 ROUSSEAU 
 
 dehumanizing notions of education, and his eloquent 
 plea for a return to a life truly and simply human, and 
 to an education based upon the principles of human 
 nature and calculated to prepare for such a life, were 
 righteous and well timed. His purpose was thoroughly 
 right, and he knew how to make himself heard in 
 giving expression to it. But, when he came to inform 
 the world in detail how this purpose was to be carried 
 out, he undertook a task for which he was not fitted 
 either by natural endowment or by education. His 
 passionate, sensuous, dalliant, and immoral nature 
 prevented him from seeing wherein man's highest 
 being and aim consist, while his ignorance and his 
 contempt for study, science, and philosophy closed 
 his eyes to the historic process by which men have 
 not only come to be what they now are, but by which 
 their future course must be freely determined, and 
 made him substitute for it a spurious scheme, put 
 together out of certain vague notions of history afloat 
 in his time and certain fancies of his own vivid imag- 
 ination. 
 
 Thus, his own temperament and the reminiscences 
 of his own capricious, undisciplined childhood led 
 him to think that the child is a mere sensuous being, 
 swayed by purely sensuous instincts, and inaccessible 
 to reason or conscience, and that these, when called 
 forth by social demands, are marks of depravation and 
 badges of unfreedom. His utter inability to conceive 
 of moral life, as a thoughtful adjustment of the indi- 
 vidual to the universe, and as a self-sufficient end, for 
 the attainment of which every sacrifice, intelligently 
 and voluntarily made, is a gain, and ought to be a 
 
KOUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 213 
 
 joy, made him, on the one hand, regard man as a mere 
 plaything in the hands of a kindly but capricious 
 God, and, on the other, to represent him as the help- 
 less victim of an inexorable necessity or fate. Wav- 
 ering hopelessly between these mutually contradictory 
 Christian and Stoic notions, he never arrived at any 
 conception of the true meaning of spiritual freedom, 
 or the true ideal of social existence. His notion of 
 freedom was almost purely negative, and, therefore, 
 both empty and unsocial. He did not, and could not, 
 see that freedom, like intelligence and affection, has 
 no content save in a world wherein each individual 
 spirit is, through its own essential activity, freely 
 related to all other spirits, and gradually perfects 
 itself by ever richer, deeper, and freer forms of this 
 relation. He did not see that this process coincides 
 with the gradual unfolding of reason and will, as they 
 differentiate and particularize themselves out of that 
 vague affection, or desiderant feeling, which consti- 
 tutes the undeveloped soul. He did not see that even 
 the first differentiation, in the " fundamental feeling " 
 involves consciousness and therefore reason, and the 
 first movement in obedience to one feeling, rather 
 than another, the first stirring of selective conscience, 
 or will. He did not see that the gradual differentia- 
 tion of feeling into perceptions and volitions is the 
 gradual creation of a world of beings in thought and 
 will, that things and persons are distinguished through 
 an effort to group feelings and satisfactions, by refer- 
 ring them to particular common sou.rces, and that, 
 apart from this process, there would be no conscious- 
 ness, and no world, at all. In a word, he failed alto- 
 
214 ROUSSEAU 
 
 gether to see that existence is essentially social and, 
 therefore, moral, alien alike to caprice and to neces- 
 sity. As a consequence of this, he failed to understand 
 the true nature of education, which is simply the effort 
 to enable children, from the moment they begin to 
 use reason and will, that is, to distinguish one feeling 
 and one attraction from another, so to classify and 
 group these feelings and attractions that an orderly, 
 self-consistent, and rational world, with a hierarchy 
 of well-defined attractions, shall gradually shape itself 
 in their minds, and make a rational and moral life 
 possible for them. In denying reason and conscience 
 to the child, he was denying it the very agencies by 
 which its world is built up, and, in trying to isolate it 
 from society, he was depriving it of a large portion, 
 and that too the most important, of those feelings 
 or experiences with which these agencies have to 
 work, and so impoverishing the child's world. The 
 truth is, Rousseau himself had no rationally or morally 
 organized world of his own. Much remained for him 
 in the condition of almost brute feeling or emotion, 
 round which his fancy played in the most capricious 
 fashion. Then, when he attempted arbitrarily to in- 
 troduce unity into this chaotic world, he invented for 
 the purpose, out of old traditions, sometimes a capri- 
 cious, and sometimes a necessary, first principle, 
 neither of which could, in the nature of things, 
 organize that world, or give him any real freedom in 
 it. A mind like his, incapable of reducing its world 
 to clear visibility and transparent unity, was natu- 
 rally dependent upon its unorganized moods, and was 
 liable to pass from the most joyous optimism, at one 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 215 
 
 leap, to the gloomiest pessimism. This is the secret 
 of his emotional deism, of his sudden change from 
 Epicureanism to Stoicism, from spontaneity to au- 
 thority in Emile's education, and of his oscillation 
 between religious intolerance and the most complete 
 liberalism.^ 
 
 The failure of Rousseau to realize that education is 
 the process by which a world of rational distinctions 
 and ends is developed in the child's mind, also closed 
 his eyes to the fact that it must be so conducted that 
 the distinctions made by the child form, as far as 
 possible, a coherent, self-explaining whole at every 
 moment, and that this whole shall be duly articulated 
 as fast as it grows, leaving no undigested clots of feel- 
 ing or experience to baffle and stupefy the expanding 
 mind. As a result of this, his educational system, 
 though divided into epochs, is otherwise altogether 
 disorderly, and he is far more interested that the child 
 should enjoy himself, revelling in a present chaos of 
 disconnected sensations, than that he should know the 
 joy of creating for himself, out of them, a rational and 
 eternal world. Hence his frivolous and oft-repeated 
 plea that the future should be sacrificed to the pres- 
 ent, for fear that the future may never come — a 
 strange enough caution for one who pretended to be- 
 lieve in immortality. If that is a fact, then surely all 
 spiritual gains made by the human being, at any 
 
 1 See above, p. 184. In The New HdoUe, Pt. III., Let. V., he 
 says: "No true believer can be intolerant or a persecutor. If I 
 were a magistrate, and the law ordained the burning of atheists, 
 I should begin by burning, as such, the first man who informed 
 against another." 
 
216 ROUSSEAU 
 
 period of his life, Avill tell to all eternity, no matter 
 when he leaves this earthly scene; and he can do 
 nothing more recklessly foolish than forget the future 
 in the present. But, in making this plea, Rousseau, 
 characteristically enough, failed altogether to see 
 that, even for a child, there is a much higher sort of 
 enjoyment than mere capricious, sensuous dalliance, 
 namely, the enjoyment that comes from an orderly 
 exertion of his will in view of an end, and was utterly 
 unaware that such exertion is the process by which 
 all strong and consistent characters are formed. We 
 need not, therefore, be surprised to lind Emile arriv- 
 ing at the age of twenty, so destitute of all ends and 
 aims that, if he were not watched at every moment, 
 night and day, he would become an easy prey to his 
 dalliant sensibilities. A young man who has learnt 
 to make the present subservient to the future by the 
 exercise of his will, in the continual pursuit of worthy 
 ends, and who knows the delight that comes from the 
 attainment of these, will hardly be so victimized. 
 
 It may perhaps be permitted to point out here that 
 the great educational principle of introducing unity 
 and system into life, by completing the present with 
 the future, is embodied in the beautiful Praxitelean 
 group of Hermes and the Infant Dionysus. Here 
 we have the ideal tutor and pupil. The elder god, 
 the perfect type of glorious yovmg manhood, carries 
 the younger, a highly intelligent, almost mature-faced 
 child, on his left arm. The child places his right 
 hand on the shoulder of his guardian, stretches his 
 left out toward something, probably a bunch of grapes, 
 which the latter holds aloft in his left, and looks be- 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 217 
 
 seechingly into his face. But Hermes does not return 
 the look, or smile. His earnest eyes have a far look. 
 In tempting forth into action the child's natural 
 desires, he is gazing, not at the present, but at the 
 distant future. This expresses the spirit of Greek 
 education, whose patron Hermes was, as Avell as of all 
 education whose purpose is to make strong, wise, 
 determined men. 
 
 A very striking result of Rousseau's sensuous nature 
 was his view of women, and of the education proper 
 for them. For him, woman is never a spiritual being, 
 the equal of man in freedom, an end to herself, and 
 entering into sexual relations by free choice for cer- 
 tain ends, by her desired and approved. She is merely 
 a female, the slave and instrument of man, a creature 
 whose whole being is exhausted in her sexuality. 
 Her education, therefore, is merely the education of 
 her sexuality, and ought, on no account, to go beyond 
 this. Rousseau's conception of women is one that has 
 been only too common in France, as in all countries 
 where the Moslem pseudo-virtue of chivalry, or exter- 
 nal palaver in their presence, has taken the place of that 
 real virtue of inner gentlemanliness, which regards 
 women first as human beings, endowed with all human 
 attributes and rights, and afterwards as women, with 
 special duties and privileges. It is a conception which, 
 while pretending to elevate women into mistresses, 
 degrades them into slaves, and deprives them of that 
 dignity of freedom, which alone imparts value to life. 
 
 If Rousseau's character led him into manifold errors, 
 his contemptuous ignorance of philosophy, science, 
 and history led him into many more. Thus, in addi- 
 
218 KOUSSEAU 
 
 tion to assuming a relation of opposition between 
 sensation and reason, and thereby introducing a Mani- 
 chaean division into the individual man, he placed a 
 similar opposition between Nature and Culture, and 
 thereby broke the continuity, and rendered unintelli- 
 gible the course, of social evolution. Worse than 
 this, having failed to recognize that all existence is 
 essentially social and moral, and regarding the un- 
 social, sub-moral man as complete and self-sufficient, 
 he was bold enough to maintain that all social rela- 
 tions and all the powers, intellectual and moral, de- 
 manded and evolved by these, are so many forms of 
 degeneration. Believing that man was forced into 
 sociability only by selfish motives, and that society 
 exists only to enable him to preserve as much as pos- 
 sible of his natural Cyclopean^ freedom,^ he continu- 
 ally holds up the state of Nature, in which man is a 
 mere instinct-guided animal, living wholly in the pres- 
 ent, without plan or purpose, as his ideal condition, 
 to be regained whenever possible. His whole system 
 of education, accordingly, aims at rendering men un- 
 social, and so might fitly enough be called Unsocial 
 Education. We need not, therefore, be surprised that 
 iSmile never develops any social virtues other than 
 those of the family and the kindly neighbor, never 
 engages in any social, economic, or political reforms, 
 and never looks upon social duties except as obtruding 
 evils that, in a culture-perverted life, must be borne 
 with Stoic indifference or resignation. 
 
 1 See Homer, Odyssey, Bk. IX., 112 sqq. 
 
 2 He has rare glimpses of a better view ; but they do not last. 
 See p. 200. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 219 
 
 If, owing to his defective character and acquire- 
 ments, Rousseau's educational system is mainly false 
 in presvippositions and aims, it is still more so in 
 method. To train a being whose nature is essentially 
 inoral, and whose life, in so far as moral, must consist 
 in relations and dealings with free, intelligent beings, 
 by the laws of brute necessity and force, with the 
 view of imparting to him the freedom of an automa- 
 ton, is surely the height of absurdity, and the author 
 of another volume in this series is entirely justified in 
 calling the attempt " a scheme as fantastic as ever en- 
 tered the wayward mind of a madman — to separate 
 tlie child from his fellows, and set him in a wilder- 
 ness."^ This scheme had its origin, partly in Rous- 
 seau's character, which was essentially unsocial and 
 impatient of moral regulation, and partly in his false 
 notions of the origin and uses of society. To be sure, 
 if one does not care to learn to swim, he need not go 
 into the water; but if he does wish, he has no choice. 
 So, if we wish a child to make his way safely in 
 society, we must bring him up in society, familiarize 
 him with its laws, usages, and meaning, and train his 
 will to relate itself freely to the freedom of other 
 wills. To make brute force the sole means of his edu- 
 cation is to dehumanize him, to make him an outcast 
 from the hour of his birth. If, in spite of such treat- 
 ment, his human nature still asserts itself, it will be 
 in an altogether undeveloped form. The child will 
 be a dependent cry-baby and stupid dupe at the age 
 of sixteen, and as such, indeed, Emile is presented 
 to us. Moreover, since utter subjection to the control 
 1 Bowen, Froebel, p. 4. 
 
220 EOUSSEAU 
 
 of necessity cuts off all possibility of control by self, 
 and leaves tlie cbild entirely determined from with- 
 out, he will have to be watched and tended all the 
 days of his life, and, in case of need, subjected to un- 
 blushing tyranny, as we fi.nd Eraile to have been. He 
 never learns to distinguish between slavery and free- 
 dom, for the simple reason that he never has any ex- 
 perience of the latter. When one cannot tell slavery 
 from freedom, there is no heroism in bearing it,^ and 
 no motive to throw it off. Men with Emile's princi- 
 ples would accept slavery and oppression with Stoic 
 indifference, or else revert to savagery; and the 
 struggle for concrete freedom, that is, freedom with 
 a content of social relations, as distinct from negative 
 freedom without relations, would come to an end. 
 
 But, besides all these defects of presuppositions, 
 ideals, and method inherent in Rousseau's system, it 
 is chargeable with three others which are fatal : (1) it 
 is exclusive, (2) it is impracticable, and (3) it is 
 immoral. 
 
 In the world for which Rousseau, however incon- 
 sistently, paved the way, all education must be univer- 
 sal, accessible to every human being, as such, without 
 distinction of class or sex. Now, Rousseau's system 
 
 1 To regard indiscriminating apathy as moral heroism, or to look 
 for peace through the hlunting of sensibilities, is the height of 
 absurdity. Cf. Macbeth, IV., 3: 
 
 Malcolm. Dispute it like a man. 
 Macduff. I shall do so ; 
 
 But I must also feel as a man. 
 
 This is the true heroism, and the only one that is compatible with 
 social life or individual nobility. It is a chief task of education to 
 cultivate keenness of feeling. 
 
EOUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 221 
 
 never laid claim to any such universality. He main- 
 tains that the poor have no need of education (see 
 p. 106 n.), and considers only the rich and well born. 
 His system is, therefore, essentially exclusive, aristo- 
 cratic, and plutocratic, an education for kindly coun- 
 try squires, or rural patriarchs, living in the midst of 
 thralls or serfs. But, even as exclusive, it is utterly 
 impracticable. It would be impossible to find a man 
 willing to devote the twenty-five best years of his life, 
 without reward, to the education of one child, even if 
 that child were his own; and, if he could be found, 
 his self-sacrifice, and his renunciation of all social 
 relations and duties, for the sake of one who might 
 not live, or might not develop, to justify his efforts, 
 would be an insane act. The world would not make 
 much progress, if every child required the exclusive 
 services of a tutor for five and twenty years, and, even 
 at the end of that time, had not learnt to guide his 
 own life. Again, unless desert islands could be pro- 
 duced at will, the isolation demanded by the system 
 is impossible. Indeed, we do not find that Rousseau 
 can dispense with society. His Emile attends fairs, 
 ice-cream parties, and banquets, and runs races for 
 cakes with other children; and such experiences are 
 shown to be necessary parts of his education. In all 
 this, Eousseau forgot himself. Lastly, a system 
 which uses, as its sole motive, self-interest, and that 
 too, frequently in low forms ; which estimates actions 
 by their actual, instead of their intended, conse- 
 quences, and which continually practises pious fraud 
 and dupery, in order to reach its ends, surely deserves 
 to be called immoral. And its acknowledged result 
 
222 ROUSSEAU 
 
 upon Emile, who never rises to the dignity of a ra- 
 tional, self-determining personality, freely relating 
 himself to a society of free personalities, but always 
 remains the victim of a sensuous, capricious, selfish 
 Epicureanism, dashed with fitful blotches of gloomy, 
 fatalistic, despairing Stoicism, crying, like a spoilt 
 child, at one moment, and posing as a Prometheus 
 Bound the next, fully bears out this judgment. 
 
 Gathering up, in one glance, the various defects of 
 E-ousseau's social and pedagogical theories, we can 
 now see clearly the false assumption that lay at the 
 bottom of them all. It is a very common and wide- 
 spread error, and is fatal wherever it occurs. It con- 
 sists in assuming- that the later and higher stages in 
 evolution are to be explained by the laws that mani- 
 fest themselves in the earlier and lower, and must be 
 made to square with these. It throws forward the 
 darkness of the earlier upon the later, instead of cast- 
 ing back the light of the later upon the earlier. Thus 
 it continually tries to explain human nature by the 
 laws manifested in sub-human nature, and insists that 
 man should go back and allow himself to be governed 
 by the necessary ^ laws of the latter, — o/xoXoyovfx.ww'i 
 Trj (j)vcr€L, as the fatalistic Stoics said. This is the 
 sum and substance of Rousseau's teaching in soci- 
 ology, ethics, and pedagogy; it is the sum and sub- 
 stance of much popular teaching in all departments 
 of theory and practice to this day. And yet nothing 
 
 1 It is hardly necessary to say, in these days, that the notion of 
 necessity corresponds to no fact that we know. Nature reveals 
 regularity, but not necessity. See Huxley, Muterialisiii and Ideal- 
 ism, in Collected E.ssa[/s, Vol. I. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 223 
 
 could be more misleading, more fatal to progress. 
 The acorn does not explain the oak, but the oak the 
 acorn. The meaning of the acorn is revealed in the 
 oak, and the meaning of Nature in Culture. " Nature," 
 Professor James tells us, " reveals no spiritual intent." 
 Of course it does not, so long as you arbitrarily ex- 
 clude from Nature its highest manifestations; but in- 
 clude these, and you will see that they are what all 
 Nature has been tending toward from all eternity. 
 In a word, Culture is the meaning, or intent, of Nature, 
 and we shall never know the full meaning of the first 
 and lowest step in existence till the last and highest 
 has been taken. Each to-day reveals the meaning 
 of all yesterdays, and contains the free promise of 
 all to-morrows. The problem of life is, not to make 
 man live according to Nature, but to make Nature live 
 according to man, or, in less ambitious phrase, to ele- 
 vate the "natural" into the "spiritual" man, blind 
 instinct into rational freedom. Rousseau's system, 
 therefore, exactly inverts the order of Nature and 
 progress ; it advocates the descent, not the ascent, of 
 man.^ 
 
 To sum up: In so far as Rousseau laid bare the 
 defects and abuses of the society and education of his 
 time, and demanded reforms in the direction of truth 
 and simplicity, he did excellent work; but, when he 
 came to tell how such reforms were to be accom- 
 plished, he propounded a system which, from a social 
 
 1 Aristotle, who never falls into the common error, calls the oak, 
 as the meaning of the acorn, the what-it-was-ness (t6 ri fjv eivai) 
 of it. We say of the acorn, when we see the oak that has sprung 
 from it, " Oh, that's what it was!" The republic of free spirits is 
 the what-it-was-nsss of the lowest form of life. 
 
224 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and moral point" of view, has hardly one redeeming 
 feature, and which is frequently in glaring contradic- 
 tion with itself. It is pure Romanticism. 
 
 In spite of this, it has been given to few men to 
 exert, with their thought, an influence so deep and 
 pervasive as that of Rousseau. Tliis influence, due to 
 the fact that he took the " motions " which were " toil- 
 ing in the gloom " of the popular mind of his time, 
 and made them flash, with the lurid lightning of his 
 own passion, before the eyes of an astonished world, 
 extended to all departments of human activity — phi- 
 losophy, science, religion, art, politics, ethics, eco- 
 nomics, and pedagogy. 
 
 In Philosophy this influence is very marked. Kant 
 has told us that he was " roused from his dogmatic 
 slumber " by Hume, and this is true ; but, after he 
 was roused, he drew his chief inspiration from Rous- 
 seau.' The germinal thought of the Critique of the 
 Pare Reason, expressed in its opening sentence, is to 
 be found in JtJmile, Bk. IV. ^ ''These comparative 
 ideas, greater, less, as well as the numerical ideas, 
 one, two, etc, are certainly not sensations, though the 
 mind produces them only on the occasion of sensa- 
 tions " — the Critical Philosophy is but a generaliza- 
 tion of this. We have already seen that Kant's three 
 " Postulates of the Pure Reason " — God, Freedom, 
 and Immortality^ — are simply Rousseau's three fun- 
 
 1 He is said never to have omitted his afternoon walk hut once, 
 and that was when he got absorbed in The New Heloise. It is 
 difficult to understand this nowadays. 
 
 2 Savoyard Vicar's Confession of Faith. 
 
 3 See p. 166, and cf . Prologue to Tennyson's In Memoriam. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 225 
 
 daiuental tenets of natural religion. Kant's ethical 
 rigorism, with its ungrounded "categorical impera- 
 tive," owes much to Rousseau's spasmodic Stoicism; 
 while his theory of taste, as laid down in his Critique 
 of the Power of Judgment, clearly has its roots in 
 Rousseau's definition of taste. ^ It is hardly an exag- 
 geration, therefore, to say that Kant, in his three 
 Critiques, does little more than present, in philo- 
 sophic garb, the leading doctrines of Rousseau. But, 
 as has already been shown, Rousseau had occasional 
 glimpses of truth that lay altogether beyond Kant's 
 range of vision.'^ Through Kant, Rousseau's philo- 
 sophic influence passed into all German, and thence 
 into all modern, philosophy, as could easily be shown. 
 Even the latest developments. Agnosticism and Phi- 
 lopistism,' can be traced back, through Kant's 
 unknowable "thing-in-itself," and undemonstrable 
 "postulates," to Rousseau's emotional subjectivism. 
 The result of Rousseau's influence upon philosophy 
 has been to discredit human reason, to replace it by 
 infectious emotion, and to pave the way for a return 
 to obscurantism and superstition.^ 
 
 1 See p. 175. 2 gge above, p. 85, note. 
 
 3 I cannot think of any better compound to express the irrational 
 " wil]-to-believe "-ism of such recent writers as Druraraond, Bal- 
 four, Kidd, and James. See Cecil's Pseudo-Philosophy at the End 
 of the Nineteenth Century. It is needless to say that Agnosticism 
 and Pliilopistism are respectively but the emotionally pessimistic 
 and optimistic aspects of one fact, the despair, on the part of 
 reason, of solving its own problems — a despair originally born of 
 Rousseau's intellectual sloth. 
 
 ■* See the quotation from Goethe, on p. 113. Goethe, as we shall 
 see, overcame the influence of Rousseau. He puts many of his 
 teachings, almost verbatim, into the mouth of Mephistopheles, and 
 of Faust in his dark days. 
 
226 ROUSSEAU 
 
 The same thing is true of his influence upon Science, 
 although this, thanks to the fact tliat science, wiser 
 than philosophy, takes due account of the sensuous 
 content of thought, has been less marked. The re- 
 sults of science are proof against emotional prejudice, 
 and take no notice of contempt. It was specially 
 to Hegel and his school that this part of Rousseau's 
 influence passed. Hegel spoke with undisguised con- 
 tempt of physical science, and constructed philoso- 
 phies of religion, right, art, etc., out of his own brain 
 — philosophies wliich science has silently converted 
 into warning examples. His thought has almost 
 been forgotten in the land of its birth, and many 
 of his works have never had the honor of a second 
 edition. 
 
 In Religion, Rousseau's influence has been incalcu- 
 lable, supplementing, and, in some ways, counteract- 
 ing, that of Voltaire. While Voltaire and his followers 
 were applying a robust, but rather coarse, common 
 sense to the ancient word-castles of religious dogma, 
 and reducing them to heaps of crumbling ruins, Rous- 
 seau was trying to construct a simple cottage out of a 
 few moth-eaten sticks rescued from the general wreck, 
 by covering over with a thin papering of varnished 
 sentiment. The result was the Savoyard Vicar's 
 Confession of Faith, a frail enough structure, not fit 
 for human habitation, save in the mildest weather. 
 It, nevertheless, proved widely attractive at a time 
 when men, having lost faith, not only in religion, but 
 also in reason, as interpreters of life, were fain to 
 look to sentiment and romance for help. Rousseau's 
 emotional faith became the religion of many men in 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 227 
 
 Ids own time, of a large party among the French revo- 
 lutionists, — Robespierre, St. Just, etc., — and of mil- 
 lions of pious but uncritical souls afterwards. It 
 contributed important elements to the Neo-Catholic re- 
 naissance in the Latin countries, and to the Protestant 
 reaction in the Germanic, as well as to English and 
 American XJnitarianism. It is the determining ele- 
 ment in the extensive theological movements initiated 
 by Schleiermacher and Ritschl, and is perpetuated in 
 thousands of learned books down to our own time, 
 when it forms the chief element in religion, taking 
 the place of dogma, and so bidding defiance to the 
 results of criticism, "higher" and lower. Thanks, 
 in great part, to Eousseau, religion has, in our time, 
 become a matter, not of spiritual insight and settled 
 conviction, which in their nature are universal, but 
 rather of sentiment and emotion, which are necessarily 
 individual. It was a great misfortune for France, as 
 well as for the world, that, when changes in life and 
 developments in science made a new attitude in regard 
 to religion necessary, the matter should have fallen 
 into the hands of two such men as Voltaire and Rous- 
 seau, who, being equally without profound knowledge, 
 philosophical acumen, and moral firmness, were utterly 
 unfitted to deal worthily Avith it. The one pulled 
 down with the tools of scornful wit and insidious per- 
 siflage; the other built up with the nervous, ineffective 
 hands of romantic sentiment and dalliant emotion. 
 The result has been, on the one hand, an irrational, 
 paralyzing scepticism, and, on the other, an enfee- 
 bling, voluptuous mysticism, both eqiially favorable 
 to superstition and to neglect of moral life. Between 
 
228 ROUSSEAU 
 
 these France has been suffering depletion and exhaus- 
 tion for over a hundred years. 
 
 In Art, and especially in Literature, Rousseau's 
 influence has, from his own days to ours, been 
 almost paramount throughout Christendom. Indeed, 
 modern art and literature, with their fondness for the 
 picturesque, the natural, the rural, the emotionally 
 religious, the analysis of sentiment, and the interplay 
 of passions, and their rebellion against the stiff and 
 the conventional, may almost be said to date from 
 Rousseau. There is no room here to trace his foot- 
 steps in the studiedly rural cottages and picturesque, 
 half- wild parks, so common in Europe and America; 
 in the landscape paintings, genre-pictures, and pict- 
 ures of pathetic or religious emotion, that fill our gal- 
 leries ; or in the nature groups and sentimentally posed 
 figures that delight the majority of our sculptors ; but 
 we must follow them here and there in the paths of 
 literature, on which they are everywhere to be found, 
 in France, in Germany, in England, in Italy, in 
 Greece, in Scandinavia, in Russia. As to French 
 literature, in the last hundred years, it is soaked in 
 Rousseau's teaching from beginning to end. Its form 
 and its matter are alike due to him. Its simplicity, 
 its clear and effective style, its frequent glittering 
 superficiality, its morbid pathos and insincere virtue, 
 its outspokenness and lubricity are among its debts 
 to him. Bernardin de St. Pierre and Madame de 
 Stael; Lamartine and De Vigny; Chateaubriand and 
 Montalembert; Saintaine and De Maistre; Merimee 
 and Michelet; De Musset and George Sand; Victor 
 Hugo and Balzac ; Dumas and Eugene Sue ; Souvestre 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 229 
 
 andDeSenancour; Cousin and Renan; Taine and Ste. 
 Beuve ; Bourget and Zola ; Coppee and Loti ; Gautier 
 and Amiel, with hundreds more, are all his disciples. 
 He is the parent alike of the Neo-Christians and the 
 decadents; of the romanticists and the realists. It 
 may be added that his influence has been far greater 
 than Voltaire's. 
 
 AVhen Ave turn to German literature, we find almost 
 the same condition of things. The Storm-and-Stress 
 Period in Germany was mainly due to the ferment 
 caused by Rousseau's teaching. It affected her 
 greatest geniuses, GcEthe and Schiller, Koerner and 
 Von Kleist. Goethe, at first, completely suocvimbed 
 to it, as we see from such works as the Triumph of 
 Sentimentality and the Sorrorvs of Young Werther; but 
 his strong nature in time threw it off, and turned to 
 a healthy classicism. Nevertheless, its traces appear 
 in all his works, especially in his lyrics, many of 
 which Rousseau, had he been an artist, might have 
 written. And, after all, Faust is only a grown-up 
 Emile, breaking away from faith and culture, and 
 entrusting himself to a bad tutor; while Wilhelm 
 Meister is an Emile with no tutor at all. Schiller' 
 was still more deeply and permanently influenced. 
 His lyrics are full of Rousselian "Nature," pathos, 
 and emotional religiosity, while his Robbers, that 
 chaotic drama of wild revolt, might have been written 
 by Rousseau. Indeed, Rousseau's lachrymose senti- 
 mentality and emotional prodigality seized upon the 
 German people, like an epidemic, and long affected, 
 for the most part injuriously, both its life and its 
 literature. We can trace them in Koerner and Kotze- 
 
230 ROUSSEAU 
 
 bue; in the Von Kleists and Sclilegels; in the 
 Humboldts and Grimins; in Fichte and Schelling; 
 in Novalis and Kichter; in Heine and Eueckert; 
 in Lenau and Phaten ; in Frey tag and Auerbach ; in 
 Heyse and Spielhagen ; in Fanny Lewald and Johanna 
 Ambrosius, and in many more. 
 
 In England, Rousseau's influence upon literature, 
 though all-pervasive, was, in the main, beneficial. 
 The English bee sucked the honey and rejected the 
 poison, for the most part, only becoming occasionally 
 dizzy with the opium of nature-mysticism. Under 
 the influence of Rousseau, the poets of Great Britain 
 broke away from the monotonous, aphoristic stilted- 
 ness of Pope and his school, and returned to "Nature " 
 and simplicity. Burns, whose debt to Rousseau was 
 very great, and Lady Nairne led the way. They were 
 followed by Keats, ^ Shelley, and Byron; Southey, 
 Coleridge, and Wordsworth;^ Leigh Hunt and the 
 
 1 Keats came nearer to Rousseau, in intensity of feeling for 
 Nature, than any other man, and he ^yas of finer texture. 
 
 2 Wordsworth, "that uttered nothing base," was, in all but 
 moral infirmity, a thorough-going disciple of Rousseau. He even 
 followed him in his mystic feeling for Nature, and his confusion of 
 the tenderly emotional with the ethical. Hence such sheer nonsense 
 as this : — 
 
 " One impulse from a vernal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Tban all the sages can." 
 
 If this be true, let us abandon all sages and all books, and sit at the 
 feet of some " vernal wood " ! Wordsworth is full of such beguiling 
 untruths. What, for example, could be more untrue than that " the 
 child is father of the man," or that " our birth is but a sleep and a 
 forgetting " ? His whole emotional pantheism, so dear to sensuous 
 dalliers, is Rousselian and immoral to the core. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 231 
 
 Brownings ; Carlyle and Euskin ; ^ Clough and Tenny- 
 son; Morris and Swinburne; Dickens and Thackeray; 
 George Eliot and Mrs. Ward. On the other side of 
 the Atlantic, they were followed by Longfellow and 
 Lowell; Whittier and Emerson. Apart from Ameri- 
 can differences, the last is the most loyal disciple that 
 llousseau ever had. His patriarchal country life 
 came as near as possible to Eousseau's highest ideal. 
 And their whole view of the world, and of their rela- 
 tions to it, were very much the same. Both loved 
 Nature, and felt inexpressible mystic meanings in it; 
 both preferred solitude, and felt that society was in 
 conspiracy against the freedom of the individual; 
 both were pantheists and, in theory. Stoics. Emer- 
 son's essay on Self-reliance would have delighted 
 Eousseau. Both avoided social ties and political life. 
 Both believed that man is essentially good, and will 
 develop best, if left to give free expression to his 
 spontaneity. Both believed in an Oversoul, of which 
 man is merely a partaker, and to which he ought to 
 lay himself open in passive receptivity. Both scorned 
 consistency, and sought to draw the most from each 
 passing mood. Both were averse to consecutive, logi- 
 cal thought and sustained scientific inquiry. And the 
 list of resemblances might be added to indefinitely. 
 But Emerson was a Puritan. 
 
 Italian literature did not escape the universal con- 
 tagion. The writings of Leopardi and Foscolo; Man- 
 zoni and D'Azeglio; Carducci and Costanzo; Rapisardi 
 
 1 The resemblance of these two men, in different ways, to Rous- 
 seau is very remarkable. The one inherited his contempt for civili- 
 zation, the other his love of Nature. 
 
232 ROUSSEAU 
 
 and D'Annunzio, not to mention Ada Negri and many 
 otliers, are all more or less inspired by Rousseau. 
 There is no room to speak of the literatures of 
 Greece, Scandinavia, and Russia; but Avhat is true 
 of the others is equally true of them. Ibsen, for 
 example, is Rousselian to the core, in his contempt 
 for society and its hollow, soul-corrupting conven- 
 tions. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to speak of Rousseau's in- 
 fluence on Politics, practical and theoretical. He is 
 the father of Democracy. The French Revolution 
 was, in very large degree, his work. While repres- 
 sive respect for authority in life and thought was 
 relinquishing its hold, under the inexorable lash of 
 Voltaire's bitter tongue, Rousseau was passionately 
 calling upon the men, thus set free, to rise up, cast off 
 their loosened chains, and claim the freedom with 
 which God and Nature had endowed them, and live 
 thenceforth in "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity." 
 His passion prevailed, and France rose in blind fury, 
 bathed herself in blood, and lighted a conflagration 
 that burnt for thirty years. When, at last, it was 
 quenched in blood, Europe hardly recognized herself. 
 She looked the same ; but she felt that she was not 
 the same. Authority, in the old sense, had been 
 burnt away, and a green crop of freedom was spring- 
 ing up in its place. What this meant, neither France 
 nor the other nations of Europe have yet learnt; but 
 they are learning. And they are learning also that 
 most important of all social lessons, that no revolution, 
 inspired by such irreverent and passionate motives as 
 those furnished by Voltaire and Rousseau, can fail 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 233 
 
 to bring destruction and woe, which only the gentle, 
 slow-moving hand of Reason can wipe away. 
 
 If the American Revolution was due to the spirit of 
 liberty inherent in the English peoi)le, the formulas in 
 f which the Declaration of Independence was couched 
 were largely drawn from Rousseau. When its framers 
 demanded " life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness " 
 for every citizen, they were speaking in his language. 
 Their calmer natures, formed for political freedom, 
 enabled them to avoid his sentimental exaggerations, 
 and to make provision for it; but his influence helped 
 to make them forget that every Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence needs to be supplemental by a Declaration 
 of Interdependence. As a result, we are too fond of 
 political isolation, and too prone to individual isola- 
 tion. As a people, we are slow to recognize our duties 
 to other peoples ; as individuals, we are sadly deficient 
 in public spirit, and in loyalty to what our constitu- 
 tion stands for. The hand of the unsocial Rousseau 
 is still heavy upon us, carrying us back to savagery. 
 
 Upon Political Tlieory the effect of Rousseau's teach- 
 ing has been so great that he may fairly be called the 
 father of modern political science. Though that sci- 
 ence, in its progress, has shown most of his positions 
 to be baseless, it is none the less true that these have 
 formed the centre of all political speculation for the 
 last hundred years. He gave wrong answers to the 
 questions which he propounded; but these questions 
 were just the ones that required to be answered. The 
 Social Contract does not lie at the beginning of social 
 progress, but is the end to which it forever tends. 
 
 Hovering between two equally immoral systems, 
 
234 ROUSSEAU 
 
 Epicureanism and Stoicism, and having apparently no 
 experience of free will, Eousseau developed no Ethical 
 System. Nevertheless, his views were not without 
 effect upon subsequent ethical theories. His notion 
 that we have a sense for good, just as we have a sense 
 for smell, — a notion which takes morality out of the 
 region of reason and will altogether, — has found 
 many followers among sentimentalists; while his doc- 
 trine that man should not seek to rise above the laws 
 of necessity,^ but remain an automaton, has found 
 favor with all those who have sought to interpret 
 Culture by Nature, instead of Nature by Culture. 
 His insidious glorification of sensuous dalliance has, 
 naturally, found a response in all dalliant natures. 
 
 In the sphere of Economics, Eousseau's influence, 
 though great, is quite different from what he expected. 
 Though entirely averse to socialism and anarchism, 
 he was in large degree the parent of both. They 
 arose from the spirit of his teaching, rather than 
 from his teaching itself. In his remarkable article 
 on Political Economy, written for the Encyclopedie, he 
 points out the danger of looking upon society as an 
 organism, most strongly defends the rights of private 
 property, and justifies the State in imposing taxes. 
 "It is certain," he says, "that the right of property 
 is the most sacred of all the rights of the citizens, 
 more important in certain aspects than liberty itself, 
 whether because it is more closely connected with the 
 preservation of life, or because property, being more 
 easy to usurp, and more difficult to defend, than per- 
 son, ought to be more carefully respected, or, finally, 
 1 Cf . Faust, Prologue in Heaven, lines 39-50. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 235 
 
 because property is the true foundation of civil life, 
 and the true warrant for the obligations of citizens; 
 for, if property were not responsible for persons, 
 nothing would be so easy as to elude one's duties and 
 defy the laws." . . . "The first thing which the 
 founder of a commonwealth has to do, after laying 
 down laws, is to find a fund sufficient for the support 
 of magistrates and other officers, and for all public 
 expenses. This fund is called cerarium or Jisc, if 
 it is in money ; public domain, if it is in land ; and 
 for obvious reasons, the latter is far preferable to the 
 former." . . . "A public domain is the surest and 
 most honest of all means of providing for the needs 
 of the state." Though holding this, he does not ob- 
 ject to taxation, merely insisting that it shall not be 
 imposed except by a vote of the people. But, when 
 he inveighs, with bitter scorn, against the venality 
 and corruption of public officials, and maintains that 
 " it is one of the most important functions of govern- 
 ment to prevent extreme inequalities of fortune, not 
 by taking accumulated wealth away from its posses- 
 sors, but by depriving them of the means to accumu- 
 late it; and not by building hospitals for the poor, 
 but by guaranteeing citizens against the chance of 
 becoming such," he accepts the fundamental principle 
 of socialism, which naturally calls forth its opposite, 
 anarchism ; and principles have a vitality far beyond 
 the will and intent of him who propounds them. 
 Moreover, Rousseau's Stoicism is virtual socialism, 
 while his Epicureanism is virtual anarchism, as could 
 easily be shown. It ought to be added that one of the 
 noblest and most conspicuous traits in Rousseau's 
 
236 ROUSSEAU 
 
 character was unfailing sympathy with the poor and 
 oppressed, involving hatred of their oppressors ; and 
 it is this sympathy and this hatred, which his example 
 did much to make common, that have, respectively, 
 caused the socialistic and anarchistic movements of 
 this century. 
 
 Finally, in Education, the influence of Eousseau has 
 been powerful beyond measure. He may fairly be 
 called the father of modern pedagogy, even despite 
 the fact that most of his positive teachings have had 
 to be rejected. Comenius, Locke, and others had, 
 indeed, done good work before him ; but it was he that 
 first, with his fiery rhetoric, made the subject of edu- 
 cation a burning question, and rendered clear its con- 
 nection with all human welfare. The whole gospel 
 of modern education lies in such passages as this: 
 " It is from the first moment of our lives that we ought 
 to learn to deserve to live ; and as, at our birth, we 
 share in the rights of citizens, the moment of our 
 birth ought to be the beginning of the exercise of our 
 rights. If there are laws for man's estate, there ought 
 to be laws for children, teaching them to obey others ; ^ 
 and, seeing that we do not leave each man's private 
 reason to be sole judge of his duties, we ought to be 
 all the more reluctant to hand over to the notions and 
 prejudices of fathers the education of their children, 
 that it affects the State more than it does them." It 
 would have been well had Rousseau clung firmly to 
 these ideas. 
 
 Of Eousseau 's educational demands, perhaps only 
 
 1 It is needless to note that this teaching is utterly at variance 
 with that advanced in Einile. 
 
KOUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 237 
 
 three have been responded to: (1) the demand that 
 children should, from the moment of their birth, be 
 allowed complete freedom of movement ; (2) that they 
 should be educated through direct experience, and 
 not through mere information derived from books; 
 (3) that they should be taught to use their hands in 
 the production of useful articles. But certain others 
 of his notions lingered on for a time, much to the 
 detriment of education, and were with difficulty shaken 
 off. It is needless to say that his doctrines influenced 
 all subsequent educators. 
 
 Among these the first important and influential 
 name is that of his countryman Pestalozzi. This 
 genial saint undertook to reduce to practice what 
 Rousseau had preached, and even went so far as to 
 isolate his own son for that purpose. Having discov- 
 ered the folly of this and, therewith, the futility of 
 Rousseau's exclusive education, and being moved with 
 pity for the condition of the laboring classes, sunk in 
 helpless ignorance, he set about evolving a plan 
 whereby this ignorance might be removed and the 
 poor rendered self-helpful. Thus his sympathy for 
 the common people led him to a course altogether dif- 
 ferent from that recommended by Rousseau, who held 
 that the poor required no education. The truth was, 
 that, though Pestalozzi started from the same point as 
 Rousseau, their ideas of education were diametrically 
 opposed. Rousseau regarded education merely as a 
 means of protecting its subjects from the corruptions 
 of civilization, and securing for them as much as pos- 
 sible of their natural liberty, whereas Pestalozzi 
 looked upon it as a means of enabling men to live a 
 
238 EOUSSEAU 
 
 social and moral life. But, as has often been said, 
 Pestalozzi was a sentimental philanthropist, rather 
 than a philosophic educator. He was more anxious 
 that his pupils should learn to make an honest living 
 than that they should be harmoniously developed 
 spiritual beings, and hence he directed his chief 
 efforts to the former end. He responded to Rous- 
 seau's three demands, and followed him in his emo- 
 tional religiosity; but he developed no educational 
 principles or metliods, based upon the nature and ends 
 of the child. His crowning merit lay in seeing that 
 nothing can help the people but education, and in 
 demanding that this should be made universal. His 
 example, too, inspired others to do what he could not. 
 Among these others, the most notable and effective 
 were Herbart (177C-1841) and Froebel (1782-1852). 
 
 Herbart, a philosopher who, having revolted from 
 the formalism of Kant, had betaken himself to the 
 study of psychology, was, apparently, just the man 
 to supply what Pestalozzi had omitted, and, indeed, 
 in his own way, he did so. Setting out with a meta- 
 physical, somewhat Leibnizian, conception of the soul, 
 as a monad, he tried to show by what process, in its 
 endeavor to preserve its existence against other 
 monads, continually impinging upon it and invading 
 it, it gradually, through successive "apperceptions," 
 built up that complex of ideas which made its world 
 rational, and enabled it to lead a moral life. Such 
 life, in active relation with sub-human nature and 
 with society, he conceived to be the end of all educa- 
 tion. In this he was undoubtedly right, and his sys- 
 tem may almost be said to be diametrically opposed to 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 239 
 
 that of Rousseau. Unfortunately, his academic for- 
 malism and want of experience betrayed him into 
 a metaphysic that was purely fanciful, having no 
 foundation either in dialectic or in experience, and 
 into a psychology that was to the last degree mathe- 
 matical, materialistic, and mechanical. Ideas are 
 treated as forces which may be compounded, and 
 whose mechanical relations and resultants may be 
 stated in mathematical formulas. With such notions 
 he could, of course, arrive at no conception of a free 
 will or any true morality.^ To him will is nothing 
 more than the mechanical resultant of his idea-forces.* 
 But, in spite of these serious drawbacks, which tend 
 to make education a mere mechanical process, Her- 
 bart's contributions to the science of pedagogy were 
 most valuable and lasting, 
 
 Froebel, the prince of modern educators, may be 
 said to have been a pupil of Pestalozzi's. He, too, 
 undertook to do what the latter had omitted, namely, 
 to work out a system of pedagogical theory and prac- 
 tice, based upon the facts of human nature, and cal- 
 culated to enable it to reach its fullest realization. 
 Being an ardent student, and somewhat dreamy lover, 
 of sub-human nature, he was, like Rousseau, prone to 
 a kind of mystical nature-pantheism, which seri- 
 ously interfered with the effect of his work, tending 
 to render it sentimental, instead of rigorously scien- 
 
 1 This comes out, with striking clearness, in his notion of re- 
 quital, which he thinks is an ethical one. See De Garmo, Herbart 
 (in this series), p. 52 ; cf . p. 56. 
 
 2 Herbart's psychology has found many disciples, Lazarus, Stein- 
 thal, Fechner, Wundt, etc. ; and a Frenchman, M. Fouillee, has 
 written a book entitled Les idees-forces. 
 
240 ROUSSEAU 
 
 tific. This trait has communicated itself to many of 
 his followers and done much mischief. In spite of 
 this, Proebel did more than any other man to work 
 out a scheme for the gradual, orderly, and healthy 
 development of the powers of the child, with a view 
 to rendering him a social and moral being, a worthy 
 member of the commonwealth of men and of the eter- 
 nal kingdom of God. Like Herbart, Froebel held that 
 a moral life was the end of all education. 
 
 Alongside Pestalozzi, Herbart, and Froebel, must be 
 mentioned, among the disciples of Rousseau, a man 
 far less known than they, but well deserving of care> 
 ful study by all educators — Antonio Rosmini-Serbati 
 (1797-1855).^ This eminent thinker, one of the 
 greatest of the century, derived his knowledge of 
 Rousseau mainly through the writings of Madame 
 Necker de Saussure, which he greatly admired. Pro- 
 tected by his Catholicism from pantheism, and entirely 
 free from sentimentalism, Rosmini elaborated a scheme 
 of education on the basis of his own philosophy. Ac- 
 cording to this, the human soul is a substantial feeling, 
 rendered intelligent by having presented to it, as ob- 
 ject, ideal, or universal and undetermined, being. 
 This is at first the sole object and constituent of its 
 consciousness. In the process of experience, the 
 "fundamental feeling," which constitutes the subjec- 
 tive aspect of the soul, is modified and, at the same 
 time, the indefinite object, being, is determined. In 
 this way there gradually arises in the soul a world of 
 
 1 See Father Lockhart's Life, and the briefer Life prefixed to 
 my translation of Rosmini's Philosophical System (London, Kegan 
 Paul), 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 243 
 
 feeling, referred to being, as substance and cause.^tajjj 
 proportion as this being is defined through feeling^i^^gj. 
 see the truth, or God ; for ideal being is but God ^^^y 
 defined. Since all reality is feeling, and all idealiu. 
 God unrealized, morality consists in so ordering our 
 feelings that they shall gradually define God for us, 
 and thus make us partakers in the Beatific Vision. 
 However strange and mediaeval this spiritual mysti- 
 cism may seem, it enabled Rosmini to work out a 
 scheme for the orderly development of a divine world 
 in the consciousness of the child — a scheme which 
 has very great value, even for those who cannot accept 
 its presuppositions, being superior to those of Herbart 
 and Froebel in many important particulars. Unfortu- 
 nately, it breaks off at the end of the fifth year of 
 the child's life ; ^ and we cannot but regret that a man 
 so eminently fitted, by natural temperament, education, 
 and psychological and philosophic insight, for peda- 
 gogical research, should not have been spared to com- 
 plete his work. 
 
 To give an account of all the educators that have 
 been influenced by the teaching of Rousseau would 
 be to write the history of modern pedagogy. Enough 
 has already been said to show the nature and extent 
 of that influence, and to show how it has been modi- 
 fied and, in very large measure, counteracted. 
 
 As one reads iJmile, he is sometimes tempted to 
 believe that Rousseau wrote it merely to maintain a 
 thesis which he did not believe, but wished to see dis- 
 
 1 Besides the (incomplete) work above referred to (p. 110 n.), 
 there is a volume of essays on Pedagogics by Rosmini, parts of 
 which well deserve to be translated. 
 
240 ROUSSEAU 
 
 tific. lij and threw it down, as a gauntlet, to challenge 
 his frld which had lost all real interest in education, 
 thip compel it to defend, if it could, its own practice. 
 01V hether so intended or not, this has certainly been 
 the effect of the book. It has made men attempt to 
 defend existing systems of education, and, finding that 
 they could not, resolve and endeavor to discover better 
 ones. And better ones have been discovered. We are 
 gradually gaining light with regard to the nature and 
 capacities of the child, and getting a clearer insight 
 into the means by which they may be unfolded, and 
 the destiny to which they tend. We now know that, 
 instead of being an unreflective and immoral automaton 
 up to the age of puberty,^ he exercises intelligence and 
 conscience — in rudimentary forms, indeed — from the 
 hour of his birth. And so we conclude that he is to 
 be governed from the first, not by the law of neces- 
 sity, but by that of freedom and righteous love. 
 
 But, for all this, there is still much to be done in 
 the sphere of education. We have, even now, no sci- 
 entific theory of pedagogy, and the reason is that we 
 have no scientific theory of human nature. We are 
 still distracted and blinded to the truth, on the one 
 hand, by certain traditional conceptions that once 
 formed part of a view of the world-economy, long since 
 rendered unbelievable and obsolete, and on the other 
 by certain modern philosophic prejudices, of a dualistic 
 sort, for which Kant is in the main responsible. The 
 former make us still inclined to believe that the soul 
 is a created substance, beyond the reach of experience, 
 a transcendental monad possessed of certain fixed fac- 
 
 1 Herbart wrote essays on the freedom of the will at fourteen. 
 
ROUSSEAU'S INFLUENCE 243 
 
 ulties, and capable of being trained only in a certain 
 definite direction to a fore-appointed end. The latter 
 make us believe that it is a bundle of categories, empty 
 thought-forms, existing prior to all sensation or ex- 
 perience, and conditioning it. In either case, we are 
 irrationally induced to regard, and to talk about, the 
 soul as something other than what by experience,^ the 
 only source of true knowledge, we know it to be, and 
 thus to build our educational theories upon a mere 
 chimera. There is not one fact in our experience going 
 to show that the soul is either a substance or a bundle 
 of categories. Indeed, when subtly considered, these 
 words are absolutely without meaning. When we ask 
 what we knoiv the soul to be, we can only answer : A 
 sentient desire, or desiderant feeling, which, through 
 its own effort after satisfaction, gradually differentiates 
 itself into a world, or, which is the same thing, gradu- 
 ally learns to refer its satisfactions to a world of things 
 in time and space. Feeling is primary ; ideas, or differ- 
 entiations in feeling, are secondary — exactly the con- 
 trary of what Herbart believed. The world that we 
 know, whether material or spiritual, is entirely made 
 up of feeling differentiated by ideas. The end of edu- 
 cation, therefore,, can be none other than the complete 
 satisfaction of feeling, by an ever-increasing harmoni- 
 ous, that is, unitary, differentiation of it into a world 
 of sources of satisfaction. This satisfaction will be 
 greater in proportion as the sources are more numer- 
 ous and richer. Hence, every soul will be consulting 
 
 1 This does not mean merely what is called " seuse-experience," 
 but includes all the intelligible phenomena of consciousness, even 
 metaphysical ones. 
 
244 ROUSSEAU 
 
 for its own satisfaction, by doing its best to satisfy 
 every other soul, and to make it as rich as possible. 
 Thus the most perfect egoism will be found to be one 
 with the most perfect altruism, and the law of virtue 
 to be one with the law of blessedness, as, in the end 
 it must be, unless all existence be a mockery. On 
 this view of the soul, and on this alone, will it be 
 possible to erect an intelligible and coherent structure 
 of education, intellectual, affectional, and moral. 
 
BRIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Of the numerous editions of the works of Rousseau 
 the best is that by Musset-Pathay (Paris, Dupont, 
 1823), in twenty -three voluraes octavo. A serviceable 
 edition is that published by Hachette, Paris, 1865, in 
 duodecimo. 
 
 The works of Rousseau which bear on the subject of 
 education are these : — 
 
 1. Has the ReestahUshment of the Sciences and Arts con- 
 tributed to purify Morals ? with the Letter to M. Grimm, the 
 Reply to the King of Poland, Reply to M. Bordes, and Letter 
 on a New Refutation (published 1750 sq.). 
 
 2. What is the Origin of Inequality among Men, and is it 
 authorized by the Natural Laro ? (1754). 
 
 3. The New Htloise (1761). 
 
 4. The Social Contract (1762). 
 
 5. lEmile {Vl%'l),Yi\ih. Emile and Sophie, or the Solitaries 
 (written 1778). 
 
 6. Letters to M. de Malesherbes (1762). 
 
 7. Letters from the Mountain (1764). 
 
 8. Political Economy (in the Encyclopedic'). 
 
 9. Confessions (written 1766-70 ; published, Part I., 
 1781; Part II., 1788). 
 
 10. Reveries (written 1777-78). 
 
 The following are the best works on Rousseau : — 
 
 1. Musset-Pathay, Histoire de la Vie et des Ouvrages de 
 J.-J. Rousseau, Paris, 1821. 
 
 2. Streckeisen-Moultou, Rousseau, ses Amis et ses 
 Ennemis, Paris, 1865. 
 
 245 
 
246 BRIEF BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 3. H. Beaudoin, La Vie et les OEuvres de J.-J. Rousseau, 
 Paris, 1871. 
 
 4. St. INIauc Girardin, /.-/. Rousseau, sa Vie et ses 
 Qiluvres, Paris, 1875. 
 
 5. John Morley, Rousseau, London and New York, 1891. 
 
 6. Chuquet, /.-/. Rousseau, Paris, 1893. 
 
 There is interesting information regarding Rousseau and 
 his influence to be found in Plermann Hettner's Literaturge- 
 schichte des XVIITten Jahrhunderts, Vol. If., pp. 431-517, 
 and in H. Michel's L'lde'e de I 'Etat, pp. 37-45. 
 
 Of Rousseau's £mile, there exist several English 
 translations, two of them made in the author's life- 
 time. The most accessible are these : — 
 
 Rousseau's £mil€, or Treatise on Education. Abridged 
 and annotated by William H. Payne, Ph.D., LL.D. New 
 York: D. Appleton & Co., 1893. 
 
 Rousseau's Emile, or Concerning Education. Extracts 
 with an Introduction and Notes, by Jules Steeg. Boston: 
 D. C. Heath & Co., 1885. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Ab^lard, 5 note 2. 
 
 Academies, 149, 176. 
 
 Adolescence, 156 sqq. 
 
 J<;schylus, 6 note 2. 
 
 ./Esthetic theory, 175. 
 
 Agnosticism, 167 note 1, 225 note 2. 
 
 Agriculture, 144. 
 
 Agrippa, Menenius, 11 note 4. 
 
 Al Ghazzali, 203. 
 
 Alembert. See D'Alembert. 
 
 Althusen, 20. 
 
 Altruism, 244. 
 
 American boy, 123. 
 
 Animal food, 132 sq. 
 
 Annecy, 36, 41. 
 
 Anthropomorphism, 165. 
 
 Antigone, 128 note. 
 
 Antony, Mark, 25 note. 
 
 Aquinas, Thomas, 203. 
 
 Archimandrite, 42. 
 
 Aristotle, 77, 89, 97, 223. 
 
 Aristotle (Davidson), 79, 101 note 1, 
 
 141 notes. 
 Armenian costume, 66. 
 Astronomy, 189 sqq. 
 Automaton, 123. 
 
 B 
 
 Bab, the, 91. 
 Bacon, Francis, 8. 
 Balfour, Arthur, 225 note. 
 Bellamy, Edward, 93. 
 Bellegarde, Mdlle. de, 55. 
 Berlin, 67. 
 Berne, 66. 
 
 Bienne, Lake of, 66. 
 Blacksraithing, 141. 
 Bodin, 20. 
 
 Books, 133, 135, 142. 
 
 Bossey, 29 sqq. 
 
 Bossuet, Hist. Univ., 27. 
 
 Bourgoin, 69. 
 
 Bowen, H. C. {FrmbeV), 219. 
 
 Boyhood, 137 sqq. 
 
 Broglie, Mde. de, 52. 
 
 Browning, Mrs., 6 note 1. 
 
 Bryce, James, 4 note 1. 
 
 Buddhist, 169. 
 
 Burns, Robert, 145 note 2, 230. 
 
 Burton {Hume), 159 note. 
 
 Caesar, Julius, 25 note, 161 note. 
 
 Cakes and candy, 129 note 2. 
 
 Calais, 69. 
 
 Calvinism, 15. 
 
 Candy, 129 note 2, 131. 
 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 231 note. 
 
 Carpenter, Edward, 120 note. 
 
 Carpentry, 144. 
 
 Catechumens, Hospice of, 36. 
 
 Categorical imperative, 194, 195 note, 
 
 223. 
 Cecil {Pseudo- Philosophy), lit note 
 
 2. 
 ChambSry, 44 sqq., 69. 
 Character of Rousseau, 31, 71 sqq, 
 Charles II., 15. 
 
 Charmettes, Les, 45, 66, 187 note. 
 Childhood, 113 sqq. 
 Children, Rousseau's, 55, 105 note. 
 Chivalry, 217. 
 Cities, 196, 210. 
 Clarke, Samuel, 166 sq, 
 Comenius, 236. 
 Common sense, 138. 
 Commonwealth, 12. 
 
 247 
 
248 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Condillac, Abb6, 47, 55. 
 
 Confession of Faith. See Savoyard 
 
 Vicar. 
 Covfessions (Rousseau's), 8, 35, 88, 
 
 41, 45, 60, 67, 68, 79, 105 note, 128 
 
 note 1, 158 note 2, 177. 
 Conflgnon, 36. 
 Conti, Prince de, 65, 69. 
 Contract, social, 10 eqq; 16 sqq. 
 Corsica, 67. 
 Country, 196. 
 
 Criticism, Kantian, 167 note 1, 224. 
 Critique of the Pure Redson, 224. 
 Critique of Judgment, 225. 
 Culture, 80, 98, 100, 102, 175, 218, 223, 
 
 234. 
 Curiosity, 189. 
 Cyclopean freedom, 218. 
 
 D 
 
 D'Alembert, 56, 63, 63. 
 
 Dalliers, 24. 
 
 Dante, 3, 4 notes, 11 note 2, 101 note, 
 
 etc. 
 Darwin, Charles, 129 note 2. 
 Davenport (Mr)., 68. 
 Death of Eousseau, 70. 
 Declaration of Independence, 233. 
 De Garmo, Charles {Herhart), 239 
 
 note. 
 Denzinger {Enchiridion), 5 note 1. 
 Derbyshire, 68. 
 Descartes, 8, 45, 92 note, 164 note, 
 
 168. 
 Devin du Village, 59. 
 Dialogues (Rousseau's), 70. 
 Diderot, 51, 55 sqq., 63. 
 Dijon, Academy of, 56, 81. 
 Discourse on Progress of Arts, 56, 77. 
 Discourse on Inequality, 66, 77, 83 
 
 sqq. 
 Doctor, 130 note 3. 
 Dogma, 164, 182 sqq. 
 Domain, public, 255. 
 Dover, 69. 
 Dress, change of, 59. 
 Drummond, Henry, 255. 
 Duclos, 174. 
 
 E 
 Economics, 234. 
 Eden, 80. 
 
 Education by nature, 102, 210, 236 sqq. 
 Egoism, 244. 
 Eliot, George, 169 note 1. 
 Emerson, E. W., 151 note 1, 156, 210 
 
 note, 231. 
 ^mile, 62 sqq., 70, 77, 97 sqq. 
 Smile's travels, 195. 
 Encyclopaedists, 63. 
 Encyclopedie, 56. 
 England, 67. 
 English, the, 133. 
 Epicureanism, 190, 215, 234 sq. 
 :^pinay, Mde. d', 55, 61, 62. 
 Equality, 9, 16. 
 Ermenonville, 70 sq. 
 Ethical system, Rousseau's, 234. 
 Europeans, 196. 
 Existence, social and moral, 214. 
 
 F 
 
 Fastidiousness, 109. 
 
 Fa list. See Goethe. 
 
 Fechner, 231 note. 
 
 Feeling, 85 note, 91, 103 note, 158, 
 
 213, ^43. 
 Filmer, Sir Robert, 16. 
 Fontenelle, 28,51. 
 Form, sense of, 132. 
 Fouillee, 239 note 2. 
 Frederick the Great, 65 sq., 68. 
 Freedom, 11, 18, 198, 220. 
 French language, 176. 
 Frcebel, 238 sqq. 
 
 Gaime, Abb6, 38. 
 
 Gatier, M., 40 and note. 
 
 Gaures, the, 133. 
 
 Generosity, 126. 
 
 Geneva, and Lake, 26, 41, 60, 65. 
 
 Gentlemanliness, 81, 217. 
 
 Geograjihy, 180. 
 
 Girls' education, 178 sqq. 
 
 Girardin, M., 70. 
 
 Gluttony, 132. 
 
INDEX 
 
 249 
 
 Goethe (Faust), 5 note 3, 7 note 2, 
 24, 25 note, 50 wo/e, 104 note 1, 113, 
 IIT note 1, 225 iioie 3, 229 ; ( Wilh. 
 Meister), 225 note 3, 229. 
 
 "Good Time," 120. 
 
 Gouvon, Comte de, 38. 
 
 Grammar, 133. 
 
 Greek, 176. 
 
 Grenoble, 69. 
 
 Gretclien {Fa/usf), 50 note. 
 
 Grimm, 63, 129 note 2. 
 
 Grotius, Hugo, 20, 196 sq. 
 
 H 
 
 Habit, 108. 
 
 Hamlet, 25 note. 
 
 Handicraft, 145 and note 2. 
 
 Hatch {Uihhert Lect.), 7 note 1. 
 
 Hearing, 132. 
 
 Hegel, 14»io?;e4, 211, 226. 
 
 Helv6tius, 169. 
 
 Herbart, 238, 242 sq. 
 
 Ilerhart, De Garmo, 239 note 1. 
 
 Herraes of Praxiteles, 216 sq. 
 
 Hermitage, the, 60, 66. 
 
 Herodotus, 161 note. 
 
 Hiero's fountain, 39. 
 
 History, 133, 153, 161 sq. 
 
 Hobbes {Leviathan), 8 sqq., 77, 80, 
 
 97, 100, 196 sq. 
 Homer, 189, 218 note. 
 Hooker, 14 note 3, 20, 77. 
 Houdetot, Comtesse d', 55, 61. 
 Humanists, 6. 
 Hume, David, 67, 80 note, 103 note, 
 
 159 note, 224. 
 Hurons, 149. 
 Huxley, 92 7wte, 167 note 1, 222 note. 
 
 Ideas, 85, 138, 152, 243. 
 
 Independence, Declaration of, 86, 233. 
 
 Individualism, 4. 
 
 Industry, 146. 
 
 Infancy, 97 sqq. 
 
 Inheritance, 147. 
 
 Intolerance, 184, 215. 
 
 Islam, 15. 
 
 Italian language, 176. 
 
 Jacobite, 65. 
 
 James, "William, 223, 225 note 2. 
 James II., 16. 
 Jerusalem, 42. 
 Jesuits, 51, 98, 129 note 2. 
 Jordan, Wilhelm, 203. 
 Judgment, evil of, 150, 152. 
 Jura, Mt., 66. 
 Jus Natwi^ale, 124. 
 Justice, 124. 
 
 Justinian {Institutes), 11 note 3, 14 
 note 2. 
 
 K 
 
 Kant, 86 note, 103 note, 195 note, 
 
 224 sq., 242. 
 Keats, John, 230 notel. 
 Keith, Marshal, 65 sq., 67. 
 Kidd, Benjamin, 225 note. 
 King Lear, 35, 100 note 1. 
 Kleist, Fr. von, 210. 
 Koerner, Theodor, 229. 
 
 Labor, division of, 84 ; duty of, 145 gg. 
 
 La Bruyfere, 28. 
 
 La Fontaine, 133. 
 
 Lambercier, M. and Mdlle., 29 sqq. 
 
 Language, 85, 133. 
 
 Latin, 29, 88, 40, 176. 
 
 Lausanne, 41. 
 
 Lav^ of Nature, 9 sqq., 21 sqq. 
 
 Lazarus, 239 note 2. 
 
 Learning, despised by Kousseau, 149. 
 
 Leibniz, 45. 
 
 Lersch {Sprachphilosophie), 6 note 
 
 2. 
 Le 9iVLe\XT {Hist, of Church, etc.), 27. 
 Levite of Ephraim, 65. 
 Lex Naturalis, 9. 
 Liberty, 9, 11, 118. 
 Life, 147. 
 Lincolnshire, 69. 
 Literature, 133. 
 Livy, 11 note 4, 161 note. 
 Locke, John, 8, 16 sqq., 45, 78 note, 
 
 80, 97, 98, 163, 236. 
 London, 67. 
 
250 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Lowell, J. E., 99 note 2, 128 note. 
 Luxembourg, Duke aud Duchess of, 
 
 62 sqq., 105 note. 
 Lying, 126. 
 Lyons, 40, 43, 47, 51. 
 
 M 
 
 Mably, M. de, 47. 
 
 Macbeth, 220 note, 
 
 Machlavelli, 20. 
 
 Magician, 140 sq. 
 
 Magnetism, 140 «/. 
 
 Maine, Sir H. S., '.12 note 3. 
 
 Malebranche, 8, 45. 
 
 Malesherbes, M. de, 74, 77. 
 
 " Mamma," 41 and often. 
 
 Manhood, 203 sqq. 
 
 Manual training, 145. 
 
 Man'iage of Kousseau, 69. 
 
 Marriage of :6mile, 201. 
 
 Marseilles, 204. 
 
 Marsiglio di Padova, 20. 
 
 Meaning, 223. 
 
 Mecca, Meccans, 97, 165. 
 
 Mercure de France^ 56. 
 
 Metaphysics, 153. 
 
 Mirabeau, Marquis de, 69. 
 
 Moli^re, 28. 
 
 Monquin, 69. 
 
 Montaigu, Comte de, 52 »q. 
 
 Montesquieu, 20 sq., 197. 
 
 Montmorency, 62 sq. 
 
 Montpellier, 46. 
 
 Moors. 207. 
 
 Morals, 153. 
 
 Morelly, 20 sq. 
 
 Morley, J. (Housseau), 4, 80 note. 
 
 Motiers, 66. 
 
 Muhammad, 91, 99. 
 
 N 
 Nairne, Lady, 280. 
 2Sfani {Ifist. of Ve7iice), 28. 
 Naples, 204. 
 JA'ai'ciase, 51, 59. 
 Natural rights, 89. 
 
 Nature, 6, Ssqq., 22, 80, 83, 97, 100 sg'., 
 102, 107, 117, 120 sq., 175, 187, 218, 
 
 222 note, 223, 229 sq., 234; law of, 
 
 9 .^qq. ; state of, 8 sqq. 
 Necessity, 120. 
 
 Necker de Saussure, Mde., 240. 
 Neo-Catholics, 227. 
 Neuchatel, 41, 65. 
 
 ^Veio I/eloise, 62 sq., 210, 215, 224 note. 
 NoMesse oblige, 119. 
 Notation, musical, 51. 
 Nyon, 32, 41. 
 
 O 
 
 Obscurantism, 150, 225. 
 Oversoul, 231. 
 Ovid {Metamorphoses), 28. 
 Oyster's universe, 97, 131. 
 
 Pantheon, 71. 
 
 Paris, 42, 47 sqq., 69 sqq., 175, 177. 
 
 Pascal, Blaise, 8. 
 
 Passions, 159. 
 
 Patrinreha, 16. 
 
 Pays de Vaud, 82. 
 
 Pension offered to Rousseau, 67. 
 
 Perception, 152. 
 
 Persifleur, Le, 55. 
 
 Persona, 11 note 3. 
 
 Pestalozzi, 237 sq. 
 
 Peter the Great, 93. 
 
 Philopistism, 225 and note 2. 
 
 Philosophy of Rousseau, 85, 224. 
 
 Plato, 6 and note 2, 7, 93, 137, 163 
 
 note. 
 Plutarch (Lives), 21. 
 Politeness, 174. 
 Political Economy, 234. 
 Political right, 196 sq. 
 Pontverre, M. de, 86. 
 Poor, education of the, 106 note. 
 Poplars, Isle of, 70. 
 Port Royal Logic, 45. 
 Postulates of Pure Reason, 106, 224. 
 Praxiteles, 216 sq. 
 Princes, 16. 
 Problem of society, 86. 
 Property, private, 234 sq. 
 Protestantism, 227. 
 
INDEX 
 
 251 
 
 Q 
 
 Quintilian, 141 note 1. 
 
 R 
 
 Heading, 134. 
 
 Reason, 6, S, 22 sq., 138. 
 
 Recreation, 151. 
 
 Reflection, 151. 
 
 Reformation, its claims, 5, 7. 
 
 Reformers, 6. 
 
 Religion, ie3, 165, 182 sqq., 227. 
 
 Renaissance, its claims, 5 sq. 
 
 Revelation, 8 sq., 22 sq., 86, 98. 
 
 Jieveries, 70. 
 
 Revolution, American, 233. 
 
 Riding, ISO. 
 
 Ritschl, 227. 
 
 Robbers (Schiller's), 229. 
 
 Robespierre, 227. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe, 143 sqq., 154, 210. 
 
 Romanticism, 224. 
 
 Rome, 165. 
 
 Romola (George Eliot's), 104 note 2. 
 
 Rosmini, 119 note, 240 sqq. and notes. 
 
 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, character 
 and importance, 3, 27 ; individual- 
 ism, 4 ; outcome of Renaissance, 5 ; 
 follows Hobbes, 8 ; literary style, 
 25 ; birth, parentage, and education, 
 26 sqq. ; his brother, 26 note ; tem- 
 perament, 28 ; at Bossey, 29 ; sen- 
 suality, 31 ; return to, and life at, 
 Geneva, 31 ; apprenticeship, 32 sq. ; 
 a tramp, 38 sqq. ; his master's cliar- 
 acter, 34 ; becomes a Catholic and 
 goes to Mde. de Warens, 36 ; crosses 
 the Alps to Turin, 36 ; life there, 
 37 sq. ; theft, cruelty, lying, and 
 indecency, 88 ; tramps back to 
 Chambery, 89 ; deserts musician 
 in Lyons, 89 sq. ; is deserted by 
 Mde. de Warens, 41 ; meets his 
 father at Nyon and goes to Frei- 
 burg, 41 ; turns music-teacher at 
 Lausanne and Neuchatel, 41 ; fol- 
 lows Greek archimandrite, but is 
 rescued from him at Soleure, 42 ; 
 goes on foot to Paris, 42 ; leaves it 
 
 and goes south, learning on the way 
 the condition of the people, 42 sq. ; 
 returns to Mde. de Warens, 43 ; 
 relations with her, 44 ; becomes 
 surveyor's clerk, 44; throws up 
 employment, 44 ; tries again to 
 teach music, 44 ; new relations with 
 Mde. de Warens, 45 ; reads Latin, 
 geometry, philosophy, etc., 45 ; 
 sutt'ers from languors, vapors, and 
 fear of hell, 45 ; becomes an invalid, 
 and goes to Montpellier ; vulgar in- 
 trigue on the way, 46; "virtuously" 
 returns to Mde. de Warens, to find 
 his place taken ; first sense of duty, 
 46 ; leaves Chambery for Paris, 47 ; 
 review of early life and character, 
 48 ; reception in Paris ; ill success 
 of musical project ; meets Fonte- 
 nelle and Diderot, 51 ; secretary of 
 embassy in Venice ; experiences 
 there, 52 ; returns to Paris, and 
 lodges near the Luxembourg ; meets 
 Therese Le Vasseur (1744), 53 ; hfe 
 with her, 54 ; spends autumn of 
 1747 at Chenonceau ; chUd born and 
 exposed ; fate of other children, 
 55 ; has a revelation due to Dijon 
 Academy's prize-off'er, 56 sq. ; wins 
 the prize, 58 ; performance of his 
 operas, 69 ; second discourse, on 
 Inequality, 60 ; visits Geneva with 
 Therese and returns to Protestant- 
 ism, 60 ; goes to the Hermitage at 
 Montmorency, and gives himself 
 up to dreaming and his passion 
 for Mde. d'Houdetot, 61 ; quarrels 
 with Mde. d'Epinay and moves to 
 village of Montmorency ; writes 
 New Ueloise, Social Contract, and 
 Emile, 62 sq. ; becomes acquainted 
 with Duke and Duchess of Luxem- 
 bourg; ^mile condemned, 63 sq.; 
 persecution and flight; Levite of 
 Ephraim, 65; stops at Tverdun, 
 65 ; settles at Motiers, and is be- 
 friended by Marshal Keith, 66 ; 
 driven thence, settles on Isle of St. 
 
252 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Peter, 66 ; driven thence, goes, via 
 Paris, witli Hume to England, 67 ; 
 success in London, 67 ; settles at 
 Wootton, 6S ; quarrels witli Hume, 
 
 68 sq.; returns to France, 69; moves 
 about to Trye (near Gisors), Gre- 
 noble, Bourgoin (where he infor- 
 mally marries Therese), Monquin, 
 
 69 ; returns to Paris and lives there 
 for eight years ; his Dialogues, 
 Reveries, etc., written ; goes to Er- 
 menonville, dies and is buried. 70 ; 
 ashes removed to Pantheon, 71 ; 
 his character, 71-76 ; inventor of 
 manual training, 145 ; his ideal of 
 life, 177 sq. ; his ethics, 184 note 2, 
 185 ; his influence, 211 sqq. ; defects 
 of his system, 211 sqq. ; effect on 
 religion, 227 ; father of democracy, 
 232. 
 
 Ruskin, 231 note. 
 
 Eussia and Kussians, 93 note. 
 
 8 
 St. Andiol, 46. 
 St. Esprit, 46. 
 St. Just, 227. 
 St. Peter, Isle of, 66. 
 Savage life, 99. 
 Savoy, 36. 
 Savoyard Vicar, 38, 40, 64, 165 sqq., 
 
 224 note 2, 226. 
 Bcsvola, Mucius, 28. 
 Schiller, 211, 229. 
 Schopenhauer, 208 note. 
 Science, 133. 
 Scythians, 196. 
 Sensations, 152. 
 Sepulchre, Holy, 42. 
 Sexuality, 157, 217. 
 Shakespeare, 9 note, 100 note 1, 220 
 
 note. 
 Slavery, 209, 220. 
 Small-pox, 130. 
 Smell, sense of, 132. 
 Smith, Joseph, 91. 
 Social Contract, 62, 77, 78 sqq., 197, 
 
 198 note. 
 
 Socialism, 4, 234 sqq. 
 
 Social Sympathies, 160 sqq. 
 
 Society, 161. 
 
 Socrates, 7, 79. 
 
 Soleure, 42. 
 
 Solitaries, The, 203 sqq. 
 
 Sophie, 185 sqq., 203 sqq. 
 
 Sophists, 79. 
 
 Sophocles, 128 note. 
 
 Soul, nature of, 248. 
 
 Sovereign, 11 sq., 87 sqq. 
 
 Space, 132, 
 
 Spectator, The, 192. 
 
 Spencer, Herbert, 125 note 3. 
 
 Spinoza, 145 note 1, 164 note. 
 
 Steinthal, 239 note 2. 
 
 Stoicism, 190, 199, 215, 218, 222, 
 
 234 sq. 
 Subjectivism, 1. 
 Swimming, 130. 
 
 Tacitus, 161 note. 
 
 Taste, 175. 
 
 Taxation, 235. 
 
 Telemaque, 186, 192. 
 
 Tennyson, 25 note, 77, 92 note, 144 
 
 note, 156, 203, 211, 224 note 2. 
 Therese Le Vasseur, 53 sqq., 58 sqq., 
 
 GS sq. 
 Thoroau, H. D., 144 note. 
 Thucydides, 161 note. 
 Travelling, 195 sqq. 
 Trent, Council of, 4. 
 Turin, 36 sq. 
 
 U 
 
 Unitarianism, 227. 
 Unsocial education, 218. 
 Usefulness, 141 sq. 
 Utopia, 93. 
 
 V 
 Vaccination, 130. 
 Vanity, 141 note 1. 
 Venice, 52. 
 
 Vercellis, Mde. de, 37 sq. 
 Vincennes, 56 sq. 
 
 Voltaire, 5, 25, 60, 63 sq., 67, 68, 83, 
 226, 227, 229, 
 
INDEX 
 
 253 
 
 W 
 
 Walden (Thoreau's), 144 note. 
 
 Walpole, Horace, 68 note. 
 
 Warens, Mde. de, 36, 39 sqq., 43 sqq., 
 
 187 note. 
 Werther, Sorrows of, 229. 
 Wilhelm Meifiter, 25 note. 
 Will, general, 90. 
 Willers, 24. 
 Women, 178 sqq., 217. 
 Wootton, 68 Hq. 
 Wordsworth, 99, 151 note 1, 230 
 
 note 2. 
 
 Work, duty of, 145 sq. 
 
 Writing, 135. 
 
 Wundt, Wilh., 239 note 2. 
 
 Xenophon, 161 note. 
 
 Y 
 
 Youth, 178 sqq. 
 Yverdun, 65. 
 
 Z 
 
 Zamori (von Kleist's), 210. 
 
CbC Great educators nkbolas murrey smkr 
 
 ' ' Just in the right time to meet the needs of a large number of teachers who 
 are casting about to find something fundamental and satisfying on the theory of 
 education." — Hf>N. W. T. Harris, U. S. Commissioner oj Education. 
 
 HORACE MANN and Public Education in the United States. By 
 
 B. A. HiNSUALE, Ph.D., LL.D., Professor of the Art and Science of 
 Teaching in the University of Michigan. i2mo. $i.oonet. \_A'i'ady. 
 
 THOMAS and MATTHEW ARNOLD and their Influence on Eng- 
 lish Education. By Sir Joshua P'itch, LL.D., Late Inspector of 
 Training Colleges in England. i2mo. $i.oo net. \_Iieady. 
 
 ARISTOTLE and the Ancient Educational Ideals. By Thomas 
 Davidson, M.A., LL.D. i2mo. $i.oo net. [^Rcady. 
 
 ALCUIN and the Rise of the Christian Schools. By Professor An- 
 DRKAV F. West, Ph.D., of the University of Princeton. i2mo. 
 $i.oo net. \_J\eady. 
 
 ABELARD and the Origin and Early History of Universities. By 
 
 Jules CjABRIEL Compayre, Rector of the University of Lyons, France. 
 i2mo. $1.25 net. \_J\eady. 
 
 LOYOLA and the Educational System of the Jesuits. By Thomas 
 Hughes, S.J. i2mo. $1.00. \^I\eady. 
 
 FROEBEL and Education through Self Activity. By H. Court- 
 hope Bowen, M.A., Late Lecturer on Education in the University of 
 Cambridge. i2mo. $1.00 net. \_Iieady. 
 
 HERBART and the Herbartians. By Charles De Garmo, Ph.D., 
 President of Swarthmore College. i2mo. $1.00 net. \_Ready. 
 
 ROUSSEAU and Education according to Nature. By Thomas 
 Davidson, ]\LA., LL.D. [I?eady. 
 
 PESTALOZZI and the Modern Elementary School. By M. A. 
 
 PlNLOCHE, Professor in the University of Lille, France. 
 
 \_A'^carly ready. 
 
 The history of great educators is, from an important point of view, the 
 history of education. These volumes are not only biographies, but concise 
 yet comprehensive accounts of the leading movement in educational 
 thought, and furnish a genetic account of educational history. Ancient edu- 
 cation, the rise of the Christian schools, the foundation and growth of univer- 
 sities, and the great modern movements suggested by the names, are 
 adequately described and criticised. 
 
 Copies, subject to the privilege of return^ will be sent for examination to any 
 Teacher upon receipt o/ the Net Price, 
 
 The price paid /or the satnple copy ivill be returned, or a free copy inclosed, 
 upon receipt of an order for ten or more copies for Introduction. 
 
 Correspondence is invited, and ivill be cheerfully answered. Catalogue sent 
 free. 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 153-157 Fifth Ave., New York. 
 
THE GREAT EDUCATORS. 
 
 NOTICES OF THE SERIES. 
 
 ' ' Admirably conceived in a truly philosophic spirit and executed with unusual 
 skill. It is rare to find books on pedagogy at once so instructive and so interest- 
 ing. ... I hope to read tnem all, which is more than I can say of any other 
 series.'' — William Pkeston Johnston, Tulane University. 
 
 ' ' The Scribners are rendering an important service to the cause of educa- 
 tion in the production of the ' Great Educators Series. ' ' '—Joumn/ of Edncatio?:. 
 
 ' ' We have not too many series devoted to the history and the theory of edu- 
 cation, and the one represented at the present moment by the two volumes before 
 us promises to take an important place— a leading place amongst the few we 
 have. ' ' — London Educational Times. 
 
 ARISTOTLE. 
 
 The whole of ancient pedagogy is Professor Davidson's subject, the 
 course of education being traced up to Aristotle, — an account of whose 
 life and system forms, of course, the main portion of the book,- — and 
 down from that great teacher, as well as philosopher, through the decline 
 of ancient civilization. An appendix discusses " The Seven Liberal Arts," 
 and paves the way for the next work in chronological sequence, — Professor 
 West's, on Alcuin. The close relations between CJreek education and 
 Greek social and political life are kept constantly in view by Professor 
 Davidson. A special and very attractive feature of the work is the cita- 
 tion, chiefly in English translation, of passages from original sources 
 expressing the spirit of the different theories described. 
 
 ' ' I am very glad to see this excellent contribution to the history of educa- 
 tion. Professor Davidson's work is admirable. His topic is one of the most 
 profitable in the entire history of culture."— W. '1'. Harris, L'. S. Cojnmissioucr 
 
 of Education. 
 
 " ' Aristotle ' is delightful reading. I know nothing in English that covers 
 the field of Greek Education so well. You will find it very hard to maintain 
 this level in the later works of the series, but I can wish you nothing better 
 than that you may do so."— G. Stanley Hall, CVirrX- Unii'crsity. 
 
 ALCUIN. 
 
 Professor West aims to develop the story of educational institutions 
 in Europe from the beginning of the influence of Christianity on education 
 to the origin of the Universities and the first beginnings of the modern 
 movement. A careful analysis is made of the effects of Greek and 
 Roman thought on the educational theory and practice of the early 
 Christian, and their great system of schools, and its results are studied 
 with care and in detail. The personality of Alcuin enters largely into the 
 story, because of his dominating influence in the movement. 
 
 ' ' Die von Ihnen mir freundlichst zugeschickte Schrift des Herrn Professor 
 West iiber Alcuin habe ich mit lebhaftem Interesse gelesen und bin uberrascht 
 davon in Nord America eine so eingehende Beschaftigung mit unserer Vorzeit 
 und eine so ausgebreitete Kenntniss der Literature iiber diesen Gegenstand zu 
 flnden. Es sind mir wohl Einzelheiten begeenet an denen ich etwas auszu- 
 setzen fand, die ganze Auffassung und Darstellung aber kann ich nur als sehr 
 wohl gelungen und zutreffend bezeichnen." — Professor Wattenbach, Berlin. 
 
 ' ' I take pleasure in saying that ' Alcuin ' seems to me to combine careful 
 scholarly investigation with popularity, and condensation with interest of de- 
 tail, in a truly admirable way. ' '—Professor G. T. Ladd, o/ y'ale. 
 
THE GREAT EDUCATORS 
 
 ABELARD. 
 
 M. Compayre, the well-known French educationist, has prepared in this 
 volume an account of the origin of the great European Universities 
 that is at once the most scientific and the most interesting in the English 
 language. Naturally the University of Paris is the central figure in the 
 account ; and the details of its early organization and influence are fully 
 given. Its connection with the other great universities of the Middle 
 Ages and with modern university movement is clearly pointed out. 
 Abelard, whose system of teaching and disputation was one of the earliest 
 signs of the rising universities, is the typical figure of the movement ; and 
 M. Compayre has given a sketch of his character and work, from an 
 entirely new point of view, that is most instructive. 
 
 ' ' ' Abelard ' may fairly be called the founder of university education in 
 Europe, and we have in this volume a description of his work and a careful 
 analysis of his character. As the founder of the great Paris University in the 
 thirteenth century the importance of his work can hardly be overestimated. 
 The chapter devoted to Abelard himself is an intensely interesting one, and the 
 other chapters are of marked value, devoted as they are to the origin and early 
 history of universities. . . . The volume is a notable educational work. "— 
 Boston Daily TraTeler. 
 
 LOYOLA. 
 
 This work is a critical and authoritative statement of the educational 
 principles and method adopted in the Society of Jesus, of which the 
 author is a distinguished member. The first part is a sketch, biograph- 
 ical and historical, of the dominant and directing personality of Ignatius, 
 the Founder of the order, and his comrades, and of the establishment and 
 early administrations of the Society. In the second an elaborate analysis 
 of the system of studies is given, beginning with an account of Aquaviva 
 and the Ratio StitdioniiH, and considering, under the general heading of 
 "the formation of the master," courses of literature and philosophy, of 
 divinity and allied sciences, repetition, disputation, and dictation ; and 
 under that of "formation of the scholar," symmetry of the courses pur- 
 sued, the prelection, classic literatures, school management and control, 
 examinations and graduation, grades and courses. 
 
 " This volume on St. Ignatius of ' Loyola and the Educational System of the 
 Jesuits,' by the Rev. Thomas Hughes, will probably be welcomed by others be- 
 sides those specially interested in the theories and methods of education. 
 Written by a member of the Jesuit Society, it comes to us with authority, and 
 presents a complete and well - arranged survey of the work of educational 
 development carried out by Ignatius and his followers. " —Zt>«<i)« Saturday 
 Keviciv. 
 
 FROEBEL. 
 
 Friedrich Froebel stands for the movement known both in Europe 
 and in this country as the New Education, more completely than any 
 other single name. The kindergarten movement, and the whole de- 
 velopment of modern methods of teaching, have been largely stimulated 
 by, if not entirely based upon, his philosophical exposition of education. 
 It is not believed that any other account of Froebel and his work is so 
 complete and exhaustive, as the author has for many years been a student 
 of Froebel's principles and methods not only in books, but also in actual 
 practice in the kindergarten. Mr. Bowen is a frequent examiner of kin- 
 
THE GREAT EDUCATORS 
 
 dergartens, of the children in them, and of students who are trained to be 
 kindergarten teachers. 
 
 ' ' No one, in England or America, is fitted to give a more sympathetic or lucid 
 interpretation ot Froebel than Mr. Courthope Bowen. ... Mr. Bowen's book 
 will he a most important addition to any library, and no student of Froebel can 
 afford to do without it." — Kaie Douglas Wiggin, AVzy \'oik City. 
 
 HERB ART. 
 
 In this book, President De Garmo has given, for the first time in the 
 Enghsh language, a systematic analysis of the Herbartian theory of ed- 
 ucation, which is now so much studied and discussed in Great Britain 
 and the United States, as well as in Germany. Not only does the 
 volume contain an exposition of the theory as expounded by Herbart 
 himself, but it traces in detail the development of that theory and the 
 additions to it made by such distinguished names as Ziller, Story, Frick, 
 Rein, and the American School of llerbartians. Especially valuable will 
 be found Dr. De Garmo's careful and systematic exposition of the prob- 
 lems that centre around the concentration and correlation of studies. 
 These problems are generally acknowledged to be the most pressing and 
 important at present before the teachers of the country. 
 
 ' ' Some one has said there can be no great need without the means of supply- 
 ing such need, and no sooner did the fraternity realize its need of a knowledge 
 of the essentials of Herbart than Dr. De Garmo's excellent work on ' Herbart and 
 the Herbartians,' by Scribner's Sons of New York, appeared, a book which, 
 costing but a dollar, gives all that the teacher really needs, and gives it with 
 devout loyalty and sensible discrimination. It is the work of a believer, a de- 
 votee, an enthusiast, but it is the masterpiece of the writer who has not for- 
 gotten what he owes to his reputation as a scholar in his devotion to his 
 master. ' ' — Jom-nal of Education. 
 
 THE ARNOLDS. 
 
 No book heretofore published concerning one or both of the Arnolds 
 has accomplished the task performed in the present instance by Sir 
 Joshua Fitch. A long-time colleague of Matthew Arnold in the British 
 Educational Department, the author — leaving biography aside — has, with 
 unusual skill, written a succinct and fascinating account of the important 
 services rendered to the educational interests of Great Britain by the 
 Master of Rugby and his famous son. The varied and successful efforts 
 of the latter in behalf of a better secondary education during his long 
 official career of thirty-five years as Inspector of Training Schools, no 
 less than the notable effect produced at Rugby by the inspiring example 
 of Thomas Arnold's high-minded character and enthusiastic scholarship, 
 are admirably presented. Whatever in the teaching of both seems likely 
 to prove of permanent value has been judiciously selected by the author 
 from the mass of their writings, and incorporated in the present volume. 
 The American educational public, which cannot fail to acknowledge a 
 lasting debt of gratitude to the Arnolds, father and son, will certainly wel- 
 come this sympathetic exposition of their influence and opinions. 
 
 " The book is opportune, for the Amoldian tradition, though widely diffused 
 in America, is not well based on accurate knowledge and is pretty much in 
 the air. Dr. Fitch seems the fittest person by reason of his spiritual sympathy 
 with the father and his personal association with the son, to sketch in this brief 
 way the two most typical modern English educators. And he has done his work 
 almost ideally well within his limitations of purpose. . . . The two men 
 
 live in these pages as they were. ' ' — Educational Review, New York.