His geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father’s country house, then the places between them, the rivers near them, and then the sun’s aspect and how to find one’s way by its aid.  This is the meeting place.  Let him make his own map, a very simple map, at first containing only two places; others may be added from time to time, as he is able to estimate their distance and position.  You see at once what a good start we have given him by making his eye his compass.

No doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but very little, and that little without his knowing it.  If he goes wrong let him alone, do not correct his mistakes; hold your tongue till he finds them out for himself and corrects them, or at most arrange something, as opportunity offers, which may show him his mistakes.  If he never makes mistakes he will never learn anything thoroughly.  Moreover, what he needs is not an exact knowledge of local topography, but how to find out for himself.  No matter whether he carries maps in his head provided he understands what they mean, and has a clear idea of the art of making them.  See what a difference there is already between the knowledge of your scholars and the ignorance of mine.  They learn maps, he makes them.  Here are fresh ornaments for his room.

Remember that this is the essential point in my method—­Do not teach the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate or confused ideas.  I care not if he knows nothing provided he is not mistaken, and I only acquaint him with truths to guard him against the errors he might put in their place.  Reason and judgment come slowly, prejudices flock to us in crowds, and from these he must be protected.  But if you make science itself your object, you embark on an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean strewn with reefs from which you will never return.  When I see a man in love with knowledge, yielding to its charms and flitting from one branch to another unable to stay his steps, he seems to me like a child gathering shells on the sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwing them aside for others which he sees beyond them, then taking them again, till overwhelmed by their number and unable to choose between them, he flings them all away and returns empty handed.

Time was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass our time for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have not time enough for all that would be of use.  The passions, remember, are drawing near, and when they knock at the door your scholar will have no ear for anything else.  The peaceful age of intelligence is so short, it flies so swiftly, there is so much to be done, that it is madness to try to make your child learned.  It is not your business to teach him the various sciences, but to give him a taste for them and methods of learning them when this taste is more mature.  That is assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education.