laints in words, why should they cry,
unless the suffering is too keen to be expressed by words? If they
then continue to cry, it is the fault of those around them. After
Emile has once said, "It hurts me," only acute suffering can force him
to cry.

If the child is physically so delicate and sensitive that he naturally
cries about nothing, I will soon exhaust the fountain of his tears, by
making them ineffectual. So long as he cries, I will not go to him; as
soon as he stops, I will run to him. Very soon his method of calling
me will be to keep quiet, or at the utmost, to utter a single cry.
Children judge of the meaning of signs by their palpable effect; they
have no other rule. Whatever harm a child may do himself, he very
rarely cries when alone, unless with the hope of being heard.

If he fall, if he bruise his head, if his nose bleed, if he cut his
finger, I should, instead of bustling about him with a look of alarm,
remain quiet, at least for a little while. The mischief is done; he
must endure it; all my anxiety will only serve to frighten him more,
and to increase his sensitiveness. After all, when we hurt ourselves,
it is less the shock which pains us than the fright. I will spare him
at least this last pang; for he will certainly estimate his hurt as he
sees me estimate it. If he sees me run anxiously to comfort and to
pity him, he will think himself seriously hurt; but if he sees me keep
my presence of mind, he will soon recover his own, and will think the
pain cured when he no longer feels it. At his age we learn our first
lessons in courage; and by fearlessly enduring lighter sufferings, we
gradually learn to bear the heavier ones.

Far from taking care that Emile does not hurt himself, I shall be
dissatisfied if he never does, and so grows up unacquainted with pain.
To suffer is the first and most necessary thing for him to learn.
Children are little and weak, apparently that they may learn these
important lessons. If a child fall his whole length, he will not break
his leg; if he strike himself with a stick, he will not break his arm;
if he lay hold of an edged tool, he does not grasp it tightly, and will
not cut himself very badly.

Our pedantic mania for instructing constantly leads us to teach
children what they can learn far better for themselves, and to lose
sight of what we alone can teach them. Is there anything more absurd
than the pains we take in teaching them to walk? As if we