rrors arise, not from what we do not know, but from what we
think we do know.[1]

The Incentive of Curiosity.

The same instinct animates all the different faculties of man. To the
activity of the body, striving to develop itself, succeeds the activity
of the mind, endeavoring to instruct itself. Children are at first
only restless; afterwards they are inquisitive. Their curiosity,
rightly trained, is the incentive of the age we are now considering.
We must always distinguish natural inclinations from those that have
their source in opinion.

There is a thirst for knowledge which is founded only upon a desire to
be thought learned, and another, springing from our natural curiosity
concerning anything which nearly or remotely interests us. Our desire
for happiness is inborn, and as it can never be fully satisfied, we are
always seeking ways to increase what we have. This first principle of
curiosity is natural to the heart of man, but is developed only in
proportion to our passions and to our advance in knowledge. Call your
pupil's attention to the phenomena of nature, and you will soon render
him inquisitive. But if you would keep this curiosity alive, do not be
in haste to satisfy it. Ask him questions that he can comprehend, and
let him solve them. Let him know a thing because he has found it out
for himself, and not because you have told him of it. Let him not
learn science, but discover it for himself. If once you substitute
authority for reason, he will not reason any more; he will only be the
sport of other people's opinions.

When you are ready to teach this child geography, you get together your
globes and your maps; and what machines they are! Why, instead of
using all these representations, do you not begin by showing him the
object itself, so as to let him know what you are talking of?

On some beautiful evening take the child to walk with you, in a place
suitable for your purpose, where in the unobstructed horizon the
setting sun can be plainly seen. Take a careful observation of all the
objects marking the spot at which it goes down. When you go for an
airing next day, return to this same place before the sun rises. You
can see it announce itself by arrows of fire. The brightness
increases; the east seems all aflame; from its glow you anticipate long
beforehand the coming of day. Every moment you imagine you see it. At
last it really does appear, a brilliant point which rises like a