From the fable of the sleek dog and the starving wolf he learns a lesson of licence rather than the lesson of moderation which you profess to teach him.  I shall never forget seeing a little girl weeping bitterly over this tale, which had been told her as a lesson in obedience.  The poor child hated to be chained up; she felt the chain chafing her neck; she was crying because she was not a wolf.

So from the first of these fables the child learns the basest flattery; from the second, cruelty; from the third, injustice; from the fourth, satire; from the fifth, insubordination.  The last of these lessons is no more suitable for your pupils than for mine, though he has no use for it.  What results do you expect to get from your teaching when it contradicts itself!  But perhaps the same system of morals which furnishes me with objections against the fables supplies you with as many reasons for keeping to them.  Society requires a rule of morality in our words; it also requires a rule of morality in our deeds; and these two rules are quite different.  The former is contained in the Catechism and it is left there; the other is contained in La Fontaine’s fables for children and his tales for mothers.  The same author does for both.

Let us make a bargain, M. de la Fontaine.  For my own part, I undertake to make your books my favourite study; I undertake to love you, and to learn from your fables, for I hope I shall not mistake their meaning.  As to my pupil, permit me to prevent him studying any one of them till you have convinced me that it is good for him to learn things three-fourths of which are unintelligible to him, and until you can convince me that in those fables he can understand he will never reverse the order and imitate the villain instead of taking warning from his dupe.

When I thus get rid of children’s lessons, I get rid of the chief cause of their sorrows, namely their books.  Reading is the curse of childhood, yet it is almost the only occupation you can find for children.  Emile, at twelve years old, will hardly know what a book is.  “But,” you say, “he must, at least, know how to read.”

When reading is of use to him, I admit he must learn to read, but till then he will only find it a nuisance.

If children are not to be required to do anything as a matter of obedience, it follows that they will only learn what they perceive to be of real and present value, either for use or enjoyment; what other motive could they have for learning?  The art of speaking to our absent friends, of hearing their words; the art of letting them know at first hand our feelings, our desires, and our longings, is an art whose usefulness can be made plain at any age.  How is it that this art, so useful and pleasant in itself, has become a terror to children?  Because the child is compelled to acquire it against his will, and to use it for purposes beyond his comprehension.  A child has no great wish to perfect himself in the use of an instrument of torture, but make it a means to his pleasure, and soon you will not be able to keep him from it.