poetry. Sentiment and taste are just now out of the question.
Continue to be clear, unaffected, and dispassionate; the time for using another language will come only too soon.
Educated in the spirit of our principles, accustomed to look for resources within himself, and to have recourse to others only when he finds himself really helpless, he will examine every new object for a long time without saying a word. He is thoughtful, and not disposed to ask questions. Be satisfied, therefore, with presenting objects at appropriate times and in appropriate ways. When you see his curiosity fairly at work, ask him some laconic question which will suggest its own answer.
On this occasion, having watched the sunrise from beginning to end with him, having made him notice the mountains and other neighboring objects on the same side, and allowed him to talk about them just as he pleases, be silent for a few minutes, as if in deep thought, and then say to him, "I think the sun set over there, and now it has risen over here. How can that be so?" Say no more; if he asks questions, do not answer them: speak of something else. Leave him to himself, and he will be certain to think the matter over.
To give the child the habit of attention and to impress him deeply with any truth affecting the senses, let him pass several restless days before he discovers that truth. If the one in question does not thus impress him, you may make him see it more clearly by reversing the problem. If he does not know how the sun passes from its setting to its rising, he at least does know how it travels from its rising to its setting; his eyes alone teach him this. Explain your first question by the second. If your pupil be not absolutely stupid, the analogy is so plain that he cannot escape it. This is his first lesson in cosmography.
As we pass slowly from one sensible idea to another, familiarize ourselves for a long time with each before considering the next, and do not force our pupil's attention; it will be a long way from this point to a knowledge of the sun's course and of the shape of the earth. But as all the apparent motions of the heavenly bodies are upon the same principle, and the first observation prepares the way for all the rest, less effort, if more time, is required to pass from the daily rotation of the earth to the calculation of eclipses than to understand clearly the phenomena of day and night.
Since the sun (apparently) revolves about the earth, it describes a circle, and we already know that every circle must have a centre. This centre, being in the heart of the earth, cannot be seen; but we may mark upon the surface two opposite points that correspond to it. A rod passing through these three points, and extending from one side of the heavens to the other, shall be the axis of the earth, and of the sun's apparent daily motion. A spherical top, turning on its point, shall represent the heavens revolving on their axis; the two extremities of the top are the two poles. The child will be interested in knowing one of them, which I will show him near the tail of Ursa Minor.
This will serve to amuse us for one night. By degrees we shall grow familiar with the stars, and this will awaken a desire to know the planets and to watch the constellations.
We have seen the sun rise at midsummer; we will also watch its rising at Christmas or some other fine day in winter. For be it known that we are not at all idle, and that we make a joke of braving the cold. I take care to make this second observation in the same place as the first; and after some conversation to pave the way for it. One or the other of us will be sure to exclaim, "How queer that is! the sun does not rise where it used to rise! Here are our old landmarks, and now it is rising over yonder. Then there must be one east for summer, and another for winter." Now, young teacher, your way is plain. These examples ought to suffice you for teaching the sphere very understandingly, by taking the world for your globe, and the real sun instead of your artificial sun.
Things Rather than their Signs.
In general, never show the representation of a thing unless it be impossible to show the thing itself; for the sign absorbs the child's attention, and makes him lose sight of the thing signified.
The armillary sphere[2] seems to me poorly designed and in bad proportion. Its confused circles and odd figures, giving it the look of a conjurer's apparatus, are enough to frighten a child. The earth is too small; the circles are too many and too large. Some of them, the colures,[3] for instance, are entirely useless. Every circle is larger than the earth. The pasteboard gives them an appearance of solidity which creates the mistaken impression that they are circular masses which really exist. When you tell the child that these are imaginary circles, he understands neither what he sees nor what you mean.
Shall we never learn to put ourselves in the child's place? We do not enter into his thoughts, but suppose them exactly like our own.
Constantly following our own method of reasoning, we cram his mind not only with a concatenation of truths, but also with extravagant notions and errors.
In the study of the sciences it is an open question whether we ought to use synthesis or analysis. It is not always necessary to choose either. In the same process of investigation we can sometimes both resolve and compound, and while the child thinks he is only analyzing, we can direct him by the methods teachers usually employ. By thus using both we make each prove the other. Starting at the same moment from two opposite points and never imagining that one road connects them, he will be agreeably surprised to find that what he supposed to be two paths finally meet as one.
I would, for example, take geography at these two extremes, and add to the study of the earth's motions the measurement of its parts, beginning with our own dwelling-place. While the child, studying the sphere, is transported into the heavens, bring him back to the measurement of the earth, and first show him his own home.
The two starting-points in his geography shall be the town in which he lives, and his father's house in the country. Afterward shall come the places lying between these two; then the neighboring rivers; lastly, the aspect of the sun, and the manner of finding out where the east is.
This last is the point of union. Let him make himself a map of all these details; a very simple map, including at first only two objects, then by degrees the others, as he learns their distance and position.
You see now what an advantage we have gained beforehand, by making his eyes serve him instead of a compass.
Even with this it may be necessary to direct him a little, but very little, and without appearing to do so at all. When he makes mistakes, let him make them; do not correct them. Wait in silence until he can see and correct them himself. Or, at most, take a good opportunity to set in motion some thing which will direct his attention to them. If he were never to make mistakes, he could not learn half so well.
Besides, the important thing is, not that he should know the exact topography of the country, but that he should learn how to find it out by himself. It matters little whether he has maps in his mind or not, so that he understands what they represent, and has a clear idea of how they are made.
Mark the difference between the learning of your pupils and the ignorance of mine. They know all about maps, and he can make them.
Our maps will serve as new decorations for our room.
Imparting a Taste for Science.
Bear in mind always that the life and soul of my system is, not to teach the child many things, but to allow only correct and clear ideas to enter his mind. I do not care if he knows nothing, so long as he is not mistaken. To guard him from errors he might learn, I furnish his mind with truths only. Reason and judgment enter slowly; prejudices crowd in; and he must be preserved from these last. Yet if you consider science in itself, you launch upon an unfathomable and boundless sea, full of unavoidable dangers. When I see a man carried away by his love for knowledge, hastening from one alluring science to another, without knowing where to stop, I think I see a child gathering shells upon the seashore. At first he loads himself with them; then, tempted by others, he throws these away, and gathers more. At last, weighed down by so many, and no longer knowing which to choose, he ends by throwing all away, and returning empty-handed.
In our early years time passed slowly; we endeavored to lose it, for fear of misusing it. The case is reversed; now we have not time enough for doing all that we find useful. Bear in mind that the passions are drawing nearer, and that as soon as they knock at the door, your pupil will have eyes and ears for them alone. The tranquil period of intelligence is so brief, and has so many other necessary uses, that only folly imagines it long enough to make the child a learned man.
The thing is, not to teach him knowledge, but to give him a love for it, and a good method of acquiring it when this love has grown stronger. Certainly this is a fundamental principle in all good education.
Now, also, is the time to accustom him gradually to concentrate attention on a single object. This attention, however, should never result from constraint, but from desire and pleasure. Be careful that it shall not grow irksome, or approach the point of weariness. Leave any subject just before he grows tired of it; for the learning it matters less to him than the never being obliged to learn anything against his will. If he himself questions you, answer so as to keep alive his curiosity, not to satisfy it altogether. Above all, when you find that he makes inquiries, not for the sake of learning something, but to talk at random and annoy you with silly questions, pause at once, assured that he cares nothing about the matter, but only to occupy your time with himself. Less regard should be paid to what he says than to the motive which leads him to speak. This caution, heretofore unnecessary, is of the utmost importance as soon as a child begins to reason.
There is a chain of general truths by which all sciences are linked to common principles and successively unfolded. This chain is the method of philosophers, with which, for the present, we have nothing to do.
There is another, altogether different, which shows each object as the cause of another, and always points out the one following. This order, which, by a perpetual curiosity, keeps alive the attention demanded by all, is the one followed by most men, and of all others necessary with children. When, in making our maps, we found out the place of the east, we were obliged to draw meridians. The two points of intersection between the equal shadows of night and morning furnish an excellent meridian for an astronomer thirteen years old. But these meridians disappear; it takes time to draw them; they oblige us to work always in the same place; so much care, so much annoyance, will tire him out at last. We have seen and provided for this beforehand.
I have again begun upon tedious and minute details. Readers, I hear your murmurs, and disregard them. I will not sacrifice to your impatience the most useful part of this book. Do what you please with my tediousness, as I have done as I pleased in regard to your complaints.
The Juggler.
For some time my pupil and I had observed that different bodies, such as amber, glass, and wax, when rubbed, attract straws, and that others do not attract them. By accident we discovered one that has a virtue more extraordinary still,--that of attracting at a distance, and without being rubbed, iron filings and other bits of iron. This peculiarity amused us for some time before we saw any use in it. At last we found out that it may be communicated to iron itself, when magnetized to a certain degree. One day we went to a fair, where a juggler, with a piece of bread, attracted a duck made of wax, and floating on a bowl of water. Much surprised, we did not however say, "He is a conjurer," for we knew nothing about conjurers. Continually struck by effects whose causes we do not know, we were not in haste to decide the matter, and remained in ignorance until we found a way out of it.
When we reached home we had talked so much of the duck at the fair that we thought we would endeavor to copy it. Taking a perfect needle, well magnetized, we inclosed it in white wax, modelled as well as we could do it into the shape of a duck, so that the needle passed entirely through the body, and with its larger end formed the duck's bill. We placed the duck upon the water, applied to the beak the handle of a key, and saw, with a delight easy to imagine, that our duck would follow the key precisely as the one at the fair had followed the piece of bread. We saw that some time or other we might observe the direction in which the duck turned when left to itself upon the water.
But absorbed at that time by another object, we wanted nothing more.
That evening, having in our pockets bread prepared for the occasion, we returned to the fair. As soon as the mountebank had performed his feat, my little philosopher, scarcely able to contain himself, told him that the thing was not hard to do, and that he could do it himself. He was taken at his word. Instantly he took from his pocket the bread in which he had hidden the bit of iron. Approaching the table his heart beat fast; almost tremblingly, he presented the bread. The duck came toward it and followed it; the child shouted and danced for joy. At the clapping of hands, and the acclamations of all present, his head swam, and he was almost beside himself. The juggler was astonished, but embraced and congratulated him, begging that we would honor him again by our presence on the following day, adding that he would take care to have a larger company present to applaud our skill. My little naturalist, filled with pride, began to prattle; but I silenced him, and led him away loaded with praises. The child counted the minutes until the morrow with impatience that made me smile. He invited everybody he met; gladly would he have had all mankind as witnesses of his triumph. He could scarcely wait for the hour agreed upon, and, long before it came, flew to the place appointed. The hall was already full, and on entering, his little heart beat fast. Other feats were to come first; the juggler outdid himself, and there were some really wonderful performances. The child paid no attention to these. His excitement had thrown him into a perspiration; he was almost breathless, and fingered the bread in his pocket with a hand trembling with impatience.
At last his turn came, and the master pompously announced the fact.
Rather bashfully the boy drew near and held forth his bread. Alas for the changes in human affairs! The duck, yesterday so tame, had grown wild. Instead of presenting its bill, it turned about and swam away, avoiding the bread and the hand which presented it, as carefully as it had before followed them. After many fruitless attempts, each received with derision, the child complained that a trick was played on him, and defied the juggler to attract the duck.
The man, without a word, took a piece of bread and presented it to the duck, which instantly followed it, and came towards his hand. The child took the same bit of bread; but far from having better success, he saw the duck make sport of him by whirling round and round as it swam about the edge of the basin. At last he retired in great confusion, no longer daring to encounter the hisses which followed.
Then the juggler took the bit of bread the child had brought, and succeeded as well with it as with his own. In the presence of the entire company he drew out the needle, making another joke at our expense; then, with the bread thus disarmed, he attracted the duck as before. He did the same thing with a piece of bread which a third person cut off in the presence of all; again, with his glove, and with the tip of his finger. At last, going to the middle of the room, he declared in the emphatic tone peculiar to his sort, that the duck would obey his voice quite as well as his gesture. He spoke, and the duck obeyed him; commanded it to go to the right, and it went to the right; to return, and it did so; to turn, and it turned itself about. Each movement was as prompt as the command. The redoubled applause was a repeated affront to us. We stole away unmolested, and shut ourselves up in our room, without proclaiming our success far and wide as we had meant to do.
There was a knock at our door next morning; I opened it, and there stood the mountebank, who modestly complained of our conduct. What had he done to us that we should try to throw discredit on his performances and take away his livelihood? What is so wonderful in the art of attracting a wax duck, that the honor should be worth the price of an honest man's living? "Faith, gentlemen, if I had any other way of earning my bread, I should boast very little of this way. You may well believe that a man who has spent his life in practising this pitiful trade understands it much better than you, who devote only a few minutes to it. If I did not show you my best performances the first time, it was because a man ought not to be such a fool as to parade everything he knows. I always take care to keep my best things for a fit occasion; and I have others, too, to rebuke young and thoughtless people. Besides, gentlemen, I am going to teach you, in the goodness of my heart, the secret which puzzled you so much, begging that you will not abuse your knowledge of it to injure me, and that another time you will use more discretion."
Then he showed us his apparatus, and we saw, to our surprise, that it consisted only of a powerful magnet moved by a child concealed beneath the table. The man put up his machine again; and after thanking him and making due apologies, we offered him a present. He refused, saying, "No, gentlemen, I am not so well pleased with you as to accept presents from you. You cannot help being under an obligation to me, and that is revenge enough. But, you see, generosity is to be found in every station in life; I take pay for my performances, not for my lessons."
As he was going out, he reprimanded me pointedly and aloud. "I willingly pardon this child," said he; "he has offended only through ignorance. But you, sir, must have known the nature of his fault; why did you allow him to commit such a fault? Since you live together, you, who are older, ought to have taken the trouble of advising him; the authority of your experience should have guided him. When he is old enough to reproach you for his childish errors, he will certainly blame you for those of which you did not warn him."[4] He went away, leaving us greatly abashed. I took upon myself the blame of my easy compliance, and promised the child that, another time, I would sacrifice it to his interest, and warn him of his faults before they were committed. For a time was coming when our relations would be changed, and the severity of the tutor must succeed to the complaisance of an equal. This change should be gradual; everything must be foreseen, and that long beforehand.
The following day we returned to the fair, to see once more the trick whose secret we had learned. We approached our juggling Socrates with deep respect, hardly venturing to look at him. He overwhelmed us with civilities, and seated us with a marked attention which added to our humiliation. He performed his tricks as usual, but took pains to amuse himself for a long time with the duck trick, often looking at us with a rather defiant air. We understood it perfectly, and did not breathe a syllable. If my pupil had even dared to open his mouth, he would have deserved to be annihilated.
All the details of this illustration are far more important than they appear. How many lessons are here combined in one! How many mortifying effects does the first feeling of vanity bring upon us!
Young teachers, watch carefully its first manifestation. If you can thus turn it into humiliation and disgrace, be assured that a second lesson will not soon be necessary.
"What an amount of preparation!" you will say. True; and all to make us a compass to use instead of a meridian line!
Having learned that a magnet acts through other bodies, we were all impatience until we had made an apparatus like the one we had seen,--a hollow table-top with a very shallow basin adjusted upon it and filled with water, a duck rather more carefully made, and so on. Watching this apparatus attentively and often, we finally observed that the duck, when at rest, nearly always turned in the same direction.
Following up the experiment by examining this direction, we found it to be from south to north. Nothing more was necessary; our compass was invented, or might as well have been. We had begun to study physics.
Experimental Physics.
The earth has different climates, and these have different temperatures. As we approach the poles the variation of seasons is more perceptible,--all bodies contract with cold and expand with heat.
This effect is more readily measured in liquids, and is particularly noticeable in spirituous liquors. This fact suggested the idea of the thermometer. The wind strikes our faces; air is therefore a body, a fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. Turn a glass vessel upside down in water, and the water will not fill it unless you leave a vent for the air; therefore air is capable of resistance. Sink the glass lower, and the water rises in the air-filled region of the glass, although it does not entirely fill that space. Air is therefore to some extent compressible. A ball filled with compressed air bounds much better than when filled with anything else: air is therefore elastic. When lying at full length in the bath, raise the arm horizontally out of the water, and you feel it burdened by a great weight; air is therefore heavy. Put air in equilibrium with other bodies, and you can measure its weight. From these observations were constructed the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump.
All the laws of statics and hydrostatics were discovered by experiments as simple as these. I would not have my pupil study them in a laboratory of experimental physics. I dislike all that array of machines and instruments. The parade of science is fatal to science itself. All those machines frighten the child; or else their singular forms divide and distract the attention he ought to give to their effects.
I would make all our own machines, and not begin by making the instrument before the experiment has been tried. But after apparently lighting by chance on the experiment, I should by degrees invent instruments for verifying it. These instruments should not be so perfect and exact as our ideas of what they should be and of the operations resulting from them.
For the first lesson in statics, instead of using balances, I put a stick across the back of a chair, and when evenly balanced, measure its two portions. I add weights to each part, sometimes equal, sometimes unequal. Pushing it to or fro as may be necessary, I finally discover that equilibrium results from a reciprocal proportion between the amount of weight and the length of the levers. Thus my little student of physics can rectify balances without having ever seen them.
When we thus learn by ourselves instead of learning from others, our ideas are far more definite and clear. Besides, if our reason is not accustomed to slavish submission to authority, this discovering relations, linking one idea to another, and inventing apparatus, renders us much more ingenious. If, instead, we take everything just as it is given to us, we allow our minds to sink down into indifference; just as a man who always lets his servants dress him and wait on him, and his horses carry him about, loses finally not only the vigor but even the use of his limbs. Boileau boasted that he had taught Racine to rhyme with difficulty. There are many excellent labor-saving methods for studying science; but we are in sore need of one to teach us how to learn them with more effort of our own.
The most manifest value of these slow and laborious researches is, that amid speculative studies they maintain the activity and suppleness of the body, by training the hands to labor, and creating habits useful to any man. So many instruments are invented to aid in our experiments and to supplement the action of our senses, that we neglect to use the senses themselves. If the graphometer measures the size of an angle for us, we need not estimate it ourselves. The eye which measured distances with precision intrusts this work to the chain; the steelyard saves me the trouble of measuring weights by the hand. The more ingenious our apparatus, the more clumsy and awkward do our organs become. If we surround ourselves with instruments, we shall no longer find them within ourselves.
But when, in making the apparatus, we employ the skill and sagacity required in doing without them, we do not lose, but gain. By adding art to nature, we become more ingenious and no less skilful. If, instead of keeping a child at his books, I keep him busy in a workshop, his hands labor to his mind's advantage: while he regards himself only as a workman he is growing into a philosopher. This kind of exercise has other uses, of which I will speak hereafter; and we shall see how philosophic amusements prepare us for the true functions of manhood.
I have already remarked that purely speculative studies are rarely adapted to children, even when approaching the period of youth; but without making them enter very deeply into systematic physics, let all the experiments be connected by some kind of dependence by which the child can arrange them in his mind and recall them at need. For we cannot without something of this sort retain isolated facts or even reasonings long in memory.
In investigating the laws of nature, always begin with the most common and most easily observed phenomena, and accustom your pupil not to consider these phenomena as reasons, but as facts. Taking a stone, I pretend to lay it upon the air; opening my hand, the stone falls.
Looking at Émile, who is watching my motions, I say to him, "Why did the stone fall?"
No child will hesitate in answering such a question, not even Émile, unless I have taken great care that he shall not know how. Any child will say that the stone falls because it is heavy. "And what does heavy mean?" "Whatever falls is heavy." Here my little philosopher is really at a stand. Whether this first lesson in experimental physics aids him in understanding that subject or not, it will always be a practical lesson.
Nothing to be Taken upon Authority. Learning from the Pupil's own Necessities.
As the child's understanding matures, other important considerations demand that we choose his occupations with more care. As soon as he understands himself and all that relates to him well enough and broadly enough to discern what is to his advantage and what is becoming in him, he can appreciate the difference between work and play, and to regard the one solely as relaxation from the other. Objects really useful may then be included among his studies, and he will pay more attention to them than if amusement alone were concerned. The ever-present law of necessity early teaches us to do what we dislike, to escape evils we should dislike even more. Such is the use of foresight from which, judicious or injudicious, springs all the wisdom or all the unhappiness of mankind.
We all long for happiness, but to acquire it we ought first to know what it is. To the natural man it is as simple as his mode of life; it means health, liberty, and the necessaries of life, and freedom from suffering. The happiness of man as a moral being is another thing, foreign to the present question. I cannot too often repeat that only objects purely physical can interest children, especially those who have not had their vanity aroused and their nature corrupted by the poison of opinion.
When they provide beforehand for their own wants, their understanding is somewhat developed, and they are beginning to learn the value of time. We ought then by all means to accustom and to direct them to its employment to useful ends, these being such as are useful at their age and readily understood by them. The subject of moral order and the usages of society should not yet be presented, because children are not in a condition to understand such things. To force their attention upon things which, as we vaguely tell them, will be for their good, when they do not know what this good means, is foolish. It is no less foolish to assure them that such things will benefit them when grown; for they take no interest in this supposed benefit, which they cannot understand.
Let the child take nothing for granted because some one says it is so.
Nothing is good to him but what he feels to be good. You think it far sighted to push him beyond his understanding of things, but you are mistaken. For the sake of arming him with weapons he does not know how to use, you take from him one universal among men, common sense: you teach him to allow himself always to be led, never to be more than a machine in the hands of others. If you will have him docile while he is young, you will make him a credulous dupe when he is a man. You are continually saying to him, "All I require of you is for your own good, but you cannot understand it yet. What does it matter to me whether you do what I require or not? You are doing it entirely for your own sake." With such fine speeches you are paving the way for some kind of trickster or fool,--some visionary babbler or charlatan,--who will entrap him or persuade him to adopt his own folly.
A man may be well acquainted with things whose utility a child cannot comprehend; but is it right, or even possible, for a child to learn what a man ought to know? Try to teach the child all that is useful to him now, and you will keep him busy all the time. Why would you injure the studies suitable to him at his age by giving him those of an age he may never attain? "But," you say, "will there be time for learning what he ought to know when the time to use it has already come?" I do not know; but I am sure that he cannot learn it sooner. For experience and feeling are our real teachers, and we never understand thoroughly what is best for us except from the circumstances of our case. A child knows that he will one day be a man. All the ideas of manhood that he can understand give us opportunities of teaching him; but of those he cannot understand he should remain in absolute ignorance. This entire book is only a continued demonstration of this principle of education.
Finding out the East. The Forest of Montmorency.
I do not like explanatory lectures; young people pay very little attention to them, and seldom remember them. Things! things! I cannot repeat often enough that we attach too much importance to words. Our babbling education produces nothing but babblers.
Suppose that while we are studying the course of the sun, and the manner of finding where the east is, Émile all at once interrupts me, to ask, "What is the use of all this?" What an opportunity for a fine discourse! How many things I could tell him of in answering this question, especially if anybody were by to listen! I could mention the advantages of travel and of commerce; the peculiar products of each climate; the manners of different nations; the use of the calendar; the calculation of seasons in agriculture; the art of navigation, and the manner of travelling by sea, following the true course without knowing where we are. I might take up politics, natural history, astronomy, even ethics and international law, by way of giving my pupil an exalted idea of all these sciences, and a strong desire to learn them. When I have done, the boy will not have understood a single idea out of all my pedantic display. He would like to ask again, "What is the use of finding out where the east is?" but dares not, lest I might be angry.
He finds it more to his interest to pretend to understand what he has been compelled to hear. This is not at all an uncommon case in superior education, so-called.
But our Émile, brought up more like a rustic, and carefully taught to think very slowly, will not listen to all this. He will run away at the first word he does not understand, and play about the room, leaving me to harangue all by myself. Let us find a simpler way; this scientific display does him no good.
We were noticing the position of the forest north of Montmorency, when he interrupted me with the eager question, "What is the use of knowing that?" "You may be right," said I; "we must take time to think about it; and if there is really no use in it, we will not try it again, for we have enough to do that is of use." We went at something else, and there was no more geography that day.
The next morning I proposed a walk before breakfast. Nothing could have pleased him better; children are always ready to run about, and this boy had sturdy legs of his own. We went into the forest, and wandered over the fields; we lost ourselves, having no idea where we were; and when we intended to go home, could not find our way. Time passed; the heat of the day came on; we were hungry. In vain did we hurry about from place to place; we found everywhere nothing but woods, quarries, plains, and not a landmark that we knew. Heated, worn out with fatigue, and very hungry, our running about only led us more and more astray. At last we sat down to rest and to think the matter over.
Émile, like any other child, did not think about it; he cried. He did not know that we were near the gate of Montmorency, and that only a narrow strip of woodland hid it from us. But to him this narrow strip of woodland was a whole forest; one of his stature would be lost to sight among bushes.
After some moments of silence I said to him, with a troubled air, "My dear Émile, what shall we do to get away from here?"
ÉMILE. [_In a profuse perspiration, and crying bitterly._] I don't know. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. I can't do anything.
JEAN JACQUES. Do you think I am better off than you, or that I would mind crying too, if crying would do for my breakfast? There is no use in crying; the thing is, to find our way. Let me see your watch; what time is it?
ÉMILE. It is twelve o'clock, and I haven't had my breakfast.
JEAN JACQUES. That is true. It is twelve o'clock, and I haven't had my breakfast, either.
ÉMILE. Oh, how hungry you must be!
JEAN JACQUES. The worst of it is that my dinner will not come here to