CHAPTER I
OF PROFIT AND HONESTY
CHAPTER II
OF REPENTANCE
CHAPTER III
OF THREE COMMERCES
CHAPTER IV
OF DIVERSION
CHAPTER V
UPON SOME VERSES OF VIRGIL
CHAPTER VI
OF COACHES
CHAPTER VII
OF THE INCONVENIENCE OF GREATNESS
CHAPTER VIII
OF THE ART OF CONFERENCE
CHAPTER IX
OF VANITY
CHAPTER X
OF MANAGING THE WILL
CHAPTER XI
OF CRIPPLES
CHAPTER XII
OF PHYSIOGNOMY
CHAPTER XIII
OF EXPERIENCE
BOOK THE THIRD
CHAPTER I——OF PROFIT AND HONESTY
No man is free from speaking foolish things; but the worst on't is,
when a man labours to play the fool:
"Nae iste magno conatu magnas nugas dixerit."
["Truly he, with a great effort will shortly say a mighty trifle."
—-Terence, Heaut., act iii., s. 4.]
This does not concern me; mine slip from me with as little care as
they are of little value, and 'tis the better for them. I would
presently part with them for what they are worth, and neither buy nor
sell them, but as they weigh. I speak on paper, as I do to the first
person I meet; and that this is true, observe what follows.
To whom ought not treachery to be hateful, when Tiberius refused it
in a thing of so great importance to him? He had word sent him from
Germany that if he thought fit, they would rid him of Arminius by
poison: this was the most potent enemy the Romans had, who had defeated
them so ignominiously under Varus, and who alone prevented their
aggrandisement in those parts.
He returned answer, "that the people of Rome were wont to revenge
themselves of their enemies by open ways, and with their swords in their
hands, and not clandestinely and by fraud": wherein he quitted the
profitable for the honest. You will tell me that he was a braggadocio; I
believe so too: and 'tis no great miracle in men of his profession. But
the acknowledgment of virtue is not less valid in the mouth of him who
hates it, forasmuch as truth forces it from him, and if he will not
inwardly receive it, he at least puts it on for a decoration.
Our outward and inward structure is full of imperfection; but there
is nothing useless in nature, not even inutility itself; nothing has
insinuated itself into this universe that has not therein some fit and
proper place. Our being is cemented with sickly qualities: ambition,
jealousy, envy, revenge, superstition, and despair have so natural a
possession in us, that its image is discerned in beasts; nay, and
cruelty, so unnatural a vice; for even in the midst of compassion we
feel within, I know not what tart-sweet titillation of ill-natured
pleasure in seeing others suffer; and the children feel it:
"Suave mari magno, turbantibus aequora ventis,
E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem:"
["It is sweet, when the winds disturb the waters of the vast sea, to
witness from land the peril of other persons."—Lucretius, ii. I.]
of the seeds of which qualities, whoever should divest man, would
destroy the fundamental conditions of human life. Likewise, in all
governments there are necessary offices, not only abject, but vicious
also. Vices there help to make up the seam in our piecing, as poisons
are useful for the conservation of health. If they become excusable
because they are of use to us, and that the common necessity covers
their true qualities, we are to resign this part to the strongest and
boldest citizens, who sacrifice their honour and conscience, as others
of old sacrificed their lives, for the good of their country: we, who
are weaker, take upon us parts both that are more easy and less
hazardous. The public weal requires that men should betray, and lie, and
massacre; let us leave this commission to men who are more obedient and
more supple.
In earnest, I have often been troubled to see judges, by fraud and
false hopes of favour or pardon, allure a criminal to confess his fact,
and therein to make use of cozenage and impudence. It would become
justice, and Plato himself, who countenances this manner of proceeding,
to furnish me with other means more suitable to my own liking: this is a
malicious kind of justice, and I look upon it as no less wounded by
itself than by others. I said not long since to some company in
discourse, that I should hardly be drawn to betray my prince for a
particular man, who should be much ashamed to betray any particular man
for my prince; and I do not only hate deceiving myself, but that any one
should deceive through me; I will neither afford matter nor occasion to
any such thing.
In the little I have had to mediate betwixt our princes—[Between the
King of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV., and the Duc de Guise. See De
Thou, De Vita Sua, iii. 9.]—in the divisions and subdivisions by which
we are at this time torn to pieces, I have been very careful that they
should neither be deceived in me nor deceive others by me. People of
that kind of trading are very reserved, and pretend to be the most
moderate imaginable and nearest to the opinions of those with whom they
have to do; I expose myself in my stiff opinion, and after a method the
most my own; a tender negotiator, a novice, who had rather fail in the
affair than be wanting to myself. And yet it has been hitherto with so
good luck (for fortune has doubtless the best share in it), that few
things have passed from hand to hand with less suspicion or more favour
and privacy. I have a free and open way that easily insinuates itself
and obtains belief with those with whom I am to deal at the first
meeting. Sincerity and pure truth, in what age soever, pass for current;
and besides, the liberty and freedom of a man who treats without any
interest of his own is never hateful or suspected, and he may very well
make use of the answer of Hyperides to the Athenians, who complained of
his blunt way of speaking: "Messieurs, do not consider whether or no I
am free, but whether I am so without a bribe, or without any advantage
to my own affairs." My liberty of speaking has also easily cleared me
from all suspicion of dissembling by its vehemency, leaving nothing
unsaid, how home and bitter soever (so that I could have said no worse
behind their backs), and in that it carried along with it a manifest
show of simplicity and indifference. I pretend to no other fruit by
acting than to act, and add to it no long arguments or propositions;
every action plays its own game, win if it can.
As to the rest, I am not swayed by any passion, either of love or
hatred, towards the great, nor has my will captivated either by
particular injury or obligation. I look upon our kings with an affection
simply loyal and respectful, neither prompted nor restrained by any
private interest, and I love myself for it. Nor does the general and
just cause attract me otherwise than with moderation, and without heat.
I am not subject to those penetrating and close compacts and
engagements. Anger and hatred are beyond the duty of justice; and are
passions only useful to those who do not keep themselves strictly to
their duty by simple reason:
"Utatur motu animi, qui uti ratione non potest."
["He may employ his passion, who can make no use of his reason."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., iv. 25.]
All legitimate intentions are temperate and equable of themselves; if
otherwise, they degenerate into seditious and unlawful. This is it which
makes me walk everywhere with my head erect, my face and my heart open.
In truth, and I am not afraid to confess it, I should easily, in case of
need, hold up one candle to St. Michael and another to his dragon, like
the old woman; I will follow the right side even to the fire, but
exclusively, if I can. Let Montaigne be overwhelmed in the public ruin
if need be; but if there be no need, I should think myself obliged to
fortune to save me, and I will make use of all the length of line my
duty allows for his preservation. Was it not Atticus who, being of the
just but losing side, preserved himself by his moderation in that
universal shipwreck of the world, amongst so many mutations and
diversities? For private man, as he was, it is more easy; and in such
kind of work, I think a man may justly not be ambitious to offer and
insinuate himself. For a man, indeed, to be wavering and irresolute, to
keep his affection unmoved and without inclination in the troubles of
his country and public divisions, I neither think it handsome nor
honest:
"Ea non media, sed nulla via est, velut eventum
exspectantium, quo fortunae consilia sua applicent."
["That is not a middle way, but no way, to await events, by which
they refer their resolutions to fortune."—Livy, xxxii. 21.]
This may be allowed in our neighbours' affairs; and thus Gelo, the
tyrant of Syracuse, suspended his inclination in the war betwixt the
Greeks and barbarians, keeping a resident ambassador with presents at
Delphos, to watch and see which way fortune would incline, and then take
fit occasion to fall in with the victors. It would be a kind of treason
to proceed after this manner in our own domestic affairs, wherein a man
must of necessity be of the one side or the other; though for a man who
has no office or express command to call him out, to sit still I hold it
more excusable (and yet I do not excuse myself upon these terms) than in
foreign expeditions, to which, however, according to our laws, no man is
pressed against his will. And yet even those who wholly engage
themselves in such a war may behave themselves with such temper and
moderation, that the storm may fly over their heads without doing them
any harm. Had we not reason to hope such an issue in the person of the
late Bishop of Orleans, the Sieur de Morvilliers?
[An able negotiator, who, though protected by the Guises, and
strongly supporting them, was yet very far from persecuting the
Reformists. He died 1577.]
And I know, amongst those who behave themselves most bravely in the
present war, some whose manners are so gentle, obliging, and just, that
they will certainly stand firm, whatever event Heaven is preparing for
us. I am of opinion that it properly belongs to kings only to quarrel
with kings; and I laugh at those spirits who, out of lightness of heart,
lend themselves to so disproportioned disputes; for a man has never the
more particular quarrel with a prince, by marching openly and boldly
against him for his own honour and according to his duty; if he does not
love such a person, he does better, he esteems him. And notably the
cause of the laws and of the ancient government of a kingdom, has this
always annexed to it, that even those who, for their own private
interest, invade them, excuse, if they do not honour, the defenders.
But we are not, as we nowadays do, to call peevishness and inward
discontent, that spring from private interest and passion, duty, nor a
treacherous and malicious conduct, courage; they call their proneness to
mischief and violence zeal; 'tis not the cause, but their interest, that
inflames them; they kindle and begin a war, not because it is just, but
because it is war.
A man may very well behave himself commodiously and loyally too
amongst those of the adverse party; carry yourself, if not with the same
equal affection (for that is capable of different measure), at least
with an affection moderate, well tempered, and such as shall not so
engage you to one party, that it may demand all you are able to do for
that side, content yourself with a moderate proportion of their, favour
and goodwill; and to swim in troubled waters without fishing in them.
The other way, of offering a man's self and the utmost service he is
able to do, both to one party and the other, has still less of prudence
in it than conscience. Does not he to whom you betray another, to whom
you were as welcome as to himself, know that you will at another time do
as much for him? He holds you for a villain; and in the meantime hears
what you will say, gathers intelligence from you, and works his own ends
out of your disloyalty; double-dealing men are useful for bringing in,
but we must have a care they carry out as little as is possible.
I say nothing to one party that I may not, upon occasion, say to the
other, with a little alteration of accent; and report nothing but things
either indifferent or known, or what is of common consequence. I cannot
permit myself, for any consideration, to tell them a lie. What is
intrusted to my secrecy, I religiously conceal; but I take as few trusts
of that nature upon me as I can. The secrets of princes are a
troublesome burthen to such as are not interested in them. I very
willingly bargain that they trust me with little, but confidently rely
upon what I tell them. I have ever known more than I desired. One open
way of speaking introduces another open way of speaking, and draws out
discoveries, like wine and love. Philippides, in my opinion, answered
King Lysimachus very discreetly, who, asking him what of his estate he
should bestow upon him? "What you will," said he, "provided it be none
of your secrets." I see every one is displeased if the bottom of the
affair be concealed from him wherein he is employed, or that there be
any reservation in the thing; for my part, I am content to know no more
of the business than what they would have me employ myself in, nor
desire that my knowledge should exceed or restrict what I have to say.
If I must serve for an instrument of deceit, let it be at least with a
safe conscience: I will not be reputed a servant either so affectionate
or so loyal as to be fit to betray any one: he who is unfaithful to
himself, is excusably so to his master. But they are princes who do not
accept men by halves, and despise limited and conditional services: I
cannot help it: I frankly tell them how far I can go; for a slave I
should not be, but to reason, and I can hardly submit even to that. And
they also are to blame to exact from a freeman the same subjection and
obligation to their service that they do from him they have made and
bought, or whose fortune particularly and expressly depends upon theirs.
The laws have delivered me from a great anxiety; they have chosen a side
for me, and given me a master; all other superiority and obligation
ought to be relative to that, and cut, off from all other. Yet this is
not to say, that if my affection should otherwise incline me, my hand
should presently obey it; the will and desire are a law to themselves;
but actions must receive commission from the public appointment.
All this proceeding of mine is a little dissonant from the ordinary
forms; it would produce no great effects, nor be of any long duration;
innocence itself could not, in this age of ours, either negotiate
without dissimulation, or traffic without lying; and, indeed, public
employments are by no means for my palate: what my profession requires,
I perform after the most private manner that I can. Being young, I was
engaged up to the ears in business, and it succeeded well; but I
disengaged myself in good time. I have often since avoided meddling in
it, rarely accepted, and never asked it; keeping my back still turned to
ambition; but if not like rowers who so advance backward, yet so, at the
same time, that I am less obliged to my resolution than to my good
fortune, that I was not wholly embarked in it. For there are ways less
displeasing to my taste, and more suitable to my ability, by which, if
she had formerly called me to the public service, and my own advancement
towards the world's opinion, I know I should, in spite of all my own
arguments to the contrary, have pursued them. Such as commonly say, in
opposition to what I profess, that what I call freedom, simplicity, and
plainness in my manners, is art and subtlety, and rather prudence than
goodness, industry than nature, good sense than good luck, do me more
honour than disgrace: but, certainly, they make my subtlety too subtle;
and whoever has followed me close, and pryed narrowly into me, I will
give him the victory, if he does not confess that there is no rule in
their school that could match this natural motion, and maintain an
appearance of liberty and licence, so equal and inflexible, through so
many various and crooked paths, and that all their wit and endeavour
could never have led them through. The way of truth is one and simple;
that of particular profit, and the commodity of affairs a man is
entrusted with, is double, unequal, and casual. I have often seen these
counterfeit and artificial liberties practised, but, for the most part,
without success; they relish of AEsop's ass who, in emulation of the
dog, obligingly clapped his two fore-feet upon his master's shoulders;
but as many caresses as the dog had for such an expression of kindness,
twice so many blows with a cudgel had the poor ass for his compliment:
"Id maxime quemque decet, quod est cujusque suum maxime."
["That best becomes every man which belongs most to him;"
—Cicero, De Offic., i. 31.]
I will not deprive deceit of its due; that were but ill to understand
the world: I know it has often been of great use, and that it maintains
and supplies most men's employment. There are vices that are lawful, as
there are many actions, either good or excusable, that are not lawful in
themselves.
The justice which in itself is natural and universal is otherwise and
more nobly ordered than that other justice which is special, national,
and constrained to the ends of government,
"Veri juris germanaeque justitiae solidam et expressam
effigiem nullam tenemus; umbra et imaginibus utimur;"
["We retain no solid and express portraiture of true right and
germane justice; we have only the shadow and image of it."
—Cicero, De Offic., iii. 17.]
insomuch that the sage Dandamis, hearing the lives of Socrates,
Pythagoras, and Diogenes read, judged them to be great men every way,
excepting that they were too much subjected to the reverence of the
laws, which, to second and authorise, true virtue must abate very much
of its original vigour; many vicious actions are introduced, not only by
their permission, but by their advice:
"Ex senatus consultis plebisquescitis scelera exercentur."
["Crimes are committed by the decrees of the Senate and the
popular assembly."—Seneca, Ep., 95.]
I follow the common phrase that distinguishes betwixt profitable and
honest things, so as to call some natural actions, that are not only
profitable but necessary, dishonest and foul.
But let us proceed in our examples of treachery two pretenders to the
kingdom of Thrace—[Rhescuporis and Cotys. Tacitus, Annal., ii. 65]— were
fallen into dispute about their title; the emperor hindered them from
proceeding to blows: but one of them, under colour of bringing things to
a friendly issue by an interview, having invited his competitor to an
entertainment in his own house, imprisoned and killed him. Justice
required that the Romans should have satisfaction for this offence; but
there was a difficulty in obtaining it by ordinary ways; what,
therefore, they could not do legitimately, without war and without
danger, they resolved to do by treachery; and what they could not
honestly do, they did profitably. For which end, one Pomponius Flaccus
was found to be a fit instrument. This man, by dissembled words and
assurances, having drawn the other into his toils, instead of the honour
and favour he had promised him, sent him bound hand and foot to Rome.
Here one traitor betrayed another, contrary to common custom: for they
are full of mistrust, and 'tis hard to overreach them in their own art:
witness the sad experience we have lately had.—[Montaigne here probably
refers to the feigned reconciliation between Catherine de Medici and
Henri, Duc de Guise, in 1588.]
Let who will be Pomponius Flaccus, and there are enough who would:
for my part, both my word and my faith are, like all the rest, parts of
this common body: their best effect is the public service; this I take
for presupposed. But should one command me to take charge of the courts
of law and lawsuits, I should make answer, that I understood it not; or
the place of a leader of pioneers, I would say, that I was called to a
more honourable employment; so likewise, he that would employ me to lie,
betray, and forswear myself, though not to assassinate or to poison, for
some notable service, I should say, "If I have robbed or stolen anything
from any man, send me rather to the galleys." For it is permissible in a
man of honour to say, as the Lacedaemonians did,—[Plutarch, Difference
between a Flatterer and a Friend, c. 21.]—having been defeated by
Antipater, when just upon concluding an agreement: "You may impose as
heavy and ruinous taxes upon us as you please, but to command us to do
shameful and dishonest things, you will lose your time, for it is to no
purpose." Every one ought to make the same vow to himself that the kings
of Egypt made their judges solemnly swear, that they would not do
anything contrary to their consciences, though never so much commanded
to it by themselves. In such commissions there is evident mark of
ignominy and condemnation; and he who gives it at the same time accuses
you, and gives it, if you understand it right, for a burden and a
punishment. As much as the public affairs are bettered by your exploit,
so much are your own the worse, and the better you behave yourself in
it, 'tis so much the worse for yourself; and it will be no new thing,
nor, peradventure, without some colour of justice, if the same person
ruin you who set you on work.
If treachery can be in any case excusable, it must be only so when it
is practised to chastise and betray treachery. There are examples enough
of treacheries, not only rejected, but chastised and punished by those
in favour of whom they were undertaken. Who is ignorant of Fabricius
sentence against the physician of Pyrrhus?
But this we also find recorded, that some persons have commanded a
thing, who afterward have severely avenged the execution of it upon him
they had employed, rejecting the reputation of so unbridled an
authority, and disowning so abandoned and base a servitude and
obedience. Jaropelk, Duke of Russia, tampered with a gentleman of
Hungary to betray Boleslaus, king of Poland, either by killing him, or
by giving the Russians opportunity to do him some notable mischief. This
worthy went ably to work: he was more assiduous than before in the
service of that king, so that he obtained the honour to be of his
council, and one of the chiefest in his trust. With these advantages,
and taking an opportune occasion of his master's absence, he betrayed
Vislicza, a great and rich city, to the Russians, which was entirely
sacked and burned, and not only all the inhabitants of both sexes, young
and old, put to the sword, but moreover a great number of neighbouring
gentry, whom he had drawn thither to that end. Jaropelk, his revenge
being thus satisfied and his anger appeased, which was not, indeed,
without pretence (for Boleslaus had highly offended him, and after the
same manner), and sated with the fruit of this treachery, coming to
consider the fulness of it, with a sound judgment and clear from
passion, looked upon what had been done with so much horror and remorse
that he caused the eyes to be bored out and the tongue and shameful
parts to be cut off of him who had performed it.
Antigonus persuaded the Argyraspides to betray Eumenes, their
general, his adversary, into his hands; but after he had caused him, so
delivered, to be slain, he would himself be the commissioner of the
divine justice for the punishment of so detestable a crime, and
committed them into the hands of the governor of the province, with
express command, by whatever means, to destroy and bring them all to an
evil end, so that of that great number of men, not so much as one ever
returned again into Macedonia: the better he had been served, the more
wickedly he judged it to be, and meriting greater punishment.
The slave who betrayed the place where his master, P. Sulpicius, lay
concealed, was, according to the promise of Sylla's proscription,
manumitted for his pains; but according to the promise of the public
justice, which was free from any such engagement, he was thrown headlong
from the Tarpeian rock.
Our King Clovis, instead of the arms of gold he had promised them,
caused three of Cararie's servants to be hanged after they had betrayed
their master to him, though he had debauched them to it: he hanged them
with the purse of their reward about their necks; after having satisfied
his second and special faith, he satisfied the general and first.
Mohammed II. having resolved to rid himself of his brother, out of
jealousy of state, according to the practice of the Ottoman family, he
employed one of his officers in the execution, who, pouring a quantity
of water too fast into him, choked him. This being done, to expiate the
murder, he delivered the murderer into the hands of the mother of him he
had so caused to be put to death, for they were only brothers by the
father's side; she, in his presence, ripped up the murderer's bosom, and
with her own hands rifled his breast for his heart, tore it out, and
threw it to the dogs. And even to the worst people it is the sweetest
thing imaginable, having once gained their end by a vicious action, to
foist, in all security, into it some show of virtue and justice, as by
way of compensation and conscientious correction; to which may be added,
that they look upon the ministers of such horrid crimes as upon men who
reproach them with them, and think by their deaths to erase the memory
and testimony of such proceedings.
Or if, perhaps, you are rewarded, not to frustrate the public
necessity for that extreme and desperate remedy, he who does it cannot
for all that, if he be not such himself, but look upon you as an
accursed and execrable fellow, and conclude you a greater traitor than
he does, against whom you are so: for he tries the malignity of your
disposition by your own hands, where he cannot possibly be deceived, you
having no object of preceding hatred to move you to such an act; but he
employs you as they do condemned malefactors in executions of justice,
an office as necessary as dishonourable. Besides the baseness of such
commissions, there is, moreover, a prostitution of conscience. Seeing
that the daughter of Sejanus could not be put to death by the law of
Rome, because she was a virgin, she was, to make it lawful, first
ravished by the hangman and then strangled: not only his hand but his
soul is slave to the public convenience.
When Amurath I., more grievously to punish his subjects who had taken
part in the parricide rebellion of his son, ordained that their nearest
kindred should assist in the execution, I find it very handsome in some
of them to have rather chosen to be unjustly thought guilty of the
parricide of another than to serve justice by a parricide of their own.
And where I have seen, at the taking of some little fort by assault in
my time, some rascals who, to save their own lives, would consent to
hang their friends and companions, I have looked upon them to be of
worse condition than those who were hanged. 'Tis said, that Witold,
Prince of Lithuania, introduced into the nation the practice that the
criminal condemned to death should with his own hand execute the
sentence, thinking it strange that a third person, innocent of the
fault, should be made guilty of homicide.
A prince, when by some urgent circumstance or some impetuous and
unforeseen accident that very much concerns his state, compelled to
forfeit his word and break his faith, or otherwise forced from his
ordinary duty, ought to attribute this necessity to a lash of the divine
rod: vice it is not, for he has given up his own reason to a more
universal and more powerful reason; but certainly 'tis a misfortune: so
that if any one should ask me what remedy? "None," say I, "if he were
really racked between these two extremes: 'sed videat, ne quoeratur
latebya perjurio', he must do it: but if he did it without regret, if it
did not weigh on him to do it, 'tis a sign his conscience is in a sorry
condition." If there be a person to be found of so tender a conscience
as to think no cure whatever worth so important a remedy, I shall like
him never the worse; he could not more excusably or more decently
perish. We cannot do all we would, so that we must often, as the last
anchorage, commit the protection of our vessels to the simple conduct of
heaven. To what more just necessity does he reserve himself? What is
less possible for him to do than what he cannot do but at the expense of
his faith and honour, things that, perhaps, ought to be dearer to him
than his own safety, or even the safety of his people. Though he should,
with folded arms, only call God to his assistance, has he not reason to
hope that the divine goodness will not refuse the favour of an
extraordinary arm to just and pure hands? These are dangerous examples,
rare and sickly exceptions to our natural rules: we must yield to them,
but with great moderation and circumspection: no private utility is of
such importance that we should upon that account strain our consciences
to such a degree: the public may be, when very manifest and of very
great concern.
Timoleon made a timely expiation for his strange exploit by the tears
he shed, calling to mind that it was with a fraternal hand that he had
slain the tyrant; and it justly pricked his conscience that he had been
necessitated to purchase the public utility at so great a price as the
violation of his private morality. Even the Senate itself, by his means
delivered from slavery, durst not positively determine of so high a
fact, and divided into two so important and contrary aspects; but the
Syracusans, sending at the same time to the Corinthians to solicit their
protection, and to require of them a captain fit to re-establish their
city in its former dignity and to clear Sicily of several little tyrants
by whom it was oppressed, they deputed Timoleon for that service, with
this cunning declaration; "that according as he should behave himself
well or ill in his employment, their sentence should incline either to
favour the deliverer of his country, or to disfavour the murderer of his
brother." This fantastic conclusion carries along with it some excuse,
by reason of the danger of the example, and the importance of so strange
an action: and they did well to discharge their own judgment of it, and
to refer it to others who were not so much concerned. But Timoleon's
comportment in this expedition soon made his cause more clear, so
worthily and virtuously he demeaned himself upon all occasions; and the
good fortune that accompanied him in the difficulties he had to overcome
in this noble employment, seemed to be strewed in his way by the gods,
favourably conspiring for his justification.
The end of this matter is excusable, if any can be so; but the profit
of the augmentation of the public revenue, that served the Roman Senate
for a pretence to the foul conclusion I am going to relate, is not
sufficient to warrant any such injustice.
Certain cities had redeemed themselves and their liberty by money, by
the order and consent of the Senate, out of the hands of L. Sylla: the
business coming again in question, the Senate condemned them to be
taxable as they were before, and that the money they had disbursed for
their redemption should be lost to them. Civil war often produces such
villainous examples; that we punish private men for confiding in us when
we were public ministers: and the self-same magistrate makes another man
pay the penalty of his change that has nothing to do with it; the
pedagogue whips his scholar for his docility; and the guide beats the
blind man whom he leads by the hand; a horrid image of justice.
There are rules in philosophy that are both false and weak. The
example that is proposed to us for preferring private utility before
faith given, has not weight enough by the circumstances they put to it;
robbers have seized you, and after having made you swear to pay them a
certain sum of money, dismiss you. 'Tis not well done to say, that an
honest man can be quit of his oath without payment, being out of their
hands. 'Tis no such thing: what fear has once made me willing to do, I
am obliged to do it when I am no longer in fear; and though that fear
only prevailed with my tongue without forcing my will, yet am I bound to
keep my word. For my part, when my tongue has sometimes inconsiderately
said something that I did not think, I have made a conscience of
disowning it: otherwise, by degrees, we shall abolish all the right
another derives from our promises and oaths:
"Quasi vero forti viro vis possit adhiberi."
["As though a man of true courage could be compelled."
—Cicero, De Offic., iii. 30.]
And 'tis only lawful, upon the account of private interest, to excuse
breach of promise, when we have promised something that is unlawful and
wicked in itself; for the right of virtue ought to take place of the
right of any obligation of ours.
I have formerly placed Epaminondas in the first rank of excellent
men, and do not repent it. How high did he stretch the consideration of
his own particular duty? he who never killed a man whom he had overcome;
who, for the inestimable benefit of restoring the liberty of his
country, made conscience of killing a tyrant or his accomplices without
due form of justice: and who concluded him to be a wicked man, how good
a citizen soever otherwise, who amongst his enemies in battle spared not
his friend and his guest. This was a soul of a rich composition: he
married goodness and humanity, nay, even the tenderest and most delicate
in the whole school of philosophy, to the roughest and most violent
human actions. Was it nature or art that had intenerated that great
courage of his, so full, so obstinate against pain and death and
poverty, to such an extreme degree of sweetness and compassion? Dreadful
in arms and blood, he overran and subdued a nation invincible by all
others but by him alone; and yet in the heat of an encounter, could turn
aside from his friend and guest. Certainly he was fit to command in war
who could so rein himself with the curb of good nature, in the height
and heat of his fury, a fury inflamed and foaming with blood and
slaughter. 'Tis a miracle to be able to mix any image of justice with
such violent actions: and it was only possible for such a steadfastness
of mind as that of Epaminondas therein to mix sweetness and the facility
of the gentlest manners and purest innocence. And whereas one told the
Mamertini that statutes were of no efficacy against armed men; and
another told the tribune of the people that the time of justice and of
war were distinct things; and a third said that the noise of arms
deafened the voice of laws, this man was not precluded from listening to
the laws of civility and pure courtesy. Had he not borrowed from his
enemies the custom of sacrificing to the Muses when he went to war, that
they might by their sweetness and gaiety soften his martial and rigorous
fury? Let us not fear, by the example of so great a master, to believe
that there is something unlawful, even against an enemy, and that the
common concern ought not to require all things of all men, against
private interest:
"Manente memoria, etiam in dissidio publicorum
foederum, privati juris:"
["The memory of private right remaining even amid
public dissensions."—Livy, xxv. 18.]
"Et nulla potentia vires
Praestandi, ne quid peccet amicus, habet;"
["No power on earth can sanction treachery against a friend."
—Ovid, De Ponto, i. 7, 37.]
and that all things are not lawful to an honest man for the service
of his prince, the laws, or the general quarrel:
"Non enim patria praestat omnibus officiis....
et ipsi conducit pios habere cives in parentes."
["The duty to one's country does not supersede all other duties.
The country itself requires that its citizens should act piously
toward their parents."—Cicero, De Offic., iii. 23.]
Tis an instruction proper for the time wherein we live: we need not
harden our courage with these arms of steel; 'tis enough that our
shoulders are inured to them: 'tis enough to dip our pens in ink without
dipping them in blood. If it be grandeur of courage, and the effect of a
rare and singular virtue, to contemn friendship, private obligations, a
man's word and relationship, for the common good and obedience to the
magistrate, 'tis certainly sufficient to excuse us, that 'tis a grandeur
that can have no place in the grandeur of Epaminondas' courage.
I abominate those mad exhortations of this other discomposed soul,
"Dum tela micant, non vos pietatis imago
Ulla, nec adversa conspecti fronte parentes
Commoveant; vultus gladio turbate verendos."
["While swords glitter, let no idea of piety, nor the face even of a
father presented to you, move you: mutilate with your sword those
venerable features "—Lucan, vii. 320.]
Let us deprive wicked, bloody, and treacherous natures of such a
pretence of reason: let us set aside this guilty and extravagant
justice, and stick to more human imitations. How great things can time
and example do! In an encounter of the civil war against Cinna, one of
Pompey's soldiers having unawares killed his brother, who was of the
contrary party, he immediately for shame and sorrow killed himself: and
some years after, in another civil war of the same people, a soldier
demanded a reward of his officer for having killed his brother.
A man but ill proves the honour and beauty of an action by its
utility: and very erroneously concludes that every one is obliged to it,
and that it becomes every one to do it, if it be of utility:
"Omnia non pariter rerum sunt omnibus apta."
["All things are not equally fit for all men."
—Propertius, iii. 9, 7.]
Let us take that which is most necessary and profitable for human
society; it will be marriage; and yet the council of the saints find the
contrary much better, excluding from it the most venerable vocation of
man: as we design those horses for stallions of which we have the least
esteem.
CHAPTER II——OF REPENTANCE
Others form man; I only report him: and represent a particular one,
ill fashioned enough, and whom, if I had to model him anew, I should
certainly make something else than what he is but that's past recalling.
Now, though the features of my picture alter and change, 'tis not,
however, unlike: the world eternally turns round; all things therein are
incessantly moving, the earth, the rocks of Caucasus, and the pyramids
of Egypt, both by the public motion and their own. Even constancy itself
is no other but a slower and more languishing motion. I cannot fix my
object; 'tis always tottering and reeling by a natural giddiness; I take
it as it is at the instant I consider it; I do not paint its being, I
paint its passage; not a passing from one age to another, or, as the
people say, from seven to seven years, but from day to day, from minute
to minute, I must accommodate my history to the hour: I may presently
change, not only by fortune, but also by intention. 'Tis a counterpart
of various and changeable accidents, and of irresolute imaginations,
and, as it falls out, sometimes contrary: whether it be that I am then
another self, or that I take subjects by other circumstances and
considerations: so it is that I may peradventure contradict myself, but,
as Demades said, I never contradict the truth. Could my soul once take
footing, I would not essay but resolve: but it is always learning and
making trial.
I propose a life ordinary and without lustre: 'tis all one; all moral
philosophy may as well be applied to a common and private life, as to
one of richer composition: every man carries the entire form of human
condition. Authors communicate themselves to the people by some especial
and extrinsic mark; I, the first of any, by my universal being; as
Michel de Montaigne, not as a grammarian, a poet, or a lawyer. If the
world find fault that I speak too much of myself, I find fault that they
do not so much as think of themselves. But is it reason that, being so
particular in my way of living, I should pretend to recommend myself to
the public knowledge? And is it also reason that I should produce to the
world, where art and handling have so much credit and authority, crude
and simple effects of nature, and of a weak nature to boot? Is it not to
build a wall without stone or brick, or some such thing, to write books
without learning and without art? The fancies of music are carried on by
art; mine by chance. I have this, at least, according to discipline,
that never any man treated of a subject he better understood and knew
than I what I have undertaken, and that in this I am the most
understanding man alive: secondly, that never any man penetrated farther
into his matter, nor better and more distinctly sifted the parts and
sequences of it, nor ever more exactly and fully arrived at the end he
proposed to himself. To perfect it, I need bring nothing but fidelity to
the work; and that is there, and the most pure and sincere that is
anywhere to be found. I speak truth, not so much as I would, but as much
as I dare; and I dare a little the more, as I grow older; for, methinks,
custom allows to age more liberty of prating, and more indiscretion of
talking of a man's self. That cannot fall out here, which I often see
elsewhere, that the work and the artificer contradict one another: "Can
a man of such sober conversation have written so foolish a book?" Or "Do
so learned writings proceed from a man of so weak conversation?" He who
talks at a very ordinary rate, and writes rare matter, 'tis to say that
his capacity is borrowed and not his own. A learned man is not learned
in all things: but a sufficient man is sufficient throughout, even to
ignorance itself; here my book and I go hand in hand together. Elsewhere
men may commend or censure the work, without reference to the workman;
here they cannot: who touches the one, touches the other. He who shall
judge of it without knowing him, will more wrong himself than me; he who
does know him, gives me all the satisfaction I desire. I shall be happy
beyond my desert, if I can obtain only thus much from the public
approbation, as to make men of understanding perceive that I was capable
of profiting by knowledge, had I had it; and that I deserved to have
been assisted by a better memory.
Be pleased here to excuse what I often repeat, that I very rarely
repent, and that my conscience is satisfied with itself, not as the
conscience of an angel, or that of a horse, but as the conscience of a
man; always adding this clause, not one of ceremony, but a true and real
submission, that I speak inquiring and doubting, purely and simply
referring myself to the common and accepted beliefs for the resolution.
I do not teach; I only relate.
There is no vice that is absolutely a vice which does not offend, and
that a sound judgment does not accuse; for there is in it so manifest a
deformity and inconvenience, that peradventure they are in the right who
say that it is chiefly begotten by stupidity and ignorance: so hard is
it to imagine that a man can know without abhorring it. Malice sucks up
the greatest part of its own venom, and poisons itself. Vice leaves
repentance in the soul, like an ulcer in the flesh, which is always
scratching and lacerating itself: for reason effaces all other grief and
sorrows, but it begets that of repentance, which is so much the more
grievous, by reason it springs within, as the cold and heat of fevers
are more sharp than those that only strike upon the outward skin. I hold
for vices (but every one according to its proportion), not only those
which reason and nature condemn, but those also which the opinion of
men, though false and erroneous, have made such, if authorised by law
and custom.
There is likewise no virtue which does not rejoice a well-descended
nature: there is a kind of, I know not what, congratulation in
well-doing that gives us an inward satisfaction, and a generous boldness
that accompanies a good conscience: a soul daringly vicious may,
peradventure, arm itself with security, but it cannot supply itself with
this complacency and satisfaction. 'Tis no little satisfaction to feel a
man's self preserved from the contagion of so depraved an age, and to
say to himself: "Whoever could penetrate into my soul would not there
find me guilty either of the affliction or ruin of any one, or of
revenge or envy, or any offence against the public laws, or of
innovation or disturbance, or failure of my word; and though the licence
of the time permits and teaches every one so to do, yet have I not
plundered any Frenchman's goods, or taken his money, and have lived upon
what is my own, in war as well as in peace; neither have I set any man
to work without paying him his hire." These testimonies of a good
conscience please, and this natural rejoicing is very beneficial to us,
and the only reward that we can never fail of.
To ground the recompense of virtuous actions upon the approbation of
others is too uncertain and unsafe a foundation, especially in so
corrupt and ignorant an age as this, wherein the good opinion of the
vulgar is injurious: upon whom do you rely to show you what is
recommendable? God defend me from being an honest man, according to the
descriptions of honour I daily see every one make of himself:
"Quae fuerant vitia, mores sunt."
["What before had been vices are now manners."—Seneca, Ep., 39.]
Some of my friends have at times schooled and scolded me with great
sincerity and plainness, either of their own voluntary motion, or by me
entreated to it as to an office, which to a well-composed soul surpasses
not only in utility, but in kindness, all other offices of friendship: I
have always received them with the most open arms, both of courtesy and
acknowledgment; but to say the truth, I have often found so much false
measure, both in their reproaches and praises, that I had not done much
amiss, rather to have done ill, than to have done well according to
their notions. We, who live private lives, not exposed to any other view
than our own, ought chiefly to have settled a pattern within ourselves
by which to try our actions: and according to that, sometimes to
encourage and sometimes to correct ourselves. I have my laws and my
judicature to judge of myself, and apply myself more to these than to
any other rules: I do, indeed, restrain my actions according to others;
but extend them not by any other rule than my own. You yourself only
know if you are cowardly and cruel, loyal and devout: others see you
not, and only guess at you by uncertain conjectures, and do not so much
see your nature as your art; rely not therefore upon their opinions, but
stick to your own:
"Tuo tibi judicio est utendum.... Virtutis et vitiorum grave ipsius
conscientiae pondus est: qua sublata, jacent omnia."
["Thou must employ thy own judgment upon thyself; great is the
weight of thy own conscience in the discovery of virtues and vices:
which taken away, all things are lost."
—Cicero, De Nat. Dei, iii. 35; Tusc. Quaes., i. 25.]
But the saying that repentance immediately follows the sin seems not
to have respect to sin in its high estate, which is lodged in us as in
its own proper habitation. One may disown and retract the vices that
surprise us, and to which we are hurried by passions; but those which by
a long habit are rooted in a strong and vigorous will are not subject to
contradiction. Repentance is no other but a recanting of the will and an
opposition to our fancies, which lead us which way they please. It makes
this person disown his former virtue and continency:
"Quae mens est hodie, cur eadem non puero fait?
Vel cur his animis incolumes non redeunt genae?"
["What my mind is, why was it not the same, when I was a boy? or
why do not the cheeks return to these feelings?"
—Horace, Od., v. 10, 7.]
'Tis an exact life that maintains itself in due order in private.
Every one may juggle his part, and represent an honest man upon the
stage: but within, and in his own bosom, where all may do as they list,
where all is concealed, to be regular, there's the point. The next
degree is to be so in his house, and in his ordinary actions, for which
we are accountable to none, and where there is no study nor artifice.
And therefore Bias, setting forth the excellent state of a private
family, says: "of which a the master is the same within, by his own
virtue and temper, that he is abroad, for fear of the laws and report of
men." And it was a worthy saying of Julius Drusus, to the masons who
offered him, for three thousand crowns, to put his house in such a
posture that his neighbours should no longer have the same inspection
into it as before; "I will give you," said he, "six thousand to make it
so that everybody may see into every room." 'Tis honourably recorded of
Agesilaus, that he used in his journeys always to take up his lodgings
in temples, to the end that the people and the gods themselves might pry
into his most private actions. Such a one has been a miracle to the
world, in whom neither his wife nor servant has ever seen anything so
much as remarkable; few men have been admired by their own domestics; no
one was ever a prophet, not merely in his own house, but in his own
country, says the experience of histories: —[No man is a hero to his
valet-de-chambre, said Marshal Catinat]—'tis the same in things of
nought, and in this low example the image of a greater is to be seen. In
my country of Gascony, they look upon it as a drollery to see me in
print; the further off I am read from my own home, the better I am
esteemed. I purchase printers in Guienne; elsewhere they purchase me.
Upon this it is that they lay their foundation who conceal themselves
present and living, to obtain a name when they are dead and absent. I
had rather have a great deal less in hand, and do not expose myself to
the world upon any other account than my present share; when I leave it
I quit the rest. See this functionary whom the people escort in state,
with wonder and applause, to his very door; he puts off the pageant with
his robe, and falls so much the lower by how much he was higher exalted:
in himself within, all is tumult and degraded. And though all should be
regular there, it will require a vivid and well-chosen judgment to
perceive it in these low and private actions; to which may be added,
that order is a dull, sombre virtue. To enter a breach, conduct an
embassy, govern a people, are actions of renown; to reprehend, laugh,
sell, pay, love, hate, and gently and justly converse with a man's own
family and with himself; not to relax, not to give a man's self the lie,
is more rare and hard, and less remarkable. By which means, retired
lives, whatever is said to the contrary, undergo duties of as great or
greater difficulty than the others do; and private men, says Aristotle,'
serve virtue more painfully and highly than those in authority do: we
prepare ourselves for eminent occasions, more out of glory than
conscience. The shortest way to arrive at glory, would be to do that for
conscience which we do for glory: and the virtue of Alexander appears to
me of much less vigour in his great theatre, than that of Socrates in
his mean and obscure employment. I can easily conceive Socrates in the
place of Alexander, but Alexander in that of Socrates, I cannot. Who
shall ask the one what he can do, he will answer, "Subdue the world":
and who shall put the same question to the other, he will say, "Carry on
human life conformably with its natural condition"; a much more general,
weighty, and legitimate science than the other.—[Montaigne added here,
"To do for the world that for which he came into the world," but he
afterwards erased these words from the manuscript.—Naigeon.]
The virtue of the soul does not consist in flying high, but in
walking orderly; its grandeur does not exercise itself in grandeur, but
in mediocrity. As they who judge and try us within, make no great
account of the lustre of our public actions, and see they are only
streaks and rays of clear water springing from a slimy and muddy bottom
so, likewise, they who judge of us by this gallant outward appearance,
in like manner conclude of our internal constitution; and cannot couple
common faculties, and like their own, with the other faculties that
astonish them, and are so far out of their sight. Therefore it is that
we give such savage forms to demons: and who does not give Tamerlane
great eyebrows, wide nostrils, a dreadful visage, and a prodigious
stature, according to the imagination he has conceived by the report of
his name? Had any one formerly brought me to Erasmus, I should hardly
have believed but that all was adage and apothegm he spoke to his man or
his hostess. We much more aptly imagine an artisan upon his close-stool,
or upon his wife, than a great president venerable by his port and
sufficiency: we fancy that they, from their high tribunals, will not
abase themselves so much as to live. As vicious souls are often incited
by some foreign impulse to do well, so are virtuous souls to do ill;
they are therefore to be judged by their settled state, when they are at
home, whenever that may be; and, at all events, when they are nearer
repose, and in their native station.
Natural inclinations are much assisted and fortified by education;
but they seldom alter and overcome their institution: a thousand natures
of my time have escaped towards virtue or vice, through a quite contrary
discipline:
"Sic ubi, desuetae silvis, in carcere clausae
Mansuevere ferx, et vultus posuere minaces,
Atque hominem didicere pati, si torrida parvus
Venit in ora cruor, redeunt rabiesque fororque,
Admonitaeque tument gustato sanguine fauces
Fervet, et a trepido vix abstinet ira magistro;"
["So savage beasts, when shut up in cages and grown unaccustomed to
the woods, have become tame, and have laid aside their fierce looks,
and submit to the rule of man; if again a slight taste of blood
comes into their mouths, their rage and fury return, their jaws are
erected by thirst of blood, and their anger scarcely abstains from
their trembling masters."—Lucan, iv. 237.]
these original qualities are not to be rooted out; they may be
covered and concealed. The Latin tongue is as it were natural to me; I
understand it better than French; but I have not been used to speak it,
nor hardly to write it, these forty years. Unless upon extreme and
sudden emotions which I have fallen into twice or thrice in my life, and
once seeing my father in perfect health fall upon me in a swoon, I have
always uttered from the bottom of my heart my first words in Latin;
nature deafened, and forcibly expressing itself, in spite of so long a
discontinuation; and this example is said of many others.
They who in my time have attempted to correct the manners of the
world by new opinions, reform seeming vices; but the essential vices
they leave as they were, if indeed they do not augment them, and
augmentation is therein to be feared; we defer all other well doing upon
the account of these external reformations, of less cost and greater
show, and thereby expiate good cheap, for the other natural,
consubstantial, and intestine vices. Look a little into our experience:
there is no man, if he listen to himself, who does not in himself
discover a particular and governing form of his own, that jostles his
education, and wrestles with the tempest of passions that are contrary
to it. For my part, I seldom find myself agitated with surprises; I
always find myself in my place, as heavy and unwieldy bodies do; if I am
not at home, I am always near at hand; my dissipations do not transport
me very far; there is nothing strange or extreme in the case; and yet I
have sound and vigorous turns.
The true condemnation, and which touches the common practice of men,
is that their very retirement itself is full of filth and corruption;
the idea of their reformation composed, their repentance sick and
faulty, very nearly as much as their sin. Some, either from having been
linked to vice by a natural propension or long practice, cannot see its
deformity. Others (of which constitution I am) do indeed feel the weight
of vice, but they counterbalance it with pleasure, or some other
occasion; and suffer and lend themselves to it for a certain price, but
viciously and basely. Yet there might, haply, be imagined so vast a
disproportion of measure, where with justice the pleasure might excuse
the sin, as we say of utility; not only if accidental and out of sin, as
in thefts, but in the very exercise of sin, or in the enjoyment of
women, where the temptation is violent, and, 'tis said, sometimes not to
be overcome.
Being the other day at Armaignac, on the estate of a kinsman of mine,
I there saw a peasant who was by every one nicknamed the thief. He thus
related the story of his life: that, being born a beggar, and finding
that he should not be able, so as to be clear of indigence, to get his
living by the sweat of his brow, he resolved to turn thief, and by means
of his strength of body had exercised this trade all the time of his
youth in great security; for he ever made his harvest and vintage in
other men's grounds, but a great way off, and in so great quantities,
that it was not to be imagined one man could have carried away so much
in one night upon his shoulders; and, moreover, he was careful equally
to divide and distribute the mischief he did, that the loss was of less
importance to every particular man. He is now grown old, and rich for a
man of his condition, thanks to his trade, which he openly confesses to
every one. And to make his peace with God, he says, that he is daily
ready by good offices to make satisfaction to the successors of those he
has robbed, and if he do not finish (for to do it all at once he is not
able), he will then leave it in charge to his heirs to perform the rest,
proportionably to the wrong he himself only knows he has done to each.
By this description, true or false, this man looks upon theft as a
dishonest action, and hates it, but less than poverty, and simply
repents; but to the extent he has thus recompensed he repents not. This
is not that habit which incorporates us into vice, and conforms even our
understanding itself to it; nor is it that impetuous whirlwind that by
gusts troubles and blinds our souls, and for the time precipitates us,
judgment and all, into the power of vice.
I customarily do what I do thoroughly and make but one step on't; I
have rarely any movement that hides itself and steals away from my
reason, and that does not proceed in the matter by the consent of all my
faculties, without division or intestine sedition; my judgment is to
have all the blame or all the praise; and the blame it once has, it has
always; for almost from my infancy it has ever been one: the same
inclination, the same turn, the same force; and as to universal
opinions, I fixed myself from my childhood in the place where I resolved
to stick. There are some sins that are impetuous, prompt, and sudden;
let us set them aside: but in these other sins so often repeated,
deliberated, and contrived, whether sins of complexion or sins of
profession and vocation, I cannot conceive that they should have so long
been settled in the same resolution, unless the reason and conscience of
him who has them, be constant to have them; and the repentance he boasts
to be inspired with on a sudden, is very hard for me to imagine or form.
I follow not the opinion of the Pythagorean sect, "that men take up a
new soul when they repair to the images of the gods to receive their
oracles," unless he mean that it must needs be extrinsic, new, and lent
for the time; our own showing so little sign of purification and
cleanness, fit for such an office.
They act quite contrary to the stoical precepts, who do indeed
command us to correct the imperfections and vices we know ourselves
guilty of, but forbid us therefore to disturb the repose of our souls:
these make us believe that they have great grief and remorse within: but
of amendment, correction, or interruption, they make nothing appear. It
cannot be a cure if the malady be not wholly discharged; if repentance
were laid upon the scale of the balance, it would weigh down sin. I find
no quality so easy to counterfeit as devotion, if men do not conform
their manners and life to the profession; its essence is abstruse and
occult; the appearance easy and ostentatious.
For my own part, I may desire in general to be other than I am; I may
condemn and dislike my whole form, and beg of Almighty God for an entire
reformation, and that He will please to pardon my natural infirmity: but
I ought not to call this repentance, methinks, no more than the being
dissatisfied that I am not an angel or Cato. My actions are regular, and
conformable to what I am and to my condition; I can do no better; and
repentance does not properly touch things that are not in our power;
sorrow does.. I imagine an infinite number of natures more elevated and
regular than mine; and yet I do not for all that improve my faculties,
no more than my arm or will grow more strong and vigorous for conceiving
those of another to be so. If to conceive and wish a nobler way of
acting than that we have should produce a repentance of our own, we must
then repent us of our most innocent actions, forasmuch as we may well
suppose that in a more excellent nature they would have been carried on
with greater dignity and perfection; and we would that ours were so.
When I reflect upon the deportment of my youth, with that of my old age,
I find that I have commonly behaved myself with equal order in both
according to what I understand: this is all that my resistance can do. I
do not flatter myself; in the same circumstances I should do the same
things. It is not a patch, but rather an universal tincture, with which
I am stained. I know no repentance, superficial, half-way, and
ceremonious; it must sting me all over before I can call it so, and must
prick my bowels as deeply and universally as God sees into me.
As to business, many excellent opportunities have escaped me for want
of good management; and yet my deliberations were sound enough,
according to the occurrences presented to me: 'tis their way to choose
always the easiest and safest course. I find that, in my former
resolves, I have proceeded with discretion, according to my own rule,
and according to the state of the subject proposed, and should do the
same a thousand years hence in like occasions; I do not consider what it
is now, but what it was then, when I deliberated on it: the force of all
counsel consists in the time; occasions and things eternally shift and
change. I have in my life committed some important errors, not for want
of good understanding, but for want of good luck. There are secret, and
not to be foreseen, parts in matters we have in hand, especially in the
nature of men; mute conditions, that make no show, unknown sometimes
even to the possessors themselves, that spring and start up by
incidental occasions; if my prudence could not penetrate into nor
foresee them, I blame it not: 'tis commissioned no further than its own
limits; if the event be too hard for me, and take the side I have
refused, there is no remedy; I do not blame myself, I accuse my fortune,
and not my work; this cannot be called repentance.
Phocion, having given the Athenians an advice that was not followed,
and the affair nevertheless succeeding contrary to his opinion, some one
said to him, "Well, Phocion, art thou content that matters go so
well?"—"I am very well content," replied he, "that this has happened so
well, but I do not repent that I counselled the other." When any of my
friends address themselves to me for advice, I give it candidly and
clearly, without sticking, as almost all other men do, at the hazard of
the thing's falling out contrary to my opinion, and that I may be
reproached for my counsel; I am very indifferent as to that, for the
fault will be theirs for having consulted me, and I could not refuse
them that office. —[We may give advice to others, says Rochefoucauld,
but we cannot supply them with the wit to profit by it.]
I, for my own part, can rarely blame any one but myself for my
oversights and misfortunes, for indeed I seldom solicit the advice of
another, if not by honour of ceremony, or excepting where I stand in
need of information, special science, or as to matter of fact. But in
things wherein I stand in need of nothing but judgment, other men's
reasons may serve to fortify my own, but have little power to dissuade
me; I hear them all with civility and patience; but, to my recollection,
I never made use of any but my own. With me, they are but flies and
atoms, that confound and distract my will; I lay no great stress upon my
opinions; but I lay as little upon those of others, and fortune rewards
me accordingly: if I receive but little advice, I also give but little.
I am seldom consulted, and still more seldom believed, and know no
concern, either public or private, that has been mended or bettered by
my advice. Even they whom fortune had in some sort tied to my direction,
have more willingly suffered themselves to be governed by any other
counsels than mine. And as a man who am as jealous of my repose as of my
authority, I am better pleased that it should be so; in leaving me
there, they humour what I profess, which is to settle and wholly contain
myself within myself. I take a pleasure in being uninterested in other
men's affairs, and disengaged from being their warranty, and responsible
for what they do.
In all affairs that are past, be it how it will, I have very little
regret; for this imagination puts me out of my pain, that they were so
to fall out they are in the great revolution of the world, and in the
chain of stoical 'causes: your fancy cannot, by wish and imagination,
move one tittle, but that the great current of things will not reverse
both the past and the future.
As to the rest, I abominate that incidental repentance which old age
brings along with it. He, who said of old, that he was obliged to his
age for having weaned him from pleasure, was of another opinion than I
am; I can never think myself beholden to impotency for any good it can
do to me:
"Nec tam aversa unquam videbitur ab opere suo providentia,
ut debilitas inter optima inventa sit."
["Nor can Providence ever seem so averse to her own work, that
debility should be found to be amongst the best things."
—Quintilian, Instit. Orat., v. 12.]
Our appetites are rare in old age; a profound satiety seizes us after
the act; in this I see nothing of conscience; chagrin and weakness
imprint in us a drowsy and rheumatic virtue. We must not suffer
ourselves to be so wholly carried away by natural alterations as to
suffer our judgments to be imposed upon by them. Youth and pleasure have
not formerly so far prevailed with me, that I did not well enough
discern the face of vice in pleasure; neither does the distaste that
years have brought me, so far prevail with me now, that I cannot discern
pleasure in vice. Now that I am no more in my flourishing age, I judge
as well of these things as if I were.
["Old though I am, for ladies' love unfit,
The power of beauty I remember yet."—Chaucer.]
I, who narrowly and strictly examine it, find my reason the very same
it was in my most licentious age, except, perhaps, that 'tis weaker and
more decayed by being grown older; and I find that the pleasure it
refuses me upon the account of my bodily health, it would no more refuse
now, in consideration of the health of my soul, than at any time
heretofore. I do not repute it the more valiant for not being able to
combat; my temptations are so broken and mortified, that they are not
worth its opposition; holding but out my hands, I repel them. Should one
present the old concupiscence before it, I fear it would have less power
to resist it than heretofore; I do not discern that in itself it judges
anything otherwise now than it formerly did, nor that it has acquired
any new light: wherefore, if there be convalescence, 'tis an enchanted
one. Miserable kind of remedy, to owe one's health to one's disease! Tis
not that our misfortune should perform this office, but the good fortune
of our judgment. I am not to be made to do anything by persecutions and
afflictions, but to curse them: that is, for people who cannot be roused
but by a whip. My reason is much more free in prosperity, and much more
distracted, and put to't to digest pains than pleasures: I see best in a
clear sky; health admonishes me more cheerfully, and to better purpose,
than sickness. I did all that in me lay to reform and regulate myself
from pleasures, at a time when I had health and vigour to enjoy them; I
should be ashamed and envious that the misery and misfortune of my old
age should have credit over my good healthful, sprightly, and vigorous
years, and that men should estimate me, not by what I have been, but by
what I have ceased to be.
In my opinion, 'tis the happy living, and not (as Antisthenes' said)
the happy dying, in which human felicity consists. I have not made it my
business to make a monstrous addition of a philosopher's tail to the
head and body of a libertine; nor would I have this wretched remainder
give the lie to the pleasant, sound, and long part of my life: I would
present myself uniformly throughout. Were I to live my life over again,
I should live it just as I have lived it; I neither complain of the
past, nor do I fear the future; and if I am not much deceived, I am the
same within that I am without. 'Tis one main obligation I have to my
fortune, that the succession of my bodily estate has been carried on
according to the natural seasons; I have seen the grass, the blossom,
and the fruit, and now see the withering; happily, however, because
naturally. I bear the infirmities I have the better, because they came
not till I had reason to expect them, and because also they make me with
greater pleasure remember that long felicity of my past life. My wisdom
may have been just the same in both ages, but it was more active, and of
better grace whilst young and sprightly, than now it is when broken,
peevish, and uneasy. I repudiate, then, these casual and painful
reformations. God must touch our hearts; our consciences must amend of
themselves, by the aid of our reason, and not by the decay of our
appetites; pleasure is, in itself, neither pale nor discoloured, to be
discerned by dim and decayed eyes.
We ought to love temperance for itself, and because God has commanded
that and chastity; but that which we are reduced to by catarrhs, and for
which I am indebted to the stone, is neither chastity nor temperance; a
man cannot boast that he despises and resists pleasure if he cannot see
it, if he knows not what it is, and cannot discern its graces, its
force, and most alluring beauties; I know both the one and the other,
and may therefore the better say it. But; methinks, our souls in old age
are subject to more troublesome maladies and imperfections than in
youth; I said the same when young and when I was reproached with the
want of a beard; and I say so now that my grey hairs give me some
authority. We call the difficulty of our humours and the disrelish of
present things wisdom; but, in truth, we do not so much forsake vices as
we change them, and in my opinion, for worse. Besides a foolish and
feeble pride, an impertinent prating, froward and insociable humours,
superstition, and a ridiculous desire of riches when we have lost the
use of them, I find there more envy, injustice, and malice. Age imprints
more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face; and souls are never,
or very rarely seen, that, in growing old, do not smell sour and musty.
Man moves all together, both towards his perfection and decay. In
observing the wisdom of Socrates, and many circumstances of his
condemnation, I should dare to believe that he in some sort himself
purposely, by collusion, contributed to it, seeing that, at the age of
seventy years, he might fear to suffer the lofty motions of his mind to
be cramped and his wonted lustre obscured. What strange metamorphoses do
I see age every day make in many of my acquaintance! 'Tis a potent
malady, and that naturally and imperceptibly steals into us; a vast
provision of study and great precaution are required to evade the
imperfections it loads us with, or at least to weaken their progress. I
find that, notwithstanding all my entrenchments, it gets foot by foot
upon me: I make the best resistance I can, but I do not know to what at
last it will reduce me. But fall out what will, I am content the world
may know, when I am fallen, from what I fell.
CHAPTER III——OF THREE COMMERCES
We must not rivet ourselves so fast to our humours and complexions:
our chiefest sufficiency is to know how to apply ourselves to divers
employments. 'Tis to be, but not to live, to keep a man's self tied and
bound by necessity to one only course; those are the bravest souls that
have in them the most variety and pliancy. Of this here is an honourable
testimony of the elder Cato:
"Huic versatile ingenium sic pariter ad omnia fuit,
ut natum ad id unum diceres, quodcumque ageret."
["His parts were so pliable to all uses, that one would say he had
been born only to that which he was doing."—Livy, xxxix. 49.]
Had I liberty to set myself forth after my own mode, there is no so
graceful fashion to which I would be so fixed as not to be able to
disengage myself from it; life is an unequal, irregular and multiform
motion. 'Tis not to be a friend to one's self, much less a master 'tis
to be a slave, incessantly to be led by the nose by one's self, and to
be so fixed in one's previous inclinations, that one cannot turn aside
nor writhe one's neck out of the collar. I say this now in this part of
my life, wherein I find I cannot easily disengage myself from the
importunity of my soul, which cannot ordinarily amuse itself but in
things of limited range, nor employ itself otherwise than entirely and
with all its force; upon the lightest subject offered it expands and
stretches it to that degree as therein to employ its utmost power;
wherefore it is that idleness is to me a very painful labour, and very
prejudicial to my health. Most men's minds require foreign matter to
exercise and enliven them; mine has rather need of it to sit still and
repose itself,
"Vitia otii negotio discutienda sunt,"
["The vices of sloth are to be shaken off by business."
—Seneca, Ep. 56.]
for its chiefest and hardest study is to study itself. Books are to
it a sort of employment that debauch it from its study. Upon the first
thoughts that possess it, it begins to bustle and make trial of its
vigour in all directions, exercises its power of handling, now making
trial of force, now fortifying, moderating, and ranging itself by the
way of grace and order. It has of its own wherewith to rouse its
faculties: nature has given to it, as to all others, matter enough of
its own to make advantage of, and subjects proper enough where it may
either invent or judge.
Meditation is a powerful and full study to such as can effectually
taste and employ themselves; I had rather fashion my soul than furnish
it. There is no employment, either more weak or more strong, than that
of entertaining a man's own thoughts, according as the soul is; the
greatest men make it their whole business,
"Quibus vivere est cogitare;"
["To whom to live is to think."—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., v. 28.]
nature has therefore favoured it with this privilege, that there is
nothing we can do so long, nor any action to which we more frequently
and with greater facility addict ourselves. 'Tis the business of the
gods, says Aristotle,' and from which both their beatitude and ours
proceed.
The principal use of reading to me is, that by various objects it
rouses my reason, and employs my judgment, not my memory. Few
conversations detain me without force and effort; it is true that beauty
and elegance of speech take as much or more with me than the weight and
depth of the subject; and forasmuch as I am apt to be sleepy in all
other communication, and give but the rind of my attention, it often
falls out that in such poor and pitiful discourses, mere chatter, I
either make drowsy, unmeaning answers, unbecoming a child, and
ridiculous, or more foolishly and rudely still, maintain an obstinate
silence. I have a pensive way that withdraws me into myself, and, with
that, a heavy and childish ignorance of many very ordinary things, by
which two qualities I have earned this, that men may truly relate five
or six as ridiculous tales of me as of any other man whatever.
But, to proceed in my subject, this difficult complexion of mine
renders me very nice in my conversation with men, whom I must cull and
pick out for my purpose; and unfits me for common society. We live and
negotiate with the people; if their conversation be troublesome to us,
if we disdain to apply ourselves to mean and vulgar souls (and the mean
and vulgar are often as regular as those of the finest thread, and all
wisdom is folly that does not accommodate itself to the common
ignorance), we must no more intermeddle either with other men's affairs
or our own; for business, both public and private, has to do with these
people. The least forced and most natural motions of the soul are the
most beautiful; the best employments, those that are least strained. My
God! how good an office does wisdom to those whose desires it limits to
their power! that is the most useful knowledge: "according to what a man
can," was the favourite sentence and motto of Socrates. A motto of great
solidity.
We must moderate and adapt our desires to the nearest and easiest to
be acquired things. Is it not a foolish humour of mine to separate
myself from a thousand to whom my fortune has conjoined me, and without
whom I cannot live, and cleave to one or two who are out of my
intercourse; or rather a fantastic desire of a thing I cannot obtain? My
gentle and easy manners, enemies of all sourness and harshness, may
easily enough have secured me from envy and animosities; to be beloved,
I do not say, but never any man gave less occasion of being hated; but
the coldness of my conversation has, reasonably enough, deprived me of
the goodwill of many, who are to be excused if they interpret it in
another and worse sense.
I am very capable of contracting and maintaining rare and exquisite
friendships; for by reason that I so greedily seize upon such
acquaintance as fit my liking, I throw myself with such violence upon
them that I hardly fail to stick, and to make an impression where I hit;
as I have often made happy proof. In ordinary friendships I am somewhat
cold and shy, for my motion is not natural, if not with full sail:
besides which, my fortune having in my youth given me a relish for one
sole and perfect friendship, has, in truth, created in me a kind of
distaste to others, and too much imprinted in my fancy that it is a
beast of company, as the ancient said, but not of the herd.—[Plutarch,
On the Plurality of Friends, c. 2.]—And also I have a natural difficulty
of communicating myself by halves, with the modifications and the
servile and jealous prudence required in the conversation of numerous
and imperfect friendships: and we are principally enjoined to these in
this age of ours, when we cannot talk of the world but either with
danger or falsehood.
Yet do I very well discern that he who has the conveniences (I mean
the essential conveniences) of life for his end, as I have, ought to fly
these difficulties and delicacy of humour, as much as the plague. I
should commend a soul of several stages, that knows both how to stretch
and to slacken itself; that finds itself at ease in all conditions
whither fortune leads it; that can discourse with a neighbour, of his
building, his hunting, his quarrels; that can chat with a carpenter or a
gardener with pleasure. I envy those who can render themselves familiar
with the meanest of their followers, and talk with them in their own
way; and dislike the advice of Plato, that men should always speak in a
magisterial tone to their servants, whether men or women, without being
sometimes facetious and familiar; for besides the reasons I have given,
'tis inhuman and unjust to set so great a value upon this pitiful
prerogative of fortune, and the polities wherein less disparity is
permitted betwixt masters and servants seem to me the most equitable.
Others study how to raise and elevate their minds; I, how to humble mine
and to bring it low; 'tis only vicious in extension:
"Narras et genus AEaci,
Et pugnata sacro bella sub Ilio
Quo Chium pretio cadum
Mercemur, quis aquam temperet ignibus,
Quo praebente domum, et quota,
Pelignis caream frigoribus, taces."
["You tell us long stories about the race of AEacus, and the battles
fought under sacred Ilium; but what to give for a cask of Chian
wine, who shall prepare the warm bath, and in whose house, and when
I may escape from the Pelignian cold, you do not tell us."
—Horace, Od., iii. 19, 3.]
Thus, as the Lacedaemonian valour stood in need of moderation, and of
the sweet and harmonious sound of flutes to soften it in battle, lest
they should precipitate themselves into temerity and fury, whereas all
other nations commonly make use of harsh and shrill sounds, and of loud
and imperious cries, to incite and heat the soldier's courage to the
last degree; so, methinks, contrary to the usual method, in the practice
of our minds, we have for the most part more need of lead than of wings;
of temperance and composedness than of ardour and agitation. But, above
all things, 'tis in my opinion egregiously to play the fool, to put on
the grave airs of a man of lofty mind amongst those who are nothing of
the sort: ever to speak in print (by the book),
"Favellare in puma di forchetta."
["To talk with the point of a fork," (affectedly)]
You must let yourself down to those with whom you converse; and
sometimes affect ignorance: lay aside power and subtilty in common
conversation; to preserve decorum and order 'tis enough-nay, crawl on
the earth, if they so desire it.
The learned often stumble at this stone; they will always be parading
their pedantic science, and strew their books everywhere; they have, in
these days, so filled the cabinets and ears of the ladies with them,
that if they have lost the substance, they at least retain the words; so
as in all discourse upon all sorts of subjects, how mean and common
soever, they speak and write after a new and learned way,
"Hoc sermone pavent, hoc iram, gaudia, curas,
Hoc cuncta effundunt animi secreta; quid ultra?
Concumbunt docte;"
["In this language do they express their fears, their anger, their
joys, their cares; in this pour out all their secrets; what more?
they lie with their lovers learnedly."—Juvenal, vi. 189.]
and quote Plato and Aquinas in things the first man they meet could
determine as well; the learning that cannot penetrate their souls hangs
still upon the tongue. If people of quality will be persuaded by me,
they shall content themselves with setting out their proper and natural
treasures; they conceal and cover their beauties under others that are
none of theirs: 'tis a great folly to put out their own light and shine
by a borrowed lustre: they are interred and buried under 'de capsula
totae"—[Painted and perfumed from head to foot." (Or:) "as if they were
things carefully deposited in a band-box."—Seneca, Ep. 115]—It is
because they do not sufficiently know themselves or do themselves
justice: the world has nothing fairer than they; 'tis for them to honour
the arts, and to paint painting. What need have they of anything but to
live beloved and honoured? They have and know but too much for this:
they need do no more but rouse and heat a little the faculties they have
of their own. When I see them tampering with rhetoric, law, logic, and
other drugs, so improper and unnecessary for their business, I begin to
suspect that the men who inspire them with such fancies, do it that they
may govern them upon that account; for what other excuse can I contrive?
It is enough that they can, without our instruction, compose the graces
of their eyes to gaiety, severity, sweetness, and season a denial with
asperity, suspense, or favour: they need not another to interpret what
we speak for their service; with this knowledge, they command with a
switch, and rule both the tutors and the schools. But if, nevertheless,
it angers them to give place to us in anything whatever, and will, out
of curiosity, have their share in books, poetry is a diversion proper
for them; 'tis a wanton, subtle, dissembling, and prating art, all
pleasure and all show, like themselves. They may also abstract several
commodities from history. In philosophy, out of the moral part of it,
they may select such instructions as will teach them to judge of our
humours and conditions, to defend themselves from our treacheries, to
regulate the ardour of their own desires, to manage their liberty, to
lengthen the pleasures of life, and gently to bear the inconstancy of a
lover, the rudeness of a husband; and the importunity of years,
wrinkles, and the like. This is the utmost of what I would allow them in
the sciences.
There are some particular natures that are private and retired: my
natural way is proper for communication, and apt to lay me open; I am
all without and in sight, born for society and friendship. The solitude
that I love myself and recommend to others, is chiefly no other than to
withdraw my thoughts and affections into myself; to restrain and check,
not my steps, but my own cares and desires, resigning all foreign
solicitude, and mortally avoiding servitude and obligation, and not so
much the crowd of men as the crowd of business. Local solitude, to say
the truth, rather gives me more room and sets me more at large; I more
readily throw myself upon affairs of state and the world when I am
alone. At the Louvre and in the bustle of the court, I fold myself
within my own skin; the crowd thrusts me upon myself; and I never
entertain myself so wantonly, with so much licence, or so especially, as
in places of respect and ceremonious prudence: our follies do not make
me laugh, it is our wisdom which does. I am naturally no enemy to a
court, life; I have therein passed a part of my own, and am of a humour
cheerfully to frequent great company, provided it be by intervals and at
my own time: but this softness of judgment whereof I speak ties me
perforce to solitude. Even at home, amidst a numerous family, and in a
house sufficiently frequented, I see people enough, but rarely such with
whom I delight to converse; and I there reserve both for myself and
others an unusual liberty: there is in my house no such thing as
ceremony, ushering, or waiting upon people down to the coach, and such
other troublesome ceremonies as our courtesy enjoins (O the servile and
importunate custom!). Every one there governs himself according to his
own method; let who will speak his thoughts, I sit mute, meditating and
shut up in my closet, without any offence to my guests.
The men whose society and familiarity I covet are those they call
sincere and able men; and the image of these makes me disrelish the
rest. It is, if rightly taken, the rarest of our forms, and a form that
we chiefly owe to nature. The end of this commerce is simply privacy,
frequentation and conference, the exercise of souls, without other
fruit. In our discourse, all subjects are alike to me; let there be
neither weight, nor depth, 'tis all one: there is yet grace and
pertinency; all there is tinted with a mature and constant judgment, and
mixed with goodness, freedom, gaiety, and friendship. 'Tis not only in
talking of the affairs of kings and state that our wits discover their
force and beauty, but every whit as much in private conferences. I
understand my men even by their silence and smiles; and better discover
them, perhaps, at table than in the council. Hippomachus said, very
well, "that he could know the good wrestlers by only seeing them walk in
the street." If learning please to step into our talk, it shall not be
rejected, not magisterial, imperious, and importunate, as-it commonly
is, but suffragan and docile itself; we there only seek to pass away our
time; when we have a mind to be instructed and preached to, we will go
seek this in its throne; please let it humble itself to us for the
nonce; for, useful and profitable as it is, I imagine that, at need, we
may manage well enough without it, and do our business without its
assistance. A well-descended soul, and practised in the conversation of
men, will of herself render herself sufficiently agreeable; art is
nothing but the counterpart and register of what such souls produce.
The conversation also of beautiful and honourable women is for me a
sweet commerce:
"Nam nos quoque oculos eruditos habemus."
["For we also have eyes that are versed in the matter."
—Cicero, Paradox, v. 2.]
If the soul has not therein so much to enjoy, as in the first the
bodily senses, which participate more of this, bring it to a proportion
next to, though, in my opinion, not equal to the other. But 'tis a
commerce wherein a man must stand a little upon his guard, especially
those, where the body can do much, as in me. I there scalded myself in
my youth, and suffered all the torments that poets say befall those who
precipitate themselves into love without order and judgment. It is true
that that whipping has made me wiser since:
"Quicumque Argolica de classe Capharea fugit,
Semper ab Euboicis vela retorquet aquis."
["Whoever of the Grecian fleet has escaped the Capharean rocks, ever
takes care to steer from the Euboean sea."—Ovid, Trist., i. i, 83.]
'Tis folly to fix all a man's thoughts upon it, and to engage in it
with a furious and indiscreet affection; but, on the other hand, to
engage there without love and without inclination, like comedians, to
play a common part, without putting anything to it of his own but words,
is indeed to provide for his safety, but, withal, after as cowardly a
manner as he who should abandon his honour, profit, or pleasure for fear
of danger. For it is certain that from such a practice, they who set it
on foot can expect no fruit that can please or satisfy a noble soul. A
man must have, in good earnest, desired that which he, in good earnest,
expects to have a pleasure in enjoying; I say, though fortune should
unjustly favour their dissimulation; which often falls out, because
there is none of the sex, let her be as ugly as the devil, who does not
think herself well worthy to be beloved, and who does not prefer herself
before other women, either for her youth, the colour of her hair, or her
graceful motion (for there are no more women universally ugly, than
there are women universally beautiful, and such of the Brahmin virgins
as have nothing else to recommend them, the people being assembled by
the common crier to that effect, come out into the market-place to
expose their matrimonial parts to public view, to try if these at least
are not of temptation sufficient to get them a husband). Consequently,
there is not one who does not easily suffer herself to be overcome by
the first vow that they make to serve her. Now from this common and
ordinary treachery of the men of the present day, that must fall out
which we already experimentally see, either that they rally together,
and separate themselves by themselves to evade us, or else form their
discipline by the example we give them, play their parts of the farce as
we do ours, and give themselves up to the sport, without passion, care,
or love;
"Neque afl'ectui suo, aut alieno, obnoxiae;"
["Neither amenable to their own affections, nor those of others."
—Tacitus, Annal., xiii. 45.]
believing, according to the persuasion of Lysias in Plato, that they
may with more utility and convenience surrender themselves up to us the
less we love them; where it will fall out, as in comedies, that the
people will have as much pleasure or more than the comedians. For my
part, I no more acknowledge a Venus without a Cupid than, a mother
without issue: they are things that mutully lend and owe their essence
to one another. Thus this cheat recoils upon him who is guilty of it; it
does not cost him much, indeed, but he also gets little or nothing by
it. They who have made Venus a goddess have taken notice that her
principal beauty was incorporeal and spiritual; but the Venus whom these
people hunt after is not so much as human, nor indeed brutal; the very
beasts will not accept it so gross and so earthly; we see that
imagination and desire often heat and incite them before the body does;
we see in both the one sex and the other, they have in the herd choice
and particular election in their affections, and that they have amongst
themselves a long commerce of good will. Even those to whom old age
denies the practice of their desire, still tremble, neigh, and twitter
for love; we see them, before the act, full of hope and ardour, and when
the body has played its game, yet please themselves with the sweet
remembrance of the past delight; some that swell with pride after they
have performed, and others who, tired and sated, still by vociferation
express a triumphing joy. He who has nothing to do but only to discharge
his body of a natural necessity, need not trouble others with so curious
preparations: it is not meat for a gross, coarse appetite.
As one who does not desire that men should think me better than I am,
I will here say this as to the errors of my youth. Not only from the
danger of impairing my health (and yet I could not be so careful but
that I had two light mischances), but moreover upon the account of
contempt, I have seldom given myself up to common and mercenary
embraces: I would heighten the pleasure by the difficulty, by desire,
and a certain kind of glory, and was of Tiberius's mind, who in his
amours was as much taken with modesty and birth as any other quality,
and of the courtesan Flora's humour, who never lent herself to less than
a dictator, a consul, or a censor, and took pleasure in the dignity of
her lovers. Doubtless pearls and gold tissue, titles and train, add
something to it.
As to the rest, I had a great esteem for wit, provided the person was
not exceptionable; for, to confess the truth, if the one or the other of
these two attractions must of necessity be wanting, I should rather have
quitted that of the understanding, that has its use in better things;
but in the subject of love, a subject principally relating to the senses
of seeing and touching, something may be done without the graces of the
mind: without the graces of the body, nothing. Beauty is the true
prerogative of women, and so peculiarly their own, that ours, though
naturally requiring another sort of feature, is never in its lustre but
when youthful and beardless, a sort of confused image of theirs. 'Tis
said that such as serve the Grand Signior upon the account of beauty,
who are an infinite number, are, at the latest, dismissed at
two-and-twenty years of age. Reason, prudence, and the offices of
friendship are better found amongst men, and therefore it is that they
govern the affairs of the world.
These two engagements are fortuitous, and depending upon others; the
one is troublesome by its rarity, the other withers with age, so that
they could never have been sufficient for the business of my life. That
of books, which is the third, is much more certain, and much more our
own. It yields all other advantages to the two first, but has the
constancy and facility of its service for its own share. It goes side by
side with me in my whole course, and everywhere is assisting me: it
comforts me in old age and solitude; it eases me of a troublesome weight
of idleness, and delivers me at all hours from company that I dislike:
it blunts the point of griefs, if they are not extreme, and have not got
an entire possession of my soul. To divert myself from a troublesome
fancy, 'tis but to run to my books; they presently fix me to them and
drive the other out of my thoughts, and do not mutiny at seeing that I
have only recourse to them for want of other more real, natural, and
lively commodities; they always receive me with the same kindness. He
may well go a foot, they say, who leads his horse in his hand; and our
James, King of Naples and Sicily, who, handsome, young and healthful,
caused himself to be carried about on a barrow, extended upon a pitiful
mattress in a poor robe of grey cloth, and a cap of the same, yet
attended withal by a royal train, litters, led horses of all sorts,
gentlemen and officers, did yet herein represent a tender and unsteady
authority: "The sick man has not to complain who has his cure in his
sleeve." In the experience and practice of this maxim, which is a very
true one, consists all the benefit I reap from books. As a matter of
fact, I make no more use of them, as it were, than those who know them
not. I enjoy them as misers do their money, in knowing that I may enjoy
them when I please: my mind is satisfied with this right of possession.
I never travel without books, either in peace or war; and yet sometimes
I pass over several days, and sometimes months, without looking on them.
I will read by-and-by, say I to myself, or to-morrow, or when I please;
and in the interim, time steals away without any inconvenience. For it
is not to be imagined to what degree I please myself and rest content in
this consideration, that I have them by me to divert myself with them
when I am so disposed, and to call to mind what a refreshment they are
to my life. 'Tis the best viaticum I have yet found out for this human
journey, and I very much pity those men of understanding who are
unprovided of it. I the rather accept of any other sort of diversion,
how light soever, because this can never fail me.
When at home, I a little more frequent my library, whence I overlook
at once all the concerns of my family. 'Tis situated at the entrance
into my house, and I thence see under me my garden, court, and
base-court, and almost all parts of the building. There I turn over now
one book, and then another, on various subjects, without method or
design. One while I meditate, another I record and dictate, as I walk to
and fro, such whimsies as these I present to you here. 'Tis in the third
storey of a tower, of which the ground-room is my chapel, the second
storey a chamber with a withdrawing-room and closet, where I often lie,
to be more retired; and above is a great wardrobe. This formerly was the
most useless part of the house. I there pass away both most of the days
of my life and most of the hours of those days. In the night I am never
there. There is by the side of it a cabinet handsome enough, with a
fireplace very commodiously contrived, and plenty of light; and were I
not more afraid of the trouble than the expense—the trouble that frights
me from all business—I could very easily adjoin on either side, and on
the same floor, a gallery of an hundred paces long and twelve broad,
having found walls already raised for some other design to the requisite
height. Every place of retirement requires a walk: my thoughts sleep if
I sit still: my fancy does not go by itself, as when my legs move it:
and all those who study without a book are in the same condition. The
figure of my study is round, and there is no more open wall than what is
taken up by my table and my chair, so that the remaining parts of the
circle present me a view of all my books at once, ranged upon five rows
of shelves round about me. It has three noble and free prospects, and is
sixteen paces in diameter. I am not so continually there in winter; for
my house is built upon an eminence, as its name imports, and no part of
it is so much exposed to the wind and weather as this, which pleases me
the better, as being of more difficult access and a little remote, as
well upon the account of exercise, as also being there more retired from
the crowd. 'Tis there that I am in my kingdom, and there I endeavour to
make myself an absolute monarch, and to sequester this one corner from
all society, conjugal, filial, and civil; elsewhere I have but verbal
authority only, and of a confused essence. That man, in my opinion, is
very miserable, who has not at home where to be by himself, where to
entertain himself alone, or to conceal himself from others. Ambition
sufficiently plagues her proselytes, by keeping them always in show,
like the statue of a public, square:
"Magna servitus est magna fortuna."
["A great fortune is a great slavery."
—Seneca, De Consol. ad. Polyb., c. 26.]
They cannot so much as be private in the watercloset. I have thought
nothing so severe in the austerity of life that our monks affect, as
what I have observed in some of their communities; namely, by rule, to
have a perpetual society of place, and numerous persons present in every
action whatever; and think it much more supportable to be always alone
than never to be so.
If any one shall tell me that it is to undervalue the Muses to make
use of them only for sport and to pass away the time, I shall tell him,
that he does not know so well as I the value of the sport, the pleasure,
and the pastime; I can hardly forbear to add that all other end is
ridiculous. I live from day to day, and, with reverence be it spoken, I
only live for myself; there all my designs terminate. I studied, when
young, for ostentation; since, to make myself a little wiser; and now
for my diversion, but never for any profit. A vain and prodigal humour I
had after this sort of furniture, not only for the supplying my own
need, but, moreover, for ornament and outward show, I have since quite
cured myself of.
Books have many charming qualities to such as know how to choose
them; but every good has its ill; 'tis a pleasure that is not pure and
clean, no more than others: it has its inconveniences, and great ones
too. The soul indeed is exercised therein; but the body, the care of
which I must withal never neglect, remains in the meantime without
action, and grows heavy and sombre. I know no excess more prejudicial to
me, nor more to be avoided in this my declining age.
These have been my three favourite and particular occupations; I
speak not of those I owe to the world by civil obligation.
CHAPTER IV——OF DIVERSION
I was once employed in consoling a lady truly afflicted. Most of
their mournings are artificial and ceremonious:
"Uberibus semper lacrymis, semperque paratis,
In statione subatque expectantibus illam,
Quo jubeat manare modo."
["A woman has ever a fountain of tears ready to gush up whenever
she requires to make use of them."—Juvenal, vi. 272.]
A man goes the wrong way to work when he opposes this passion; for
opposition does but irritate and make them more obstinate in sorrow; the
evil is exasperated by discussion. We see, in common discourse, that
what I have indifferently let fall from me, if any one takes it up to
controvert it, I justify it with the best arguments I have; and much
more a thing wherein I had a real interest. And besides, in so doing you
enter roughly upon your operation; whereas the first addresses of a
physician to his patient should be gracious, gay, and pleasing; never
did any ill-looking, morose physician do anything to purpose. On the
contrary, then, a man should, at the first approaches, favour their
grief and express some approbation of their sorrow. By this intelligence
you obtain credit to proceed further, and by a facile and insensible
gradation fall into discourses more solid and proper for their cure. I,
whose aim it was principally to gull the company who had their eyes
fixed upon me, took it into my head only to palliate the disease. And
indeed I have found by experience that I have an unlucky hand in
persuading. My arguments are either too sharp and dry, or pressed too
roughly, or not home enough. After I had some time applied myself to her
grief, I did not attempt to cure her by strong and lively reasons,
either because I had them not at hand, or because I thought to do my
business better another way; neither did I make choice of any of those
methods of consolation which philosophy prescribes: that what we
complain of is no evil, according to Cleanthes; that it is a light evil,
according to the Peripatetics; that to bemoan one's self is an action
neither commendable nor just, according to Chrysippus; nor this of
Epicurus, more suitable to my way, of shifting the thoughts from
afflicting things to those that are pleasing; nor making a bundle of all
these together, to make use of upon occasion, according to Cicero; but,
gently bending my discourse, and by little and little digressing,
sometimes to subjects nearer, and sometimes more remote from the
purpose, according as she was more intent on what I said, I
imperceptibly led her from that sorrowful thought, and kept her calm and
in good-humour whilst I continued there. I herein made use of diversion.
They who succeeded me in the same service did not, for all that, find
any amendment in her, for I had not gone to the root.
I, peradventure, may elsewhere have glanced upon some sort of public
diversions; and the practice of military ones, which Pericles made use
of in the Peloponnesian war, and a thousand others in other places, to
withdraw the adverse forces from their own countries, is too frequent in
history. It was an ingenious evasion whereby Monseigneur d'Hempricourt
saved both himself and others in the city of Liege, into which the Duke
of Burgundy, who kept it besieged, had made him enter to execute the
articles of their promised surrender; the people, being assembled by
night to consider of it, began to mutiny against the agreement, and
several of them resolved to fall upon the commissioners, whom they had
in their power; he, feeling the gusts of this first popular storm, who
were coming to rush into his lodgings, suddenly sent out to them two of
the inhabitants of the city (of whom he had some with him) with new and
milder terms to be proposed in their council, which he had then and
there contrived for his need: These two diverted the first tempest,
carrying back the enraged rabble to the town-hall to hear and consider
of what they had to say. The deliberation was short; a second storm
arose as violent as the other, whereupon he despatched four new
mediators of the same quality to meet them, protesting that he had now
better conditions to present them with, and such as would give them
absolute satisfaction, by which means the tumult was once more appeased,
and the people again turned back to the conclave. In fine, by this
dispensation of amusements, one after another, diverting their fury and
dissipating it in frivolous consultations, he laid it at last asleep
till the day appeared, which was his principal end.
This other story that follows is also of the same category. Atalanta,
a virgin of excelling beauty and of wonderful disposition of body, to
disengage herself from the crowd of a thousand suitors who sought her in
marriage, made this proposition, that she would accept of him for her
husband who should equal her in running, upon condition that they who
failed should lose their lives. There were enough who thought the prize
very well worth the hazard, and who suffered the cruel penalty of the
contract. Hippomenes, about to make trial after the rest, made his
address to the goddess of love, imploring her assistance; and she,
granting his request, gave him three golden apples, and instructed him
how to use them. The race beginning, as Hippomenes perceived his
mistress to press hard up to him; he, as it were by chance, let fall one
of these apples; the maid, taken with the beauty of it, failed not to
step out of her way to pick it up:
"Obstupuit Virgo, nitidique cupidine pomi
Declinat cursus, aurumque volubile tollit."
["The virgin, astonished and attracted by the glittering apple,
stops her career, and seizes the rolling gold."
—Ovid, Metam., x. 666.]
He did the same, when he saw his time, by the second and the third,
till by so diverting her, and making her lose so much ground, he won the
race. When physicians cannot stop a catarrh, they divert and turn it
into some other less dangerous part. And I find also that this is the
most ordinary practice for the diseases of the mind:
"Abducendus etiam nonnunquam animus est ad alia studia,
sollicitudines, curas, negotia: loci denique mutatione,
tanquam aegroti non convalescentes, saepe curandus est."
["The mind is sometimes to be diverted to other studies, thoughts,
cares, business: in fine, by change of place, as where sick persons
do not become convalescent."—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., iv. 35.]
'Tis to little effect directly to jostle a man's infirmities; we
neither make him sustain nor repel the attack; we only make him decline
and evade it.
This other lesson is too high and too difficult: 'tis for men of the
first form of knowledge purely to insist upon the thing, to consider and
judge it; it appertains to one sole Socrates to meet death with an
ordinary countenance, to grow acquainted with it, and to sport with it;
he seeks no consolation out of the thing itself; dying appears to him a
natural and indifferent accident; 'tis there that he fixes his sight and
resolution, without looking elsewhere. The disciples of Hegesias, who
starved themselves to death, animated thereunto by his fine lectures,
and in such numbers that King Ptolemy ordered he should be forbidden to
entertain his followers with such homicidal doctrines, did not consider
death in itself, neither did they judge of it; it was not there they
fixed their thoughts; they ran towards and aimed at a new being.
The poor wretches whom we see brought upon the scaffold, full of
ardent devotion, and therein, as much as in them lies, employing all
their senses, their ears in hearing the instructions given them, their
eyes and hands lifted up towards heaven, their voices in loud prayers,
with a vehement and continual emotion, do doubtless things very
commendable and proper for such a necessity: we ought to commend them
for their devotion, but not properly for their constancy; they shun the
encounter, they divert their thoughts from the consideration of death,
as children are amused with some toy or other when the surgeon is going
to give them a prick with his lancet. I have seen some, who, casting
their eyes upon the dreadful instruments of death round about, have
fainted, and furiously turned their thoughts another way; such as are to
pass a formidable precipice are advised either to shut their eyes or to
look another way.
Subrius Flavius, being by Nero's command to be put to death, and by
the hand of Niger, both of them great captains, when they lead him to
the place appointed for his execution, seeing the grave that Niger had
caused to be hollowed to put him into ill-made: "Neither is this," said
he, turning to the soldiers who guarded him, "according to military
discipline." And to Niger, who exhorted him to keep his head firm: "Do
but thou strike as firmly," said he. And he very well foresaw what would
follow when he said so; for Niger's arm so trembled that he had several
blows at his head before he could cut it off. This man seems to have had
his thoughts rightly fixed upon the subject.
He who dies in a battle, with his sword in his hand, does not then
think of death; he feels or considers it not; the ardour of the fight
diverts his thought another way. A worthy man of my acquaintance,
falling as he was fighting a duel, and feeling himself nailed to the
earth by nine or ten thrusts of his enemy, every one present called to
him to think of his conscience; but he has since told me, that though he
very well heard what they said, it nothing moved him, and that he never
thought of anything but how to disengage and revenge himself. He
afterwards killed his man in that very duel. He who brought to L.
Silanus the sentence of death, did him a very great kindness, in that,
having received his answer, that he was well prepared to die, but not by
base hands, he ran upon him with his soldiers to force him, and as he,
unarmed as he was, obstinately defended himself with his fists and feet,
he made him lose his life in the contest, by that means dissipating and
diverting in a sudden and furious rage the painful apprehension of the
lingering death to which he was designed.
We always think of something else; either the hope of a better life
comforts and supports us, or the hope of our children's worth, or the
future glory of our name, or the leaving behind the evils of this life,
or the vengeance that threatens those who are the causes of our death,
administers consolation to us:
"Spero equidem mediis, si quid pia numina possunt,
Supplicia hausurum scopulis, et nomine Dido
Saepe vocaturum . . . .
Audiam; et haec Manes veniet mihi fama sub imos."
["I hope, however, if the pious gods have any power, thou wilt feel
thy punishment amid the rocks, and will call on the name of Dido;
I shall hear, and this report will come to me below."—AEneid, iv.
382, 387.]
Xenophon was sacrificing with a crown upon his head when one came to
bring him news of the death of his son Gryllus, slain in the battle of
Mantinea: at the first surprise of the news, he threw his crown to the
ground; but understanding by the sequel of the narrative the manner of a
most brave and valiant death, he took it up and replaced it upon his
head. Epicurus himself, at his death, consoles himself upon the utility
and eternity of his writings:
"Omnes clari et nobilitati labores fiunt tolerabiles;"
["All labours that are illustrious and famous become supportable."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 26.]
and the same wound, the same fatigue, is not, says Xenophon, so
intolerable to a general of an army as to a common soldier. Epaminondas
took his death much more cheerfully, having been informed that the
victory remained to him:
"Haec sunt solatia, haec fomenta summorum dolorum;"
["These are sedatives and alleviations to the greatest pains."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 23.]
and such like circumstances amuse, divert, and turn our thoughts from
the consideration of the thing in itself. Even the arguments of
philosophy are always edging and glancing on the matter, so as scarce to
rub its crust; the greatest man of the first philosophical school, and
superintendent over all the rest, the great Zeno, forms this syllogism
against death: "No evil is honourable; but death is honourable;
therefore death is no evil"; against drunkenness this: "No one commits
his secrets to a drunkard; but every one commits his secrets to a wise
man: therefore a wise man is no drunkard." Is this to hit the white? I
love to see that these great and leading souls cannot rid themselves of
our company: perfect men as they are, they are yet simply men.
Revenge is a sweet passion, of great and natural impression; I
discern it well enough, though I have no manner of experience of it.
From this not long ago to divert a young prince, I did not tell him that
he must, to him that had struck him upon the one cheek, turn the other,
upon account of charity; nor go about to represent to him the tragical
events that poetry attributes to this passion. I left that behind; and I
busied myself to make him relish the beauty of a contrary image: and, by
representing to him what honour, esteem, and goodwill he would acquire
by clemency and good nature, diverted him to ambition. Thus a man is to
deal in such cases.
If your passion of love be too violent, disperse it, say they, and
they say true; for I have often tried it with advantage: break it into
several desires, of which let one be regent, if you will, over the rest;
but, lest it should tyrannise and domineer over you, weaken and
protract, by dividing and diverting it:
"Cum morosa vago singultiet inguine vena,"
["When you are tormented with fierce desire, satisfy it with the
first person that presents herself."—Persius, Sat., vi. 73.]
"Conjicito humorem collectum in corpora quaeque,"
[Lucretius, vi. 1062, to the like effect.]
and provide for it in time, lest it prove troublesome to deal with,
when it has once seized you:
"Si non prima novis conturbes vulnera plagis,
Volgivagaque vagus venere ante recentia cures."
["Unless you cure old wounds by new."-Lucretius, iv. 1064.]
I was once wounded with a vehement displeasure, and withal, more just
than vehement; I might peradventure have lost myself in it, if I had
merely trusted to my own strength. Having need of a powerful diversion
to disengage me, by art and study I became amorous, wherein I was
assisted by my youth: love relieved and rescued me from the evil wherein
friendship had engaged me. 'Tis in everything else the same; a violent
imagination hath seized me: I find it a nearer way to change than to
subdue it: I depute, if not one contrary, yet another at least, in its
place. Variation ever relieves, dissolves, and dissipates.
If I am not able to contend with it, I escape from it; and in
avoiding it, slip out of the way, and make, my doubles; shifting place,
business, and company, I secure myself in the crowd of other thoughts
and fancies, where it loses my trace, and I escape.
After the same manner does nature proceed, by the benefit of
inconstancy; for time, which she has given us for the sovereign
physician of our passions, chiefly works by this, that supplying our
imaginations with other and new affairs, it loosens and dissolves the
first apprehension, how strong soever. A wise man little less sees his
friend dying at the end of five-and-twenty years than on the first year;
and according to Epicurus, no less at all; for he did not attribute any
alleviation of afflictions, either to their foresight or their
antiquity; but so many other thoughts traverse this, that it languishes
and tires at last.
Alcibiades, to divert the inclination of common rumours, cut off the
ears and tail of his beautiful dog, and turned him out into the public
place, to the end that, giving the people this occasion to prate, they
might let his other actions alone. I have also seen, for this same end
of diverting the opinions and conjectures of the people and to stop
their mouths, some women conceal their real affections by those that
were only counterfeit; but I have also seen some of them, who in
counterfeiting have suffered themselves to be caught indeed, and who
have quitted the true and original affection for the feigned: and so
have learned that they who find their affections well placed are fools
to consent to this disguise: the public and favourable reception being
only reserved for this pretended lover, one may conclude him a fellow of
very little address and less wit, if he does not in the end put himself
into your place, and you into his; this is precisely to cut out and make
up a shoe for another to draw on.
A little thing will turn and divert us, because a little thing holds
us. We do not much consider subjects in gross and singly; they are
little and superficial circumstances, or images that touch us, and the
outward useless rinds that peel off from the subjects themselves:
"Folliculos ut nunc teretes aestate cicadae
Linquunt."
["As husks we find grasshoppers leave behind them in summer."
—Lucretius, v. 801.]
Even Plutarch himself laments his daughter for the little apish
tricks of her infancy.—[Consolation to his Wife on the Death of their
Daughter, c. I.]—The remembrance of a farewell, of the particular grace
of an action, of a last recommendation, afflict us. The sight of
Caesar's robe troubled all Rome, which was more than his death had done.
Even the sound of names ringing in our ears, as "my poor master,"—"my
faithful friend,"—"alas, my dear father," or, "my sweet daughter,"
afflict us. When these repetitions annoy me, and that I examine it a
little nearer, I find 'tis no other but a grammatical and word
complaint; I am only wounded with the word and tone, as the exclamations
of preachers very often work more upon their auditory than their
reasons, and as the pitiful eyes of a beast killed for our service;
without my weighing or penetrating meanwhile into the true and solid
essence of my subject:
"His se stimulis dolor ipse lacessit."
["With these incitements grief provokes itself."
—Lucretius, ii. 42.]
These are the foundations of our mourning.
The obstinacy of my stone to all remedies especially those in my
bladder, has sometimes thrown me into so long suppressions of urine for
three or four days together, and so near death, that it had been folly
to have hoped to evade it, and it was much rather to have been desired,
considering the miseries I endure in those cruel fits. Oh, that good
emperor, who caused criminals to be tied that they might die for want of
urination, was a great master in the hangman's' science! Finding myself
in this condition, I considered by how many light causes and objects
imagination nourished in me the regret of life; of what atoms the weight
and difficulty of this dislodging was composed in my soul; to how many
idle and frivolous thoughts we give way in so great an affair; a dog, a
horse, a book, a glass, and what not, were considered in my loss; to
others their ambitious hopes, their money, their knowledge, not less
foolish considerations in my opinion than mine. I look upon death
carelessly when I look upon it universally as the end of life. I insult
over it in gross, but in detail it domineers over me: the tears of a
footman, the disposing of my clothes, the touch of a friendly hand, a
common consolation, discourages and softens me. So do the complaints in
tragedies agitate our souls with grief; and the regrets of Dido and
Ariadne, impassionate even those who believe them not in Virgil and
Catullus. 'Tis a symptom of an obstinate and obdurate nature to be
sensible of no emotion, as 'tis reported for a miracle of Polemon; but
then he did not so much as alter his countenance at the biting of a mad
dog that tore away the calf of his leg; and no wisdom proceeds so far as
to conceive so vivid and entire a cause of sorrow, by judgment that it
does not suffer increase by its presence, when the eyes and ears have
their share; parts that are not to be moved but by vain accidents.
Is it reason that even the arts themselves should make an advantage
of our natural stupidity and weakness? An orator, says rhetoric in the
farce of his pleading, shall be moved with the sound of his own voice
and feigned emotions, and suffer himself to be imposed upon by the
passion he represents; he will imprint in himself a true and real grief,
by means of the part he plays, to transmit it to the judges, who are yet
less concerned than he: as they do who are hired at funerals to assist
in the ceremony of sorrow, who sell their tears and mourning by weight
and measure; for although they act in a borrowed form, nevertheless, by
habituating and settling their countenances to the occasion, 'tis most
certain they often are really affected with an actual sorrow. I was one,
amongst several others of his friends, who conveyed the body of Monsieur
de Grammont to Spissons from the siege of La Fere, where he was slain; I
observed that in all places we passed through we filled the people we
met with lamentations and tears by the mere solemn pomp of our convoy,
for the name of the defunct was not there so much as known. Quintilian
reports as to have seen comedians so deeply engaged in a mourning part,
that they still wept in the retiring room, and who, having taken upon
them to stir up passion in another, have themselves espoused it to that
degree as to find themselves infected with it, not only to tears, but,
moreover, with pallor and the comportment of men really overwhelmed with
grief.
In a country near our mountains the women play Priest Martin, for as
they augment the regret of the deceased husband by the remembrance of
the good and agreeable qualities he possessed, they also at the same
time make a register of and publish his imperfections; as if of
themselves to enter into some composition, and divert themselves from
compassion to disdain. Yet with much better grace than we, who, when we
lose an acquaintance, strive to give him new and false praises, and to
make him quite another thing when we have lost sight of him than he
appeared to us when we did see him; as if regret were an instructive
thing, or as if tears, by washing our understandings, cleared them. For
my part, I henceforth renounce all favourable testimonies men would give
of me, not because I shall be worthy of them, but because I shall be
dead.
Whoever shall ask a man, "What interest have you in this siege?"
—"The interest of example," he will say, "and of the common obedience to
my prince: I pretend to no profit by it; and for glory, I know how small
a part can affect a private man such as I: I have here neither passion
nor quarrel." And yet you shall see him the next day quite another man,
chafing and red with fury, ranged in battle for the assault; 'tis the
glittering of so much steel, the fire and noise of our cannon and drums,
that have infused this new rigidity and fury into his veins. A frivolous
cause, you will say. How a cause? There needs none to agitate the mind;
a mere whimsy without body and without subject will rule and agitate it.
Let me thing of building castles in Spain, my imagination suggests to me
conveniences and pleasures with which my soul is really tickled and
pleased. How often do we torment our mind with anger or sorrow by such
shadows, and engage ourselves in fantastic passions that impair both
soul and body? What astonished, fleeting, confused grimaces does this
raving put our faces into! what sallies and agitations both of members
and voices does it inspire us with! Does it not seem that this
individual man has false visions amid the crowd of others with whom he
has to do, or that he is possessed with some internal demon that
persecutes him? Inquire of yourself where is the object of this
mutation? is there anything but us in nature which inanity sustains,
over which it has power? Cambyses, from having dreamt that his brother
should be one day king of Persia, put him to death: a beloved brother,
and one in whom he had always confided. Aristodemus, king of the
Messenians, killed himself out of a fancy of ill omen, from I know not
what howling of his dogs; and King Midas did as much upon the account of
some foolish dream he had dreamed. 'Tis to prize life at its just value,
to abandon it for a dream. And yet hear the soul triumph over the
miseries and weakness of the body, and that it is exposed to all attacks
and alterations; truly, it has reason so to speak!
"O prima infelix finger ti terra Prometheo!
Ille parum cauti pectoris egit opus
Corpora disponens, mentem non vidit in arte;
Recta animi primum debuit esse via."
["O wretched clay, first formed by Prometheus. In his attempt,
what little wisdom did he shew! In framing bodies, he did not
apply his art to form the mind, which should have been his first
care."—Propertius, iii. 5, 7.]
CHAPTER V——UPON SOME VERSES OF VIRGIL
By how much profitable thoughts are more full and solid, by so much
are they also more cumbersome and heavy: vice, death, poverty, diseases,
are grave and grievous subjects. A man should have his soul instructed
in the means to sustain and to contend with evils, and in the rules of
living and believing well: and often rouse it up, and exercise it in
this noble study; but in an ordinary soul it must be by intervals and
with moderation; it will otherwise grow besotted if continually intent
upon it. I found it necessary, when I was young, to put myself in mind
and solicit myself to keep me to my duty; gaiety and health do not, they
say, so well agree with those grave and serious meditations: I am at
present in another state: the conditions of age but too much put me in
mind, urge me to wisdom, and preach to me. From the excess of
sprightliness I am fallen into that of severity, which is much more
troublesome; and for that reason I now and then suffer myself purposely
a little to run into disorder, and occupy my mind in wanton and youthful
thoughts, wherewith it diverts itself. I am of late but too reserved,
too heavy, and too ripe; years every day read to me lectures of coldness
and temperance. This body of mine avoids disorder and dreads it; 'tis
now my body's turn to guide my mind towards reformation; it governs, in
turn, and more rudely and imperiously than the other; it lets me not an
hour alone, sleeping or waking, but is always preaching to me death,
patience, and repentance. I now defend myself from temperance, as I have
formerly done from pleasure; it draws me too much back, and even to
stupidity. Now I will be master of myself, to all intents and purposes;
wisdom has its excesses, and has no less need of moderation than folly.
Therefore, lest I should wither, dry up, and overcharge myself with
prudence, in the intervals and truces my infirmities allow me:
"Mens intenta suis ne seit usque malis."
["That my mind may not eternally be intent upon my ills."
—Ovid., Trist., iv. i, 4.]
I gently turn aside, and avert my eyes from the stormy and cloudy sky
I have before me, which, thanks be to God, I regard without fear, but
not without meditation and study, and amuse myself in the remembrance of
my better years:
"Animus quo perdidit, optat,
Atque in praeterita se totus imagine versat."
["The mind wishes to have what it has lost, and throws itself
wholly into memories of the past."—Petronius, c. 128.]
Let childhood look forward and age backward; was not this the
signification of Janus' double face? Let years draw me along if they
will, but it shall be backward; as long as my eyes can discern the
pleasant season expired, I shall now and then turn them that way; though
it escape from my blood and veins, I shall not, however, root the image
of it out of my memory:
"Hoc est
Vivere bis, vita posse priore frui."
["'Tis to live twice to be able to enjoy one's former life again."
—Martial, x. 23, 7.]
Plato ordains that old men should be present at the exercises,
dances, and sports of young people, that they may rejoice in others for
the activity and beauty of body which is no more in themselves, and call
to mind the grace and comeliness of that flourishing age; and wills that
in these recreations the honour of the prize should be given to that
young man who has most diverted the company. I was formerly wont to mark
cloudy and gloomy days as extraordinary; these are now my ordinary days;
the extraordinary are the clear and bright; I am ready to leap for joy,
as for an unwonted favour, when nothing happens me. Let me tickle
myself, I cannot force a poor smile from this wretched body of mine; I
am only merry in conceit and in dreaming, by artifice to divert the
melancholy of age; but, in faith, it requires another remedy than a
dream. A weak contest of art against nature. 'Tis great folly to
lengthen and anticipate human incommodities, as every one does; I had
rather be a less while old than be old before I am really so.' I seize
on even the least occasions of pleasure I can meet. I know very well, by
hearsay, several sorts of prudent pleasures, effectually so, and
glorious to boot; but opinion has not power enough over me to give me an
appetite to them. I covet not so much to have them magnanimous,
magnificent, and pompous, as I do to have them sweet, facile, and ready:
"A natura discedimus; populo nos damus,
nullius rei bono auctori."
["We depart from nature and give ourselves to the people, who
understand nothing."—Seneca, Ep., 99.]
My philosophy is in action, in natural and present practice, very
little in fancy: what if I should take pleasure in playing at cob-nut or
to whip a top!
"Non ponebat enim rumores ante salutem."
["He did not sacrifice his health even to rumours." Ennius, apud
Cicero, De Offic., i. 24]
Pleasure is a quality of very little ambition; it thinks itself rich
enough of itself without any addition of repute; and is best pleased
where most retired. A young man should be whipped who pretends to a
taste in wine and sauces; there was nothing which, at that age, I less
valued or knew: now I begin to learn; I am very much ashamed on't; but
what should I do? I am more ashamed and vexed at the occasions that put
me upon't. 'Tis for us to dote and trifle away the time, and for young
men to stand upon their reputation and nice punctilios; they are going
towards the world and the world's opinion; we are retiring from it:
"Sibi arma, sibi equos, sibi hastas, sibi clavam, sibi pilam,
sibi natationes, et cursus habeant: nobis senibus, ex lusionibus
multis, talos relinquant et tesseras;"
["Let them reserve to themselves arms, horses, spears, clubs,
tennis, swimming, and races; and of all the sports leave to us old
men cards and dice."—Cicero, De Senec., c. 16.]
the laws themselves send us home. I can do no less in favour of this
wretched condition into which my age has thrown me than furnish it with
toys to play withal, as they do children; and, in truth, we become such.
Both wisdom and folly will have enough to do to support and relieve me
by alternate services in this calamity of age:
"Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem."
["Mingle with counsels a brief interval of folly."
—Horace, Od., iv. 12, 27.]
I accordingly avoid the lightest punctures; and those that formerly
would not have rippled the skin, now pierce me through and through: my
habit of body is now so naturally declining to ill:
"In fragili corpore odiosa omnis offensio est;"
["In a fragile body every shock is obnoxious."
—Cicero, De Senec., c. 18.]
"Mensque pati durum sustinet aegra nihil."
["And the infirm mind can bear no difficult exertion."
—Ovid, De Ponto., i. 5, 18.]
I have ever been very susceptibly tender as to offences: I am much
more tender now, and open throughout.
"Et minimae vires frangere quassa valent."
["And little force suffices to break what was cracked before."
—Ovid, De Tris., iii. 11, 22.]
My judgment restrains me from kicking against and murmuring at the
inconveniences that nature orders me to endure, but it does not take
away my feeling them: I, who have no other thing in my aim but to live
and be merry, would run from one end of the world to the other to seek
out one good year of pleasant and jocund tranquillity. A melancholic and
dull tranquillity may be enough for me, but it benumbs and stupefies me;
I am not contented with it. If there be any person, any knot of good
company in country or city, in France or elsewhere, resident or in
motion, who can like my humour, and whose humours I can like, let them
but whistle and I will run and furnish them with essays in flesh and
bone:
Seeing it is the privilege of the mind to rescue itself from old age,
I advise mine to it with all the power I have; let it meanwhile continue
green, and flourish if it can, like mistletoe upon a dead tree. But I
fear 'tis a traitor; it has contracted so strict a fraternity with the
body that it leaves me at every turn, to follow that in its need. I
wheedle and deal with it apart in vain; I try in vain to wean it from
this correspondence, to no effect; quote to it Seneca and Catullus, and
ladies and royal masques; if its companion have the stone, it seems to
have it too; even the faculties that are most peculiarly and properly
its own cannot then perform their functions, but manifestly appear
stupefied and asleep; there is no sprightliness in its productions, if
there be not at the same time an equal proportion in the body too.
Our masters are to blame, that in searching out the causes of the
extraordinary emotions of the soul, besides attributing it to a divine
ecstasy, love, martial fierceness, poesy, wine, they have not also
attributed a part to health: a boiling, vigorous, full, and lazy health,
such as formerly the verdure of youth and security, by fits, supplied me
withal; that fire of sprightliness and gaiety darts into the mind
flashes that are lively and bright beyond our natural light, and of all
enthusiasms the most jovial, if not the most extravagant.
It is, then, no wonder if a contrary state stupefy and clog my
spirit, and produce a contrary effect:
"Ad nullum consurgit opus, cum corpore languet;"
["When the mind is languishing, the body is good for nothing."
(Or:) "It rises to no effort; it languishes with the body."
—Pseudo Gallus, i. 125.]
and yet would have me obliged to it for giving, as it wants to make
out, much less consent to this stupidity than is the ordinary case with
men of my age. Let us, at least, whilst we have truce, drive away
incommodities and difficulties from our commerce:
"Dum licet, obducta solvatur fronte senectus:"
["Whilst we can, let us banish old age from the brow."
—Herod., Ep., xiii. 7.]
"Tetrica sunt amcenanda jocularibus."
["Sour things are to be sweetened with those that are pleasant."
—Sidonius Apollin., Ep., i. 9.]
I love a gay and civil wisdom, and fly from all sourness and
austerity of manners, all repellent, mien being suspected by me:
"Tristemque vultus tetrici arrogantiam:"
["The arrogant sadness of a crabbed face."—Auctor Incert.]
"Et habet tristis quoque turba cinaedos."
["And the dull crowd also has its voluptuaries." (Or:)
"An austere countenance sometimes covers a debauched mind."
—Idem.]
I am very much of Plato's opinion, who says that facile or harsh
humours are great indications of the good or ill disposition of the
mind. Socrates had a constant countenance, but serene and smiling, not
sourly austere, like the elder Crassus, whom no one ever saw laugh.
Virtue is a pleasant and gay quality.
I know very well that few will quarrel with the licence of my
writings, who have not more to quarrel with in the licence of their own
thoughts: I conform myself well enough to their inclinations, but I
offend their eyes. 'Tis a fine humour to strain the writings of Plato,
to wrest his pretended intercourses with Phaedo, Dion, Stella, and
Archeanassa:
"Non pudeat dicere, quod non pudet sentire."
["Let us not be ashamed to speak what we are not ashamed to think."]
I hate a froward and dismal spirit, that slips over all the pleasures
of life and seizes and feeds upon misfortunes; like flies, that cannot
stick to a smooth and polished body, but fix and repose themselves upon
craggy and rough places, and like cupping-glasses, that only suck and
attract bad blood.
As to the rest, I have enjoined myself to dare to say all that I dare
to do; even thoughts that are not to be published, displease me; the
worst of my actions and qualities do not appear to me so evil as I find
it evil and base not to dare to own them. Every one is wary and discreet
in confession, but men ought to be so in action; the boldness of doing
ill is in some sort compensated and restrained by the boldness of
confessing it. Whoever will oblige himself to tell all, should oblige
himself to do nothing that he must be forced to conceal. I wish that
this excessive licence of mine may draw men to freedom, above these
timorous and mincing virtues sprung from our imperfections, and that at
the expense of my immoderation I may reduce them to reason. A man must
see and study his vice to correct it; they who conceal it from others,
commonly conceal it from themselves; and do not think it close enough,
if they themselves see it: they withdraw and disguise it from their own
consciences:
"Quare vitia sua nemo confitetur? Quia etiam nunc in
illia est; somnium narrare vigilantis est."
["Why does no man confess his vices? because he is yet in them;
'tis for a waking man to tell his dream."—Seneca, Ep., 53.]
The diseases of the body explain themselves by their increase; we
find that to be the gout which we called a rheum or a strain; the
diseases of the soul, the greater they are, keep, themselves the most
obscure; the most sick are the least sensible; therefore it is that with
an unrelenting hand they most often, in full day, be taken to task,
opened, and torn from the hollow of the heart. As in doing well, so in
doing ill, the mere confession is sometimes satisfaction. Is there any
deformity in doing amiss, that can excuse us from confessing ourselves?
It is so great a pain to me to dissemble, that I evade the trust of
another's secrets, wanting the courage to disavow my knowledge. I can
keep silent, but deny I cannot without the greatest trouble and violence
to myself imaginable to be very secret, a man must be so by nature, not
by obligation. 'Tis little worth, in the service of a prince, to be
secret, if a man be not a liar to boot. If he who asked Thales the
Milesian whether he ought solemnly to deny that he had committed
adultery, had applied himself to me, I should have told him that he
ought not to do it; for I look upon lying as a worse fault than the
other. Thales advised him quite contrary, bidding him swear to shield
the greater fault by the less;
[Montaigne's memory here serves him ill, for the question being put
to Thales, his answer was: "But is not perjury worse than
adultery?"—Diogenes Laertius, in vita, i. 36.]
nevertheless, this counsel was not so much an election as a
multiplication of vice. Upon which let us say this in passing, that we
deal liberally with a man of conscience when we propose to him some
difficulty in counterpoise of vice; but when we shut him up betwixt two
vices, he is put to a hard choice as Origen was either to idolatrise or
to suffer himself to be carnally abused by a great Ethiopian slave they
brought to him. He submitted to the first condition, and wrongly, people
say. Yet those women of our times are not much out, according to their
error, who protest they had rather burden their consciences with ten men
than one mass.
If it be indiscretion so to publish one's errors, yet there is no
great danger that it pass into example and custom; for Ariston said,
that the winds men most fear are those that lay them open. We must tuck
up this ridiculous rag that hides our manners: they send their
consciences to the stews, and keep a starched countenance: even traitors
and assassins espouse the laws of ceremony, and there fix their duty. So
that neither can injustice complain of incivility, nor malice of
indiscretion. 'Tis pity but a bad man should be a fool to boot, and that
outward decency should palliate his vice: this rough-cast only
appertains to a good and sound wall, that deserves to be preserved and
whited.
In favour of the Huguenots, who condemn our auricular and private
confession, I confess myself in public, religiously and purely: St.
Augustin, Origeti, and Hippocrates have published the errors of their
opinions; I, moreover, of my manners. I am greedy of making myself
known, and I care not to how many, provided it be truly; or to say
better, I hunger for nothing; but I mortally hate to be mistaken by
those who happen to learn my name. He who does all things for honour and
glory, what can he think to gain by shewing himself to the world in a
vizor, and by concealing his true being from the people? Praise a
humpback for his stature, he has reason to take it for an affront: if
you are a coward, and men commend you for your valour, is it of you they
speak? They take you for another. I should like him as well who
glorifies himself in the compliments and congees that are made him as if
he were master of the company, when he is one of the least of the train.
Archelaus, king of Macedon, walking along the street, somebody threw
water on his head, which they who were with him said he ought to punish:
"Aye, but," said he, "whoever it was, he did not throw the water upon
me, but upon him whom he took me to be." Socrates being told that people
spoke ill of him, "Not at all," said he, "there is nothing, in me of
what they say."
For my part, if any one should recommend me as a good pilot, as being
very modest or very chaste, I should owe him no thanks; and so, whoever
should call me traitor, robber, or drunkard, I should be as little
concerned. They who do not rightly know themselves, may feed themselves
with false approbations; not I, who see myself, and who examine myself
even to my very bowels, and who very well know what is my due. I am
content to be less commended, provided I am better known. I may be
reputed a wise man in such a sort of wisdom as I take to be folly. I am
vexed that my Essays only serve the ladies for a common piece of
furniture, and a piece for the hall; this chapter will make me part of
the water-closet. I love to traffic with them a little in private;
public conversation is without favour and without savour. In farewells,
we oftener than not heat our affections towards the things we take leave
of; I take my last leave of the pleasures of this world: these are our
last embraces.
But let us come to my subject: what has the act of generation, so
natural, so necessary, and so just, done to men, to be a thing not to be
spoken of without blushing, and to be excluded from all serious and
moderate discourse? We boldly pronounce kill, rob, betray, and that we
dare only to do betwixt the teeth. Is it to say, the less we expend in
words, we may pay so much the more in thinking? For it is certain that
the words least in use, most seldom written, and best kept in, are the
best and most generally known: no age, no manners, are ignorant of them,
no more than the word bread they imprint themselves in every one without
being, expressed, without voice, and without figure; and the sex that
most practises it is bound to say least of it. 'Tis an act that we have
placed in the franchise of silence, from which to take it is a crime
even to accuse and judge it; neither dare we reprehend it but by
periphrasis and picture. A great favour to a criminal to be so execrable
that justice thinks it unjust to touch and see him; free, and safe by
the benefit of the severity of his condemnation. Is it not here as in
matter of books, that sell better and become more public for being
suppressed? For my part, I will take Aristotle at his word, who says,
that "bashfulness is an ornament to youth, but a reproach to old age."
These verses are preached in the ancient school, a school that I much
more adhere to than the modern: its virtues appear to me to be greater,
and the vices less:
"Ceux qui par trop fuyant Venus estrivent,
Faillent autant que ceulx qui trop la suyvent."
["They err as much who too much forbear Venus, as they who are too
frequent in her rites."—A translation by Amyot from Plutarch, A
philosopher should converse with princes.]
"Tu, dea, rerum naturam sola gubernas,
Nec sine to quicquam dias in luminis oras
Exoritur, neque fit laetum, nec amabile quidquam."
["Goddess, still thou alone governest nature, nor without thee
anything comes into light; nothing is pleasant, nothing joyful."
—Lucretius, i. 22.]
I know not who could set Pallas and the Muses at variance with Venus,
and make them cold towards Love; but I see no deities so well met, or
that are more indebted to one another. Who will deprive the Muses of
amorous imaginations, will rob them of the best entertainment they have,
and of the noblest matter of their work: and who will make Love lose the
communication and service of poesy, will disarm him of his best weapons:
by this means they charge the god of familiarity and good will, and the
protecting goddesses of humanity and justice, with the vice of
ingratitude and unthankfulness. I have not been so long cashiered from
the state and service of this god, that my memory is not still perfect
in his force and value:
"Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae;"
["I recognise vestiges of my old flame."—AEneid., iv. 23.]
There are yet some remains of heat and emotion after the fever:
"Nec mihi deficiat calor hic, hiemantibus annis!"
["Nor let this heat of youth fail me in my winter years."]
Withered and drooping as I am, I feel yet some remains of the past
ardour:
"Qual l'alto Egeo, per the Aquilone o Noto
Cessi, the tutto prima il volse et scosse,
Non 's accheta ei pero; ma'l suono e'l moto
Ritien del l'onde anco agitate e grosse:"
["As Aegean seas, when storms be calmed again,
That rolled their tumbling waves with troublous blasts,
Do yet of tempests passed some show retain,
And here and there their swelling billows cast."—Fairfax.]
but from what I understand of it, the force and power of this god are
more lively and animated in the picture of poesy than in their own
essence:
"Et versus digitos habet:"
["Verse has fingers."—Altered from Juvenal, iv. 196.]
it has I know not what kind of air, more amorous than love itself.
Venus is not so beautiful, naked, alive, and panting, as she is here in
Virgil:
"Dixerat; et niveis hinc atque hinc Diva lacertis
Cunctantem amplexu molli fovet. Ille repente
Accepit solitam flammam; notusque medullas
Intravit calor, et labefacta per ossa cucurrit
Non secus atque olim tonitru, cum rupta corusco
Ignea rima micans percurrit lumine nimbos.
. . . . . . Ea verba loquutus,
Optatos dedit amplexus; placidumque petivit
Conjugis infusus gremio per membra soporem."
["The goddess spoke, and throwing round him her snowy arms in soft
embraces, caresses him hesitating. Suddenly he caught the wonted
flame, and the well-known warmth pierced his marrow, and ran
thrilling through his shaken bones: just as when at times, with
thunder, a stream of fire in lightning flashes shoots across the
skies. Having spoken these words, he gave her the wished embrace,
and in the bosom of his spouse sought placid sleep."
—AEneid, viii. 387 and 392.]
All that I find fault with in considering it is, that he has
represented her a little too passionate for a married Venus; in this
discreet kind of coupling, the appetite is not usually so wanton, but
more grave and dull. Love hates that people should hold of any but
itself, and goes but faintly to work in familiarities derived from any
other title, as marriage is: alliance, dowry, therein sway by reason, as
much or more than grace and beauty. Men do not marry for themselves, let
them say what they will; they marry as much or more for their posterity
and family; the custom and interest of marriage concern our race much
more than us; and therefore it is, that I like to have a match carried
on by a third hand rather than a man's own, and by another man's liking
than that of the party himself; and how much is all this opposite to the
conventions of love? And also it is a kind of incest to employ in this
venerable and sacred alliance the heat and extravagance of amorous
licence, as I think I have said elsewhere. A man, says Aristotle, must
approach his wife with prudence and temperance, lest in dealing too
lasciviously with her, the extreme pleasure make her exceed the bounds
of reason. What he says upon the account of conscience, the physicians
say upon the account of health: "that a pleasure excessively lascivious,
voluptuous, and frequent, makes the seed too hot, and hinders
conception": 'tis said, elsewhere, that to a languishing intercourse, as
this naturally is, to supply it with a due and fruitful heat, a man must
do it but seldom and at appreciable intervals:
"Quo rapiat sitiens Venerem, interiusque recondat."
["But let him thirstily snatch the joys of love and enclose them in
his bosom."—Virg., Georg., iii. 137.]
I see no marriages where the conjugal compatibility sooner fails than
those that we contract upon the account of beauty and amorous desires;
there should be more solid and constant foundation, and they should
proceed with greater circumspection; this furious ardour is worth
nothing.
They who think they honour marriage by joining love to it, do,
methinks, like those who, to favour virtue, hold that nobility is
nothing else but virtue. They are indeed things that have some relation
to one another, but there is a great deal of difference; we should not
so mix their names and titles; 'tis a wrong to them both so to confound
them. Nobility is a brave quality, and with good reason introduced; but
forasmuch as 'tis a quality depending upon others, and may happen in a
vicious person, in himself nothing, 'tis in estimate infinitely below
virtue';
["If nobility be virtue, it loses its quality in all things wherein
not virtuous: and if it be not virtue, 'tis a small matter."
—La Byuyere.]
'tis a virtue, if it be one, that is artificial and apparent,
depending upon time and fortune: various in form, according to the
country; living and mortal; without birth, as the river Nile;
genealogical and common; of succession and similitude; drawn by
consequence, and a very weak one. Knowledge, strength, goodness, beauty,
riches, and all other qualities, fall into communication and commerce,
but this is consummated in itself, and of no use to the service of
others. There was proposed to one of our kings the choice of two
candidates for the same command, of whom one was a gentleman, the other
not; he ordered that, without respect to quality, they should choose him
who had the most merit; but where the worth of the competitors should
appear to be entirely equal, they should have respect to birth: this was
justly to give it its rank. A young man unknown, coming to Antigonus to
make suit for his father's command, a valiant man lately dead: "Friend,"
said he, "in such preferments as these, I have not so much regard to the
nobility of my soldiers as to their prowess." And, indeed, it ought not
to go as it did with the officers of the kings of Sparta, trumpeters,
fiddlers, cooks, the children of whom always succeeded to their places,
how ignorant soever, and were preferred before the most experienced in
the trade. They of Calicut make of nobles a sort of superhuman persons:
they are interdicted marriage and all but warlike employments: they may
have of concubines their fill, and the women as many lovers, without
being jealous of one another; but 'tis a capital and irremissible crime
to couple with a person of meaner conditions than themselves; and they
think themselves polluted, if they have but touched one in walking
along; and supposing their nobility to be marvellously interested and
injured in it, kill such as only approach a little too near them:
insomuch that the ignoble are obliged to cry out as they walk, like the
gondoliers of Venice, at the turnings of streets for fear of jostling;
and the nobles command them to step aside to what part they please: by
that means these avoid what they repute a perpetual ignominy, those
certain death. No time, no favour of the prince, no office, or virtue,
or riches, can ever prevail to make a plebeian become noble: to which
this custom contributes, that marriages are interdicted betwixt
different trades; the daughter of one of the cordwainers' gild is not
permitted to marry a carpenter; and parents are obliged to train up
their children precisely in their own callings, and not put them to any
other trade; by which means the distinction and continuance of their
fortunes are maintained.
A good marriage, if there be any such, rejects the company and
conditions of love, and tries to represent those of friendship. 'Tis a
sweet society of life, full of constancy, trust, and an infinite number
of useful and solid services and mutual obligations; which any woman who
has a right taste:
"Optato quam junxit lumine taeda"—
["Whom the marriage torch has joined with the desired light."
—Catullus, lxiv. 79.]
would be loth to serve her husband in quality of a mistress. If she
be lodged in his affection as a wife, she is more honourably and
securely placed. When he purports to be in love with another, and works
all he can to obtain his desire, let any one but ask him, on which he
had rather a disgrace should fall, his wife or his mistress, which of
their misfortunes would most afflict him, and to which of them he wishes
the most grandeur, the answer to these questions is out of dispute in a
sound marriage.
And that so few are observed to be happy, is a token of its price and
value. If well formed and rightly taken, 'tis the best of all human
societies; we cannot live without it, and yet we do nothing but decry
it. It happens, as with cages, the birds without despair to get in, and
those within despair of getting out. Socrates being asked, whether it
was more commodious to take a wife or not, "Let a man take which course
he will," said he; "he will repent." 'Tis a contract to which the common
saying:
"Homo homini aut deus aut lupus,"
["Man to man is either a god or a wolf."—Erasmus, Adag.]
may very fitly be applied; there must be a concurrence of many
qualities in the construction. It is found nowadays more convenient for
simple and plebeian souls, where delights, curiosity, and idleness do
not so much disturb it; but extravagant humours, such as mine, that hate
all sorts of obligation and restraint, are not so proper for it:
"Et mihi dulce magis resoluto vivere collo."
["And it is sweet to me to live with a loosened neck."
—Pseudo Gallus, i. 61.]
Might I have had my own will, I would not have married Wisdom
herself, if she would have had me. But 'tis to much purpose to evade it;
the common custom and usance of life will have it so. The most of my
actions are guided by example, not by choice, and yet I did not go to it
of my own voluntary motion; I was led and drawn to it by extrinsic
occasions; for not only things that are incommodious in themselves, but
also things however ugly, vicious, and to be avoided, may be rendered
acceptable by some condition or accident; so unsteady and vain is all
human resolution! and I was persuaded to it, when worse prepared and
less tractable than I am at present, that I have tried what it is: and
as great a libertine as I am taken to be, I have in truth more strictly
observed the laws of marriage, than I either promised or expected. 'Tis
in vain to kick, when a man has once put on his fetters: a man must
prudently manage his liberty; but having once submitted to obligation,
he must confine himself within the laws of common duty, at least, do
what he can towards it. They who engage in this contract, with a design
to carry themselves in it with hatred and contempt, do an unjust and
inconvenient thing; and the fine rule that I hear pass from hand to hand
amongst the women, as a sacred oracle:
["Serve thy husband as thy master, but guard thyself against him as
from a traitor."]
which is to say, comport thyself towards him with a dissembled,
inimical, and distrustful reverence (a cry of war and defiance), is
equally injurious and hard. I am too mild for such rugged designs: to
say the truth, I am not arrived to that perfection of ability and
refinement of wit, to confound reason with injustice, and to laugh at
all rule and order that does not please my palate; because I hate
superstition, I do not presently run into the contrary extreme of
irreligion.
(If a man hate superstition he cannot love religion. D.W.)
If a man does not always perform his duty, he ought at least to love
and acknowledge it; 'tis treachery to marry without espousing.
Let us proceed.
Our poet represents a marriage happy in a good accord wherein
nevertheless there is not much loyalty. Does he mean, that it is not
impossible but a woman may give the reins to her own passion, and yield
to the importunities of love, and yet reserve some duty toward marriage,
and that it may be hurt, without being totally broken? A serving man may
cheat his master, whom nevertheless he does not hate. Beauty,
opportunity, and destiny (for destiny has also a hand in't),
"Fatum est in partibus illis
Quas sinus abscondit; nam, si tibi sidera cessent,
Nil faciet longi mensura incognita nervi;"
["There is a fatality about the hidden parts: let nature have
endowed you however liberally, 'tis of no use, if your good star
fails you in the nick of time."—Juvenal, ix. 32.]
have attached her to a stranger; though not so wholly, peradventure,
but that she may have some remains of kindness for her husband. They are
two designs, that have several paths leading to them, without being
confounded with one another; a woman may yield to a man she would by no
means have married, not only for the condition of his fortune, but for
those also of his person. Few men have made a wife of a mistress, who
have not repented it. And even in the other world, what an unhappy life
does Jupiter lead with his, whom he had first enjoyed as a mistress!
'Tis, as the proverb runs, to befoul a basket and then put it upon one's
head. I have in my time, in a good family, seen love shamefully and
dishonestly cured by marriage: the considerations are widely different.
We love at once, without any tie, two things contrary in themselves.
Socrates was wont to say, that the city of Athens pleased, as ladies
do whom men court for love; every one loved to come thither to take a
turn, and pass away his time; but no one liked it so well as to espouse
it, that is, to inhabit there, and to make it his constant residence. I
have been vexed to see husbands hate their wives only because they
themselves do them wrong; we should not, at all events, methinks, love
them the less for our own faults; they should at least, upon the account
of repentance and compassion, be dearer to us.
They are different ends, he says, and yet in some sort compatible;
marriage has utility, justice, honour, and constancy for its share; a
flat, but more universal pleasure: love founds itself wholly upon
pleasure, and, indeed, has it more full, lively, and sharp; a pleasure
inflamed by difficulty; there must be in it sting and smart: 'tis no
longer love, if without darts and fire. The bounty of ladies is too
profuse in marriage, and dulls the point of affection and desire: to
evade which inconvenience, do but observe what pains Lycurgus and Plato
take in their laws.
Women are not to blame at all, when they refuse the rules of life
that are introduced into the world, forasmuch as the men make them
without their help. There is naturally contention and brawling betwixt
them and us; and the strictest friendship we have with them is yet mixed
with tumult and tempest. In the opinion of our author, we deal
inconsiderately with them in this: after we have discovered that they
are, without comparison, more able and ardent in the practice of love
than we, and that the old priest testified as much, who had been one
while a man, and then a woman:
"Venus huic erat utraque nota:"
["Both aspects of love were known to him,"
—Tiresias. Ovid. Metam., iii. 323.]
and moreover, that we have learned from their own mouths the proof
that, in several ages, was made by an Emperor and Empress of
Rome,—[Proclus.] —both famous for ability in that affair! for he in one
night deflowered ten Sarmatian virgins who were his captives: but she
had five-and-twenty bouts in one night, changing her man according to
her need and liking;
"Adhuc ardens rigidae tentigine vulvae
Et lassata viris, nondum satiata, recessit:"
["Ardent still, she retired, fatigued, but not satisfied."
—Juvenal, vi. 128.]
and that upon the dispute which happened in Cataluna, wherein a wife
complaining of her husband's too frequent addresses to her, not so much,
as I conceive, that she was incommodated by it (for I believe no
miracles out of religion) as under this pretence, to curtail and curb in
this, which is the fundamental act of marriage, the authority of
husbands over their wives, and to shew that their frowardness and
malignity go beyond the nuptial bed, and spurn under foot even the
graces and sweets of Venus; the husband, a man truly brutish and
unnatural, replied, that even on fasting days he could not subsist with
less than ten courses: whereupon came out that notable sentence of the
Queen of Arragon, by which, after mature deliberation of her council,
this good queen, to give a rule and example to all succeeding ages of
the moderation required in a just marriage, set down six times a day as
a legitimate and necessary stint; surrendering and quitting a great deal
of the needs and desires of her sex, that she might, she said, establish
an easy, and consequently, a permanent and immutable rule. Hereupon the
doctors cry out: what must the female appetite and concupiscence be,
when their reason, their reformation and virtue, are taxed at such a
rate, considering the divers judgments of our appetites? for Solon,
master of the law school, taxes us but at three a month,—that men may
not fail in point of conjugal frequentation: after having, I say,
believed and preached all this, we go and enjoin them continency for
their particular share, and upon the last and extreme penalties.
There is no passion so hard to contend with as this, which we would
have them only resist, not simply as an ordinary vice, but as an
execrable abomination, worse than irreligion and parricide; whilst we,
at the same time, go to't without offence or reproach. Even those
amongst us who have tried the experiment have sufficiently confessed
what difficulty, or rather impossibility, they have found by material
remedies to subdue, weaken, and cool the body. We, on the contrary,
would have them at once sound, vigorous plump, high-fed, and chaste;
that is to say, both hot and cold; for the marriage, which we tell them
is to keep them from burning, is but small refreshment to them, as we
order the matter. If they take one whose vigorous age is yet boiling, he
will be proud to make it known elsewhere;
"Sit tandem pudor; aut eamus in jus;
Multis mentula millibus redempta,
Non est haec tua, Basse; vendidisti;"
["Let there be some shame, or we shall go to law: your vigour,
bought by your wife with many thousands, is no longer yours: thou
hast sold it.—"Martial, xii. 90.]
Polemon the philosopher was justly by his wife brought before the
judge for sowing in a barren field the seed that was due to one that was
fruitful: if, on the other hand, they take a decayed fellow, they are in
a worse condition in marriage than either maids or widows. We think them
well provided for, because they have a man to lie with, as the Romans
concluded Clodia Laeta, a vestal nun, violated, because Caligula had
approached her, though it was declared he did no more but approach her:
but, on the contrary, we by that increase their necessity, forasmuch as
the touch and company of any man whatever rouses their desires, that in
solitude would be more quiet. And to the end, 'tis likely, that they
might render their chastity more meritorious by this circumstance and
consideration, Boleslas and Kinge his wife, kings of Poland, vowed it by
mutual consent, being in bed together, on their very wedding day, and
kept their vow in spite of all matrimonial conveniences.
We train them up from their infancy to the traffic of love; their
grace, dressing, knowledge, language, and whole instruction tend that
way: their governesses imprint nothing in them but the idea of love, if
for nothing else but by continually representing it to them, to give
them a distaste for it. My daughter, the only child I have, is now of an
age that forward young women are allowed to be married at; she is of a
slow, thin, and tender complexion, and has accordingly been brought up
by her mother after a retired and particular manner, so that she but now
begins to be weaned from her childish simplicity. She was reading before
me in a French book where the word 'fouteau', the name of a tree very
well known, occurred;—[The beech-tree; the name resembles in sound an
obscene French word.]—the woman, to whose conduct she is committed,
stopped her short a little roughly, and made her skip over that
dangerous step. I let her alone, not to trouble their rules, for I never
concern myself in that sort of government; feminine polity has a
mysterious procedure; we must leave it to them; but if I am not mistaken
the commerce of twenty lacquies could not, in six months' time, have so
imprinted in her memory the meaning, usage, and all the consequence of
the sound of these wicked syllables, as this good old woman did by
reprimand and interdiction.
"Motus doceri gaudet Ionicos
Matura virgo, et frangitur artibus;
Jam nunc et incestos amores
De tenero, meditatur ungui."
["The maid ripe for marriage delights to learn Ionic dances, and to
imitate those lascivious movements. Nay, already from her infancy
she meditates criminal amours."—Horace, Od., iii. 6, 21., the text
has 'fingitur'.]
Let them but give themselves the rein a little, let them but enter
into liberty of discourse, we are but children to them in this science.
Hear them but describe our pursuits and conversation, they will very
well make you understand that we bring them nothing they have not known
before, and digested without our help.
[This sentence refers to a conversation between some young women in
his immediate neighbourhood, which the Essayist just below informs
us that he overheard, and which was too shocking for him to repeat.
It must have been tolerably bad.—Remark by the editor of a later
edition.]
Is it, perhaps, as Plato says, that they have formerly been debauched
young fellows? I happened one day to be in a place where I could hear
some of their talk without suspicion; I am sorry I cannot repeat it.
By'rlady, said I, we had need go study the phrases of Amadis, and the
tales of Boccaccio and Aretin, to be able to discourse with them: we
employ our time to much purpose indeed. There is neither word, example,
nor step they are not more perfect in than our books; 'tis a discipline
that springs with their blood,
"Et mentem ipsa Venus dedit,"
["Venus herself made them what they are,"
—Virg., Georg., iii. 267.]
which these good instructors, nature, youth, and health, are
continually inspiring them with; they need not learn, they breed it:
"Nec tantum niveo gavisa est ulla columbo,
Compar, vel si quid dicitur improbius,
Oscula mordenti semper decerpere rostro,
Quantum praecipue multivola est mulier."
["No milk-white dove, or if there be a thing more lascivious,
takes so much delight in kissing as woman, wishful for every man
she sees."—Catullus, lxvi. 125.]
So that if the natural violence of their desire were not a little
restrained by fear and honour, which were wisely contrived for them, we
should be all shamed. All the motions in the world resolve into and tend
to this conjunction; 'tis a matter infused throughout: 'tis a centre to
which all things are directed. We yet see the edicts of the old and wise
Rome made for the service of love, and the precepts of Socrates for the
instruction of courtezans:
"Noncon libelli Stoici inter sericos
Jacere pulvillos amant:"
["There are writings of the Stoics which we find lying upon
silken cushions."—Horace, Epod., viii. 15.]
Zeno, amongst his laws, also regulated the motions to be observed in
getting a maidenhead. What was the philosopher Strato's book Of Carnal
Conjunction?—[ Diogenes Laertius, v. 59.]—And what did Theophrastus
treat of in those he intituled, the one 'The Lover', and the other 'Of
Love?' Of what Aristippus in his 'Of Former Delights'? What do the so
long and lively descriptions in Plato of the loves of his time pretend
to? and the book called 'The Lover', of Demetrius Phalereus? and
'Clinias', or the 'Ravished Lover', of Heraclides; and that of
Antisthenes, 'Of Getting Children', or, 'Of Weddings', and the other,
'Of the Master or the Lover'? And that of Aristo: 'Of Amorous Exercises'
What those of Cleanthes: one, 'Of Love', the other, 'Of the Art of
Loving'? The amorous dialogues of Sphaereus? and the fable of Jupiter
and Juno, of Chrysippus, impudent beyond all toleration? And his fifty
so lascivious epistles? I will let alone the writings of the
philosophers of the Epicurean sect, protectress of voluptuousness. Fifty
deities were, in time past, assigned to this office; and there have been
nations where, to assuage the lust of those who came to their devotion,
they kept men and women in their temples for the worshippers to lie
with; and it was an act of ceremony to do this before they went to
prayers:
"Nimirum propter continentiam incontinentia necessaria est;
incendium ignibus extinguitur."
["Forsooth incontinency is necessary for continency's sake; a
conflagration is extinguished by fire."]
In the greatest part of the world, that member of our body was
deified; in the same province, some flayed off the skin to offer and
consecrate a piece; others offered and consecrated their seed. In
another, the young men publicly cut through betwixt the skin and the
flesh of that part in several places, and thrust pieces of wood into the
openings as long and thick as they would receive, and of these pieces of
wood afterwards made a fire as an offering to their gods; and were
reputed neither vigorous nor chaste, if by the force of that cruel pain
they seemed to be at all dismayed. Elsewhere the most sacred magistrate
was reverenced and acknowledged by that member and in several ceremonies
the effigy of it was carried in pomp to the honour of various
divinities. The Egyptian ladies, in their Bacchanalia, each carried one
finely-carved of wood about their necks, as large and heavy as she could
so carry it; besides which, the statue of their god presented one, which
in greatness surpassed all the rest of his body.—[Herodotus, ii. 48,
says "nearly as large as the body itself."]—The married women, near the
place where I live, make of their kerchiefs the figure of one upon their
foreheads, to glorify themselves in the enjoyment they have of it; and
coming to be widows, they throw it behind, and cover it with their
headcloths. The most modest matrons of Rome thought it an honour to
offer flowers and garlands to the god Priapus; and they made the
virgins, at the time of their espousals, sit upon his shameful parts.
And I know not whether I have not in my time seen some air of like
devotion. What was the meaning of that ridiculous piece of the chaussuye
of our forefathers, and that is still worn by our Swiss? ["Cod-pieces
worn"—Cotton]—To what end do we make a show of our implements in figure
under our breeches, and often, which is worse, above their natural size,
by falsehood and imposture? I have half a mind to believe that this sort
of vestment was invented in the better and more conscientious ages, that
the world might not be deceived, and that every one should give a public
account of his proportions: the simple nations wear them yet, and near
about the real size. In those days, the tailor took measure of it, as
the shoemaker does now of a man's foot. That good man, who, when I was
young, gelded so many noble and ancient statues in his great city, that
they might not corrupt the sight of the ladies, according to the advice
of this other ancient worthy:
"Flagitii principium est, nudare inter gives corpora,"
["'Tis the beginning of wickedness to expose their persons among the
citizens"—Ennius, ap. Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., iv. 33.]
should have called to mind, that, as in the mysteries of the Bona
Dea, all masculine appearance was excluded, he did nothing, if he did
not geld horses and asses, in short, all nature:
"Omne adeo genus in terris, hominumque, ferarumque,
Et genus aequoreum, pecudes, pictaeque volucres,
In furias ignemque ruunt."
["So that all living things, men and animals, wild or tame,
and fish and gaudy fowl, rush to this flame of love."
—Virgil, Georg., iii. 244.]
The gods, says Plato, have given us one disobedient and unruly member
that, like a furious animal, attempts, by the violence of its appetite,
to subject all things to it; and so they have given to women one like a
greedy and ravenous animal, which, if it be refused food in season,
grows wild, impatient of delay, and infusing its rage into their bodies,
stops the passages, and hinders respiration, causing a thousand ills,
till, having imbibed the fruit of the common thirst, it has plentifully
bedewed the bottom of their matrix. Now my legislator—[The Pope who, as
Montaigne has told us, took it into his head to geld the statues.]—
should also have considered that, peradventure, it were a chaster and
more fruitful usage to let them know the fact as it is betimes, than
permit them to guess according to the liberty and heat of their own
fancy; instead of the real parts they substitute, through hope and
desire, others that are three times more extravagant; and a certain
friend of mine lost himself by producing his in place and time when the
opportunity was not present to put them to their more serious use. What
mischief do not those pictures of prodigious dimension do that the boys
make upon the staircases and galleries of the royal houses? they give
the ladies a cruel contempt of our natural furniture. And what do we
know but that Plato, after other well-instituted republics, ordered that
the men and women, old and young, should expose themselves naked to the
view of one another, in his gymnastic exercises, upon that very account?
The Indian women who see the men in their natural state, have at least
cooled the sense of seeing. And let the women of the kingdom of Pegu say
what they will, who below the waist have nothing to cover them but a
cloth slit before, and so strait, that what decency and modesty soever
they pretend by it, at every step all is to be seen, that it is an
invention to allure the men to them, and to divert them from boys, to
whom that nation is generally inclined; yet, peradventure they lose more
by it than they get, and one may venture to say, that an entire appetite
is more sharp than one already half-glutted by the eyes. Livia was wont
to say, that to a virtuous woman a naked man was but a statue. The
Lacedaemonian women, more virgins when wives than our daughters are, saw
every day the young men of their city stripped naked in their exercises,
themselves little heeding to cover their thighs in walking, believing
themselves, says Plato, sufficiently covered by their virtue without any
other robe. But those, of whom St. Augustin speaks, have given nudity a
wonderful power of temptation, who have made it a doubt, whether women
at the day of judgment shall rise again in their own sex, and not rather
in ours, for fear of tempting us again in that holy state. In brief, we
allure and flesh them by all sorts of ways: we incessantly heat and stir
up their imagination, and then we find fault. Let us confess the truth;
there is scarce one of us who does not more apprehend the shame that
accrues to him by the vices of his wife than by his own, and that is not
more solicitous (a wonderful charity) of the conscience of his virtuous
wife than of his own; who had not rather commit theft and sacrilege, and
that his wife was a murderess and a heretic, than that she should not be
more chaste than her husband: an unjust estimate of vices. Both we and
they are capable of a thousand corruptions more prejudicial and
unnatural than lust: but we weigh vices, not according to nature, but
according to our interest; by which means they take so many unequal
forms.
The austerity of our decrees renders the application of women to this
vice more violent and vicious than its own condition needs, and engages
it in consequences worse than their cause: they will readily offer to go
to the law courts to seek for gain, and to the wars to get reputation,
rather than in the midst of ease and delights, to have to keep so
difficult a guard. Do not they very well see that there is neither
merchant nor soldier who will not leave his business to run after this
sport, or the porter or cobbler, toiled and tired out as they are with
labour and hunger?
"Num tu, qux tenuit dives Achaemenes,
Aut pinguis Phrygiae Mygdonias opes,
Permutare velis crine Licymnim?
Plenas aut Arabum domos,
Dum fragrantia detorquet ad oscula
Cervicem, aut facili sxvitia negat,
Quae poscente magis gaudeat eripi,
Interdum rapere occupet?"
["Wouldst thou not exchange all that the wealthy Arhaemenes had,
or the Mygdonian riches of fertile Phrygia, for one ringlet of
Licymnia's hair? or the treasures of the Arabians, when she turns
her head to you for fragrant kisses, or with easily assuaged anger
denies them, which she would rather by far you took by force, and
sometimes herself snatches one!"—Horace, Od., ii. 12, 21.]
I do not know whether the exploits of Alexander and Caesar really
surpass the resolution of a beautiful young woman, bred up after our
fashion, in the light and commerce of the world, assailed by so many
contrary examples, and yet keeping herself entire in the midst of a
thousand continual and powerful solicitations. There is no doing more
difficult than that not doing, nor more active:
I hold it more easy to carry a suit of armour all the days of one's
life than a maidenhead; and the vow of virginity of all others is the
most noble, as being the hardest to keep:
"Diaboli virtus in lumbis est,"
says St. Jerome. We have, doubtless, resigned to the ladies the most
difficult and most vigorous of all human endeavours, and let us resign
to them the glory too. This ought to encourage them to be obstinate in
it; 'tis a brave thing for them to defy us, and to spurn under foot that
vain pre-eminence of valour and virtue that we pretend to have over
them; they will find if they do but observe it, that they will not only
be much more esteemed for it, but also much more beloved. A gallant man
does not give over his pursuit for being refused, provided it be a
refusal of chastity, and not of choice; we may swear, threaten, and
complain to much purpose; we therein do but lie, for we love them all
the better: there is no allurement like modesty, if it be not rude and
crabbed. 'Tis stupidity and meanness to be obstinate against hatred and
disdain; but against a virtuous and constant resolution, mixed with
goodwill, 'tis the exercise of a noble and generous soul. They may
acknowledge our service to a certain degree, and give us civilly to
understand that they disdain us not; for the law that enjoins them to
abominate us because we adore them, and to hate us because we love them,
is certainly very cruel, if but for the difficulty of it. Why should
they not give ear to our offers and requests, so long as they are kept
within the bounds of modesty? wherefore should we fancy them to have
other thoughts within, and to be worse than they seem? A queen of our
time said with spirit, "that to refuse these courtesies is a testimony
of weakness in women and a self-accusation of facility, and that a lady
could not boast of her chastity who was never tempted."
The limits of honour are not cut so short; they may give themselves a
little rein, and relax a little without being faulty: there lies on the
frontier some space free, indifferent, and neuter. He that has beaten
and pursued her into her fort is a strange fellow if he be not satisfied
with his fortune: the price of the conquest is considered by the
difficulty. Would you know what impression your service and merit have
made in her heart? Judge of it by her behaviour. Such an one may grant
more, who does not grant so much. The obligation of a benefit wholly
relates to the good will of those who confer it: the other coincident
circumstances are dumb, dead, and casual; it costs her dearer to grant
you that little, than it would do her companion to grant all. If in
anything rarity give estimation, it ought especially in this: do not
consider how little it is that is given, but how few have it to give;
the value of money alters according to the coinage and stamp of the
place. Whatever the spite and indiscretion of some may make them say in
the excess of their discontent, virtue and truth will in time recover
all the advantage. I have known some whose reputation has for a great
while suffered under slander, who have afterwards been restored to the
world's universal approbation by their mere constancy without care or
artifice; every one repents, and gives himself the lie for what he has
believed and said; and from girls a little suspected they have been
afterward advanced to the first rank amongst the ladies of honour.
Somebody told Plato that all the world spoke ill of him. "Let them
talk," said he; "I will live so as to make them change their note."
Besides the fear of God, and the value of so rare a glory, which ought
to make them look to themselves, the corruption of the age we live in
compels them to it; and if I were they, there is nothing I would not
rather do than intrust my reputation in so dangerous hands. In my time
the pleasure of telling (a pleasure little inferior to that of doing)
was not permitted but to those who had some faithful and only friend;
but now the ordinary discourse and common table-talk is nothing but
boasts of favours received and the secret liberality of ladies. In
earnest, 'tis too abject, too much meanness of spirit, in men to suffer
such ungrateful, indiscreet, and giddy-headed people so to persecute,
forage, and rifle those tender and charming favours.
This our immoderate and illegitimate exasperation against this vice
springs from the most vain and turbulent disease that afflicts human
minds, which is jealousy:
"Quis vetat apposito lumen de lumine sumi?
Dent licet assidue, nil tamen inde perit;"
["Who says that one light should not be lighted from another light?
Let them give ever so much, as much ever remains to lose."—Ovid, De
Arte Amandi, iii. 93. The measure of the last line is not good;
but the words are taken from the epigram in the Catalecta entitled
Priapus.]
she, and envy, her sister, seem to me to be the most foolish of the
whole troop. As to the last, I can say little about it; 'tis a passion
that, though said to be so mighty and powerful, had never to do with me.
As to the other, I know it by sight, and that's all. Beasts feel it; the
shepherd Cratis, having fallen in love with a she-goat, the he-goat, out
of jealousy, came, as he lay asleep, to butt the head of the female, and
crushed it. We have raised this fever to a greater excess by the
examples of some barbarous nations; the best disciplined have been
touched with it, and 'tis reason, but not transported:
"Ense maritali nemo confossus adulter
Purpureo Stygias sanguine tinxit aquas."
["Never did adulterer slain by a husband
stain with purple blood the Stygian waters."]
Lucullus, Caesar, Pompey, Antony, Cato, and other brave men were
cuckolds, and knew it, without making any bustle about it; there was in
those days but one coxcomb, Lepidus, that died for grief that his wife
had used him so.
"Ah! tum te miserum malique fati,
Quem attractis pedibus, patente porta,
Percurrent raphanique mugilesque:"
["Wretched man! when, taken in the fact, thou wilt be
dragged out of doors by the heels, and suffer the punishment
of thy adultery."—Catullus, xv. 17.]
and the god of our poet, when he surprised one of his companions with
his wife, satisfied himself by putting them to shame only,
"Atque aliquis de dis non tristibus optat
Sic fieri turpis:"
["And one of the merry gods wishes that he should himself
like to be so disgraced."—Ovid, Metam., iv. 187.]
and nevertheless took anger at the lukewarm embraces she gave him;
complaining that upon that account she was grown jealous of his
affection:
"Quid causas petis ex alto? fiducia cessit
Quo tibi, diva, mei?"
["Dost thou seek causes from above? Why, goddess, has your
confidence in me ceased?"—Virgil, AEneid, viii. 395.]
nay, she entreats arms for a bastard of hers,
"Arena rogo genitrix nato."
["I, a mother, ask armour for a son."—Idem, ibid., 383.]
which are freely granted; and Vulcan speaks honourably of AEneas,
"Arma acri facienda viro,"
["Arms are to be made for a valiant hero."—AEneid, viii. 441.]
with, in truth, a more than human humanity. And I am willing to leave
this excess of kindness to the gods:
"Nec divis homines componier aequum est."
["Nor is it fit to compare men with gods."
—Catullus, lxviii. 141.]
As to the confusion of children, besides that the gravest legislators
ordain and affect it in their republics, it touches not the women, where
this passion is, I know not how, much better seated:
"Saepe etiam Juno, maxima coelicolam,
Conjugis in culpa flagravit quotidiana."
["Often was Juno, greatest of the heaven-dwellers, enraged by her
husband's daily infidelities."—Idem, ibid.]
When jealousy seizes these poor souls, weak and incapable of
resistance, 'tis pity to see how miserably it torments and tyrannises
over them; it insinuates itself into them under the title of friendship,
but after it has once possessed them, the same causes that served for a
foundation of good-will serve them for a foundation of mortal hatred.
'Tis, of all the diseases of the mind, that which the most things serve
for aliment and the fewest for remedy: the virtue, health, merit,
reputation of the husband are incendiaries of their fury and ill-will:
"Nullae sunt inimicitiae, nisi amoris, acerbae."
["No enmities are bitter, save that of love."
(Or:) "No hate is implacable except the hatred of love"
—Propertius, ii. 8, 3.]
This fever defaces and corrupts all they have of beautiful and good
besides; and there is no action of a jealous woman, let her be how
chaste and how good a housewife soever, that does not relish of anger
and wrangling; 'tis a furious agitation, that rebounds them to an
extremity quite contrary to its cause. This held good with one Octavius
at Rome. Having lain with Pontia Posthumia, he augmented love with
fruition, and solicited with all importunity to marry her: unable to
persuade her, this excessive affection precipitated him to the effects
of the most cruel and mortal hatred: he killed her. In like manner, the
ordinary symptoms of this other amorous disease are intestine hatreds,
private conspiracies, and cabals:
"Notumque furens quid faemina possit,"
["And it is known what an angry woman is capable of doing."
—AEneid, V. 21.]
and a rage which so much the more frets itself, as it is compelled to
excuse itself by a pretence of good-will.
Now, the duty of chastity is of a vast extent; is it the will that we
would have them restrain? This is a very supple and active thing; a
thing very nimble, to be stayed. How? if dreams sometimes engage them so
far that they cannot deny them: it is not in them, nor, peradventure, in
chastity itself, seeing that is a female, to defend itself from lust and
desire. If we are only to trust to their will, what a case are we in,
then? Do but imagine what crowding there would be amongst men in
pursuance of the privilege to run full speed, without tongue or eyes,
into every woman's arms who would accept them. The Scythian women put
out the eyes of all their slaves and prisoners of war, that they might
have their pleasure of them, and they never the wiser. O, the furious
advantage of opportunity! Should any one ask me, what was the first
thing to be considered in love matters, I should answer that it was how
to take a fitting time; and so the second; and so the third—'tis a point
that can do everything. I have sometimes wanted fortune, but I have also
sometimes been wanting to myself in matters of attempt. God help him,
who yet makes light of this! There is greater temerity required in this
age of ours, which our young men excuse under the name of heat; but
should women examine it more strictly, they would find that it rather
proceeds from contempt. I was always superstitiously afraid of giving
offence, and have ever had a great respect for her I loved: besides, he
who in this traffic takes away the reverence, defaces at the same time
the lustre. I would in this affair have a man a little play the child,
the timorous, and the servant. If not this, I have in other bashfulness
whereof altogether in things some air of the foolish Plutarch makes
mention; and the course of my life has been divers ways hurt and
blemished with it; a quality very ill suiting my universal form: and,
indeed, what are we but sedition and discrepancy? I am as much out of
countenance to be denied as I am to deny; and it so much troubles me to
be troublesome to others that on occasion when duty compels me to try
the good-will of any one in a thing that is doubtful and that will be
chargeable to him, I do it very faintly, and very much against my will:
but if it be for my own particular (whatever Homer truly says, that
modesty is a foolish virtue in an indigent person), I commonly commit it
to a third person to blush for me, and deny those who employ me with the
same difficulty: so that it has sometimes befallen me to have had a mind
to deny, when I had not the power to do it.
'Tis folly, then, to attempt to bridle in women a desire that is so
powerful in them, and so natural to them. And when I hear them brag of
having so maidenly and so temperate a will, I laugh at them: they retire
too far back. If it be an old toothless trot, or a young dry consumptive
thing, though it be not altogether to be believed, at least they say it
with more similitude of truth. But they who still move and breathe, talk
at that ridiculous rate to their own prejudice, by reason that
inconsiderate excuses are a kind of self-accusation; like a gentleman, a
neighbour of mine, suspected to be insufficient:
"Languidior tenera cui pendens sicula beta,
Numquam se mediam sustulit ad tunicam,"
[Catullus, lxvii. 2, i.—The sense is in the context.]
who three or four days after he was married, to justify himself, went
about boldly swearing that he had ridden twenty stages the night before:
an oath that was afterwards made use of to convict him of his ignorance
in that affair, and to divorce him from his wife. Besides, it signifies
nothing, for there is neither continency nor virtue where there are no
opposing desires. It is true, they may say, but we will not yield;
saints themselves speak after that manner. I mean those who boast in
good gravity of their coldness and insensibility, and who expect to be
believed with a serious countenance; for when 'tis spoken with an
affected look, when their eyes give the lie to their tongue, and when
they talk in the cant of their profession, which always goes against the
hair, 'tis good sport. I am a great servant of liberty and plainness;
but there is no remedy; if it be not wholly simple or childish, 'tis
silly, and unbecoming ladies in this commerce, and presently runs into
impudence. Their disguises and figures only serve to cosen fools; lying
is there in its seat of honour; 'tis a by-way, that by a back-door leads
us to truth. If we cannot curb their imagination, what would we have
from them. Effects? There are enough of them that evade all foreign
communication, by which chastity may be corrupted:
"Illud saepe facit, quod sine teste facit;"
["He often does that which he does without a witness."
—Martial, vii. 62, 6.]
and those which we fear the least are, peradventure, most to be
feared; their sins that make the least noise are the worst:
"Offendor maecha simpliciore minus."
["I am less offended with a more professed strumpet."
—Idem, vi. 7,6.]
There are ways by which they may lose their virginity without
prostitution, and, which is more, without their knowledge:
"Obsterix, virginis cujusdam integritatem manu velut explorans, sive
malevolentia, sive inscitia, sive casu, dum inspicit, perdidit."
["By malevolence, or unskilfulness, or accident, the midwife,
seeking with the hand to test some maiden's virginity, has sometimes
destroyed it."—St. Augustine, De Civit. Dei, i. 18.]
Such a one, by seeking her maidenhead, has lost it; another by
playing with it has destroyed it. We cannot precisely circumscribe the
actions, we interdict them; they must guess at our meaning under general
and doubtful terms; the very idea we invent for their chastity is
ridiculous: for, amongst the greatest patterns that I have is Fatua, the
wife of Faunus: who never, after her marriage, suffered herself to be
seen by any man whatever; and the wife of Hiero, who never perceived her
husband's stinking breath, imagining that it was common to all men. They
must become insensible and invisible to satisfy us.
Now let us confess that the knot of this judgment of duty principally
lies in the will; there have been husbands who have suffered cuckoldom,
not only without reproach or taking offence at their wives, but with
singular obligation to them and great commendation of their virtue. Such
a woman has been, who prized her honour above her life, and yet has
prostituted it to the furious lust of a mortal enemy, to save her
husband's life, and who, in so doing, did that for him she would not
have done for herself! This is not the place wherein we are to multiply
these examples; they are too high and rich to be set off with so poor a
foil as I can give them here; let us reserve them for a nobler place;
but for examples of ordinary lustre, do we not every day see women
amongst us who surrender themselves for their husbands sole benefit, and
by their express order and mediation? and, of old, Phaulius the Argian,
who offered his to King Philip out of ambition; as Galba did it out of
civility, who, having entertained Maecenas at supper, and observing that
his wife and he began to cast glances at one another and to make eyes
and signs, let himself sink down upon his cushion, like one in a
profound sleep, to give opportunity to their desires: which he
handsomely confessed, for thereupon a servant having made bold to lay
hands on the plate upon the table, he frankly cried, "What, you rogue?
do you not see that I only sleep for Maecenas?" Such there may be, whose
manners may be lewd enough, whose will may be more reformed than
another, who outwardly carries herself after a more regular manner. As
we see some who complain of having vowed chastity before they knew what
they did; and I have also known others really, complain of having been
given up to debauchery before they were of the years of discretion. The
vice of the parents or the impulse of nature, which is a rough
counsellor, may be the cause.
In the East Indies, though chastity is of singular reputation, yet
custom permitted a married woman to prostitute herself to any one who
presented her with an elephant, and that with glory, to have been valued
at so high a rate. Phaedo the philosopher, a man of birth, after the
taking of his country Elis, made it his trade to prostitute the beauty
of his youth, so long as it lasted, to any one that would, for money
thereby to gain his living: and Solon was the first in Greece, 'tis
said, who by his laws gave liberty to women, at the expense of their
chastity, to provide for the necessities of life; a custom that
Herodotus says had been received in many governments before his time.
And besides, what fruit is there of this painful solicitude? For what
justice soever there is in this passion, we are yet to consider whether
it turns to account or no: does any one think to curb them, with all his
industry?
"Pone seram; cohibe: sed quis custodiet ipsos
Custodes? cauta est, et ab illis incipit uxor."
["Put on a lock; shut them up under a guard; but who shall guard
the guard? she knows what she is about, and begins with them."
—Juvenal, vi. 346.]
What commodity will not serve their turn, in so knowing an age?
Curiosity is vicious throughout; but 'tis pernicious here. 'Tis folly
to examine into a disease for which there is no physic that does not
inflame and make it worse; of which the shame grows still greater and
more public by jealousy, and of which the revenge more wounds our
children than it heals us. You wither and die in the search of so
obscure a proof. How miserably have they of my time arrived at that
knowledge who have been so unhappy as to have found it out? If the
informer does not at the same time apply a remedy and bring relief, 'tis
an injurious information, and that better deserves a stab than the lie.
We no less laugh at him who takes pains to prevent it, than at him who
is a cuckold and knows it not. The character of cuckold is indelible:
who once has it carries it to his grave; the punishment proclaims it
more than the fault. It is to much purpose to drag out of obscurity and
doubt our private misfortunes, thence to expose them on tragic
scaffolds; and misfortunes that only hurt us by being known; for we say
a good wife or a happy marriage, not that they are really so, but
because no one says to the contrary. Men should be so discreet as to
evade this tormenting and unprofitable knowledge: and the Romans had a
custom, when returning from any expedition, to send home before to
acquaint their wives with their coming, that they might not surprise
them; and to this purpose it is that a certain nation has introduced a
custom, that the priest shall on the wedding-day open the way to the
bride, to free the husband from the doubt and curiosity of examining in
the first assault, whether she comes a virgin to his bed, or has been at
the trade before.
But the world will be talking. I know, a hundred honest men cuckolds,
honestly and not unbeseemingly; a worthy man is pitied, not disesteemed
for it. Order it so that your virtue may conquer your misfortune; that
good men may curse the occasion, and that he who wrongs you may tremble
but to think on't. And, moreover, who escapes being talked of at the
same rate, from the least even to the greatest?
"Tot qui legionibus imperitivit
Et melior quam to multis fuit, improbe, rebus."
["Many who have commanded legions, many a man much better far than
you, you rascal."—Lucretius, iii. 1039, 1041.]
Seest thou how many honest men are reproached with this in thy
presence; believe that thou art no more spared elsewhere. But, the very
ladies will be laughing too; and what are they so apt to laugh at in
this virtuous age of ours as at a peaceable and well-composed marriage?
Each amongst you has made somebody cuckold; and nature runs much in
parallel, in compensation, and turn for turn. The frequency of this
accident ought long since to have made it more easy; 'tis now passed
into custom.
Miserable passion! which has this also, that it is incommunicable,
"Fors etiam nostris invidit questibus aures;"
["Fortune also refuses ear to our complaints."
—Catullus, lxvii.]
for to what friend dare you intrust your griefs, who, if he does not
laugh at them, will not make use of the occasion to get a share of the
quarry? The sharps, as well as the sweets of marriage, are kept secret
by the wise; and amongst its other troublesome conditions this to a
prating fellow, as I am, is one of the chief, that custom has rendered
it indecent and prejudicial to communicate to any one all that a man
knows and all that a man feels. To give women the same counsel against
jealousy would be so much time lost; their very being is so made up of
suspicion, vanity, and curiosity, that to cure them by any legitimate
way is not to be hoped. They often recover of this infirmity by a form
of health much more to be feared than the disease itself; for as there
are enchantments that cannot take away the evil but by throwing it upon
another, they also willingly transfer this ever to their husbands, when
they shake it off themselves. And yet I know not, to speak truth,
whether a man can suffer worse from them than their jealousy; 'tis the
most dangerous of all their conditions, as the head is of all their
members. Pittacus used to say,—[Plutarch, On Contentment, c. II.]— that
every one had his trouble, and that his was the jealous head of his
wife; but for which he should think himself perfectly happy. A mighty
inconvenience, sure, which could poison the whole life of so just, so
wise, and so valiant a man; what must we other little fellows do? The
senate of Marseilles had reason to grant him his request who begged
leave to kill himself that he might be delivered from the clamour of his
wife; for 'tis a mischief that is never removed but by removing the
whole piece; and that has no remedy but flight or patience, though both
of them very hard. He was, methinks, an understanding fellow who said,
'twas a happy marriage betwixt a blind wife and a deaf husband.
Let us also consider whether the great and violent severity of
obligation we enjoin them does not produce two effects contrary to our
design namely, whether it does not render the pursuants more eager to
attack, and the women more easy to yield. For as to the first, by
raising the value of the place, we raise the value and the desire of the
conquest. Might it not be Venus herself, who so cunningly enhanced the
price of her merchandise, by making the laws her bawds; knowing how
insipid a delight it would be that was not heightened by fancy and
hardness to achieve? In short, 'tis all swine's flesh, varied by sauces,
as Flaminius' host said. Cupid is a roguish god, who makes it his sport
to contend with devotion and justice: 'tis his glory that his power
mates all powers, and that all other rules give place to his:
"Materiam culpae prosequiturque suae."
["And seeks out a matter (motive) for his crimes."
—Ovid, Trist., iv. I. 34.]
As to the second point; should we not be less cuckolds, if we less
feared to be so? according to the humour of women whom interdiction
incites, and who are more eager, being forbidden:
"Ubi velis, nolunt; ubi nolis, volunt ultro;
Concessa pudet ire via."
["Where thou wilt, they won't; where thou wilt not, they
spontaneously agree; they are ashamed to go in the permitted path."
—Terence, Eunuchus, act iv., sc. 8, v 43]
What better interpretation can we make of Messalina's behaviour? She,
at first, made her husband a cuckold in private, as is the common use;
but, bringing her business about with too much ease, by reason of her
husband's stupidity, she soon scorned that way, and presently fell to
making open love, to own her lovers, and to favour and entertain them in
the sight of all: she would make him know and see how she used him. This
animal, not to be roused with all this, and rendering her pleasures dull
and flat by his too stupid facility, by which he seemed to authorise and
make them lawful; what does she? Being the wife of a living and
healthful emperor, and at Rome, the theatre of the world, in the face of
the sun, and with solemn ceremony, and to Silius, who had long before
enjoyed her, she publicly marries herself one day that her husband was
gone out of the city. Does it not seem as if she was going to become
chaste by her husband's negligence? or that she sought another husband
who might sharpen her appetite by his jealousy, and who by watching
should incite her? But the first difficulty she met with was also the
last: this beast suddenly roused these sleepy, sluggish sort of men are
often the most dangerous: I have found by experience that this extreme
toleration, when it comes to dissolve, produces the most severe revenge;
for taking fire on a sudden, anger and fury being combined in one,
discharge their utmost force at the first onset,
"Irarumque omnes effundit habenas:"
["He let loose his whole fury."—AEneid, xii. 499.]
he put her to death, and with her a great number of those with whom
she had intelligence, and even one of them who could not help it, and
whom she had caused to be forced to her bed with scourges.
What Virgil says of Venus and Vulcan, Lucretius had better expressed
of a stolen enjoyment betwixt her and Mars:
"Belli fera moenera Mavors
Armipotens regit, ingremium qui saepe tuum se
Rejictt, aeterno devinctus vulnere amoris
............................
Pascit amore avidos inhians in te, Dea, visus,
Eque tuo pendet resupini spiritus ore
Hunc tu, Diva, tuo recubantem corpore sancto
Circumfusa super, suaveis ex ore loquelas
Funde."
["Mars, the god of wars, who controls the cruel tasks of war, often
reclines on thy bosom, and greedily drinks love at both his eyes,
vanquished by the eternal wound of love: and his breath, as he
reclines, hangs on thy lips; bending thy head over him as he lies
upon thy sacred person, pour forth sweet and persuasive words."
—Lucretius, i. 23.]
When I consider this rejicit, fiascit, inhians, ynolli, fovet,
medullas, labefacta, pendet, percurrit, and that noble circumfusa,
mother of the pretty infuses; I disdain those little quibbles and verbal
allusions that have since sprung up. Those worthy people stood in need
of no subtlety to disguise their meaning; their language is downright,
and full of natural and continued vigour; they are all epigram; not only
the tail, but the head, body, and feet. There is nothing forced, nothing
languishing, but everything keeps the same pace:
"Contextus totes virilis est; non sunt circa flosculos occupati."
["The whole contexture is manly; they don't occupy themselves with
little flowers of rhetoric."—Seneca, Ep., 33.]
'Tis not a soft eloquence, and without offence only; 'tis nervous and
solid, that does not so much please, as it fills and ravishes the
greatest minds. When I see these brave forms of expression, so lively,
so profound, I do not say that 'tis well said, but well thought. 'Tis
the sprightliness of the imagination that swells and elevates the words:
"Pectus est quod disertum Tacit."
["The heart makes the man eloquent."—Quintilian, x. 7.]
Our people call language, judgment, and fine words, full conceptions.
This painting is not so much carried on by dexterity of hand as by
having the object more vividly imprinted in the soul. Gallus speaks
simply because he conceives simply: Horace does not content himself with
a superficial expression; that would betray him; he sees farther and
more clearly into things; his mind breaks into and rummages all the
magazine of words and figures wherewith to express himself, and he must
have them more than ordinary, because his conception is so. Plutarch
says' that he sees the Latin tongue by the things: 'tis here the same:
the sense illuminates and produces the words, no more words of air, but
of flesh and bone; they signify more than they say. Moreover, those who
are not well skilled in a language present some image of this; for in
Italy I said whatever I had a mind to in common discourse, but in more
serious talk, I durst not have trusted myself with an idiom that I could
not wind and turn out of its ordinary pace; I would have a power of
introducing something of my own.
The handling and utterance of fine wits is that which sets off
language; not so much by innovating it, as by putting it to more
vigorous and various services, and by straining, bending, and adapting
it to them. They do not create words, but they enrich their own, and
give them weight and signification by the uses they put them to, and
teach them unwonted motions, but withal ingeniously and discreetly. And
how little this talent is given to all is manifest by the many French
scribblers of this age: they are bold and proud enough not to follow the
common road, but want of invention and discretion ruins them; there is
nothing seen in their writings but a wretched affectation of a strange
new style, with cold and absurd disguises, which, instead of elevating,
depress the matter: provided they can but trick themselves out with new
words, they care not what they signify; and to bring in a new word by
the head and shoulders, they leave the old one, very often more sinewy
and significant than the other.
There is stuff enough in our language, but there is a defect in
cutting out: for there is nothing that might not be made out of our
terms of hunting and war, which is a fruitful soil to borrow from; and
forms of speaking, like herbs, improve and grow stronger by being
transplanted. I find it sufficiently abundant, but not sufficiently
pliable and vigorous; it commonly quails under a powerful conception; if
you would maintain the dignity of your style, you will often perceive it
to flag and languish under you, and there Latin steps in to its relief,
as Greek does to others. Of some of these words I have just picked out
we do not so easily discern the energy, by reason that the frequent use
of them has in some sort abased their beauty, and rendered it common; as
in our ordinary language there are many excellent phrases and metaphors
to be met with, of which the beauty is withered by age, and the colour
is sullied by too common handling; but that nothing lessens the relish
to an understanding man, nor does it derogate from the glory of those
ancient authors who, 'tis likely, first brought those words into that
lustre.
The sciences treat of things too refinedly, after an artificial, very
different from the common and natural, way. My page makes love, and
understands it; but read to him Leo Hebraeus—[Leo the Jew, Ficinus,
Cardinal Bembo, and Mario Equicola all wrote Treatises on Love.]— and
Ficinus, where they speak of love, its thoughts and actions, he
understands it not. I do not find in Aristotle most of my ordinary
motions; they are there covered and disguised in another robe for the
use of the schools. Good speed them! were I of the trade, I would as
much naturalise art as they artificialise nature. Let us let Bembo and
Equicola alone.
When I write, I can very well spare both the company and the
remembrance of books, lest they should interrupt my progress; and also,
in truth, the best authors too much humble and discourage me: I am very
much of the painter's mind, who, having represented cocks most
wretchedly ill, charged all his boys not to suffer any natural cock to
come into his shop; and had rather need to give myself a little lustre,
of the invention of Antigenides the musician, who, when he was asked to
sing or play, took care beforehand that the auditory should, either
before or after, be satiated with some other ill musicians. But I can
hardly be without Plutarch; he is so universal and so full, that upon
all occasions, and what extravagant subject soever you take in hand, he
will still be at your elbow, and hold out to you a liberal and not to be
exhausted hand of riches and embellishments. It vexes me that he is so
exposed to be the spoil of those who are conversant with him: I can
scarce cast an eye upon him but I purloin either a leg or a wing.
And also for this design of mine 'tis convenient for me for me to
write at home, in a wild country, where I have nobody to assist or
relieve me; where I hardly see a man who understands the Latin of his
Paternoster, and of French a little less. I might have made it better
elsewhere, but then the work would have been less my own; and its
principal end and perfection is to be exactly mine. I readily correct an
accidental error, of which I am full, as I run carelessly on; but for my
ordinary and constant imperfections, it were a kind of treason to put
them out. When another tells me, or that I say to myself, "Thou art too
thick of figures: this is a word of rough Gascon: that is a dangerous
phrase (I do not reject any of those that are used in the common streets
of France; they who would fight custom with grammar are triflers): this
is an ignorant discourse: this is a paradoxical discourse: that is going
too far: thou makest thyself too merry at times: men will think thou
sayest a thing in good earnest which thou only speakest in jest."—"Yes,
I know, but I correct the faults of inadvertence, not those of custom.
Do I not talk at the same rate throughout? Do I not represent myself to
the life? 'Tis enough that I have done what I designed; all the world
knows me in my book, and my book in me."
Now I have an apish, imitative quality: when I used to write verses
(and I never made any but Latin), they evidently discovered the poet I
had last read, and some of my first essays have a little exotic taste: I
speak something another kind of language at Paris than I do at
Montaigne. Whoever I steadfastly look upon easily leaves some impression
of his upon me; whatever I consider I usurp, whether a foolish
countenance, a disagreeable look, or a ridiculous way of speaking; and
vices most of all, because they seize and stick to me, and will not
leave hold without shaking. I swear more by imitation than by
complexion: a murderous imitation, like that of the apes so terrible
both in stature and strength, that Alexander met with in a certain
country of the Indies, and which he would have had much ado any other
way to have subdued; but they afforded him the means by that inclination
of theirs to imitate whatever they saw done; for by that the hunters
were taught to put on shoes in their sight, and to tie them fast with
many knots, and to muffle up their heads in caps all composed of running
nooses, and to seem to anoint their eyes with glue; so did those poor
beasts employ their imitation to their own ruin they glued up their own
eyes, haltered and bound themselves. The other faculty of playing the
mimic, and ingeniously acting the words and gestures of another,
purposely to make people merry and to raise their admiration, is no more
in me than in a stock. When I swear my own oath, 'tis only, by God! of
all oaths the most direct. They say that Socrates swore by the dog; Zeno
had for his oath the same interjection at this time in use amongst the
Italians, Cappari! Pythagoras swore By water and air. I am so apt,
without thinking of it, to receive these superficial impressions, that
if I have Majesty or Highness in my mouth three days together, they come
out instead of Excellency and Lordship eight days after; and what I say
to-day in sport and fooling I shall say the same to-morrow seriously.
Wherefore, in writing, I more unwillingly undertake beaten arguments,
lest I should handle them at another's expense. Every subject is equally
fertile to me: a fly will serve the purpose, and 'tis well if this I
have in hand has not been undertaken at the recommendation of as flighty
a will. I may begin, with that which pleases me best, for the subjects
are all linked to one another.
But my soul displeases me, in that it ordinarily produces its deepest
and most airy conceits and which please me best, when I least expect or
study for them, and which suddenly vanish, having at the instant,
nothing to apply them to; on horseback, at table, and in bed: but most
on horseback, where I am most given to think. My speaking is a little
nicely jealous of silence and attention: if I am talking my best,
whoever interrupts me, stops me. In travelling, the necessity of the way
will often put a stop to discourse; besides which I, for the most part,
travel without company fit for regular discourses, by which means I have
all the leisure I would to entertain myself. It falls out as it does in
my dreams; whilst dreaming I recommend them to my memory (for I am apt
to dream that I dream), but, the next morning, I may represent to myself
of what complexion they were, whether gay, or sad, or strange, but what
they were, as to the rest, the more I endeavour to retrieve them, the
deeper I plunge them in oblivion. So of thoughts that come accidentally
into my head, I have no more but a vain image remaining in my memory;
only enough to make me torment myself in their quest to no purpose.
Well, then, laying books aside, and more simply and materially
speaking, I find, after all, that Love is nothing else but the thirst of
enjoying the object desired, or Venus any other thing than the pleasure
of discharging one's vessels, just as the pleasure nature gives in
discharging other parts, that either by immoderation or indiscretion
become vicious. According to Socrates, love is the appetite of
generation by the mediation of beauty. And when I consider the
ridiculous titillation of this pleasure, the absurd, crack-brained, wild
motions with which it inspires Zeno and Cratippus, the indiscreet rage,
the countenance inflamed with fury and cruelty in the sweetest effects
of love, and then that austere air, so grave, severe, ecstatic, in so
wanton an action; that our delights and our excrements are promiscuously
shuffled together; and that the supreme pleasure brings along with it,
as in pain, fainting and complaining; I believe it to be true, as Plato
says, that the gods made man for their sport:
"Quaenam ista jocandi
Saevitia!"
["With a sportive cruelty" (Or:) "What an unkindness there is in
jesting!"—Claudian in Eutrop. i. 24.]
and that it was in mockery that nature has ordered the most agitative
of actions and the most common, to make us equal, and to put fools and
wise men, beasts and us, on a level. Even the most contemplative and
prudent man, when I imagine him in this posture, I hold him an impudent
fellow to pretend to be prudent and contemplative; they are the
peacocks' feet that abate his pride:
"Ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat?"
["What prevents us from speaking truth with a smile?"
—Horace, Sat., i. I, 24.]
They who banish serious imaginations from their sports, do, says one,
like him who dares not adore the statue of a saint, if not covered with
a veil. We eat and drink, indeed, as beasts do; but these are not
actions that obstruct the functions of the soul, in these we maintain
our advantage over them; this other action subjects all other thought,
and by its imperious authority makes an ass of all Plato's divinity and
philosophy; and yet there is no complaint of it. In everything else a
man may keep some decorum, all other operations submit to the rules of
decency; this cannot so much as in imagination appear other than vicious
or ridiculous: find out, if you can, therein any serious and discreet
procedure. Alexander said, that he chiefly knew himself to be mortal by
this act and sleeping; sleep suffocates and suppresses the faculties of
the soul; the familiarity with women likewise dissipates and exhausts
them: doubtless 'tis a mark, not only of our original corruption, but
also of our vanity and deformity.
On the one side, nature pushes us on to it, having fixed the most
noble, useful, and pleasant of all her functions to this desire: and, on
the other side, leaves us to accuse and avoid it, as insolent and
indecent, to blush at it, and to recommend abstinence. Are we not brutes
to call that work brutish which begets us? People of so many differing
religions have concurred in several proprieties, as sacrifices, lamps,
burning incense, fasts, and offerings; and amongst others, in the
condemning this act: all opinions tend that way, besides the widespread
custom of circumcision, which may be regarded as a punishment. We have,
peradventure, reason to blame ourselves for being guilty of so foolish a
production as man, and to call the act, and the parts that are employed
in the act, shameful (mine, truly, are now shameful and pitiful). The
Essenians, of whom Pliny speaks, kept up their country for several ages
without either nurse or baby-clouts, by the arrival of strangers who,
following this pretty humour, came continually to them: a whole nation
being resolute, rather to hazard a total extermination, than to engage
themselves in female embraces, and rather to lose the succession of men,
than to beget one. 'Tis said, that Zeno never had to do with a woman but
once in his life, and then out of civility, that he might not seem too
obstinately to disdain the sex.
[Diogenes Laertius, vii. 13.—What is there said, however, is that
Zeno seldom had commerce with boys, lest he should be deemed a very
misogynist.]
Every one avoids seeing a man born, every one runs to see him die; to
destroy him a spacious field is sought out in the face of the sun, but,
to make him, we creep into as dark and private a corner as we can: 'tis
a man's duty to withdraw himself bashfully from the light to create; but
'tis glory and the fountain of many virtues to know how to destroy what
we have made: the one is injury, the other favour: for Aristotle says
that to do any one a kindness, in a certain phrase of his country, is to
kill him. The Athenians, to couple the disgrace of these two actions,
having to purge the Isle of Delos, and to justify themselves to Apollo,
interdicted at once all births and burials in the precincts thereof:
"Nostri nosmet paenitet."
["We are ashamed of ourselves."—Terence, Phoymio, i. 3, 20.]
There are some nations that will not be seen to eat. I know a lady,
and of the best quality, who has the same opinion, that chewing
disfigures the face, and takes away much from the ladies' grace and
beauty; and therefore unwillingly appears at a public table with an
appetite; and I know a man also, who cannot endure to see another eat,
nor himself to be seen eating, and who is more shy of company when
putting in than when putting out. In the Turkish empire, there are a
great number of men who, to excel others, never suffer themselves to be
seen when they make their repast: who never have any more than one a
week; who cut and mangle their faces and limbs; who never speak to any
one: fanatic people who think to honour their nature by disnaturing
themselves; who value themselves upon their contempt of themselves, and
purport to grow better by being worse. What monstrous animal is this,
that is a horror to himself, to whom his delights are grievous, and who
weds himself to misfortune? There are people who conceal their life:
"Exilioque domos et dulcia limina mutant,"
["And change for exile their homes and pleasant abodes."
—Virgil, Georg., ii. 511.]
and withdraw them from the sight of other men; who avoid health and
cheerfulness, as dangerous and prejudicial qualities. Not only many
sects, but many peoples, curse their birth, and bless their death; and
there is a place where the sun is abominated and darkness adored. We are
only ingenious in using ourselves ill: 'tis the real quarry our
intellects fly at; and intellect, when misapplied, is a dangerous tool!
"O miseri! quorum gaudia crimen habent!"
["O wretched men, whose pleasures are a crime!"
—Pseudo Gallus, i. 180.]
Alas, poor man! thou hast enough inconveniences that are inevitable,
without increasing them by throe own invention; and art miserable enough
by nature, without being so by art; thou hast real and essential
deformities enough, without forging those that are imaginary. Dost thou
think thou art too much at ease unless half thy ease is uneasy? dost
thou find that thou hast not performed all the necessary offices that
nature has enjoined thee, and that she is idle in thee, if thou dost not
oblige thyself to other and new offices? Thou dost not stick to infringe
her universal and undoubted laws; but stickest to thy own special and
fantastic rules, and by how much more particular, uncertain, and
contradictory they are, by so much thou employest thy whole endeavour in
them: the laws of thy parish occupy and bind thee: those of God and the
world concern thee not. Run but a little over the examples of this kind;
thy life is full of them.
Whilst the verses of these two poets, treat so reservedly and
discreetly of wantonness as they do, methinks they discover it much more
openly. Ladies cover their necks with network, priests cover several
sacred things, and painters shadow their pictures to give them greater
lustre: and 'tis said that the sun and wind strike more violently by
reflection than in a direct line. The Egyptian wisely answered him who
asked him what he had under his cloak, "It is hid under my cloak," said
he, "that thou mayest not know what it is:" but there are certain other
things that people hide only to show them. Hear that one, who speaks
plainer,
"Et nudum pressi corpus ad usque meum:"
["And pressed her naked body to mine" (Or:) "My body
I applied even to her naked side"—Ovid, Amor., i. 5, 24.]
methinks that he emasculates me. Let Martial turn up Venus as high as
he may, he cannot shew her so naked: he who says all that is to be said
gluts and disgusts us. He who is afraid to express himself, draws us on
to guess at more than is meant; there is treachery in this sort of
modesty, and specially when they half open, as these do, so fair a path
to imagination. Both the action and description should relish of theft.
The more respectful, more timorous, more coy, and secret love of the
Spaniards and Italians pleases me. I know not who of old wished his
throat as long as that of a crane, that he might the longer taste what
he swallowed; it had been better wished as to this quick and precipitous
pleasure, especially in such natures as mine that have the fault of
being too prompt. To stay its flight and delay it with preambles: all
things —a glance, a bow, a word, a sign, stand for favour and recompense
betwixt them. Were it not an excellent piece of thrift in him who could
dine on the steam of the roast? 'Tis a passion that mixes with very
little solid essence, far more vanity and feverish raving; and we should
serve and pay it accordingly. Let us teach the ladies to set a better
value and esteem upon themselves, to amuse and fool us: we give the last
charge at the first onset; the French impetuosity will still show
itself; by spinning out their favours, and exposing them in small
parcels, even miserable old age itself will find some little share of
reward, according to its worth and merit. He who has no fruition but in
fruition, who wins nothing unless he sweeps the stakes, who takes no
pleasure in the chase but in the quarry, ought not to introduce himself
in our school: the more steps and degrees there are, so much higher and
more honourable is the uppermost seat: we should take a pleasure in
being conducted to it, as in magnificent palaces, by various porticoes
and passages, long and pleasant galleries, and many windings. This
disposition of things would turn to our advantage; we should there
longer stay and longer love; without hope and without desire we proceed
not worth a pin. Our conquest and entire possession is what they ought
infinitely to dread: when they wholly surrender themselves up to the
mercy of our fidelity and constancy they run a mighty hazard; they are
virtues very rare and hard to be found; the ladies are no sooner ours,
than we are no more theirs:
"Postquam cupidae mentis satiata libido est,
Verba nihil metuere, nihil perjuria curant;"
["When our desires are once satisfied, we care little
for oaths and promises."—Catullus, lxiv. 147.]
And Thrasonides, a young man of Greece, was so in love with his
passion that, having, gained a mistress's consent, he refused to enjoy
her, that he might not by fruition quench and stupefy the unquiet ardour
of which he was so proud, and with which he so fed himself. Dearness is
a good sauce to meat: do but observe how much the manner of salutation,
particular to our nation, has, by its facilities, made kisses, which
Socrates says are so powerful and dangerous for the stealing of hearts,
of no esteem. It is a displeasing custom and injurious for the ladies,
that they must be obliged to lend their lips to every fellow who has
three footmen at his heels, however ill-favoured he may be in himself:
"Cujus livida naribus caninis
Dependet glacies, rigetque barba . . .
Centum occurrere malo culilingis:"
Martial, vii. 94.
and we ourselves barely gain by it; for as the world is divided, for
three beautiful women we must kiss fifty ugly ones; and to a tender
stomach, like those of my age, an ill kiss overpays a good one.
In Italy they passionately court even their common women who sell
themselves for money, and justify the doing so by saying, "that there
are degrees of fruition, and that by such service they would procure for
themselves that which is most entire; the women sell nothing but their
bodies; the will is too free and too much of its own to be exposed to
sale." So that these say, 'tis the will they undertake and they have
reason. 'Tis indeed the will that we are to serve and gain by wooing. I
abhor to imagine mine, a body without affection: and this madness is,
methinks, cousin-german to that of the boy who would needs pollute the
beautiful statue of Venus made by Praxiteles; or that of the furious
Egyptian, who violated the dead carcase of a woman he was embalming:
which was the occasion of the law then made in Egypt, that the corpses
of beautiful young women, of those of good quality, should be kept three
days before they should be delivered to those whose office it was to
take care for the interment. Periander did more wonderfully, who
extended his conjugal affection (more regular and legitimate) to the
enjoyment of his wife Melissa after she was dead. Does it not seem a
lunatic humour in the Moon, seeing she could no otherwise enjoy her
darling Endymion, to lay-him for several months asleep, and to please
herself with the fruition of a boy who stirred not but in his sleep? I
likewise say that we love a body without a soul or sentiment when we
love a body without its consent and desire. All enjoyments are not
alike: there are some that are hectic and languishing: a thousand other
causes besides good-will may procure us this favour from the ladies;
this is not a sufficient testimony of affection: treachery may lurk
there, as well as elsewhere: they sometimes go to't by halves:
"Tanquam thura merumque parent
Absentem marmoreamve putes:"
["As if they are preparing frankincense and wine . . . you might
think her absent or marble."—Martial, xi. 103, 12, and 59, 8.]
I know some who had rather lend that than their coach, and who only
impart themselves that way. You are to examine whether your company
pleases them upon any other account, or, as some strong-chined groom,
for that only; in what degree of favour and esteem you are with them:
"Tibi si datur uni,
Quem lapide illa diem candidiore notat."
["Wherefore that is enough, if that day alone is given us which she
marks with a whiter stone."—Catullus, lxviii. 147.]
What if they eat your bread with the sauce of a more pleasing
imagination.
"Te tenet, absentes alios suspirat amores."
["She has you in her arms; her thoughts are with
other absent lovers."—Tibullus, i. 6, 35.]
What? have we not seen one in these days of ours who made use of this
act for the purpose of a most horrid revenge, by that means to kill and
poison, as he did, a worthy lady?
Such as know Italy will not think it strange if, for this subject, I
seek not elsewhere for examples; for that nation may be called the
regent of the world in this. They have more generally handsome and fewer
ugly women than we; but for rare and excellent beauties we have as many
as they. I think the same of their intellects: of those of the common
sort, they have evidently far more brutishness is immeasurably rarer
there; but in individual characters of the highest form, we are nothing
indebted to them. If I should carry on the comparison, I might say, as
touching valour, that, on the contrary, it is, to what it is with them,
common and natural with us; but sometimes we see them possessed of it to
such a degree as surpasses the greatest examples we can produce: The
marriages of that country are defective in this; their custom commonly
imposes so rude and so slavish a law upon the women, that the most
distant acquaintance with a stranger is as capital an offence as the
most intimate; so that all approaches being rendered necessarily
substantial, and seeing that all comes to one account, they have no hard
choice to make; and when they have broken down the fence, we may safely
presume they get on fire:
"Luxuria ipsis vinculis, sicut fera bestia,
irritata, deinde emissa."
["Lust, like a wild beast, being more excited by being bound,
breaks from his chains with greater wildness."—Livy, xxxiv. 4.]
They must give them a little more rein:
"Vidi ego nuper equum, contra sua frena tenacem,
Ore reluctanti fulminis ire modo":
["I saw, the other day, a horse struggling against his bit,
rush like a thunderbolt."—Ovid, Amor., iii. 4, 13.]
the desire of company is allayed by giving it a little liberty. We
are pretty much in the same case they are extreme in constraint, we in
licence. 'Tis a good custom we have in France that our sons are received
into the best families, there to be entertained and bred up pages, as in
a school of nobility; and 'tis looked upon as a discourtesy and an
affront to refuse this to a gentleman. I have taken notice (for, so many
families, so many differing forms) that the ladies who have been
strictest with their maids have had no better luck than those who
allowed them a greater liberty. There should be moderation in these
things; one must leave a great deal of their conduct to their own
discretion; for, when all comes to all, no discipline can curb them
throughout. But it is true withal that she who comes off with flying
colours from a school of liberty, brings with her whereon to repose more
confidence than she who comes away sound from a severe and strict
school.
Our fathers dressed up their daughters' looks in bashfulness and fear
(their courage and desires being the same); we ours in confidence and
assurance; we understand nothing of the matter; we must leave it to the
Sarmatian women, who may not lie with a man till with their own hands
they have first killed another in battle. For me, who have no other
title left me to these things but by the ears, 'tis sufficient if,
according to the privilege of my age, they retain me for one of their
counsel. I advise them then, and us men too, to abstinence; but if the
age we live in will not endure it, at least modesty and discretion. For,
as in the story of Aristippus, who, speaking to some young men who
blushed to see him go into a scandalous house, said "the vice is in not
coming out, not in going in," let her who has no care of her conscience
have yet some regard to her reputation; and though she be rotten within,
let her carry a fair outside at least.
I commend a gradation and delay in bestowing their favours: Plato
'declares that, in all sorts of love, facility and promptness are
forbidden to the defendant. 'Tis a sign of eagerness which they ought to
disguise with all the art they have, so rashly, wholly, and
hand-over-hand to surrender themselves. In carrying themselves orderly
and measuredly in the granting their last favours, they much more allure
our desires and hide their own. Let them still fly before us, even those
who have most mind to be overtaken: they better conquer us by flying, as
the Scythians did. To say the truth, according to the law that nature
has imposed upon them, it is not properly for them either to will or
desire; their part is to suffer, obey, and consent and for this it is
that nature has given them a perpetual capacity, which in us is but at
times and uncertain; they are always fit for the encounter, that they
may be always ready when we are so "Pati natee."-["Born to
suffer."-Seneca, Ep., 95.]—And whereas she has ordered that our
appetites shall be manifest by a prominent demonstration, she would have
theirs to be hidden and concealed within, and has furnished them with
parts improper for ostentation, and simply defensive. Such proceedings
as this that follows must be left to the Amazonian licence: Alexander
marching his army through Hyrcania, Thalestris, Queen of the Amazons,
came with three hundred light horse of her own-sex, well mounted, and
armed, having left the remainder of a very great, army that followed her
behind the neighbouring mountains to give him a visit; where she
publicly and in plain terms told him that the fame of his valour and
victories had brought her thither to see him, and to make him an offer
of her forces to assist him in the pursuit of his enterprises; and that,
finding him so handsome, young, and vigorous, she, who was also perfect
in all those qualities, advised that they might lie together, to the end
that from the most valiant woman of the world and the bravest man then
living, there might spring some great and wonderful issue for the time
to come. Alexander returned her thanks for all the rest; but, to give
leisure for the accomplishment of her last demand, he detained her
thirteen days in that place, which were spent in royal feasting and
jollity, for the welcome of so courageous a princess.
We are, almost throughout, unjust judges of their actions, as they
are of ours. I confess the truth when it makes against me, as well as
when 'tis on my side. 'Tis an abominable intemperance that pushes them
on so often to change, and that will not let them limit their affection
to any one person whatever; as is evident in that goddess to whom are
attributed so many changes and so many lovers. But 'tis true withal that
'tis contrary to the nature of love if it be, not violent; and contrary
to the nature of violence if it be constant. And they who wonder,
exclaim, and keep such a clutter to find out the causes of this frailty
of theirs, as unnatural and not to be believed, how comes it to pass
they do not discern how often they are themselves guilty of the same,
without any astonishment or miracle at all? It would, peradventure, be
more strange to see the passion fixed; 'tis not a simply corporeal
passion. If there be no end to avarice and ambition, there is doubtless
no more in desire; it still lives after satiety; and 'tis impossible to
prescribe either constant satisfaction or end; it ever goes beyond its
possession. And by that means inconstancy, peradventure, is in some sort
more pardonable in them than in us: they may plead, as well as we, the
inclination to variety and novelty common to us both; and secondly,
without us, that they buy a cat in a sack: Joanna, queen of Naples,
caused her first husband, Andrews, to be hanged at the bars of her
window in a halter of gold and silk woven with her own hand, because in
matrimonial performances she neither found his parts nor abilities
answer the expectation she had conceived from his stature, beauty,
youth, and activity, by which she had been caught and deceived. They may
say there is more pains required in doing than in suffering; and so they
are on their part always at least provided for necessity, whereas on our
part it may fall out otherwise. For this reason it was, that Plato
wisely made a law that before marriage, to determine of the fitness of
persons, the judges should see the young men who pretended to it
stripped stark naked, and the women but to the girdle only. When they
come to try us they do not, perhaps, find us worthy of their choice:
"Experta latus, madidoque simillima loro
Inguina, nec lassa stare coacta manu,
Deserit imbelles thalamos."
["After using every endeavour to arouse him to action,
she quits the barren couch."—Martial, vii. 58.]
'Tis not enough that a man's will be good; weakness and insufficiency
lawfully break a marriage,
"Et quaerendum aliunde foret nervosius illud,
Quod posset zonam solvere virgineam:"
["And seeks a more vigorous lover to undo her virgin zone."
—Catullus, lxvii. 27.]
why not? and according to her own standard, an amorous intelligence,
more licentious and active,
"Si blando nequeat superesse labori."
["If his strength be unequal to the pleasant task."
—Virgil, Georg., iii. 127.]
But is it not great impudence to offer our imperfections and
imbecilities, where we desire to please and leave a good opinion and
esteem of ourselves? For the little that I am able to do now:
"Ad unum
Mollis opus."
["Fit but for once."—Horace, Epod., xii. 15.]
I would not trouble a woman, that I am to reverence and fear:
"Fuge suspicari,
Cujus undenum trepidavit aetas
Claudere lustrum."
["Fear not him whose eleventh lustrum is closed."
—Horace, Od., ii. 4, 12, limits it to the eighth.]
Nature should satisfy herself in having rendered this age miserable,
without rendering it ridiculous too. I hate to see it, for one poor inch
of pitiful vigour which comes upon it but thrice a week, to strut and
set itself out with as much eagerness as if it could do mighty feats; a
true flame of flax; and laugh to see it so boil and bubble and then in a
moment so congealed and extinguished. This appetite ought to appertain
only to the flower of beautiful youth: trust not to its seconding that
indefatigable, full, constant, magnanimous ardour you think in you, for
it will certainly leave you in a pretty corner; but rather transfer it
to some tender, bashful, and ignorant boy, who yet trembles at the rod,
and blushes:
"Indum sanguineo veluti violaverit ostro
Si quis ebur, vel mista rubent ubi lilia multa
Alba rosa."
["As Indian ivory streaked with crimson, or white lilies mixed
with the damask rose."—AEneid, xii. 67.]
Who can stay till the morning without dying for shame to behold the
disdain of the fair eyes of her who knows so well his fumbling
impertinence,
"Et taciti fecere tamen convicia vultus,"
["Though she nothing say, her looks betray her anger."
—Ovid, Amor., i. 7, 21.]
has never had the satisfaction and the glory of having cudgelled them
till they were weary, with the vigorous performance of one heroic night.
When I have observed any one to be vexed with me, I have not presently
accused her levity, but have been in doubt, if I had not reason rather
to complain of nature; she has doubtless used me very uncivilly and
unkindly:
"Si non longa satis, si non bene mentula crassa
Nimirum sapiunt, videntque parvam
Matronae quoque mentulam illibenter:"
[The first of these verses is the commencement of an epigram of the
Veterum Poetayurra Catalecta, and the two others are from an epigram
in the same collection (Ad Matrones). They describe untranslatably
Montaigne's charge against nature, indicated in the previous
passage.]
and done me a most enormous injury. Every member I have, as much one
as another, is equally my own, and no other more properly makes me a man
than this.
I universally owe my entire picture to the public. The wisdom of my
instruction consists in liberty, in truth, in essence: disdaining to
introduce those little, feigned, common, and provincial rules into the
catalogue of its real duties; all natural, general, and constant, of
which civility and ceremony are daughters indeed, but illegitimate. We
are sure to have the vices of appearance, when we shall have had those
of essence: when we have done with these, we run full drive upon the
others, if we find it must be so; for there is danger that we shall
fancy new offices, to excuse our negligence towards the natural ones,
and to confound them: and to manifest this, is it not seen that in
places where faults are crimes, crimes are but faults; that in nations
where the laws of decency are most rare and most remiss, the primitive
laws of common reason are better observed: the innumerable multitude of
so many duties stifling and dissipating our care. The application of
ourselves to light and trivial things diverts us from those that are
necessary and just. Oh, how these superficial men take an easy and
plausible way in comparison of ours! These are shadows wherewith we
palliate and pay one another; but we do not pay, but inflame the
reckoning towards that great judge, who tucks up our rags and tatters
above our shameful parts, and suckles not to view us all over, even to
our inmost and most secret ordures: it were a useful decency of our
maidenly modesty, could it keep him from this discovery. In fine,
whoever could reclaim man from so scrupulous a verbal superstition,
would do the world no great disservice. Our life is divided betwixt
folly and prudence: whoever will write of it but what is reverend and
canonical, will leave above the one-half behind. I do not excuse myself
to myself; and if I did, it should rather be for my excuses that I would
excuse myself than for any other fault; I excuse myself of certain
humours, which I think more strong in number than those that are on my
side. In consideration of which, I will further say this (for I desire
to please every one, though it will be hard to do):
"Esse unum hominem accommodatum ad tantam morum
ac sermonum et voluntatum varietatem,"
["For a man to conform to such a variety of manners,
discourses, and will."—Q. Cicero, De Pet. Consul, c. 14.]
that they ought not to condemn me for what I make authorities,
received and approved by so many ages, to utter: and that there is no
reason that for want of rhyme they should refuse me the liberty they
allow even to churchmen of our nation and time, and these amongst the
most notable, of which here are two of their brisk verses:
"Rimula, dispeream, ni monogramma tua est."
"Un vit d'amy la contente et bien traicte:"
[St. Gelais, (Euvres Poetiques), p. 99, ed. of Lyons, 1574.]
besides how many others. I love modesty; and 'tis not out of judgment
that I have chosen this scandalous way of speaking; 'tis nature that has
chosen it for me. I commend it not, no more than other forms that are
contrary to common use: but I excuse it, and by circumstances both
general and particular, alleviate its accusation.
But to proceed. Whence, too, can proceed that usurpation of sovereign
authority you take upon you over the women, who favour you at their own
expense,
"Si furtiva dedit mira munuscula nocte,"
["If, in the stealthy night, she has made strange gifts."
—Catullus, lxviii. 145.]
so that you presently assume the interest, coldness, and authority of
a husband? 'Tis a free contract why do you not then keep to it, as you
would have them do? there is no prescription upon voluntary things. 'Tis
against the form, but it is true withal, that I in my time have
conducted this bargain as much as the nature of it would permit, as
conscientiously and with as much colour of justice, as any other
contract; and that I never pretended other affection than what I really
had, and have truly acquainted them with its birth, vigour, and
declination, its fits and intermissions: a man does not always hold on
at the same rate. I have been so sparing of my promises, that I think I
have been better than my word. They have found me faithful even to
service of their inconstancy, a confessed and sometimes multiplied
inconstancy. I never broke with them, whilst I had any hold at all, and
what occasion soever they have given me, never broke with them to hatred
or contempt; for such privacies, though obtained upon never so
scandalous terms, do yet oblige to some good will: I have sometimes,
upon their tricks and evasions, discovered a little indiscreet anger and
impatience; for I am naturally subject to rash emotions, which, though
light and short, often spoil my market. At any time they have consulted
my judgment, I never stuck to give them sharp and paternal counsels, and
to pinch them to the quick. If I have left them any cause to complain of
me, 'tis rather to have found in me, in comparison of the modern use, a
love foolishly conscientious than anything else. I have kept my, word in
things wherein I might easily have been dispensed; they sometimes
surrendered themselves with reputation, and upon articles that they were
willing enough should be broken by the conqueror: I have, more than
once, made pleasure in its greatest effort strike to the interest of
their honour; and where reason importuned me, have armed them against
myself; so that they ordered themselves more decorously and securely by
my rules, when they frankly referred themselves to them, than they would
have done by their own. I have ever, as much as I could, wholly taken
upon myself alone the hazard of our assignations, to acquit them; and
have always contrived our meetings after the hardest and most unusual
manner, as less suspected, and, moreover, in my opinion, more
accessible. They are chiefly more open, where they think they are most
securely shut; things least feared are least interdicted and observed;
one may more boldly dare what nobody thinks you dare, which by its
difficulty becomes easy. Never had any man his approaches more
impertinently generative; this way of loving is more according to
discipline but how ridiculous it is to our people, and how ineffectual,
who better knows than I? yet I shall not repent me of it; I have nothing
there more to lose:
"Me tabula sacer
Votiva paries, indicat uvida
Suspendisse potenti
Vestimenta maris deo:"
["The holy wall, by my votive table, shows that I have hanged up my
wet clothes in honour of the powerful god of the sea."
—Horace, Od., i. 5, 13.]
'tis now time to speak out. But as I might, per adventure, say to
another, "Thou talkest idly, my friend; the love of thy time has little
commerce with faith and integrity;"
"Haec si tu postules
Ratione certa facere, nihilo plus agas,
Quam si des operam, ut cum ratione insanias:"
["If you seek to make these things certain by reason, you will do no
more than if you should seek to be mad in your senses."
—Terence, Eun., act i., sc. i, v. 16.]
on the contrary, also, if it were for me to begin again, certainly it
should be by the same method and the same progress, how fruitless soever
it might be to me; folly and insufficiency are commendable in an
incommendable action: the farther I go from their humour in this, I
approach so much nearer to my own. As to the rest, in this traffic, I
did not suffer myself to be totally carried away; I pleased myself in
it, but did not forget myself. I retained the little sense and
discretion that nature has given me, entire for their service and my
own: a little emotion, but no dotage. My conscience, also, was engaged
in it, even to debauch and licentiousness; but, as to ingratitude,
treachery, malice, and cruelty, never. I would not purchase the pleasure
of this vice at any price, but content myself with its proper and simple
cost:
"Nullum intra se vitium est."
["Nothing is a vice in itself."—Seneca, Ep., 95.]
I almost equally hate a stupid and slothful laziness, as I do a
toilsome and painful employment; this pinches, the other lays me asleep.
I like wounds as well as bruises, and cuts as well as dry blows. I found
in this commerce, when I was the most able for it, a just moderation
betwixt these extremes. Love is a sprightly, lively, and gay agitation;
I was neither troubled nor afflicted with it, but heated, and moreover,
disordered; a man must stop there; it hurts nobody but fools. A young
man asked the philosopher Panetius if it were becoming a wise man to be
in love? "Let the wise man look to that," answered he, "but let not thou
and I, who are not so, engage ourselves in so stirring and violent an
affair, that enslaves us to others, and renders us contemptible to
ourselves." He said true that we are not to intrust a thing so
precipitous in itself to a soul that has not wherewithal to withstand
its assaults and disprove practically the saying of Agesilaus, that
prudence and love cannot live together. 'Tis a vain employment, 'tis
true, unbecoming, shameful, and illegitimate; but carried on after this
manner, I look upon it as wholesome, and proper to enliven a drowsy soul
and to rouse up a heavy body; and, as an experienced physician, I would
prescribe it to a man of my form and condition, as soon as any other
recipe whatever, to rouse and keep him in vigour till well advanced in
years, and to defer the approaches of age. Whilst we are but in the
suburbs, and that the pulse yet beats:
"Dum nova canities, dum prima et recta senectus,
Dum superest lachesi quod torqueat, et pedibus me
Porto meis, nullo dextram subeunte bacillo,"
["Whilst the white hair is new, whilst old age is still straight
shouldered, whilst there still remains something for Lachesis to
spin, whilst I walk on my own legs, and need no staff to lean upon."
—Juvenal, iii. 26.]
we have need to be solicited and tickled by some such nipping
incitation as this. Do but observe what youth, vigour, and gaiety it
inspired the good Anacreon withal: and Socrates, who was then older than
I, speaking of an amorous object:
"Leaning," said he, "my shoulder to her shoulder, and my head to
hers, as we were reading together in a book, I felt, without
dissembling, a sudden sting in my shoulder like the biting of an insect,
which I still felt above five days after, and a continual itching crept
into my heart." So that merely the accidental touch, and of a shoulder,
heated and altered a soul cooled and enerved by age, and the strictest
liver of all mankind. And, pray, why not? Socrates was a man, and would
neither be, nor seem, any other thing. Philosophy does not contend
against natural pleasures, provided they be moderate, and only preaches
moderation, not a total abstinence; the power of its resistance is
employed against those that are adulterate and strange. Philosophy says
that the appetites of the body ought not to be augmented by the mind,
and ingeniously warns us not to stir up hunger by saturity; not to
stuff, instead of merely filling, the belly; to avoid all enjoyments
that may bring us to want; and all meats and drinks that bring thirst
and hunger: as, in the service of love, she prescribes us to take such
an object as may simply satisfy the body's need, and does not stir the
soul, which ought only barely to follow and assist the body, without
mixing in the affair. But have I not reason to hold that these precepts,
which, indeed, in my opinion, are somewhat over strict, only concern a
body in its best plight; and that in a body broken with age, as in a
weak stomach, 'tis excusable to warm and support it by art, and by the
mediation of the fancy to restore the appetite and cheerfulness it has
lost of itself.
May we not say that there is nothing in us, during this earthly
prison, that is purely either corporeal or spiritual; and that we
injuriously break up a man alive; and that it seems but reasonable that
we should carry ourselves as favourably, at least, towards the use of
pleasure as we do towards that of pain! Pain was (for example) vehement
even to perfection in the souls of the saints by penitence: the body had
there naturally a sham by the right of union, and yet might have but
little part in the cause; and yet are they not contented that it should
barely follow and assist the afflicted soul: they have afflicted itself
with grievous and special torments, to the end that by emulation of one
another the soul and body might plunge man into misery by so much more
salutiferous as it is more severe. In like manner, is it not injustice,
in bodily pleasures, to subdue and keep under the soul, and say that it
must therein be dragged along as to some enforced and servile obligation
and necessity? 'Tis rather her part to hatch and cherish them, there to
present herself, and to invite them, the authority of ruling belonging
to her; as it is also her part, in my opinion, in pleasures that are
proper to her, to inspire and infuse into the body all the sentiment it
is capable of, and to study how to make them sweet and useful to it. For
it is good reason, as they say, that the body should not pursue its
appetites to the prejudice of the mind; but why is it not also the
reason that the mind should not pursue hers to the prejudice of the
body?
I have no other passion to keep me in breath. What avarice, ambition,
quarrels, lawsuits do for others who, like me, have no particular
vocation, love would much more commodiously do; it would restore to me
vigilance, sobriety, grace, and the care of my person; it would reassure
my countenance, so that the grimaces of old age, those deformed and
dismal looks, might not come to disgrace it; would again put me upon
sound and wise studies, by which I might render myself more loved and
esteemed, clearing my mind of the despair of itself and of its use, and
redintegrating it to itself; would divert me from a thousand troublesome
thoughts, a thousand melancholic humours that idleness and the ill
posture of our health loads us withal at such an age; would warm again,
in dreams at least, the blood that nature is abandoning; would hold up
the chin, and a little stretch out the nerves, the vigour and gaiety of
life of that poor man who is going full drive towards his ruin. But I
very well understand that it is a commodity hard to recover: by weakness
and long experience our taste is become more delicate and nice; we ask
most when we bring least, and are harder to choose when we least deserve
to be accepted: and knowing ourselves for what we are, we are less
confident and more distrustful; nothing can assure us of being beloved,
considering our condition and theirs. I am out of countenance to see
myself in company with those young wanton creatures:
"Cujus in indomito constantior inguine nervus,
Quam nova collibus arbor inhaeret."
["In whose unbridled reins the vigour is more inherent than in the
young tree on the hills."—Horace, Epod., xii. 19.]
To what end should we go insinuate our misery amid their gay and
sprightly humour?
"Possint ut juvenes visere fervidi.
Multo non sine risu,
Dilapsam in cineres facem."
["As the fervid youths may behold, not without laughter, a burning
torch worn to ashes."—Horace, Od., iv. 13, 21.]
They have strength and reason on their side; let us give way; we have
nothing to do there: and these blossoms of springing beauty suffer not
themselves to be handled by such benumbed hands nor dealt with by mere
material means, for, as the old philosopher answered one who jeered him
because he could not gain the favour of a young girl he made love to:
"Friend, the hook will not stick in such soft cheese." It is a commerce
that requires relation and correspondence: the other pleasures we
receive may be acknowledged by recompenses of another nature, but this
is not to be paid but with the same kind of coin. In earnest, in this
sport, the pleasure I give more tickles my imagination than that they
give me; now, he has nothing of generosity in him who can receive
pleasure where he confers none—it must needs be a mean soul that will
owe all, and can be content to maintain relations with persons to whom
he is a continual charge; there is no beauty, grace, nor privacy so
exquisite that a gentleman ought to desire at this rate. If they can
only be kind to us out of pity, I had much rather die than live upon
charity. I would have right to ask, in the style wherein I heard them
beg in Italy: "Fate ben per voi,"—["Do good for yourself."]—or after the
manner that Cyrus exhorted his soldiers, "Who loves himself let him
follow me."—"Consort yourself," some one will say to me, "with women of
your own condition, whom like fortune will render more easy to your
desire." O ridiculous and insipid composition!
"Nolo
Barbam vellere mortuo leoni."
["I would not pluck the beard from a dead lion."—Martial]
Xenophon lays it for an objection and an accusation against Menon,
that he never made love to any but old women. For my part, I take more
pleasure in but seeing the just and sweet mixture of two young beauties,
or only in meditating on it in my fancy, than myself in acting second in
a pitiful and imperfect conjunction;
[Which Cotton renders, "Than to be myself an actor in the second
with a deformed creature."]
I leave that fantastic appetite to the Emperor Galba, who was only
for old curried flesh: and to this poor wretch:
"O ego Di faciant talem to cernere possim,
Caraque mutatis oscula ferre comis,
Amplectique meis corpus non pingue lacertis!"
[Ovid, who (Ex. Ponto, i. 4, 49) writes to his wife, "O would the
gods arrange that such I might see thee, and bring dear kisses to
thy changed locks, and embrace thy withered body with my arms"]
Amongst chief deformities I reckon forced and artificial beauties:
Hemon, a young boy of Chios, thinking by fine dressing to acquire the
beauty that nature had denied him, came to the philosopher Arcesilaus
and asked him if it was possible for a wise man to be in love—"Yes,"
replied he, "provided it be not with a farded and adulterated beauty
like thine."
[Diogenes Laertius, iv. 36. The question was whether a wise man
could love him. Cotton has "Emonez, a young courtezan of Chios."]
Ugliness of a confessed antiquity is to me less old and less ugly
than another that is polished and plastered up. Shall I speak it,
without the danger of having my throat cut? love, in my opinion, is not
properly and naturally in its season, but in the age next to childhood,
"Quem si puellarum insereres choro,
Mille sagaces falleret hospites,
Discrimen obscurum, solutis
Crinibus ambiguoque vultu:"
["Whom if thou shouldst place in a company of girls, it would
require a thousand experts to distinguish him, with his loose locks
and ambiguous countenance."—Horace, Od., ii. 5, 21.]
nor beauty neither; for whereas Homer extends it so far as to the
budding of the beard, Plato himself has remarked this as rare: and the
reason why the sophist Bion so pleasantly called the first appearing
hairs of adolescence 'Aristogitons' and 'Harmodiuses'—[Plutarch, On
Love, c.34.]— is sufficiently known. I find it in virility already in
some sort a little out of date, though not so much as in old age;
"Importunus enim transvolat aridas
Quercus."
["For it uncivilly passes over withered oaks."
—Horace, Od., iv. 13, 9.]
and Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, like a woman, very far extends the
advantage of women, ordaining that it is time, at thirty years old, to
convert the title of fair into that of good. The shorter authority we
give to love over our lives, 'tis so much the better for us. Do but
observe his port; 'tis a beardless boy. Who knows not how, in his school
they proceed contrary to all order; study, exercise, and usage are their
ways for insufficiency there novices rule:
"Amor ordinem nescit."
["Love ignores rules." (Or:) "Love knows no rule."
—St. Jerome, Letter to Chyomatius.]
Doubtless his conduct is much more graceful when mixed with
inadvertency and trouble; miscarriages and ill successes give him point
and grace; provided it be sharp and eager, 'tis no great matter whether
it be prudent or no: do but observe how he goes reeling, tripping, and
playing: you put him in the stocks when you guide him by art and wisdom;
and he is restrained of his divine liberty when put into those hairy and
callous clutches.
As to the rest, I often hear the women set out this intelligence as
entirely spiritual, and disdain to put the interest the senses there
have into consideration; everything there serves; but I can say that I
have often seen that we have excused the weakness of their
understandings in favour of their outward beauty, but have never yet
seen that in favour of mind, how mature and full soever, any of them
would hold out a hand to a body that was never so little in decadence.
Why does not some one of them take it into her head to make that noble
Socratical bargain between body and soul, purchasing a philosophical and
spiritual intelligence and generation at the price of her thighs, which
is the highest price she can get for them? Plato ordains in his Laws
that he who has performed any signal and advantageous exploit in war may
not be refused during the whole expedition, his age or ugliness
notwithstanding, a kiss or any other amorous favour from any woman
whatever. What he thinks to be so just in recommendation of military
valour, why may it not be the same in recommendation of any other good
quality? and why does not some woman take a fancy to possess over her
companions the glory of this chaste love? I may well say chaste;
"Nam si quando ad praelia ventum est,
Ut quondam in stipulis magnus sine viribus ignis,
Incassum furit:"
["For when they sometimes engage in love's battle,
his sterile ardour lights up but as the flame of a straw."
—Virgil, Georg., iii. 98.]
the vices that are stifled in the thought are not the worst.
To conclude this notable commentary, which has escaped from me in a
torrent of babble, a torrent sometimes impetuous and hurtful,
"Ut missum sponsi furtivo munere malum
Procurrit casto virginis a gremio,
Quod miserae oblitae molli sub veste locatuat,
Dum adventu matris prosilit, excutitur,
Atque illud prono praeceps agitur decursu
Huic manat tristi conscius ore rubor."
["As when an apple, sent by a lover secretly to his mistress, falls
from the chaste virgin's bosom, where she had quite forgotten it;
when, starting at her mother's coming in, it is shaken out and rolls
over the floor before her eyes, a conscious blush covers her face."
—Catullus, lxv. 19.]
I say that males and females are cast in the same mould, and that,
education and usage excepted, the difference is not great. Plato
indifferently invites both the one and the other to the society of all
studies, exercises, and vocations, both military and civil, in his
Commonwealth; and the philosopher Antisthenes rejected all distinction
betwixt their virtue and ours. It is much more easy to accuse one sex
than to excuse the other; 'tis according to the saying,
"Le fourgon se moque de la paele."
["The Pot and the Kettle."]
CHAPTER VI——OF COACHES
It is very easy to verify, that great authors, when they write of
causes, not only make use of those they think to be the true causes, but
also of those they believe not to be so, provided they have in them some
beauty and invention: they speak true and usefully enough, if it be
ingeniously. We cannot make ourselves sure of the supreme cause, and
therefore crowd a great many together, to see if it may not accidentally
be amongst them:
"Namque unam dicere causam
Non satis est, verum plures, unde una tamen sit."
[Lucretius, vi. 704.—The sense is in the preceding passage.]
Do you ask me, whence comes the custom of blessing those who sneeze?
We break wind three several ways; that which sallies from below is too
filthy; that which breaks out from the mouth carries with it some
reproach of gluttony; the third is sneezing, which, because it proceeds
from the head and is without offence, we give it this civil reception:
do not laugh at this distinction; they say 'tis Aristotle's.
I think I have seen in Plutarch' (who of all the authors I know, is
he who has best mixed art with nature, and judgment with knowledge), his
giving as a reason for the, rising of the stomach in those who are at
sea, that it is occasioned by fear; having first found out some reason
by which he proves that fear may produce such an effect. I, who am very
subject to it, know well that this cause concerns not me; and I know it,
not by argument, but by necessary experience. Without instancing what
has been told me, that the same thing often happens in beasts,
especially hogs, who are out of all apprehension of danger; and what an
acquaintance of mine told me of himself, that though very subject to it,
the disposition to vomit has three or four times gone off him, being
very afraid in a violent storm, as it happened to that ancient:
"Pejus vexabar, quam ut periculum mihi succurreret;"
["I was too ill to think of danger." (Or the reverse:)
"I was too frightened to be ill."—Seneca, Ep., 53. 2]
I was never afraid upon the water, nor indeed in any other peril (and
I have had enough before my eyes that would have sufficed, if death be
one), so as to be astounded to lose my judgment. Fear springs sometimes
as much from want of judgment as from want of courage. All the dangers I
have been in I have looked upon without winking, with an open, sound,
and entire sight; and, indeed, a man must have courage to fear. It
formerly served me better than other help, so to order and regulate my
retreat, that it was, if not without fear, nevertheless without affright
and astonishment; it was agitated, indeed, but not amazed or stupefied.
Great souls go yet much farther, and present to us flights, not only
steady and temperate, but moreover lofty. Let us make a relation of that
which Alcibiades reports of Socrates, his fellow in arms: "I found him,"
says he, "after the rout of our army, him and Lachez, last among those
who fled, and considered him at my leisure and in security, for I was
mounted on a good horse, and he on foot, as he had fought. I took
notice, in the first place, how much judgment and resolution he showed,
in comparison of Lachez, and then the bravery of his march, nothing
different from his ordinary gait; his sight firm and regular,
considering and judging what passed about him, looking one while upon
those, and then upon others, friends and enemies, after such a manner as
encouraged those, and signified to the others that he would sell his
life dear to any one who should attempt to take it from him, and so they
came off; for people are not willing to attack such kind of men, but
pursue those they see are in a fright." That is the testimony of this
great captain, which teaches us, what we every day experience, that
nothing so much throws us into dangers as an inconsiderate eagerness of
getting ourselves clear of them:
"Quo timoris minus est, eo minus ferme periculi est."
["When there is least fear, there is for the most part least
danger."—Livy, xxii. 5.]
Our people are to blame who say that such an one is afraid of death,
when they would express that he thinks of it and foresees it: foresight
is equally convenient in what concerns us, whether good or ill. To
consider and judge of danger is, in some sort, the reverse to being
astounded. I do not find myself strong enough to sustain the force and
impetuosity of this passion of fear, nor of any other vehement passion
whatever: if I was once conquered and beaten down by it, I should never
rise again very sound. Whoever should once make my soul lose her
footing, would never set her upright again: she retastes and researches
herself too profoundly, and too much to the quick, and therefore would
never let the wound she had received heal and cicatrise. It has been
well for me that no sickness has yet discomposed her: at every charge
made upon me, I preserve my utmost opposition and defence; by which
means the first that should rout me would keep me from ever rallying
again. I have no after-game to play: on which side soever the inundation
breaks my banks, I lie open, and am drowned without remedy. Epicurus
says, that a wise man can never become a fool; I have an opinion reverse
to this sentence, which is, that he who has once been a very fool, will
never after be very wise. God grants me cold according to my cloth, and
passions proportionable to the means I have to withstand them: nature
having laid me open on the one side, has covered me on the other; having
disarmed me of strength, she has armed me with insensibility and an
apprehension that is regular, or, if you will, dull.
I cannot now long endure (and when I was young could much less)
either coach, litter, or boat, and hate all other riding but on
horseback, both in town and country. But I can bear a litter worse than
a coach; and, by the same reason, a rough agitation upon the water,
whence fear is produced, better than the motions of a calm. At the
little jerks of oars, stealing the vessel from under us, I find, I know
not how, both my head and my stomach disordered; neither-can I endure to
sit upon a tottering chair. When the sail or the current carries us
equally, or that we are towed, the equal agitation does not disturb me
at all; 'tis an interrupted motion that offends me, and most of all when
most slow: I cannot otherwise express it. The physicians have ordered me
to squeeze and gird myself about the bottom of the belly with a napkin
to remedy this evil; which however I have not tried, being accustomed to
wrestle with my own defects, and overcome them myself.
Would my memory serve me, I should not think my time ill spent in
setting down here the infinite variety that history presents us of the
use of chariots in the service of war: various, according to the nations
and according to the age; in my opinion, of great necessity and effect;
so that it is a wonder that we have lost all knowledge of them. I will
only say this, that very lately, in our fathers' time, the Hungarians
made very advantageous use of them against the Turks; having in every
one of them a targetter and a musketeer, and a number of harquebuses
piled ready and loaded, and all covered with a pavesade like a
galliot—[Canvas spread along the side of a ship of war, in action to
screen the movements of those on board.]—They formed the front of their
battle with three thousand such coaches, and after the cannon had
played, made them all pour in their shot upon the enemy, who had to
swallow that volley before they tasted of the rest, which was no little
advance; and that done, these chariots charged into their squadrons to
break them and open a way for the rest; besides the use they might make
of them to flank the soldiers in a place of danger when marching to the
field, or to cover a post, and fortify it in haste. In my time, a
gentleman on one of our frontiers, unwieldy of body, and finding no
horse able to carry his weight, having a quarrel, rode through the
country in a chariot of this fashion, and found great convenience in it.
But let us leave these chariots of war.
As if their effeminacy—[Which Cotton translates: "as if the
insignificancy of coaches." ]—had not been sufficiently known by better
proofs, the last kings of our first race travelled in a chariot drawn by
four oxen. Marc Antony was the first at Rome who caused himself to be
drawn in a coach by lions, and a singing wench with him.
[Cytheris, the Roman courtezan.—Plutarch's Life of Antony, c. 3.
This, was the same person who is introduced by Gallus under the name
of Lycoris. Gallus doubtless knew her personally.]
Heliogabalus did since as much, calling himself Cybele, the mother of
the gods; and also drawn by tigers, taking upon him the person of the
god Bacchus; he also sometimes harnessed two stags to his coach, another
time four dogs, and another four naked wenches, causing himself to be
drawn by them in pomp, stark naked too. The Emperor Firmus caused his
chariot to be drawn by ostriches of a prodigious size, so that it seemed
rather to fly than roll.
The strangeness of these inventions puts this other fancy in my head:
that it is a kind of pusillanimity in monarchs, and a testimony that
they do not sufficiently understand themselves what they are, when they
study to make themselves honoured and to appear great by excessive
expense: it were indeed excusable in a foreign country, but amongst
their own subjects, where they are in sovereign command, and may do what
they please, it derogates from their dignity the most supreme degree of
honour to which they can arrive: just as, methinks, it is superfluous in
a private gentleman to go finely dressed at home; his house, his
attendants, and his kitchen sufficiently answer for him. The advice that
Isocrates gives his king seems to be grounded upon reason: that he
should be splendid in plate and furniture; forasmuch as it is an expense
of duration that devolves on his successors; and that he should avoid
all magnificences that will in a short time be forgotten. I loved to go
fine when I was a younger brother, for want of other ornament; and it
became me well: there are some upon whom their rich clothes weep: We
have strange stories of the frugality of our kings about their own
persons and in their gifts: kings who were great in reputation, valour,
and fortune. Demosthenes vehemently opposes the law of his city that
assigned the public money for the pomp of their public plays and
festivals: he would that their greatness should be seen in numbers of
ships well equipped, and good armies well provided for; and there is
good reason to condemn Theophrastus, who, in his Book on Riches,
establishes a contrary opinion, and maintains that sort of expense to be
the true fruit of abundance. They are delights, says Aristotle, that a
only please the baser sort of the people, and that vanish from the
memory as soon as the people are sated with them, and for which no
serious and judicious man can have any esteem. This money would, in my
opinion, be much more royally, as more profitably, justly, and durably,
laid out in ports, havens, walls, and fortifications; in sumptuous
buildings, churches, hospitals, colleges, the reforming of streets and
highways: wherein Pope Gregory XIII. will leave a laudable memory to
future times: and wherein our Queen Catherine would to long posterity
manifest her natural liberality and munificence, did her means supply
her affection. Fortune has done me a great despite in interrupting the
noble structure of the Pont-Neuf of our great city, and depriving me of
the hope of seeing it finished before I die.
Moreover, it seems to subjects, who are spectators of these triumphs,
that their own riches are exposed before them, and that they are
entertained at their own expense: for the people are apt to presume of
kings, as we do of our servants, that they are to take care to provide
us all things necessary in abundance, but not touch it themselves; and
therefore the Emperor Galba, being pleased with a musician who played to
him at supper, called for his money-box, and gave him a handful of
crowns that he took out of it, with these words: "This is not the public
money, but my own." Yet it so falls out that the people, for the most
part, have reason on their side, and that the princes feed their eyes
with what they have need of to fill their bellies.
Liberality itself is not in its true lustre in a sovereign hand:
private men have therein the most right; for, to take it exactly, a king
has nothing properly his own; he owes himself to others: authority is
not given in favour of the magistrate, but of the people; a superior is
never made so for his own profit, but for the profit of the inferior,
and a physician for the sick person, and not for himself: all
magistracy, as well as all art, has its end out of itself wherefore the
tutors of young princes, who make it their business to imprint in them
this virtue of liberality, and preach to them to deny nothing and to
think nothing so well spent as what they give (a doctrine that I have
known in great credit in my time), either have more particular regard to
their own profit than to that of their master, or ill understand to whom
they speak. It is too easy a thing to inculcate liberality on him who
has as much as he will to practise it with at the expense of others;
and, the estimate not being proportioned to the measure of the gift but
to the measure of the means of him who gives it, it comes to nothing in
so mighty hands; they find themselves prodigal before they can be
reputed liberal. And it is but a little recommendation, in comparison
with other royal virtues: and the only one, as the tyrant Dionysius
said, that suits well with tyranny itself. I should rather teach him
this verse of the ancient labourer:
["That whoever will have a good crop must sow with his hand, and not
pour out of the sack."—Plutarch, Apothegms, Whether the Ancients
were more excellent in Arms than in Learning.]
he must scatter it abroad, and not lay it on a heap in one place: and
that, seeing he is to give, or, to say better, to pay and restore to so
many people according as they have deserved, he ought to be a loyal and
discreet disposer. If the liberality of a prince be without measure or
discretion, I had rather he were covetous.
Royal virtue seems most to consist in justice; and of all the parts
of justice that best denotes a king which accompanies liberality, for
this they have particularly reserved to be performed by themselves,
whereas all other sorts of justice they remit to the administration of
others. An immoderate bounty is a very weak means to acquire for them
good will; it checks more people than it allures:
"Quo in plures usus sis, minus in multos uti possis....
Quid autem est stultius, quam, quod libenter facias,
curare ut id diutius facere non possis;"
["By how much more you use it to many, by so much less will you be
in a capacity to use it to many more. And what greater folly can
there be than to order it so that what you would willingly do, you
cannot do longer."—Cicero, De Offic., ii. 15.]
and if it be conferred without due respect of merit, it puts him out
of countenance who receives it, and is received ungraciously. Tyrants
have been sacrificed to the hatred of the people by the hands of those
very men they have unjustly advanced; such kind of men as buffoons,
panders, fiddlers, and such ragamuffins, thinking to assure to
themselves the possession of benefits unduly received, if they manifest
to have him in hatred and disdain of whom they hold them, and in this
associate themselves to the common judgment and opinion.
The subjects of a prince excessive in gifts grow excessive in asking,
and regulate their demands, not by reason, but by example. We have,
seriously, very often reason to blush at our own impudence: we are
over-paid, according to justice, when the recompense equals our service;
for do we owe nothing of natural obligation to our princes? If he bear
our charges, he does too much; 'tis enough that he contribute to them:
the overplus is called benefit, which cannot be exacted: for the very
name Liberality sounds of Liberty.
In our fashion it is never done; we never reckon what we have
received; we are only for the future liberality; wherefore, the more a
prince exhausts himself in giving, the poorer he grows in friends. How
should he satisfy immoderate desires, that still increase as they are
fulfilled? He who has his thoughts upon taking, never thinks of what he
has taken; covetousness has nothing so properly and so much its own as
ingratitude.
The example of Cyrus will not do amiss in this place, to serve the
kings of these times for a touchstone to know whether their gifts are
well or ill bestowed, and to see how much better that emperor conferred
them than they do, by which means they are reduced to borrow of unknown
subjects, and rather of them whom they have wronged than of them on whom
they have conferred their benefits, and so receive aids wherein there is
nothing of gratuitous but the name. Croesus reproached him with his
bounty, and cast up to how much his treasure would amount if he had been
a little closer-handed. He had a mind to justify his liberality, and
therefore sent despatches into all parts to the grandees of his
dominions whom he had particularly advanced, entreating every one of
them to supply him with as much money as they could, for a pressing
occasion, and to send him particulars of what each could advance. When
all these answers were brought to him, every one of his friends, not
thinking it enough barely to offer him so much as he had received from
his bounty, and adding to it a great deal of his own, it appeared that
the sum amounted to a great deal more than Croesus' reckoning. Whereupon
Cyrus: "I am not," said he, "less in love with riches than other
princes, but rather a better husband; you see with how small a venture I
have acquired the inestimable treasure of so many friends, and how much
more faithful treasurers they are to me than mercenary men without
obligation, without affection; and my money better laid up than in
chests, bringing upon me the hatred, envy, and contempt of other
princes."
The emperors excused the superfluity of their plays and public
spectacles by reason that their authority in some sort (at least in
outward appearance) depended upon the will of the people of Rome, who,
time out of mind, had been accustomed to be entertained and caressed
with such shows and excesses. But they were private citizens, who had
nourished this custom to gratify their fellow-citizens and companions
(and chiefly out of their own purses) by such profusion and magnificence
it had quite another taste when the masters came to imitate it:
"Pecuniarum translatio a justis dominis ad alienos
non debet liberalis videri."
["The transferring of money from the right owners to strangers
ought not to have the title of liberality."
—Cicero, De Offic., i. 14.]
Philip, seeing that his son went about by presents to gain the
affection of the Macedonians, reprimanded him in a letter after this
manner: "What! hast thou a mind that thy subjects shall look upon thee
as their cash-keeper and not as their king? Wilt thou tamper with them
to win their affections? Do it, then, by the benefits of thy virtue, and
not by those of thy chest." And yet it was, doubtless, a fine thing to
bring and plant within the amphitheatre a great number of vast trees,
with all their branches in their full verdure, representing a great
shady forest, disposed in excellent order; and, the first day, to throw
into it a thousand ostriches and a thousand stags, a thousand boars, and
a thousand fallow-deer, to be killed and disposed of by the people: the
next day, to cause a hundred great lions, a hundred leopards, and three
hundred bears to be killed in his presence; and for the third day, to
make three hundred pair of gladiators fight it out to the last, as the
Emperor Probus did. It was also very fine to see those vast
amphitheatres, all faced with marble without, curiously wrought with
figures and statues, and within glittering with rare enrichments:
"Baltheus en! gemmis, en illita porticus auro:"
["A belt glittering with jewels, and a portico overlaid with gold."
—Calpurnius, Eclog., vii. 47. A baltheus was a shoulder-belt or
baldric.]
all the sides of this vast space filled and environed, from the
bottom to the top, with three or four score rows of seats, all of marble
also, and covered with cushions:
"Exeat, inquit,
Si pudor est, et de pulvino surgat equestri,
Cujus res legi non sufficit;"
["Let him go out, he said, if he has any sense of shame, and rise
from the equestrian cushion, whose estate does not satisfy the law."
—Juvenal, iii. 153. The Equites were required to possess a fortune
of 400 sestertia, and they sat on the first fourteen rows behind the
orchestra.]
where a hundred thousand men might sit at their ease: and, the place
below, where the games were played, to make it, by art, first open and
cleave in chasms, representing caves that vomited out the beasts
designed for the spectacle; and then, secondly, to be overflowed by a
deep sea, full of sea monsters, and laden with ships of war, to
represent a naval battle; and, thirdly, to make it dry and even again
for the combat of the gladiators; and, for the fourth scene, to have it
strown with vermilion grain and storax,—[A resinous gum.]—instead of
sand, there to make a solemn feast for all that infinite number of
people: the last act of one only day:
"Quoties nos descendentis arenae
Vidimus in partes, ruptaque voragine terrae
Emersisse feras, et eisdem saepe latebris
Aurea cum croceo creverunt arbuta libro!....
Nec solum nobis silvestria cernere monstra
Contigit; aequoreos ego cum certantibus ursis
Spectavi vitulos, et equorum nomine dignum,
Sen deforme pecus, quod in illo nascitur amni...."
["How often have we seen the stage of the theatre descend and part
asunder, and from a chasm in the earth wild beasts emerge, and then
presently give birth to a grove of gilded trees, that put forth
blossoms of enamelled flowers. Nor yet of sylvan marvels alone had
we sight: I saw sea-calves fight with bears, and a deformed sort of
cattle, we might call sea-horses."—Calpurnius, Eclog., vii. 64.]
Sometimes they made a high mountain advance itself, covered with
fruit-trees and other leafy trees, sending down rivulets of water from
the top, as from the mouth of a fountain: otherwhiles, a great ship was
seen to come rolling in, which opened and divided of itself, and after
having disgorged from the hold four or five hundred beasts for fight,
closed again, and vanished without help. At other times, from the floor
of this place, they made spouts of perfumed water dart their streams
upward, and so high as to sprinkle all that infinite multitude. To
defend themselves from the injuries of the weather, they had that vast
place one while covered over with purple curtains of needlework, and
by-and-by with silk of one or another colour, which they drew off or on
in a moment, as they had a mind:
"Quamvis non modico caleant spectacula sole,
Vela reducuntur, cum venit Hermogenes."
["The curtains, though the sun should scorch the spectators, are
drawn in, when Hermogenes appears."-Martial, xii. 29, 15. M.
Tigellius Hermogenes, whom Horace and others have satirised. One
editor calls him "a noted thief," another: "He was a literary
amateur of no ability, who expressed his critical opinions with too
great a freedom to please the poets of his day." D.W.]
The network also that was set before the people to defend them from
the violence of these turned-out beasts was woven of gold:
"Auro quoque torts refulgent
Retia."
["The woven nets are refulgent with gold."
—Calpurnius, ubi supra.]
If there be anything excusable in such excesses as these, it is where
the novelty and invention create more wonder than the expense; even in
these vanities we discover how fertile those ages were in other kind of
wits than these of ours. It is with this sort of fertility, as with all
other products of nature: not that she there and then employed her
utmost force: we do not go; we rather run up and down, and whirl this
way and that; we turn back the way we came. I am afraid our knowledge is
weak in all senses; we neither see far forward nor far backward; our
understanding comprehends little, and lives but a little while; 'tis
short both in extent of time and extent of matter:
"Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Mufti, sed omnes illacrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longs
Nocte."
[ Many brave men lived before Agamemnon, but all are pressed by the
long night unmourned and unknown."—Horace, Od., iv. 9, 25.]
"Et supra bellum Thebanum et funera Trojae
Non alias alii quoque res cecinere poetae?"
["Why before the Theban war and the destruction of Troy, have not
other poets sung other events?"—Lucretius, v. 327. Montaigne here
diverts himself m giving Lucretius' words a construction directly
contrary to what they bear in the poem. Lucretius puts the
question, Why if the earth had existed from all eternity, there had
not been poets, before the Theban war, to sing men's exploits.
—Coste.]
And the narrative of Solon, of what he had learned from the Egyptian
priests, touching the long life of their state, and their manner of
learning and preserving foreign histories, is not, methinks, a testimony
to be refused in this consideration:
"Si interminatam in omnes partes magnitudinem regionum videremus et
temporum, in quam se injiciens animus et intendens, ita late
longeque peregrinatur, ut nullam oram ultimi videat, in qua possit
insistere: in haec immensitate . . . infinita vis innumerabilium
appareret fomorum."
["Could we see on all parts the unlimited magnitude of regions and
of times, upon which the mind being intent, could wander so far and
wide, that no limit is to be seen, in which it can bound its eye, we
should, in that infinite immensity, discover an infinite force of
innumerable atoms." Here also Montaigne puts a sense quite
different from what the words bear in the original; but the
application he makes of them is so happy that one would declare they
were actually put together only to express his own sentiments. "Et
temporum" is an addition by Montaigne.—Coste.]
Though all that has arrived, by report, of our knowledge of times
past should be true, and known by some one person, it would be less than
nothing in comparison of what is unknown. And of this same image of the
world, which glides away whilst we live upon it, how wretched and
limited is the knowledge of the most curious; not only of particular
events, which fortune often renders exemplary and of great concern, but
of the state of great governments and nations, a hundred more escape us
than ever come to our knowledge. We make a mighty business of the
invention of artillery and printing, which other men at the other end of
the world, in China, had a thousand years ago. Did we but see as much of
the world as we do not see, we should perceive, we may well believe, a
perpetual multiplication and vicissitude of forms. There is nothing
single and rare in respect of nature, but in respect of our knowledge,
which is a wretched foundation whereon to ground our rules, and that
represents to us a very false image of things. As we nowadays vainly
conclude the declension and decrepitude of the world, by the arguments
we extract from our own weakness and decay:
"Jamque adeo est affecta aetas effoet aque tellus;"
["Our age is feeble, and the earth less fertile."
—Lucretius, ii. 1151.]
so did he vainly conclude as to its birth and youth, by the vigour he
observed in the wits of his time, abounding in novelties and the
invention of divers arts:
"Verum, ut opinor, habet novitatem summa, recensque
Natura est mundi, neque pridem exordia coepit
Quare etiam quaedam nunc artes expoliuntur,
Nunc etiam augescunt; nunc addita navigiis sunt
Multa."
["But, as I am of opinion, the whole of the world is of recent
origin, nor had its commencement in remote times; wherefore it is
that some arts are still being refined, and some just on the
increase; at present many additions are being made to shipping."
—Lucretius, v. 331.]
Our world has lately discovered another (and who will assure us that
it is the last of its brothers, since the Daemons, the Sybils, and we
ourselves have been ignorant of this till now?), as large, well-peopled,
and fruitful as this whereon we live and yet so raw and childish, that
we are still teaching it it's a B C: 'tis not above fifty years since it
knew neither letters, weights, measures, vestments, corn, nor vines: it
was then quite naked in the mother's lap, and only lived upon what she
gave it. If we rightly conclude of our end, and this poet of the
youthfulness of that age of his, that other world will only enter into
the light when this of ours shall make its exit; the universe will fall
into paralysis; one member will be useless, the other in vigour. I am
very much afraid that we have greatly precipitated its declension and
ruin by our contagion; and that we have sold it opinions and our arts at
a very dear rate. It was an infant world, and yet we have not whipped
and subjected it to our discipline by the advantage of our natural worth
and force, neither have we won it by our justice and goodness, nor
subdued it by our magnanimity. Most of their answers, and the
negotiations we have had with them, witness that they were nothing
behind us in pertinency and clearness of natural understanding. The
astonishing magnificence of the cities of Cusco and Mexico, and, amongst
many other things, the garden of the king, where all the trees, fruits,
and plants, according to the order and stature they have in a garden,
were excellently formed in gold; as, in his cabinet, were all the
animals bred upon his territory and in its seas; and the beauty of their
manufactures, in jewels, feathers, cotton, and painting, gave ample
proof that they were as little inferior to us in industry. But as to
what concerns devotion, observance of the laws, goodness, liberality,
loyalty, and plain dealing, it was of use to us that we had not so much
as they; for they have lost, sold, and betrayed themselves by this
advantage over us.
As to boldness and courage, stability, constancy against pain,
hunger, and death, I should not fear to oppose the examples I find
amongst them to the most famous examples of elder times that we find in
our records on this side of the world. Far as to those who subdued them,
take but away the tricks and artifices they practised to gull them, and
the just astonishment it was to those nations to see so sudden and
unexpected an arrival of men with beards, differing in language,
religion, shape, and countenance, from so remote a part of the world,
and where they had never heard there was any habitation, mounted upon
great unknown monsters, against those who had not only never seen a
horse, but had never seen any other beast trained up to carry a man or
any other loading; shelled in a hard and shining skin, with a cutting
and glittering weapon in his hand, against them, who, out of wonder at
the brightness of a looking glass or a knife, would exchange great
treasures of gold and pearl; and who had neither knowledge, nor matter
with which, at leisure, they could penetrate our steel: to which may be
added the lightning and thunder of our cannon and harquebuses, enough to
frighten Caesar himself, if surprised, with so little experience,
against people naked, except where the invention of a little quilted
cotton was in use, without other arms, at the most, than bows, stones,
staves, and bucklers of wood; people surprised under colour of
friendship and good faith, by the curiosity of seeing strange and
unknown things; take but away, I say, this disparity from the
conquerors, and you take away all the occasion of so many victories.
When I look upon that in vincible ardour wherewith so many thousands of
men, women, and children so often presented and threw themselves into
inevitable dangers for the defence of their gods and liberties; that
generous obstinacy to suffer all extremities and difficulties, and death
itself, rather than submit to the dominion of those by whom they had
been so shamefully abused; and some of them choosing to die of hunger
and fasting, being prisoners, rather than to accept of nourishment from
the hands of their so basely victorious enemies: I see, that whoever
would have attacked them upon equal terms of arms, experience, and
number, would have had a hard, and, peradventure, a harder game to play
than in any other war we have seen.
Why did not so noble a conquest fall under Alexander, or the ancient
Greeks and Romans; and so great a revolution and mutation of so many
empires and nations, fall into hands that would have gently levelled,
rooted up, and made plain and smooth whatever was rough and savage
amongst them, and that would have cherished and propagated the good
seeds that nature had there produced; mixing not only with the culture
of land and the ornament of cities, the arts of this part of the world,
in what was necessary, but also the Greek and Roman virtues, with those
that were original of the country? What a reparation had it been to
them, and what a general good to the whole world, had our first examples
and deportments in those parts allured those people to the admiration
and imitation of virtue, and had begotten betwixt them and us a
fraternal society and intelligence? How easy had it been to have made
advantage of souls so innocent, and so eager to learn, leaving, for the
most part, naturally so good inclinations before? Whereas, on the
contrary, we have taken advantage of their ignorance and inexperience,
with greater ease to incline them to treachery, luxury, avarice, and
towards all sorts of inhumanity and cruelty, by the pattern and example
of our manners. Who ever enhanced the price of merchandise at such a
rate? So many cities levelled with the ground, so many nations
exterminated, so many millions of people fallen by the edge of the
sword, and the richest and most beautiful part of the world turned
upside down, for the traffic of pearl and pepper? Mechanic victories!
Never did ambition, never did public animosities, engage men against one
another in such miserable hostilities, in such miserable calamities.
Certain Spaniards, coasting the sea in quest of their mines, landed
in a fruitful and pleasant and very well peopled country, and there made
to the inhabitants their accustomed professions: "that they were
peaceable men, who were come from a very remote country, and sent on the
behalf of the King of Castile, the greatest prince of the habitable
world, to whom the Pope, God's vicegerent upon earth, had given the
principality of all the Indies; that if they would become tributaries to
him, they should be very gently and courteously used"; at the same time
requiring of them victuals for their nourishment, and gold whereof to
make some pretended medicine; setting forth, moreover, the belief in one
only God, and the truth of our religion, which they advised them to
embrace, whereunto they also added some threats. To which they received
this answer: "That as to their being peaceable, they did not seem to be
such, if they were so. As to their king, since he was fain to beg, he
must be necessitous and poor; and he who had made him this gift, must be
a man who loved dissension, to give that to another which was none of
his own, to bring it into dispute against the ancient possessors. As to
victuals, they would supply them; that of gold they had little; it being
a thing they had in very small esteem, as of no use to the service of
life, whereas their only care was to pass it over happily and
pleasantly: but that what they could find excepting what was employed in
the service of their gods, they might freely take. As to one only God,
the proposition had pleased them well; but that they would not change
their religion, both because they had so long and happily lived in it,
and that they were not wont to take advice of any but their friends, and
those they knew: as to their menaces, it was a sign of want of judgment
to threaten those whose nature and power were to them unknown; that,
therefore, they were to make haste to quit their coast, for they were
not used to take the civilities and professions of armed men and
strangers in good part; otherwise they should do by them as they had
done by those others," showing them the heads of several executed men
round the walls of their city. A fair example of the babble of these
children. But so it is, that the Spaniards did not, either in this or in
several other places, where they did not find the merchandise they
sought, make any stay or attempt, whatever other conveniences were there
to be had; witness my CANNIBALS. —[Chapter XXX. of Book I.]
Of the two most puissant monarchs of that world, and, peradventure,
of this, kings of so many kings, and the last they turned out, he of
Peru, having been taken in a battle, and put to so excessive a ransom as
exceeds all belief, and it being faithfully paid, and he having, by his
conversation, given manifest signs of a frank, liberal, and constant
spirit, and of a clear and settled understanding, the conquerors had a
mind, after having exacted one million three hundred and twenty-five
thousand and five hundred weight of gold, besides silver, and other
things which amounted to no less (so that their horses were shod with
massy gold), still to see, at the price of what disloyalty and injustice
whatever, what the remainder of the treasures of this king might be, and
to possess themselves of that also. To this end a false accusation was
preferred against him, and false witnesses brought to prove that he went
about to raise an insurrection in his provinces, to procure his own
liberty; whereupon, by the virtuous sentence of those very men who had
by this treachery conspired his ruin, he was condemned to be publicly
hanged and strangled, after having made him buy off the torment of being
burnt alive, by the baptism they gave him immediately before execution;
a horrid and unheard of barbarity, which, nevertheless, he underwent
without giving way either in word or look, with a truly grave and royal
behaviour. After which, to calm and appease the people, aroused and
astounded at so strange a thing, they counterfeited great sorrow for his
death, and appointed most sumptuous funerals.
The other king of Mexico,—[Guatimosin]—having for a long time
defended his beleaguered city, and having in this siege manifested the
utmost of what suffering and perseverance can do, if ever prince and
people did, and his misfortune having delivered him alive into his
enemies' hands, upon articles of being treated like a king, neither did
he in his captivity discover anything unworthy of that title. His
enemies, after their victory, not finding so much gold as they expected,
when they had searched and rifled with their utmost diligence, they went
about to procure discoveries by the most cruel torments they could
invent upon the prisoners they had taken: but having profited nothing by
these, their courage being greater than their torments, they arrived at
last to such a degree of fury, as, contrary to their faith and the law
of nations, to condemn the king himself, and one of the principal
noblemen of his court, to the rack, in the presence of one another. This
lord, finding himself overcome with pain, being environed with burning
coals, pitifully turned his dying eyes towards his master, as it were to
ask him pardon that he was able to endure no more; whereupon the king,
darting at him a fierce and severe look, as reproaching his cowardice
and pusillanimity, with a harsh and constant voice said to him thus
only: "And what dost thou think I suffer? am I in a bath? am I more at
ease than thou?" Whereupon the other immediately quailed under the
torment and died upon the spot. The king, half roasted, was carried
thence; not so much out of pity (for what compassion ever touched so
barbarous souls, who, upon the doubtful information of some vessel of
gold to be made a prey of, caused not only a man, but a king, so great
in fortune and desert, to be broiled before their eyes), but because his
constancy rendered their cruelty still more shameful. They afterwards
hanged him for having nobly attempted to deliver himself by arms from so
long a captivity and subjection, and he died with a courage becoming so
magnanimous a prince.
Another time, they burnt in the same fire four hundred and sixty men
alive at once, the four hundred of the common people, the sixty the
principal lords of a province, simply prisoners of war. We have these
narratives from themselves for they not only own it, but boast of it and
publish it. Could it be for a testimony of their justice or their zeal
to religion? Doubtless these are ways too differing and contrary to so
holy an end. Had they proposed to themselves to extend our faith, they
would have considered that it does not amplify in the possession of
territories, but in the gaining of men; and would have more than
satisfied themselves with the slaughters occasioned by the necessity of
war, without indifferently mixing a massacre, as upon wild beasts, as
universal as fire and sword could make it; having only, by intention,
saved so many as they meant to make miserable slaves of, for the work
and service of their mines; so that many of the captains were put to
death upon the place of conquest, by order of the kings of Castile,
justly offended with the horror of their deportment, and almost all of
them hated and disesteemed. God meritoriously permitted that all this
great plunder should be swallowed up by the sea in transportation, or in
the civil wars wherewith they devoured one another; and most of the men
themselves were buried in a foreign land without any fruit of their
victory.
That the revenue from these countries, though in the hands of so
parsimonious and so prudent a prince,—[Phillip II.]—so little answers
the expectation given of it to his predecessors, and to that original
abundance of riches which was found at the first landing in those new
discovered countries (for though a great deal be fetched thence, yet we
see 'tis nothing in comparison of that which might be expected), is that
the use of coin was there utterly unknown, and that consequently their
gold was found all hoarded together, being of no other use but for
ornament and show, as a furniture reserved from father to son by many
puissant kings, who were ever draining their mines to make this vast
heap of vessels and statues for the decoration of their palaces and
temples; whereas our gold is always in motion and traffic; we cut it
into a thousand small pieces, and cast it into a thousand forms, and
scatter and disperse it in a thousand ways. But suppose our kings should
thus hoard up all the gold they could get in several ages and let it lie
idle by them.
Those of the kingdom of Mexico were in some sort more civilised and
more advanced in arts than the other nations about them. Therefore did
they judge, as we do, that the world was near its period, and looked
upon the desolation we brought amongst them as a certain sign of it.
They believed that the existence of the world was divided into five
ages, and in the life of five successive suns, of which four had already
ended their time, and that this which gave them light was the fifth. The
first perished, with all other creatures, by an universal inundation of
water; the second by the heavens falling upon us and suffocating every
living thing to which age they assigned the giants, and showed bones to
the Spaniards, according to the proportion of which the stature of men
amounted to twenty feet; the third by fire, which burned and consumed
all; the fourth by an emotion of the air and wind, which came with such
violence as to beat down even many mountains, wherein the men died not,
but were turned into baboons. What impressions will not the weakness of
human belief admit? After the death of this fourth sun, the world was
twenty-five years in perpetual darkness: in the fifteenth of which a man
and a woman were created, who restored the human race: ten years after,
upon a certain day, the sun appeared newly created, and since the
account of their year takes beginning from that day: the third day after
its creation the ancient gods died, and the new ones were since born
daily. After what manner they think this last sun shall perish, my
author knows not; but their number of this fourth change agrees with the
great conjunction of stars which eight hundred and odd years ago, as
astrologers suppose, produced great alterations and novelties in the
world.
As to pomp and magnificence, upon the account of which I engaged in
this discourse, neither Greece, Rome, nor Egypt, whether for utility,
difficulty, or state, can compare any of their works with the highway to
be seen in Peru, made by the kings of the country, from the city of
Quito to that of Cusco (three hundred leagues), straight, even,
five-and-twenty paces wide, paved, and provided on both sides with high
and beautiful walls; and close by them, and all along on the inside, two
perennial streams, bordered with beautiful plants, which they call moly.
In this work, where they met with rocks and mountains, they cut them
through, and made them even, and filled up pits and valleys with lime
and stone to make them level. At the end of every day's journey are
beautiful palaces, furnished with provisions, vestments, and arms, as
well for travellers as for the armies that are to pass that way. In the
estimate of this work I have reckoned the difficulty which is especially
considerable in that place; they did not build with any stones less than
ten feet square, and had no other conveniency of carriage but by drawing
their load themselves by force of arm, and knew not so much as the art
of scaffolding, nor any other way of standing to their work, but by
throwing up earth against the building as it rose higher, taking it away
again when they had done.
Let us here return to our coaches. Instead of these, and of all other
sorts of carriages, they caused themselves to be carried upon men's
shoulders. This last king of Peru, the day that he was taken, was thus
carried betwixt two upon staves of gold, and set in a chair of gold in
the middle of his army. As many of these sedan-men as were killed to
make him fall (for they would take him alive), so many others (and they
contended for it) took the place of those who were slain, so that they
could never beat him down, what slaughter soever they made of these
people, till a horseman, seizing upon him, brought him to the ground.
CHAPTER VII——OF THE INCONVENIENCE OF GREATNESS
Since we cannot attain unto it, let us revenge our selves by railing
at it; and yet it is not absolutely railing against anything to proclaim
its defects, because they are in all things to be found, how beautiful
or how much to be coveted soever. Greatness has, in general, this
manifest advantage, that it can lower itself when it pleases, and has,
very near, the choice of both the one and the other condition; for a man
does not fall from all heights; there are several from which one may
descend without falling down. It does, indeed, appear to me that we
value it at too high a rate, and also overvalue the resolution of those
whom we have either seen or heard have contemned it, or displaced
themselves of their own accord: its essence is not so evidently
commodious that a man may not, with out a miracle, refuse it. I find it
a very hard thing to undergo misfortunes, but to be content with a
moderate measure of fortune, and to avoid greatness, I think a very easy
matter. 'Tis, methinks, a virtue to which I, who am no conjuror, could
without any great endeavour arrive. What, then, is to be expected from
them that would yet put into consideration the glory attending this
refusal, wherein there may lurk worse ambition than even in the desire
itself, and fruition of greatness? Forasmuch as ambition never comports
itself better, according to itself, than when it proceeds by obscure and
unfrequented ways.
I incite my courage to patience, but I rein it as much as I can
towards desire. I have as much to wish for as another, and allow my
wishes as much liberty and indiscretion; but yet it never befell me to
wish for either empire or royalty, or the eminency of those high and
commanding fortunes: I do not aim that way; I love myself too well. When
I think to grow greater, 'tis but very moderately, and by a compelled
and timorous advancement, such as is proper for me in resolution, in
prudence, in health, in beauty, and even in riches too; but this supreme
reputation, this mighty authority, oppress my imagination; and, quite
contrary to that other,—[Julius Caesar.]—I should, peradventure, rather
choose to be the second or third in Perigord than the first at Paris at
least, without lying, rather the third at Paris than the first. I would
neither dispute with a porter, a miserable unknown, nor make crowds open
in adoration as I pass. I am trained up to a moderate condition, as well
by my choice as fortune; and have made it appear, in the whole conduct
of my life and enterprises, that I have rather avoided than otherwise
the climbing above the degree of fortune wherein God has placed me by my
birth; all natural constitution is equally just and easy. My soul is
such a poltroon, that I measure not good fortune by the height, but by
the facility.
But if my heart be not great enough, 'tis open enough to make amends,
at any one's request, freely to lay open its weakness. Should any one
put me upon comparing the life of L. Thorius Balbus, a brave man,
handsome, learned, healthful, understanding, and abounding in all sorts
of conveniences and pleasures, leading a quiet life, and all his own,
his mind well prepared against death, superstition, pain, and other
incumbrances of human necessity, dying, at last, in battle, with his
sword in his hand, for the defence of his country, on the one part; and
on the other part, the life of M. Regulus, so great and high as is known
to every one, and his end admirable; the one without name and without
dignity, the other exemplary and glorious to a wonder. I should
doubtless say, as Cicero did, could I speak as well as he.
[Cicero, De Finibus, ii. 20, gives the preference to Regulus, and
proclaims him the happier man.]
But if I was to compare them with my own, I should then also say that
the first is as much according to my capacity, and from desire, which I
conform to my capacity, as the second is far beyond it; that I could not
approach the last but with veneration, the other I could readily attain
by use.
Let us return to our temporal greatness, from which we are digressed.
I disrelish all dominion, whether active or passive. Otanes, one of the
seven who had right to pretend to the kingdom of Persia, did as I should
willingly have done, which was, that he gave up to his competitors his
right of being promoted to it, either by election or by lot, provided
that he and his might live in the empire out of all authority and
subjection, those of the ancient laws excepted, and might enjoy all
liberty that was not prejudicial to these, being as impatient of
commanding as of being commanded.
The most painful and difficult employment in the world, in my
opinion, is worthily to discharge the office of a king. I excuse more of
their mistakes than men commonly do, in consideration of the intolerable
weight of their function, which astounds me. 'Tis hard to keep measure
in so immeasurable a power; yet so it is that it is, even to those who
are not of the best nature, a singular incitement to virtue to be seated
in a place where you cannot do the least good that shall not be put upon
record, and where the least benefit redounds to so many men, and where
your talent of administration, like that of preachers, principally
addresses itself to the people, no very exact judge, easy to deceive,
and easily content. There are few things wherein we can give a sincere
judgment, by reason that there are few wherein we have not, in some
sort, a private interest. Superiority and inferiority, dominion and
subjection are bound to a natural envy and contest, and must of
necessity perpetually intrench upon one another. I believe neither the
one nor the other touching the rights of the other party; let reason
therefore, which is inflexible and without passion, determine when we
can avail ourselves of it. 'Tis not above a month ago that I read over,
two Scottish authors contending upon this subject, of whom he who stands
for the people makes the king to be in a worse condition than a carter;
he who writes for monarchy places him some degrees above God in power
and sovereignty.
Now, the incommodity of greatness that I have taken to remark in this
place, upon some occasion that has lately put it into my head, is this:
there is not, peradventure, anything more pleasant in the commerce of
many than the trials that we make against one another, out of emulation
of honour and worth, whether in the exercises of the body or in those of
the mind, wherein sovereign greatness can have no true part. And, in
earnest, I have often thought that by force of respect itself men use
princes disdainfully and injuriously in that particular; for the thing I
was infinitely offended at in my childhood, that they who exercised with
me forbore to do their best because they found me unworthy of their
utmost endeavour, is what we see happen to them daily, every one finding
himself unworthy to contend with them. If we discover that they have the
least desire to get the better of us, there is no one who will not make
it his business to give it them, and who will not rather betray his own
glory than offend theirs; and will therein employ so much force only as
is necessary to save their honour. What share have they, then, in the
engagement, where every one is on their side? Methinks I see those
paladins of ancient times presenting themselves to jousts and battle
with enchanted arms and bodies. Brisson,
[Plutarch, On Satisfaction or Tranquillity of the Mind. But in his
essay, How a Man may Distinguish a Flatterer from a Friend, he calls
him Chriso.]
running against Alexander, purposely missed his blow, and made a
fault in his career; Alexander chid him for it, but he ought to have had
him whipped. Upon this consideration Carneades said, that "the sons of
princes learned nothing right but to manage horses; by reason that, in
all their other exercises, every one bends and yields to them; but a
horse, that is neither a flatterer nor a courtier, throws the son of a
king with no more ceremony than he would throw that of a porter."
Homer was fain to consent that Venus, so sweet and delicate a goddess
as she was, should be wounded at the battle of Troy, thereby to ascribe
courage and boldness to her qualities that cannot possibly be in those
who are exempt from danger. The gods are made to be angry, to fear, to
run away, to be jealous, to grieve, to be transported with passions, to
honour them with the virtues that, amongst us, are built upon these
imperfections. Who does not participate in the hazard and difficulty,
can claim no interest in the honour and pleasure that are the
consequents of hazardous actions. 'Tis pity a man should be so potent
that all things must give way to him; fortune therein sets you too
remote from society, and places you in too great a solitude. This
easiness and mean facility of making all things bow under you, is an
enemy to all sorts of pleasure: 'tis to slide, not to go; 'tis to sleep,
and not to live. Conceive man accompanied with omnipotence: you
overwhelm him; he must beg disturbance and opposition as an alms: his
being and his good are in indigence. Evil to man is in its turn good,
and good evil. Neither is pain always to be shunned, nor pleasure always
to be pursued.
Their good qualities are dead and lost; for they can only be
perceived by comparison, and we put them out of this: they have little
knowledge of true praise, having their ears deafened with so continual
and uniform an approbation. Have they to do with the stupidest of all
their subjects? they have no means to take any advantage of him; if he
but say: "'Tis because he is my king," he thinks he has said enough to
express that he therefore suffered himself to be overcome. This quality
stifles and consumes the other true and essential qualities: they are
sunk in the royalty, and leave them nothing to recommend themselves with
but actions that directly concern and serve the function of their place;
'tis so much to be a king, that this alone remains to them. The outer
glare that environs him conceals and shrouds him from us; our sight is
there repelled and dissipated, being filled and stopped by this
prevailing light. The senate awarded the prize of eloquence to Tiberius;
he refused it, esteeming that though it had been just, he could derive
no advantage from a judgment so partial, and that was so little free to
judge.
As we give them all advantages of honour, so do we soothe and
authorise all their vices and defects, not only by approbation, but by
imitation also. Every one of Alexander's followers carried his head on
one side, as he did; and the flatterers of Dionysius ran against one
another in his presence, and stumbled at and overturned whatever was
under foot, to shew they were as purblind as he. Hernia itself has also
served to recommend a man to favour; I have seen deafness affected; and
because the master hated his wife, Plutarch—[who, however, only gives
one instance; and in this he tells us that the man visited his wife
privately.]—has seen his courtiers repudiate theirs, whom they loved;
and, which is yet more, uncleanliness and all manner of dissoluteness
have so been in fashion; as also disloyalty, blasphemy, cruelty, heresy,
superstition, irreligion, effeminacy, and worse, if worse there be; and
by an example yet more dangerous than that of Mithridates' flatterers,
who, as their master pretended to the honour of a good physician, came
to him to have incisions and cauteries made in their limbs; for these
others suffered the soul, a more delicate and noble part, to be
cauterised.
But to end where I began: the Emperor Adrian, disputing with the
philosopher Favorinus about the interpretation of some word, Favorinus
soon yielded him the victory; for which his friends rebuking him, "You
talk simply," said he; "would you not have him wiser than I, who
commands thirty legions?" Augustus wrote verses against Asinius Pollio,
and "I," said Pollio, "say nothing, for it is not prudence to write in
contest with him who has power to proscribe." And they were right. For
Dionysius, because he could not equal Philoxenus in poesy and Plato in
discourse, condemned the one to the quarries, and sent the other to be
sold for a slave into the island of AEgina.
CHAPTER VIII——OF THE ART OF CONFERENCE
'Tis a custom of our justice to condemn some for a warning to others.
To condemn them for having done amiss, were folly, as Plato says,
[Diogenes Laertius, however, in his Life of Plato, iii. 181, says
that Plato's offence was the speaking too freely to the tyrant.]
for what is done can never be undone; but 'tis to the end they may
offend no more, and that others may avoid the example of their offence:
we do not correct the man we hang; we correct others by him. I do the
same; my errors are sometimes natural, incorrigible, and irremediable:
but the good which virtuous men do to the public, in making themselves
imitated, I, peradventure, may do in making my manners avoided:
"Nonne vides, Albi ut male vivat filius? utque
Barrus inops? magnum documentum, ne patriam rein
Perdere guis velit;"
["Dost thou not see how ill the son of Albus lives? and how the
indigent Barrus? a great warning lest any one should incline to
dissipate his patrimony."—Horace, Sat., i. 4, 109.]
publishing and accusing my own imperfections, some one will learn to
be afraid of them. The parts that I most esteem in myself, derive more
honour from decrying, than for commending myself which is the reason why
I so often fall into, and so much insist upon that strain. But, when all
is summed up, a man never speaks of himself without loss; a man's
accusations of himself are always believed; his praises never: There
may, peradventure, be some of my own complexion who better instruct
myself by contrariety than by similitude, and by avoiding than by
imitation. The elder Cato was regarding this sort of discipline, when he
said, "that the wise may learn more of fools, than fools can of the
wise"; and Pausanias tells us of an ancient player upon the harp, who
was wont to make his scholars go to hear one who played very ill, who
lived over against him, that they might learn to hate his discords and
false measures. The horror of cruelty more inclines me to clemency, than
any example of clemency could possibly do. A good rider does not so much
mend my seat, as an awkward attorney or a Venetian, on horseback; and a
clownish way of speaking more reforms mine than the most correct. The
ridiculous and simple look of another always warns and advises me; that
which pricks, rouses and incites much better than that which tickles.
The time is now proper for us to reform backward; more by dissenting
than by agreeing; by differing more than by consent. Profiting little by
good examples, I make use of those that are ill, which are everywhere to
be found: I endeavour to render myself as agreeable as I see others
offensive; as constant as I see others fickle; as affable as I see
others rough; as good as I see others evil: but I propose to myself
impracticable measures.
The most fruitful and natural exercise of the mind, in my opinion, is
conversation; I find the use of it more sweet than of any other action
of life; and for that reason it is that, if I were now compelled to
choose, I should sooner, I think, consent to lose my sight, than my
hearing and speech. The Athenians, and also the Romans, kept this
exercise in great honour in their academies; the Italians retain some
traces of it to this day, to their great advantage, as is manifest by
the comparison of our understandings with theirs. The study of books is
a languishing and feeble motion that heats not, whereas conversation
teaches and exercises at once. If I converse with a strong mind and a
rough disputant, he presses upon my flanks, and pricks me right and
left; his imaginations stir up mine; jealousy, glory, and contention,
stimulate and raise me up to something above myself; and acquiescence is
a quality altogether tedious in discourse. But, as our mind fortifies
itself by the communication of vigorous and regular understandings, 'tis
not to be expressed how much it loses and degenerates by the continual
commerce and familiarity we have with mean and weak spirits; there is no
contagion that spreads like that; I know sufficiently by experience what
'tis worth a yard. I love to discourse and dispute, but it is with but
few men, and for myself; for to do it as a spectacle and entertainment
to great persons, and to make of a man's wit and words competitive
parade is, in my opinion, very unbecoming a man of honour.
Folly is a bad quality; but not to be able to endure it, to fret and
vex at it, as I do, is another sort of disease little less troublesome
than folly itself; and is the thing that I will now accuse in myself. I
enter into conference, and dispute with great liberty and facility,
forasmuch as opinion meets in me with a soil very unfit for penetration,
and wherein to take any deep root; no propositions astonish me, no
belief offends me, though never so contrary to my own; there is no so
frivolous and extravagant fancy that does not seem to me suitable to the
production of human wit. We, who deprive our judgment of the right of
determining, look indifferently upon the diverse opinions, and if we
incline not our judgment to them, yet we easily give them the hearing:
Where one scale is totally empty, I let the other waver under an old
wife's dreams; and I think myself excusable, if I prefer the odd number;
Thursday rather than Friday; if I had rather be the twelfth or
fourteenth than the thirteenth at table; if I had rather, on a journey,
see a hare run by me than cross my way, and rather give my man my left
foot than my right, when he comes to put on my stockings. All such
reveries as are in credit around us, deserve at least a hearing: for my
part, they only with me import inanity, but they import that. Moreover,
vulgar and casual opinions are something more than nothing in nature;
and he who will not suffer himself to proceed so far, falls,
peradventure, into the vice of obstinacy, to avoid that of superstition.
The contradictions of judgments, then, neither offend nor alter, they
only rouse and exercise, me. We evade correction, whereas we ought to
offer and present ourselves to it, especially when it appears in the
form of conference, and not of authority. At every opposition, we do not
consider whether or no it be dust, but, right or wrong, how to disengage
ourselves: instead of extending the arms, we thrust out our claws. I
could suffer myself to be rudely handled by my friend, so much as to
tell me that I am a fool, and talk I know not of what. I love stout
expressions amongst gentle men, and to have them speak as they think; we
must fortify and harden our hearing against this tenderness of the
ceremonious sound of words. I love a strong and manly familiarity and
conversation: a friendship that pleases itself in the sharpness and
vigour of its communication, like love in biting and scratching: it is
not vigorous and generous enough, if it be not quarrelsome, if it be
civilised and artificial, if it treads nicely and fears the shock:
"Neque enim disputari sine reprehensione potest."
["Neither can a man dispute, but he must contradict."
(Or:) "Nor can people dispute without reprehension."
—Cicero, De Finib., i. 8.]
When any one contradicts me, he raises my attention, not my anger: I
advance towards him who controverts, who instructs me; the cause of
truth ought to be the common cause both of the one and the other. What
will the angry man answer? Passion has already confounded his judgment;
agitation has usurped the place of reason. It were not amiss that the
decision of our disputes should pass by wager: that there might be a
material mark of our losses, to the end we might the better remember
them; and that my man might tell me: "Your ignorance and obstinacy cost
you last year, at several times, a hundred crowns." I hail and caress
truth in what quarter soever I find it, and cheerfully surrender myself,
and open my conquered arms as far off as I can discover it; and,
provided it be not too imperiously, take a pleasure in being reproved,
and accommodate myself to my accusers, very often more by reason of
civility than amendment, loving to gratify and nourish the liberty of
admonition by my facility of submitting to it, and this even at my own
expense.
Nevertheless, it is hard to bring the men of my time to it: they have
not the courage to correct, because they have not the courage to suffer
themselves to be corrected; and speak always with dissimulation in the
presence of one another: I take so great a pleasure in being judged and
known, that it is almost indifferent to me in which of the two forms I
am so: my imagination so often contradicts and condemns itself, that
'tis all one to me if another do it, especially considering that I give
his reprehension no greater authority than I choose; but I break with
him, who carries himself so high, as I know of one who repents his
advice, if not believed, and takes it for an affront if it be not
immediately followed. That Socrates always received smilingly the
contradictions offered to his arguments, a man may say arose from his
strength of reason; and that, the advantage being certain to fall on his
side, he accepted them as a matter of new victory. But we see, on the
contrary, that nothing in argument renders our sentiment so delicate, as
the opinion of pre-eminence, and disdain of the adversary; and that, in
reason, 'tis rather for the weaker to take in good part the oppositions
that correct him and set him right. In earnest, I rather choose the
company of those who ruffle me than of those who fear me; 'tis a dull
and hurtful pleasure to have to do with people who admire us and approve
of all we say. Antisthenes commanded his children never to take it
kindly or for a favour, when any man commended them. I find I am much
prouder of the victory I obtain over myself, when, in the very ardour of
dispute, I make myself submit to my adversary's force of reason, than I
am pleased with the victory I obtain over him through his weakness. In
fine, I receive and admit of all manner of attacks that are direct, how
weak soever; but I am too impatient of those that are made out of form.
I care not what the subject is, the opinions are to me all one, and I am
almost indifferent whether I get the better or the worse. I can
peaceably argue a whole day together, if the argument be carried on with
method; I do not so much require force and subtlety as order; I mean the
order which we every day observe in the wranglings of shepherds and
shop-boys, but never amongst us: if they start from their subject, 'tis
out of incivility, and so 'tis with us; but their tumult and impatience
never put them out of their theme; their argument still continues its
course; if they interrupt, and do not stay for one another, they at
least understand one another. Any one answers too well for me, if he
answers what I say: when the dispute is irregular and disordered, I
leave the thing itself, and insist upon the form with anger and
indiscretion; falling into wilful, malicious, and imperious way of
disputation, of which I am afterwards ashamed. 'Tis impossible to deal
fairly with a fool: my judgment is not only corrupted under the hand of
so impetuous a master, but my conscience also.
Our disputes ought to be interdicted and punished as well as other
verbal crimes: what vice do they not raise and heap up, being always
governed and commanded by passion? We first quarrel with their reasons,
and then with the men. We only learn to dispute that we may contradict;
and so, every one contradicting and being contradicted, it falls out
that the fruit of disputation is to lose and annihilate truth. Therefore
it is that Plato in his Republic prohibits this exercise to fools and
ill-bred people. To what end do you go about to inquire of him, who
knows nothing to the purpose? A man does no injury to the subject, when
he leaves it to seek how he may treat it; I do not mean by an artificial
and scholastic way, but by a natural one, with a sound understanding.
What will it be in the end? One flies to the east, the other to the
west; they lose the principal, dispersing it in the crowd of incidents
after an hour of tempest, they know not what they seek: one is low, the
other high, and a third wide. One catches at a word and a simile;
another is no longer sensible of what is said in opposition to him, and
thinks only of going on at his own rate, not of answering you: another,
finding himself too weak to make good his rest, fears all, refuses all,
at the very beginning, confounds the subject; or, in the very height of
the dispute, stops short and is silent, by a peevish ignorance affecting
a proud contempt or a foolishly modest avoidance of further debate:
provided this man strikes, he cares not how much he lays himself open;
the other counts his words, and weighs them for reasons; another only
brawls, and uses the advantage of his lungs. Here's one who learnedly
concludes against himself, and another who deafens you with prefaces and
senseless digressions: an other falls into downright railing, and seeks
a quarrel after the German fashion, to disengage himself from a wit that
presses too hard upon him: and a last man sees nothing into the reason
of the thing, but draws a line of circumvallation about you of dialectic
clauses, and the formulas of his art.
Now, who would not enter into distrust of sciences, and doubt whether
he can reap from them any solid fruit for the service of life,
considering the use we put them to?
"Nihil sanantibus litteris."
["Letters which cure nothing."—Seneca, Ep., 59.]
Who has got understanding by his logic? Where are all her fair
promises?
"Nec ad melius vivendum, nec ad commodius disserendum."
["It neither makes a man live better nor talk better."
—Cicero, De Fin., i. 19.]
Is there more noise or confusion in the scolding of herring-wives
than in the public disputes of men of this profession? I had rather my
son should learn in a tap-house to speak, than in the schools to prate.
Take a master of arts, and confer with him: why does he not make us
sensible of this artificial excellence? and why does he not captivate
women and ignoramuses, as we are, with admiration at the steadiness of
his reasons and the beauty of his order? why does he not sway and
persuade us to what he will? why does a man, who has so much advantage
in matter and treatment, mix railing, indiscretion, and fury in his
disputations? Strip him of his gown, his hood, and his Latin, let him
not batter our ears with Aristotle, pure and simple, you will take him
for one of us, or worse. Whilst they torment us with this complication
and confusion of words, it fares with them, methinks, as with jugglers;
their dexterity imposes upon our senses, but does not at all work upon
our belief this legerdemain excepted, they perform nothing that is not
very ordinary and mean: for being the more learned, they are none the
less fools.
[So Hobbes said that if he had read as much as the academical
pedants he should have known as little.]
I love and honour knowledge as much as they that have it, and in its
true use 'tis the most noble and the greatest acquisition of men; but in
such as I speak of (and the number of them is infinite), who build their
fundamental sufficiency and value upon it, who appeal from their
understanding to their memory:
"Sub aliena umbra latentes,"
["Sheltering under the shadow of others."—Seneca, Ep., 33.]
and who can do nothing but by book, I hate it, if I dare to say so,
worse than stupidity. In my country, and in my time, learning improves
fortunes enough, but not minds; if it meet with those that are dull and
heavy, it overcharges and suffocates them, leaving them a crude and
undigested mass; if airy and fine, it purifies, clarifies, and
subtilises them, even to exinanition. 'Tis a thing of almost indifferent
quality; a very useful accession to a well-born soul, but hurtful and
pernicious to others; or rather a thing of very precious use, that will
not suffer itself to be purchased at an under rate; in the hand of some
'tis a sceptre, in that of others a fool's bauble.
But let us proceed. What greater victory do you expect than to make
your enemy see and know that he is not able to encounter you? When you
get the better of your argument; 'tis truth that wins; when you get the
advantage of form and method,'tis then you who win. I am of opinion that
in, Plato and Xenophon Socrates disputes more in favour of the
disputants than in favour of the dispute, and more to instruct
Euthydemus and Protagoras in the, knowledge of their impertinence, than
in the impertinence of their art. He takes hold of the first subject
like one who has a more profitable end than to explain it—namely, to
clear the understandings that he takes upon him to instruct and
exercise. To hunt after truth is properly our business, and we are
inexcusable if we carry on the chase impertinently and ill; to fail of
seizing it is another thing, for we are born to inquire after truth: it
belongs to a greater power to possess it. It is not, as Democritus said,
hid in the bottom of the deeps, but rather elevated to an infinite
height in the divine knowledge. The world is but a school of
inquisition: it is not who shall enter the ring, but who shall run the
best courses. He may as well play the fool who speaks true, as he who
speaks false, for we are upon the manner, not the matter, of speaking.
'Tis my humour as much to regard the form as the substance, and the
advocate as much as the cause, as Alcibiades ordered we should: and
every day pass away my time in reading authors without any consideration
of their learning; their manner is what I look after, not their subject:
And just so do I hunt after the conversation of any eminent wit, not
that he may teach me, but that I may know him, and that knowing him, if
I think him worthy of imitation, I may imitate him. Every man may speak
truly, but to speak methodically, prudently, and fully, is a talent that
few men have. The falsity that proceeds from ignorance does not offend
me, but the foppery of it. I have broken off several treaties that would
have been of advantage to me, by reason of the impertinent contestations
of those with whom I treated. I am not moved once in a year at the
faults of those over whom I have authority, but upon the account of the
ridiculous obstinacy of their allegations, denials, excuses, we are
every day going together by the ears; they neither understand what is
said, nor why, and answer accordingly; 'tis enough to drive a man mad. I
never feel any hurt upon my head but when 'tis knocked against another,
and more easily forgive the vices of my servants than their boldness,
importunity, and folly; let them do less, provided they understand what
they do: you live in hope to warm their affection to your service, but
there is nothing to be had or to be expected from a stock.
But what, if I take things otherwise than they are? Perhaps I do; and
therefore it is that I accuse my own impatience, and hold, in the first
place, that it is equally vicious both in him that is in the right, and
in him that is in the wrong; for 'tis always a tyrannic sourness not to
endure a form contrary to one's own: and, besides, there cannot, in
truth, be a greater, more constant, nor more irregular folly than to be
moved and angry at the follies of the world, for it principally makes us
quarrel with ourselves; and the old philosopher never wanted an occasion
for his tears whilst he considered himself. Miso, one of the seven
sages, of a Timonian and Democritic humour, being asked, "what he
laughed at, being alone?"—"That I do laugh alone," answered he. How many
ridiculous things, in my own opinion, do I say and answer every day that
comes over my head? and then how many more, according to the opinion of
others? If I bite my own lips, what ought others to do? In fine, we must
live amongst the living, and let the river run under the bridge without
our care, or, at least, without our interference. In truth, why do we
meet a man with a hunch-back, or any other deformity, without being
moved, and cannot endure the encounter of a deformed mind without being
angry? this vicious sourness sticks more to the judge than to the crime.
Let us always have this saying of Plato in our mouths: "Do not I think
things unsound, because I am not sound in myself? Am I not myself in
fault? may not my observations reflect upon myself?"—a wise and divine
saying, that lashes the most universal and common error of mankind. Not
only the reproaches that we throw in the face of one another, but our
reasons also, our arguments and controversies, are reboundable upon us,
and we wound ourselves with our own weapons: of which antiquity has left
me enough grave examples. It was ingeniously and home-said by him, who
was the inventor of this sentence:
"Stercus cuique suum bene olet."
["To every man his own excrements smell well."—Erasmus]
We see nothing behind us; we mock ourselves an hundred times a day;
when we deride our neighbours; and we detest in others the defects which
are more manifest in us, and which we admire with marvellous
inadvertency and impudence. It was but yesterday that I heard a man of
understanding and of good rank, as pleasantly as justly scoffing at the
folly of another, who did nothing but torment everybody with the
catalogue of his genealogy and alliances, above half of them false (for
they are most apt to fall into such ridiculous discourses, whose
qualities are most dubious and least sure), and yet, would he have
looked into himself, he would have discerned himself to be no less
intemperate and wearisome in extolling his wife's pedigree. O
importunate presumption, with which the wife sees herself armed by the
hands of her own husband. Did he understand Latin, we should say to him:
"Age, si hic non insanit satis sua sponte, instiga."
["Come! if of himself he is not mad enough, urge him on."
—Terence, And., iv. 2, 9.]
I do not say that no man should accuse another, who is not clean
himself,—for then no one would ever accuse,—clean from the same sort of
spot; but I mean that our judgment, falling upon another who is then in
question, should not, at the same time, spare ourselves, but sentence us
with an inward and severe authority. 'Tis an office of charity, that he
who cannot reclaim himself from a vice, should, nevertheless, endeavour
to remove it from another, in whom, peradventure, it may not have so
deep and so malignant a root; neither do him who reproves me for my
fault that he himself is guilty of the same. What of that? The reproof
is, notwithstanding, true and of very good use. Had we a good nose, our
own ordure would stink worse to us, forasmuch as it is our own: and
Socrates is of opinion that whoever should find himself, his son, and a
stranger guilty of any violence and wrong, ought to begin with himself,
present himself first to the sentence of justice, and implore, to purge
himself, the assistance of the hand of the executioner; in the next
place, he should proceed to his son, and lastly, to the stranger. If
this precept seem too severe, he ought at least to present himself the
first, to the punishment of his own conscience.
The senses are our first and proper judges, which perceive not things
but by external accidents; and 'tis no wonder, if in all the parts of
the service of our society, there is so perpetual and universal a
mixture of ceremonies and superficial appearances; insomuch that the
best and most effectual part of our polities therein consist. 'Tis still
man with whom we have to do, of whom the condition is wonderfully
corporal. Let those who, of these late years, would erect for us such a
contemplative and immaterial an exercise of religion, not wonder if
there be some who think it had vanished and melted through their fingers
had it not more upheld itself among us as a mark, title, and instrument
of division and faction, than by itself. As in conference, the gravity,
robe, and fortune of him who speaks, ofttimes gives reputation to vain
arguments and idle words, it is not to be presumed but that a man, so
attended and feared, has not in him more than ordinary sufficiency; and
that he to whom the king has given so many offices and commissions and
charges, he so supercilious and proud, has not a great deal more in him,
than another who salutes him at so great a distance, and who has no
employment at all. Not only the words, but the grimaces also of these
people, are considered and put into the account; every one making it his
business to give them some fine and solid interpretation. If they stoop
to the common conference, and that you offer anything but approbation
and reverence, they then knock you down with the authority of their
experience: they have heard, they have seen, they have done so and so:
you are crushed with examples. I should willingly tell them, that the
fruit of a surgeon's experience, is not the history of his practice and
his remembering that he has cured four people of the plague and three of
the gout, unless he knows how thence to extract something whereon to
form his judgment, and to make us sensible that he has thence become
more skillful in his art. As in a concert of instruments, we do not hear
a lute, a harpsichord, or a flute alone, but one entire harmony, the
result of all together. If travel and offices have improved them, 'tis a
product of their understanding to make it appear. 'Tis not enough to
reckon experiences, they must weigh, sort and distil them, to extract
the reasons and conclusions they carry along with them. There were never
so many historians: it is, indeed, good and of use to read them, for
they furnish us everywhere with excellent and laudable instructions from
the magazine of their memory, which, doubtless, is of great concern to
the help of life; but 'tis not that we seek for now: we examine whether
these relaters and collectors of things are commendable themselves.
I hate all sorts of tyranny, both in word and deed. I am very ready
to oppose myself against those vain circumstances that delude our
judgments by the senses; and keeping my eye close upon those
extraordinary greatnesses, I find that at best they are men, as others
are:
"Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa
Fortuna."
["For in those high fortunes, common sense is generally rare."
—Juvenal, viii. 73.]
Peradventure, we esteem and look upon them for less than they are, by
reason they undertake more, and more expose themselves; they do not
answer to the charge they have undertaken. There must be more vigour and
strength in the bearer than in the burden; he who has not lifted as much
as he can, leaves you to guess that he has still a strength beyond that,
and that he has not been tried to the utmost of what he is able to do;
he who sinks under his load, makes a discovery of his best, and the
weakness of his shoulders. This is the reason that we see so many silly
souls amongst the learned, and more than those of the better sort: they
would have made good husbandmen, good merchants, and good artisans:
their natural vigour was cut out to that proportion. Knowledge is a
thing of great weight, they faint under it: their understanding has
neither vigour nor dexterity enough to set forth and distribute, to
employ or make use of this rich and powerful matter; it has no
prevailing virtue but in a strong nature; and such natures are very
rare—and the weak ones, says Socrates, corrupt the dignity of philosophy
in the handling, it appears useless and vicious, when lodged in an
ill-contrived mind. They spoil and make fools of themselves:
"Humani qualis simulator simius oris,
Quern puer arridens pretioso stamine serum
Velavit, nudasque nates ac terga reliquit,
Ludibrium mensis."
["Just like an ape, simulator of the human face, whom a wanton boy
has dizened up in rich silks above, but left the lower parts bare,
for a laughing-stock for the tables."
—Claudian, in Eutrop., i 303.]
Neither is it enough for those who govern and command us, and have
all the world in their hands, to have a common understanding, and to be
able to do the same that we can; they are very much below us, if they be
not infinitely above us: as they promise more, so they are to perform
more.
And yet silence is to them, not only a countenance of respect and
gravity, but very often of good advantage too: for Megabyzus, going 'to
see Apelles in his painting-room, stood a great while without speaking a
word, and at last began to talk of his paintings, for which he received
this rude reproof: "Whilst thou wast silent, thou seemedst to be some
great thing, by reason of thy chains and rich habit; but now that we
have heard thee speak, there is not the meanest boy in my workshop that
does not despise thee." Those princely ornaments, that mighty state, did
not permit him to be ignorant with a common ignorance, and to speak
impertinently of painting; he ought to have kept this external and
presumptive knowledge by silence. To how many foolish fellows of my time
has a sullen and silent mien procured the credit of prudence and
capacity!
Dignities and offices are of necessity conferred more by fortune than
upon the account of merit; and we are often to blame, to condemn kings
when these are misplaced: on the contrary, 'tis a wonder they should
have so good luck, where there is so little skill:
"Principis est virtus maxima nosse suos;"
["'Tis the chief virtue of a prince to know his people."
—Martial, viii. 15.]
for nature has not given them a sight that can extend to so many
people, to discern which excels the rest, nor to penetrate into our
bosoms, where the knowledge of our wills and best value lies they must
choose us by conjecture and by groping; by the family, wealth, learning,
and the voice of the people, which are all very feeble arguments.
Whoever could find out a way by which they might judge by justice, and
choose men by reason, would, in this one thing, establish a perfect form
of government.
"Ay, but he brought that great affair to a very good pass." This is,
indeed, to say something, but not to say enough: for this sentence is
justly received, "That we are not to judge of counsels by events." The
Carthaginians punished the ill counsels of their captains, though they
were rectified by a successful issue; and the Roman people often denied
a triumph for great and very advantageous victories because the conduct
of their general was not answerable to his good fortune. We ordinarily
see, in the actions of the world, that Fortune, to shew us her power in
all things, and who takes a pride in abating our presumption, seeing she
could not make fools wise, has made them fortunate in emulation of
virtue; and most favours those operations the web of which is most
purely her own; whence it is that the simplest amongst us bring to pass
great business, both public and private; and, as Seiramnes, the Persian,
answered those who wondered that his affairs succeeded so ill,
considering that his deliberations were so wise, "that he was sole
master of his designs, but that success was wholly in the power of
fortune"; these may answer the same, but with a contrary turn. Most
worldly affairs are performed by themselves
"Fata viam inveniunt;"
["The destinies find the way."—AEneid, iii. 395]
the event often justifies a very foolish conduct; our interposition
is little more than as it were a running on by rote, and more commonly a
consideration of custom and example, than of reason. Being formerly
astonished at the greatness of some affair, I have been made acquainted
with their motives and address by those who had performed it, and have
found nothing in it but very ordinary counsels; and the most common and
usual are indeed, perhaps, the most sure and convenient for practice, if
not for show. What if the plainest reasons are the best seated? the
meanest, lowest, and most beaten more adapted to affairs? To maintain
the authority of the counsels of kings, it needs not that profane
persons should participate of them, or see further into them than the
outmost barrier; he who will husband its reputation must be reverenced
upon credit and taken altogether. My consultation somewhat rough-hews
the matter, and considers it lightly by the first face it presents: the
stress and main of the business I have been wont to refer to heaven;
"Permitte divis caetera."
["Leave the rest to the gods."—Horace, Od., i. 9, 9.]
Good and ill fortune are, in my opinion, two sovereign powers; 'tis
folly to think that human prudence can play the part of Fortune; and
vain is his attempt who presumes to comprehend both causes and
consequences, and by the hand to conduct the progress of his design; and
most especially vain in the deliberations of war. There was never
greater circumspection and military prudence than sometimes is seen
amongst us: can it be that men are afraid to lose themselves by the way,
that they reserve themselves to the end of the game? I moreover affirm
that our wisdom itself and consultation, for the most part commit
themselves to the conduct of chance; my will and my reason are sometimes
moved by one breath, and sometimes by another; and many of these
movements there are that govern themselves without me: my reason has
uncertain and casual agitations and impulsions:
"Vertuntur species animorum, et pectora motus
Nunc alios, alios, dum nubila ventus agebat,
Concipiunt."
["The aspects of their minds change; and they conceive now such
ideas, now such, just so long as the wind agitated the clouds."
—Virgil, Georg., i. 42.]
Let a man but observe who are of greatest authority in cities, and
who best do their own business; we shall find that they are commonly men
of the least parts: women, children, and madmen have had the fortune to
govern great kingdoms equally well with the wisest princes, and
Thucydides says, that the stupid more ordinarily do it than those of
better understandings; we attribute the effects of their good fortune to
their prudence:
"Ut quisque Fortuna utitur,
Ita praecellet; atque exinde sapere illum omnes dicimus;"
["He makes his way who knows how to use Fortune, and thereupon we
all call him wise."—Plautus, Pseudol., ii. 3, 13.]
wherefore I say unreservedly, events are a very poor testimony of our
worth and parts.
Now, I was upon this point, that there needs no more but to see a man
promoted to dignity; though we knew him but three days before a man of
little regard, yet an image of grandeur of sufficiency insensibly steals
into our opinion, and we persuade ourselves that, being augmented in
reputation and train, he is also increased in merit; we judge of him,
not according to his worth, but as we do by counters, according to the
prerogative of his place. If it happen so that he fall again, and be
mixed with the common crowd, every one inquires with amazement into the
cause of his having been raised so high. "Is this he," say they, "was he
no wiser when he was there? Do princes satisfy themselves with so
little? Truly, we were in good hands." This is a thing that I have often
seen in my time. Nay, even the very disguise of grandeur represented in
our comedies in some sort moves and gulls us. That which I myself adore
in kings is the crowd of their adorers; all reverence and submission are
due to them, except that of the understanding: my reason is not obliged
to bow and bend; my knees are. Melanthius being asked what he thought of
the tragedy of Dionysius, "I could not see it," said he, "it was so
clouded with language"; so most of those who judge of the discourses of
great men ought to say, "I did not understand his words, they were so
clouded with gravity, grandeur, and majesty." Antisthenes one day tried
to persuade the Athenians to give order that their asses might be
employed in tilling the ground as well as the horses were; to which it
was answered that that animal was not destined for such a service:
"That's all one," replied he, "you have only to order it: for the most
ignorant and incapable men you employ in the commands of your wars
incontinently become worthy enough, because you employ them"; to which
the custom of so many people, who canonise the king they have chosen out
of their own body, and are not content only to honour, but must adore
them, comes very near. Those of Mexico, after the ceremonies of their
king's coronation are over, dare no more look him in the face; but, as
if they had deified him by his royalty. Amongst the oaths they make him
take to maintain their religion, their laws, and liberties, to be
valiant, just, and mild, he moreover swears to make the sun run his
course in his wonted light, to drain the clouds at fit seasons, to make
rivers run their course, and to cause the earth to bear all things
necessary for his people.
I differ from this common fashion, and am more apt to suspect the
capacity when I see it accompanied with that grandeur of fortune and
public applause; we are to consider of what advantage it is to speak
when a man pleases, to choose his subject, to interrupt or change it,
with a magisterial authority; to protect himself from the oppositions of
others by a nod, a smile, or silence, in the presence of an assembly
that trembles with reverence and respect. A man of a prodigious fortune
coming to give his judgment upon some slight dispute that was foolishly
set on foot at his table, began in these words: "It can be no other but
a liar or a fool that will say otherwise than so and so." Pursue this
philosophical point with a dagger in your hand.
There is another observation I have made, from which I draw great
advantage; which is, that in conferences and disputes, every word that
seems to be good, is not immediately to be accepted. Most men are rich
in borrowed sufficiency: a man may say a good thing, give a good answer,
cite a good sentence, without at all seeing the force of either the one
or the other. That a man may not understand all he borrows, may perhaps
be verified in myself. A man must not always presently yield, what truth
or beauty soever may seem to be in the opposite argument; either he must
stoutly meet it, or retire, under colour of not understanding it, to
try, on all parts, how it is lodged in the author. It may happen that we
entangle ourselves, and help to strengthen the point itself. I have
sometimes, in the necessity and heat of the combat, made answers that
have gone through and through, beyond my expectation or hope; I only
gave them in number, they were received in weight. As, when I contend
with a vigorous man, I please myself with anticipating his conclusions,
I ease him of the trouble of explaining himself, I strive to forestall
his imagination whilst it is yet springing and imperfect; the order and
pertinency of his understanding warn and threaten me afar off: I deal
quite contrary with the others; I must understand, and presuppose
nothing but by them. If they determine in general words, "this is good,
that is naught," and that they happen to be in the right, see if it be
not fortune that hits it off for them: let them a little circumscribe
and limit their judgment; why, or how, it is so. These universal
judgments that I see so common, signify nothing; these are men who
salute a whole people in a crowd together; they, who have a real
acquaintance, take notice of and salute them individually and by name.
But 'tis a hazardous attempt; and from which I have, more than every
day, seen it fall out, that weak understandings, having a mind to appear
ingenious, in taking notice, as they read a book, of what is best and
most to be admired, fix their admiration upon some thing so very ill
chosen, that instead of making us discern the excellence of the author;
they make us very well see their own ignorance. This exclamation is
safe, "That is fine," after having heard a whole page of Virgil; by that
the cunning sort save themselves; but to undertake to follow him line by
line, and, with an expert and tried judgment, to observe where a good
author excels himself, weighing the words, phrases, inventions, and his
various excellences, one after another; keep aloof from that:
"Videndum est, non modo quid quisque loquatur, sed etiam quid
quisque sentiat, atque etiam qua de causa quisque sentiat."
["A man is not only to examine what every one says, but also what
every one thinks, and from what reason every one thinks."
—Cicero, De Offic:, i. 41.]
I every day hear fools say things that are not foolish: they say a
good thing; let us examine how far they understand it, whence they have
it, and what they mean by it. We help them to make use of this fine
expression, of this fine sentence, which is none of theirs; they only
have it in keeping; they have bolted it out at a venture; we place it
for them in credit and esteem. You lend them your hand. To what purpose?
they do not think themselves obliged to you for it, and become more
inept still. Don't help them; let them alone; they will handle the
matter like people who are afraid of burning their fingers; they dare
change neither its seat nor light, nor break into it; shake it never so
little, it slips through their fingers; they give it up, be it never so
strong or fair they are fine weapons, but ill hafted: How many times
have I seen the experience of this? Now, if you come to explain anything
to them, and to confirm them, they catch at it, and presently rob you of
the advantage of your interpretation; "It was what I was about to say;
it was just my idea; if I did not express it so, it was for want of
language." Mere wind! Malice itself must be employed to correct this
arrogant ignorance. The dogma of Hegesias, "that we are neither to hate
nor accuse, but instruct," is correct elsewhere; but here 'tis injustice
and inhumanity to relieve and set him right who stands in no need on't,
and is the worse for't. I love to let them step deeper into the mire;
and so deep, that, if it be possible, they may at last discern their
error.
Folly and absurdity are not to be cured by bare admonition; and what
Cyrus answered to him, who importuned him to harangue his army, upon the
point of battle, "that men do not become valiant and warlike upon a
sudden, by a fine oration, no more than a man becomes a good musician by
hearing a fine song," may properly be said of such an admonition as
this. These are apprenticeships that are to be served beforehand, by a
long and continued education. We owe this care and this assiduity of
correction and instruction to our own people; but to go preach to the
first passer-by, and to become tutor to the ignorance and folly of the
first we meet, is a thing that I abhor. I rarely do it, even in private
conversation, and rather give up the whole thing than proceed to these
initiatory and school instructions; my humour is unfit either to speak
or write for beginners; but for things that are said in common
discourse, or amongst other things, I never oppose them either by word
or sign, how false or absurd soever.
As to the rest, nothing vexes me so much in folly as that it is more
satisfied with itself than any reason can reasonably be. 'Tis
unfortunate that prudence forbids us to satisfy and trust ourselves, and
always dismisses us timorous and discontented; whereas obstinacy and
temerity fill those who are possessed with them with joy and assurance.
'Tis for the most ignorant to look at other men over the shoulder,
always returning from the combat full of joy and triumph. And moreover,
for the most part, this arrogance of speech and gaiety of countenance
gives them the better of it in the opinion of the audience, which is
commonly weak and incapable of well judging and discerning the real
advantage. Obstinacy of opinion and heat in argument are the surest
proofs of folly; is there anything so assured, resolute, disdainful,
contemplative, serious and grave as the ass?
May we not include under the title of conference and communication
the quick and sharp repartees which mirth and familiarity introduce
amongst friends, pleasantly and wittily jesting and rallying with one
another? 'Tis an exercise for which my natural gaiety renders me fit
enough, and which, if it be not so tense and serious as the other I
spoke of but now, is, as Lycurgus thought, no less smart and ingenious,
nor of less utility. For my part, I contribute to it more liberty than
wit, and have therein more of luck than invention; but I am perfect in
suffering, for I endure a retaliation that is not only tart, but
indiscreet to boot, without being moved at all; and whoever attacks me,
if I have not a brisk answer immediately ready, I do not study to pursue
the point with a tedious and impertinent contest, bordering upon
obstinacy, but let it pass, and hanging down cheerfully my ears, defer
my revenge to another and better time: there is no merchant that always
gains: Most men change their countenance and their voice where their
wits fail, and by an unseasonable anger, instead of revenging
themselves, accuse at once their own folly and impatience. In this
jollity, we sometimes pinch the secret strings of our imperfections
which, at another and graver time, we cannot touch without offence, and
so profitably give one another a hint of our defects. There are other
jeux de main,—[practical jokes]—rude and indiscreet, after the French
manner, that I mortally hate; my skin is very tender and sensible: I
have in my time seen two princes of the blood buried upon that very
account. 'Tis unhandsome to fight in play. As to the rest, when I have a
mind to judge of any one, I ask him how far he is contented with
himself; to what degree his speaking or his work pleases him. I will
none of these fine excuses, "I did it only in sport,
'Ablatum mediis opus est incudibus istud.'
["That work was taken from the anvil half finished."
—Ovid, Trist., i. 6, 29.]
I was not an hour about it: I have never looked at it since." Well,
then, say I, lay these aside, and give me a perfect one, such as you
would be measured by. And then, what do you think is the best thing in
your work? is it this part or that? is it grace or the matter, the
invention, the judgment, or the learning? For I find that men are,
commonly, as wide of the mark in judging of their own works, as of those
of others; not only by reason of the kindness they have for them, but
for want of capacity to know and distinguish them: the work, by its own
force and fortune, may second the workman, and sometimes outstrip him,
beyond his invention and knowledge. For my part, I judge of the value of
other men's works more obscurely than of my own; and place the Essays,
now high, or low, with great doubt and inconstancy. There are several
books that are useful upon the account of their subjects, from which the
author derives no praise; and good books, as well as good works, that
shame the workman. I may write the manner of our feasts, and the fashion
of our clothes, and may write them ill; I may publish the edicts of my
time, and the letters of princes that pass from hand to hand; I may make
an abridgment of a good book (and every abridgment of a good book is a
foolish abridgment), which book shall come to be lost; and so on:
posterity will derive a singular utility from such compositions: but
what honour shall I have unless by great good fortune? Most part of the
famous books are of this condition.
When I read Philip de Commines, doubtless a very good author, several
years ago, I there took notice of this for no vulgar saying, "That a man
must have a care not to do his master so great service, that at last he
will not know how to give him his just reward"; but I ought to commend
the invention, not him, because I met with it in Tacitus, not long
since:
"Beneficia ea usque lxta sunt, dum videntur exsolvi posse;
ubi multum antevenere, pro gratis odium redditur;"
["Benefits are so far acceptable as they appear to be capable of
recompense; where they much exceed that point, hatred is returned
instead of thanks."—Tacitus, Annal., iv. 18.]
and Seneca vigorously says:
"Nam qui putat esse turpe non reddere,
non vult esse cui reddat:"
["For he who thinks it a shame not to requite, does not wish to
have the man live to whom he owes return."—Seneca, Ep., 81.]
Q. Cicero says with less directness.:
"Qui se non putat satisfacere,
amicus esse nullo modo potest."
["Who thinks himself behind in obligation, can by no
means be a friend."—Q. Cicero, De Petitione Consul, c. 9.]
The subject, according to what it is, may make a man looked upon as
learned and of good memory; but to judge in him the parts that are most
his own and the most worthy, the vigour and beauty of his soul, one must
first know what is his own and what is not; and in that which is not his
own, how much we are obliged to him for the choice, disposition,
ornament, and language he has there presented us with. What if he has
borrowed the matter and spoiled the form, as it often falls out? We, who
are little read in books, are in this strait, that when we meet with a
high fancy in some new poet, or some strong argument in a preacher, we
dare not, nevertheless, commend it till we have first informed
ourselves, through some learned man, if it be the writer's wit or
borrowed from some other; until that I always stand upon my guard.
I have lately been reading the history of Tacitus quite through,
without interrupting it with anything else (which but seldom happens
with me, it being twenty years since I have kept to any one book an hour
together), and I did it at the instance of a gentleman for whom France
has a great esteem, as well for his own particular worth, as upon the
account of a constant form of capacity and virtue which runs through a
great many brothers of them. I do not know any author in a public
narrative who mixes so much consideration of manners and particular
inclinations: and I am of a quite contrary opinion to him, holding that,
having especially to follow the lives of the emperors of his time, so
various and extreme in all sorts of forms, so many notable actions as
their cruelty especially produced in their subjects, he had a stronger
and more attractive matter to treat of than if he had had to describe
battles and universal commotions; so that I often find him sterile,
running over those brave deaths as if he feared to trouble us with their
multitude and length. This form of history is by much the most useful;
public movements depend most upon the conduct of fortune, private ones
upon our own. 'Tis rather a judgment than a narration of history; there
are in it more precepts than stories: it is not a book to read, 'tis a
book to study and learn; 'tis full of sententious opinions, right or
wrong; 'tis a nursery of ethic and politic discourses, for the use and
ornament of those who have any place in the government of the world. He
always argues by strong and solid reasons, after a pointed and subtle
manner, according to the affected style of that age, which was so in
love with an inflated manner, that where point and subtlety were wanting
in things it supplied these with lofty and swelling words. 'Tis not much
unlike the style of Seneca: I look upon Tacitus as more sinewy, and
Seneca as more sharp. His pen seems most proper for a troubled and sick
state, as ours at present is; you would often say that he paints and
pinches us.
They who doubt his good faith sufficiently accuse themselves of being
his enemy upon some other account. His opinions are sound, and lean to
the right side in the Roman affairs. And yet I am angry at him for
judging more severely of Pompey than consists with the opinion of those
worthy men who lived in the same time, and had dealings with him; and to
have reputed him on a par with Marius and Sylla, excepting that he was
more close. Other writers have not acquitted his intention in the
government of affairs from ambition and revenge; and even his friends
were afraid that victory would have transported him beyond the bounds of
reason, but not to so immeasurable a degree as theirs; nothing in his
life threatened such express cruelty and tyranny. Neither ought we to
set suspicion against evidence; and therefore I do not believe Plutarch
in this matter. That his narrations were genuine and straightforward
may, perhaps, be argued from this very thing, that they do not always
apply to the conclusions of his judgments, which he follows according to
the bias he has taken, very often beyond the matter he presents us
withal, which he has not deigned to alter in the least degree. He needs
no excuse for having approved the religion of his time, according as the
laws enjoined, and to have been ignorant of the true; this was his
misfortune, not his fault.
I have principally considered his judgment, and am not very well
satisfied therewith throughout; as these words in the letter that
Tiberius, old and sick, sent to the senate. "What shall I write to you,
sirs, or how should I write to you, or what should I not write to you at
this time? May the gods and goddesses lay a worse punishment upon me
than I am every day tormented with, if I know!" I do not see why he
should so positively apply them to a sharp remorse that tormented the
conscience of Tiberius; at least, when I was in the same condition, I
perceived no such thing.
And this also seemed to me a little mean in him that, having to say
that he had borne an honourable office in Rome, he excuses himself that
he does not say it out of ostentation; this seems, I say, mean for such
a soul as his; for not to speak roundly of a man's self implies some
want of courage; a man of solid and lofty judgment, who judges soundly
and surely, makes use of his own example upon all occasions, as well as
those of others; and gives evidence as freely of himself as of a third
person. We are to pass by these common rules of civility, in favour of
truth and liberty. I dare not only speak of myself, but to speak only of
myself: when I write of anything else, I miss my way and wander from my
subject. I am not so indiscreetly enamoured of myself, so wholly mixed
up with, and bound to myself, that I cannot distinguish and consider
myself apart, as I do a neighbour or a tree: 'tis equally a fault not to
discern how far a man's worth extends, and to say more than a man
discovers in himself. We owe more love to God than to ourselves, and
know Him less; and yet speak of Him as much as we will.
If the writings of Tacitus indicate anything true of his qualities,
he was a great personage, upright and bold, not of a superstitious but
of a philosophical and generous virtue. One may think him bold in his
relations; as where he tells us, that a soldier carrying a burden of
wood, his hands were so frozen and so stuck to the load that they there
remained closed and dead, being severed from his arms. I always in such
things bow to the authority of so great witnesses.
What also he says, that Vespasian, "by the favour of the god Serapis,
cured a blind woman at Alexandria by anointing her eyes with his
spittle, and I know not what other miracle," he says by the example and
duty of all his good historians. They record all events of importance;
and amongst public incidents are the popular rumours and opinions. 'Tis
their part to relate common beliefs, not to regulate them: that part
concerns divines and philosophers, directors of consciences; and
therefore it was that this companion of his, and a great man like
himself, very wisely said:
"Equidem plura transcribo, quam credo: nam nec affirmare
sustineo, de quibus dubito, nec subducere quae accepi;"
["Truly, I set down more things than I believe, for I can neither
affirm things whereof I doubt, nor suppress what I have heard."
—Quintus Curtius, ix.]
and this other:
"Haec neque affirmare neque refellere operae
pretium est; famae rerum standum est."
["'Tis neither worth the while to affirm or to refute these things;
we must stand to report"—Livy, i., Praef., and viii. 6.]
And writing in an age wherein the belief of prodigies began to
decline, he says he would not, nevertheless, forbear to insert in his
Annals, and to give a relation of things received by so many worthy men,
and with so great reverence of antiquity; 'tis very well said. Let them
deliver to us history, more as they receive it than as they believe it.
I, who am monarch of the matter whereof I treat, and who am accountable
to none, do not, nevertheless, always believe myself; I often hazard
sallies of my own wit, wherein I very much suspect myself, and certain
verbal quibbles, at which I shake my ears; but I let them go at a
venture. I see that others get reputation by such things: 'tis not for
me alone to judge. I present myself standing and lying, before and
behind, my right side and my left, and, in all my natural postures.
Wits, though equal in force, are not always equal in taste and
application.
This is what my memory presents to me in gross, and with uncertainty
enough; all judgments in gross are weak and imperfect.
CHAPTER IX——OF VANITY
There is, peradventure, no more manifest vanity than to write of it
so vainly. That which divinity has so divinely expressed to us—["Vanity
of vanities: all is vanity."—Eccles., i. 2.]—ought to be carefully and
continually meditated by men of understanding. Who does not see that I
have taken a road, in which, incessantly and without labour, I shall
proceed so long as there shall be ink and paper in the world? I can give
no account of my life by my actions; fortune has placed them too low: I
must do it by my fancies. And yet I have seen a gentleman who only
communicated his life by the workings of his belly: you might see on his
premises a show of a row of basins of seven or eight days' standing; it
was his study, his discourse; all other talk stank in his nostrils.
Here, but not so nauseous, are the excrements of an old mind, sometimes
thick, sometimes thin, and always indigested. And when shall I have done
representing the continual agitation and mutation of my thoughts, as
they come into my head, seeing that Diomedes wrote six thousand books
upon the sole subject of grammar?
[It was not Diomedes, but Didymus the grammarian, who, as Seneca
(Ep., 88) tells us, wrote four not six thousand books on questions
of vain literature, which was the principal study of the ancient
grammarian.—Coste. But the number is probably exaggerated, and for
books we should doubtless read pamphlets or essays.]
What, then, ought prating to produce, since prattling and the first
beginning to speak, stuffed the world with such a horrible load of
volumes? So many words for words only. O Pythagoras, why didst not thou
allay this tempest? They accused one Galba of old for living idly; he
made answer, "That every one ought to give account of his actions, but
not of his home." He was mistaken, for justice also takes cognisance of
those who glean after the reaper.
But there should be some restraint of law against foolish and
impertinent scribblers, as well as against vagabonds and idle persons;
which if there were, both I and a hundred others would be banished from
the reach of our people. I do not speak this in jest: scribbling seems
to be a symptom of a disordered and licentious age. When did we write so
much as since our troubles? when the Romans so much, as upon the point
of ruin? Besides that, the refining of wits does not make people wiser
in a government: this idle employment springs from this, that every one
applies himself negligently to the duty of his vocation, and is easily
debauched from it. The corruption of the age is made up by the
particular contribution of every individual man; some contribute
treachery, others injustice, irreligion, tyranny, avarice, cruelty,
according to their power; the weaker sort contribute folly, vanity, and
idleness; of these I am one. It seems as if it were the season for vain
things, when the hurtful oppress us; in a time when doing ill is common,
to do but what signifies nothing is a kind of commendation. 'Tis my
comfort, that I shall be one of the last who shall be called in
question; and whilst the greater offenders are being brought to account,
I shall have leisure to amend: for it would, methinks, be against reason
to punish little inconveniences, whilst we are infested with the
greater. As the physician Philotimus said to one who presented him his
finger to dress, and who he perceived, both by his complexion and his
breath, had an ulcer in his lungs: "Friend, it is not now time to play
with your nails." —[Plutarch, How we may distinguish a Flatterer from a
Friend.]
And yet I saw, some years ago, a person, whose name and memory I have
in very great esteem, in the very height of our great disorders, when
there was neither law nor justice, nor magistrate who performed his
office, no more than there is now, publish I know not what pitiful
reformations about cloths, cookery, and law chicanery. Those are
amusements wherewith to feed a people that are ill-used, to show that
they are not totally forgotten. Those others do the same, who insist
upon prohibiting particular ways of speaking, dances, and games, to a
people totally abandoned to all sorts of execrable vices. 'Tis no time
to bathe and cleanse one's self, when one is seized by a violent fever;
it was for the Spartans alone to fall to combing and curling themselves,
when they were just upon the point of running headlong into some extreme
danger of their life.
For my part, I have that worse custom, that if my slipper go awry, I
let my shirt and my cloak do so too; I scorn to mend myself by halves.
When I am in a bad plight, I fasten upon the mischief; I abandon
myself through despair; I let myself go towards the precipice, and, as
they say, "throw the helve after the hatchet"; I am obstinate in growing
worse, and think myself no longer worth my own care; I am either well or
ill throughout. 'T is a favour to me, that the desolation of this
kingdom falls out in the desolation of my age: I better suffer that my
ill be multiplied, than if my well had been disturbed.—[That, being ill,
I should grow worse, than that, being well, I should grow ill.]—The
words I utter in mishap are words of anger: my courage sets up its
bristles, instead of letting them down; and, contrary to others, I am
more devout in good than in evil fortune, according to the precept of
Xenophon, if not according to his reason; and am more ready to turn up
my eyes to heaven to return thanks, than to crave. I am more solicitous
to improve my health, when I am well, than to restore it when I am sick;
prosperities are the same discipline and instruction to me that
adversities and rods are to others. As if good fortune were a thing
inconsistent with good conscience, men never grow good but in evil
fortune. Good fortune is to me a singular spur to modesty and
moderation: an entreaty wins, a threat checks me; favour makes me bend,
fear stiffens me.
Amongst human conditions this is common enough: to be better pleased
with foreign things than with our own, and to love innovation and
change:
"Ipsa dies ideo nos grato perluit haustu,
Quod permutatis hora recurrit equis:"
["The light of day itself shines more pleasantly upon us because it
changes its horses every hour." Spoke of a water hour-glass,
adds Cotton.]
I have my share. Those who follow the other extreme, of being quite
satisfied and pleased with and in themselves, of valuing what they have
above all the rest, and of concluding no beauty can be greater than what
they see, if they are not wiser than we, are really more happy; I do not
envy their wisdom, but their good fortune.
This greedy humour of new and unknown things helps to nourish in me
the desire of travel; but a great many more circumstances contribute to
it; I am very willing to quit the government of my house. There is, I
confess, a kind of convenience in commanding, though it were but in a
barn, and in being obeyed by one's people; but 'tis too uniform and
languid a pleasure, and is, moreover, of necessity mixed with a thousand
vexatious thoughts: one while the poverty and the oppression of your
tenants: another, quarrels amongst neighbours: another, the trespasses
they make upon you afflict you;
"Aut verberatae grandine vineae,
Fundusque mendax, arbore nunc aquas
Culpante, nunc torrentia agros
Sidera, nunc hyemes iniquas."
["Or hail-smitten vines and the deceptive farm; now trees damaged
by the rains, or years of dearth, now summer's heat burning up the
petals, now destructive winters."—Horatius, Od., iii. I, 29.]
and that God scarce in six months sends a season wherein your bailiff
can do his business as he should; but that if it serves the vines, it
spoils the meadows:
"Aut nimiis torret fervoribus aetherius sol,
Aut subiti perimunt imbres, gelidoeque pruinae,
Flabraque ventorum violento turbine vexant;"
["Either the scorching sun burns up your fields, or sudden rains or
frosts destroy your harvests, or a violent wind carries away all
before it."—Lucretius, V. 216.]
to which may be added the new and neat-made shoe of the man of old,
that hurts your foot,
[Leclerc maliciously suggests that this is a sly hit at Montaigne's
wife, the man of old being the person mentioned in Plutarch's Life
of Paulus Emilius, c. 3, who, when his friends reproached him for
repudiating his wife, whose various merits they extolled, pointed to
his shoe, and said, "That looks a nice well-made shoe to you; but I
alone know where it pinches."]
and that a stranger does not understand how much it costs you, and
what you contribute to maintain that show of order that is seen in your
family, and that peradventure you buy too dear.
I came late to the government of a house: they whom nature sent into
the world before me long eased me of that trouble; so that I had already
taken another bent more suitable to my humour. Yet, for so much as I
have seen, 'tis an employment more troublesome than hard; whoever is
capable of anything else, will easily do this. Had I a mind to be rich,
that way would seem too long; I had served my kings, a more profitable
traffic than any other. Since I pretend to nothing but the reputation of
having got nothing or dissipated nothing, conformably to the rest of my
life, improper either to do good or ill of any moment, and that I only
desire to pass on, I can do it, thanks be to God, without any great
endeavour. At the worst, evermore prevent poverty by lessening your
expense; 'tis that which I make my great concern, and doubt not but to
do it before I shall be compelled. As to the rest, I have sufficiently
settled my thoughts to live upon less than I have, and live contentedly:
"Non aestimatione census, verum victu atque cultu,
terminantur pecunix modus."
["'Tis not by the value of possessions, but by our daily subsistence
and tillage, that our riches are truly estimated."
—Cicero, Paradox, vi. 3.]
My real need does not so wholly take up all I have, that Fortune has
not whereon to fasten her teeth without biting to the quick. My
presence, heedless and ignorant as it is, does me great service in my
domestic affairs; I employ myself in them, but it goes against the hair,
finding that I have this in my house, that though I burn my candle at
one end by myself, the other is not spared.
Journeys do me no harm but only by their expense, which is great, and
more than I am well able to bear, being always wont to travel with not
only a necessary, but a handsome equipage; I must make them so much
shorter and fewer; I spend therein but the froth, and what I have
reserved for such uses, delaying and deferring my motion till that be
ready. I will not that the pleasure of going abroad spoil the pleasure
of being retired at home; on the contrary, I intend they shall nourish
and favour one another. Fortune has assisted me in this, that since my
principal profession in this life was to live at ease, and rather idly
than busily, she has deprived me of the necessity of growing rich to
provide for the multitude of my heirs. If there be not enough for one,
of that whereof I had so plentifully enough, at his peril be it: his
imprudence will not deserve that I should wish him any more. And every
one, according to the example of Phocion, provides sufficiently for his
children who so provides for them as to leave them as much as was left
him. I should by no means like Crates' way. He left his money in the
hands of a banker with this condition—that if his children were fools,
he should then give it to them; if wise, he should then distribute it to
the most foolish of the people; as if fools, for being less capable of
living without riches, were more capable of using them.
At all events, the damage occasioned by my absence seems not to
deserve, so long as I am able to support it, that I should waive the
occasions of diverting myself by that troublesome assistance.
There is always something that goes amiss. The affairs, one while of
one house, and then of another, tear you to pieces; you pry into
everything too near; your perspicacity hurts you here, as well as in
other things. I steal away from occasions of vexing myself, and turn
from the knowledge of things that go amiss; and yet I cannot so order
it, but that every hour I jostle against something or other that
displeases me; and the tricks that they most conceal from me, are those
that I the soonest come to know; some there are that, not to make
matters worse, a man must himself help to conceal. Vain vexations; vain
sometimes, but always vexations. The smallest and slightest impediments
are the most piercing: and as little letters most tire the eyes, so do
little affairs most disturb us. The rout of little ills more offend than
one, how great soever. By how much domestic thorns are numerous and
slight, by so much they prick deeper and without warning, easily
surprising us when least we suspect them.
[Now Homer shews us clearly enough how surprise gives the advantage;
who represents Ulysses weeping at the death of his dog; and not
weeping at the tears of his mother; the first accident, trivial as
it was, got the better of him, coming upon him quite unexpectedly;
he sustained the second, though more potent, because he was prepared
for it. 'Tis light occasions that humble our lives. ]
I am no philosopher; evils oppress me according to their weight, and
they weigh as much according to the form as the matter, and very often
more. If I have therein more perspicacity than the vulgar, I have also
more patience; in short, they weigh with me, if they do not hurt me.
Life is a tender thing, and easily molested. Since my age has made me
grow more pensive and morose,
"Nemo enim resistit sibi, cum caeperit impelli,"
["For no man resists himself when he has begun to be driven
forward."—Seneca, Ep., 13.]
for the most trivial cause imaginable, I irritate that humour, which
afterwards nourishes and exasperates itself of its own motion;
attracting and heaping up matter upon matter whereon to feed:
"Stillicidi casus lapidem cavat:"
["The ever falling drop hollows out a stone."—Lucretius, i. 314.]
these continual tricklings consume and ulcerate me. Ordinary
inconveniences are never light; they are continual and inseparable,
especially when they spring from the members of a family, continual and
inseparable. When I consider my affairs at distance and in gross, I
find, because perhaps my memory is none of the best, that they have gone
on hitherto improving beyond my reason or expectation; my revenue seems
greater than it is; its prosperity betrays me: but when I pry more
narrowly into the business, and see how all things go:
"Tum vero in curas animum diducimus omnes;"
["Indeed we lead the mind into all sorts of cares."
—AEneid, v. 720.]
I have a thousand things to desire and to fear. To give them quite
over, is very easy for me to do: but to look after them without trouble,
is very hard. 'Tis a miserable thing to be in a place where everything
you see employs and concerns you; and I fancy that I more cheerfully
enjoy the pleasures of another man's house, and with greater and a purer
relish, than those of my own. Diogenes answered according to my humour
him who asked him what sort of wine he liked the best: "That of
another," said he.—[Diogenes Laertius, vi. 54.]
My father took a delight in building at Montaigne, where he was born;
and in all the government of domestic affairs I love to follow his
example and rules, and I shall engage those who are to succeed me, as
much as in me lies, to do the same. Could I do better for him, I would;
and am proud that his will is still performing and acting by me. God
forbid that in my hands I should ever suffer any image of life, that I
am able to render to so good a father, to fail. And wherever I have
taken in hand to strengthen some old foundations of walls, and to repair
some ruinous buildings, in earnest I have done it more out of respect to
his design, than my own satisfaction; and am angry at myself that I have
not proceeded further to finish the beginnings he left in his house, and
so much the more because I am very likely to be the last possessor of my
race, and to give the last hand to it. For, as to my own particular
application, neither the pleasure of building, which they say is so
bewitching, nor hunting, nor gardens, nor the other pleasures of a
retired life, can much amuse me. And 'tis what I am angry at myself for,
as I am for all other opinions that are incommodious to me; which I
would not so much care to have vigorous and learned, as I would have
them easy and convenient for life, they are true and sound enough, if
they are useful and pleasing. Such as hear me declare my ignorance in
husbandry, whisper in my ear that it is disdain, and that I neglect to
know its instruments, its seasons, its order, how they dress my vines,
how they graft, and to know the names and forms of herbs and fruits, and
the preparing the meat on which I live, the names and prices of the
stuffs I wear, because, say they; I have set my heart upon some higher
knowledge; they kill me in saying so. It is not disdain; it is folly,
and rather stupidity than glory; I had rather be a good horseman than a
good logician:
"Quin to aliquid saltem potius, quorum indiget usus,
Viminibus mollique paras detexere junco."
["'Dost thou not rather do something which is required, and make
osier and reed basket."—Virgil, Eclog., ii. 71.]
We occupy our thoughts about the general, and about universal causes
and conducts, which will very well carry on themselves without our care;
and leave our own business at random, and Michael much more our concern
than man. Now I am, indeed, for the most part at home; but I would be
there better pleased than anywhere else:
"Sit meae sedes utinam senectae,
Sit modus lasso maris, et viarum,
Militiaeque."
["Let my old age have a fixed seat; let there be a limit to fatigues
from the sea, journeys, warfare."—Horace, Od., ii. 6, 6.]
I know not whether or no I shall bring it about. I could wish that,
instead of some other member of his succession, my father had resigned
to me the passionate affection he had in his old age to his household
affairs; he was happy in that he could accommodate his desires to his
fortune, and satisfy himself with what he had; political philosophy may
to much purpose condemn the meanness and sterility of my employment, if
I can once come to relish it, as he did. I am of opinion that the most
honourable calling is to serve the public, and to be useful to many,
"Fructus enim ingenii et virtutis, omnisque praestantiae,
tum maximus capitur, quum in proximum quemque confertur:"
["For the greatest enjoyment of evil and virtue, and of all
excellence, is experienced when they are conferred on some one
nearest."—Cicero, De Amicil., c.]
for myself, I disclaim it; partly out of conscience (for where I see
the weight that lies upon such employments, I perceive also the little
means I have to supply it; and Plato, a master in all political
government himself, nevertheless took care to abstain from it), and
partly out of cowardice. I content myself with enjoying the world
without bustle; only-to live an excusable life, and such as may neither
be a burden to myself nor to any other.
Never did any man more fully and feebly suffer himself to be governed
by a third person than I should do, had I any one to whom to entrust
myself. One of my wishes at this time should be, to have a son-in-law
that knew handsomely how to cherish my old age, and to rock it asleep;
into whose hands I might deposit, in full sovereignty, the management
and use of all my goods, that he might dispose of them as I do, and get
by them what I get, provided that he on his part were truly
acknowledging, and a friend. But we live in a world where loyalty of
one's own children is unknown.
He who has the charge of my purse in his travels, has it purely and
without control; he could cheat me thoroughly, if he came to reckoning;
and, if he is not a devil, I oblige him to deal faithfully with me by so
entire a trust:
"Multi fallere do cuerunt, dum timent falli;
et aliis jus peccandi suspicando fecerunt."
["Many have taught others to deceive, while they fear to be
deceived, and, by suspecting them, have given them a title to do
ill."—Seneca, Epist., 3.]
The most common security I take of my people is ignorance; I never
presume any to be vicious till I have first found them so; and repose
the most confidence in the younger sort, that I think are least spoiled
by ill example. I had rather be told at two months' end that I have
spent four hundred crowns, than to have my ears battered every night
with three, five, seven: and I have been, in this way, as little robbed
as another. It is true, I am willing enough not to see it; I, in some
sort, purposely, harbour a kind of perplexed, uncertain knowledge of my
money: up to a certain point, I am content to doubt. One must leave a
little room for the infidelity or indiscretion of a servant; if you have
left enough, in gross, to do your business, let the overplus of
Fortune's liberality run a little more freely at her mercy; 'tis the
gleaner's portion. After all, I do not so much value the fidelity of my
people as I contemn their injury. What a mean and ridiculous thing it is
for a man to study his money, to delight in handling and telling it over
and over again! 'Tis by this avarice makes its approaches.
In eighteen years that I have had my estate in my, own hands, I could
never prevail with myself either to read over my deeds or examine my
principal affairs, which ought, of necessity, to pass under my knowledge
and inspection. 'Tis not a philosophical disdain of worldly and
transitory things; my taste is not purified to that degree, and I value
them at as great a rate, at least, as they are worth; but 'tis, in
truth, an inexcusable and childish laziness and negligence. What would I
not rather do than read a contract? or than, as a slave to my own
business, tumble over those dusty writings? or, which is worse, those of
another man, as so many do nowadays, to get money? I grudge nothing but
care and trouble, and endeavour nothing so much, as to be careless and
at ease. I had been much fitter, I believe, could it have been without
obligation and servitude, to have lived upon another man's fortune than
my own: and, indeed, I do not know, when I examine it nearer, whether,
according to my humour, what I have to suffer from my affairs and
servants, has not in it something more abject, troublesome, and
tormenting than there would be in serving a man better born than myself,
who would govern me with a gentle rein, and a little at my own case:
"Servitus obedientia est fracti animi et abjecti,
arbitrio carentis suo."
["Servitude is the obedience of a subdued and abject mind, wanting
its own free will."—Cicero, Paradox, V. I.]
Crates did worse, who threw himself into the liberty of poverty, only
to rid himself of the inconveniences and cares of his house. This is
what I would not do; I hate poverty equally with pain; but I could be
content to change the kind of life I live for another that was humbler
and less chargeable.
When absent from home, I divest myself of all these thoughts, and
should be less concerned for the ruin of a tower, than I am, when
present, at the fall of a tile. My mind is easily composed at distance,
but suffers as much as that of the meanest peasant when I am at home;
the reins of my bridle being wrongly put on, or a strap flapping against
my leg, will keep me out of humour a day together. I raise my courage,
well enough against inconveniences: lift up my eyes I cannot:
"Sensus, o superi, sensus."
["The senses, O ye gods, the senses."]
I am at home responsible for whatever goes amiss. Few masters (I
speak of those of medium condition such as mine), and if there be any
such, they are more happy, can rely so much upon another, but that the
greatest part of the burden will lie upon their own shoulders. This
takes much from my grace in entertaining visitors, so that I have,
peradventure, detained some rather out of expectation of a good dinner,
than by my own behaviour; and lose much of the pleasure I ought to reap
at my own house from the visitation and assembling of my friends. The
most ridiculous carriage of a gentleman in his own house, is to see him
bustling about the business of the place, whispering one servant, and
looking an angry look at another: it ought insensibly to slide along,
and to represent an ordinary current; and I think it unhandsome to talk
much to our guests of their entertainment, whether by way of bragging or
excuse. I love order and cleanliness—
"Et cantharus et lanx
Ostendunt mihi me"—
["The dishes and the glasses shew me my own reflection."
—Horace, Ep., i. 5, 23]
more than abundance; and at home have an exact regard to necessity,
little to outward show. If a footman falls to cuffs at another man's
house, or stumble and throw a dish before him as he is carrying it up,
you only laugh and make a jest on't; you sleep whilst the master of the
house is arranging a bill of fare with his steward for your morrow's
entertainment. I speak according as I do myself; quite appreciating,
nevertheless, good husbandry in general, and how pleasant quiet and
prosperous household management, carried regularly on, is to some
natures; and not wishing to fasten my own errors and inconveniences to
the thing; nor to give Plato the lie, who looks upon it as the most
pleasant employment to every one to do his particular affairs without
wrong to another.
When I travel I have nothing to care for but myself, and the laying
out my money; which is disposed of by one single precept; too many
things are required to the raking it together; in that I understand
nothing; in spending, I understand a little, and how to give some show
to my expense, which is indeed its principal use; but I rely too
ambitiously upon it, which renders it unequal and difform, and,
moreover, immoderate in both the one and the other aspect; if it makes a
show, if it serve the turn, I indiscreetly let it run; and as
indiscreetly tie up my purse-strings, if it does not shine, and does not
please me. Whatever it be, whether art or nature, that imprints in us
the condition of living by reference to others, it does us much more
harm than good; we deprive ourselves of our own utilities, to
accommodate appearances to the common opinion: we care not so much what
our being is, as to us and in reality, as what it is to the public
observation. Even the properties of the mind, and wisdom itself, seem
fruitless to us, if only enjoyed by ourselves, and if it produce not
itself to the view and approbation of others. There is a sort of men
whose gold runs in streams underground imperceptibly; others expose it
all in plates and branches; so that to the one a liard is worth a crown,
and to the others the inverse: the world esteeming its use and value,
according to the show. All over-nice solicitude about riches smells of
avarice: even the very disposing of it, with a too systematic and
artificial liberality, is not worth a painful superintendence and
solicitude: he, that will order his expense to just so much, makes it
too pinched and narrow. The keeping or spending are, of themselves,
indifferent things, and receive no colour of good or ill, but according
to the application of the will.
The other cause that tempts me out to these journeys is, inaptitude
for the present manners in our state. I could easily console myself for
this corruption in regard to the public interest:
"Pejoraque saecula ferri
Temporibus, quorum sceleri non invenit ipsa
Nomen, et a nullo posuit natura metallo;"
["And, worse than the iron ages, for whose crimes there is no
similitude in any of Nature's metals."—Juvenal, xiii. 28.]
but not to my own. I am, in particular, too much oppressed by them:
for, in my neighbourhood, we are, of late, by the long licence of our
civil wars, grown old in so riotous a form of state,
"Quippe ubi fas versum atque nefas,"
["Where wrong and right have changed places."
—Virgil, Georg., i. 504.]
that in earnest, 'tis a wonder how it can subsist:
"Armati terram exercent, semperque recentes
Convectare juvat praedas; et vivere rapto."
["Men plough, girt with arms; ever delighting in fresh robberies,
and living by rapine."—AEneid, vii. 748.]
In fine, I see by our example, that the society of men is maintained
and held together, at what price soever; in what condition soever they
are placed, they still close and stick together, both moving and in
heaps; as ill united bodies, that, shuffled together without order, find
of themselves a means to unite and settle, often better than they could
have been disposed by art. King Philip mustered up a rabble of the most
wicked and incorrigible rascals he could pick out, and put them all
together into a city he had caused to be built for that purpose, which
bore their name: I believe that they, even from vices themselves,
erected a government amongst them, and a commodious and just society. I
see, not one action, or three, or a hundred, but manners, in common and
received use, so ferocious, especially in inhumanity and treachery,
which are to me the worst of all vices, that I have not the heart to
think of them without horror; and almost as much admire as I detest
them: the exercise of these signal villainies carries with it as great
signs of vigour and force of soul, as of error and disorder. Necessity
reconciles and brings men together; and this accidental connection
afterwards forms itself into laws: for there have been such, as savage
as any human opinion could conceive, who, nevertheless, have maintained
their body with as much health and length of life as any Plato or
Aristotle could invent. And certainly, all these descriptions of
polities, feigned by art, are found to be ridiculous and unfit to be put
in practice.
These great and tedious debates about the best form of society, and
the most commodious rules to bind us, are debates only proper for the
exercise of our wits; as in the arts there are several subjects which
have their being in agitation and controversy, and have no life but
there. Such an idea of government might be of some value in a new world;
but we take a world already made, and formed to certain customs; we do
not beget it, as Pyrrha or Cadmus did. By what means soever we may have
the privilege to redress and reform it anew, we can hardly writhe it
from its wonted bent, but we shall break all. Solon being asked whether
he had established the best laws he could for the Athenians; "Yes," said
he, "of those they would have received." Varro excuses himself after the
same manner: "that if he were to begin to write of religion, he would
say what he believed; but seeing it was already received, he would write
rather according to use than nature."
Not according to opinion, but in truth and reality, the best and most
excellent government for every nation is that under which it is
maintained: its form and essential convenience depend upon custom. We
are apt to be displeased at the present condition; but I, nevertheless,
maintain that to desire command in a few—[an oligarchy.]— in a republic,
or another sort of government in monarchy than that already established,
is both vice and folly:
"Ayme l'estat, tel que to le veois estre
S'il est royal ayme la royaute;
S'il est de peu, ou biers communaute,
Ayme l'aussi; car Dieu t'y a faict naistre."
["Love the government, such as you see it to be. If it be royal,
love royalty; if it is a republic of any sort, still love it; for
God himself created thee therein."]
So wrote the good Monsieur de Pibrac, whom we have lately lost, a man
of so excellent a wit, such sound opinions, and such gentle manners.
This loss, and that at the same time we have had of Monsieur de Foix,
are of so great importance to the crown, that I do not know whether
there is another couple in France worthy to supply the places of these
two Gascons in sincerity and wisdom in the council of our kings. They
were both variously great men, and certainly, according to the age, rare
and great, each of them in his kind: but what destiny was it that placed
them in these times, men so remote from and so disproportioned to our
corruption and intestine tumults?
Nothing presses so hard upon a state as innovation: change only gives
form to injustice and tyranny. When any piece is loosened, it may be
proper to stay it; one may take care that the alteration and corruption
natural to all things do not carry us too far from our beginnings and
principles: but to undertake to found so great a mass anew, and to
change the foundations of so vast a building, is for them to do, who to
make clean, efface; who reform particular defects by an universal
confusion, and cure diseases by death:
"Non tam commutandarum quam evertendarum rerum cupidi."
["Not so desirous of changing as of overthrowing things."
—Cicero, De Offic., ii. i.]
The world is unapt to be cured; and so impatient of anything that
presses it, that it thinks of nothing but disengaging itself at what
price soever. We see by a thousand examples, that it ordinarily cures
itself to its cost. The discharge of a present evil is no cure, if there
be not a general amendment of condition. The surgeon's end is not only
to cut away the dead flesh; that is but the progress of his cure; he has
a care, over and above, to fill up the wound with better and more
natural flesh, and to restore the member to its due state. Whoever only
proposes to himself to remove that which offends him, falls short: for
good does not necessarily succeed evil; another evil may succeed, and a
worse, as it happened to Caesar's murderers, who brought the republic to
such a pass, that they had reason to repent the meddling with the
matter. The same has since happened to several others, even down to our
own times: the French, my contemporaries, know it well enough. All great
mutations shake and disorder a state.
Whoever would look direct at a cure, and well consider of it before
he began, would be very willing to withdraw his hands from meddling in
it. Pacuvius Calavius corrected the vice of this proceeding by a notable
example. His fellow-citizens were in mutiny against their magistrates;
he being a man of great authority in the city of Capua, found means one
day to shut up the Senators in the palace; and calling the people
together in the market-place, there told them that the day was now come
wherein at full liberty they might revenge themselves on the tyrants by
whom they had been so long oppressed, and whom he had now, all alone and
unarmed, at his mercy. He then advised that they should call these out,
one by one, by lot, and should individually determine as to each,
causing whatever should be decreed to be immediately executed; with this
proviso, that they should, at the same time, depute some honest man in
the place of him who was condemned, to the end there might be no vacancy
in the Senate. They had no sooner heard the name of one senator but a
great cry of universal dislike was raised up against him. "I see," says
Pacuvius, "that we must put him out; he is a wicked fellow; let us look
out a good one in his room." Immediately there was a profound silence,
every one being at a stand whom to choose. But one, more impudent than
the rest, having named his man, there arose yet a greater consent of
voices against him, an hundred imperfections being laid to his charge,
and as many just reasons why he should not stand. These contradictory
humours growing hot, it fared worse with the second senator and the
third, there being as much disagreement in the election of the new, as
consent in the putting out of the old. In the end, growing weary of this
bustle to no purpose, they began, some one way and some another, to
steal out of the assembly: every one carrying back this resolution in
his mind, that the oldest and best known evil was ever more supportable
than one that was, new and untried.
Seeing how miserably we are agitated (for what have we not done!)
"Eheu! cicatricum, et sceleris pudet,
Fratrumque: quid nos dura refugimus
AEtas? quid intactum nefasti
Liquimus? Unde manus inventus
Metu Deorum continuit? quibus
Pepercit aris."
["Alas! our crimes and our fratricides are a shame to us! What
crime does this bad age shrink from? What wickedness have we left
undone? What youth is restrained from evil by the fear of the gods?
What altar is spared?"—Horace, Od., i. 33, 35]
I do not presently conclude,
"Ipsa si velit Salus,
Servare prorsus non potest hanc familiam;"
["If the goddess Salus herself wish to save this family, she
absolutely cannot"—Terence, Adelph., iv. 7, 43.]
we are not, peradventure, at our last gasp. The conservation of
states is a thing that, in all likelihood, surpasses our
understanding;—a civil government is, as Plato says, a mighty and
puissant thing, and hard to be dissolved; it often continues against
mortal and intestine diseases, against the injury of unjust laws,
against tyranny, the corruption and ignorance of magistrates, the
licence and sedition of the people. In all our fortunes, we compare
ourselves to what is above us, and still look towards those who are
better: but let us measure ourselves with what is below us: there is no
condition so miserable wherein a man may not find a thousand examples
that will administer consolation. 'Tis our vice that we more unwillingly
look upon what is above, than willingly upon what is below; and Solon
was used to say, that "whoever would make a heap of all the ills
together, there is no one who would not rather choose to bear away the
ills he has than to come to an equal division with all other men from
that heap, and take his share." Our government is, indeed, very sick,
but there have been others more sick without dying. The gods play at
ball with us and bandy us every way:
"Enimvero Dii nos homines quasi pilas habent."
The stars fatally destined the state of Rome for an example of what
they could do in this kind: in it are comprised all the forms and
adventures that concern a state: all that order or disorder, good or
evil fortune, can do. Who, then, can despair of his condition, seeing
the shocks and commotions wherewith Rome was tumbled and tossed, and yet
withstood them all? If the extent of dominion be the health of a state
(which I by no means think it is, and Isocrates pleases me when he
instructs Nicocles not to envy princes who have large dominions, but
those who know how to preserve those which have fallen into their
hands), that of Rome was never so sound, as when it was most sick. The
worst of her forms was the most fortunate; one can hardly discern any
image of government under the first emperors; it is the most horrible
and tumultuous confusion that can be imagined; it endured it,
notwithstanding, and therein continued, preserving not a monarchy
limited within its own bounds, but so many nations so differing, so
remote, so disaffected, so confusedly commanded, and so unjustly
conquered:
"Nec gentibus ullis
Commodat in populum, terra pelagique potentem,
Invidiam fortuna suam."
["Fortune never gave it to any nation to satisfy its hatred against
the people, masters of the seas and of the earth."—Lucan, i. 32.]
Everything that totters does not fall. The contexture of so great a
body holds by more nails than one; it holds even by its antiquity, like
old buildings, from which the foundations are worn away by time, without
rough-cast or mortar, which yet live and support themselves by their own
weight:
"Nec jam validis radicibus haerens,
Pondere tuta suo est."
Moreover, it is not rightly to go to work, to examine only the flank
and the foss, to judge of the security of a place; we must observe which
way approaches can be made to it, and in what condition the assailant
is: few vessels sink with their own weight, and without some exterior
violence. Now, let us everyway cast our eyes; everything about us
totters; in all the great states, both of Christendom and elsewhere,
that are known to us, if you will but look, you will there see evident
menace of alteration and ruin:
"Et sua sunt illis incommoda; parque per omnes
Tempestas."
["They all share in the mischief; the tempest rages
everywhere."—AEneid, ii.]
Astrologers may very well, as they do, warn us of great revolutions
and imminent mutations: their prophecies are present and palpable, they
need not go to heaven to foretell this. There is not only consolation to
be extracted from this universal combination of ills and menaces, but,
moreover, some hopes of the continuation of our state, forasmuch as,
naturally, nothing falls where all falls: universal sickness is
particular health: conformity is antagonistic to dissolution. For my
part, I despair not, and fancy that I discover ways to save us:
"Deus haec fortasse benigna
Reducet in sedem vice."
["The deity will perchance by a favourable turn restore us to our
former position."—Horace, Epod., xiii. 7.]
Who knows but that God will have it happen, as in human bodies that
purge and restore themselves to a better state by long and grievous
maladies, which render them more entire and perfect health than that
they took from them? That which weighs the most with me is, that in
reckoning the symptoms of our ill, I see as many natural ones, and that
Heaven sends us, and properly its own, as of those that our disorder and
human imprudence contribute to it. The very stars seem to declare that
we have already continued long enough, and beyond the ordinary term.
This also afflicts me, that the mischief which nearest threatens us, is
not an alteration in the entire and solid mass, but its dissipation and
divulsion, which is the most extreme of our fears.
I, moreover, fear, in these fantasies of mine, the treachery of my
memory, lest, by inadvertence, it should make me write the same thing
twice. I hate to examine myself, and never review, but very unwillingly,
what has once escaped my pen. I here set down nothing new. These are
common thoughts, and having, peradventure, conceived them an hundred
times, I am afraid I have set them down somewhere else already.
Repetition is everywhere troublesome, though it were in Homer; but 'tis
ruinous in things that have only a superficial and transitory show. I do
not love over-insisting, even in the most profitable things, as in
Seneca; and the usage of his stoical school displeases me, to repeat,
upon every subject, at full length and width the principles and
presuppositions that serve in general, and always to realledge anew
common and universal reasons.
My memory grows cruelly worse every day:
"Pocula Lethaeos ut si ducentia somnos,
Arente fauce traxerim;"
["As if my dry throat had drunk seducing cups of Lethaean
oblivion."—Horace, Epod., xiv. 3.]
I must be fain for the time to come (for hitherto, thanks be to God,
nothing has happened much amiss), whereas others seek time and
opportunity to think of what they have to say, to avoid all preparation,
for fear of tying myself to some obligation upon which I must insist. To
be tied and bound to a thing puts me quite out, and to depend upon so
weak an instrument as my memory. I never read this following story that
I am not offended at it with a personal and natural resentment:
Lyncestes, accused of conspiracy against Alexander, the day that he was
brought out before the army, according to the custom, to be heard as to
what he could say for himself, had learned a studied speech, of which,
hesitating and stammering, he pronounced some words. Whilst growing more
and more perplexed, whilst struggling with his memory, and trying to
recollect what he had to say, the soldiers nearest to him charged their
pikes against him and killed him, looking upon him as convict; his
confusion and silence served them for a confession; for having had so
much leisure to prepare himself in prison, they concluded that it was
not his memory that failed him, but that his conscience tied up his
tongue and stopped his mouth. And, truly, well said; the place, the
assembly, the expectation, astound a man, even when he has but the
ambition to speak well; what can a man do when 'tis an harangue upon
which his life depends?
For my part, the very being tied to what I am to say is enough to
loose me from it. When I wholly commit and refer myself to my memory, I
lay so much stress upon it that it sinks under me: it grows dismayed
with the burden. So much as I trust to it, so much do I put myself out
of my own power, even to the finding it difficult to keep my own
countenance; and have been sometimes very much put to it to conceal the
slavery wherein I was engaged; whereas my design is to manifest, in
speaking, a perfect calmness both of face and accent, and casual and
unpremeditated motions, as rising from present occasions, choosing
rather to say nothing to purpose than to show that I came prepared to
speak well, a thing especially unbecoming a man of my profession, and of
too great obligation on him who cannot retain much. The preparation
begets a great deal more expectation than it will satisfy. A man often
strips himself to his doublet to leap no farther than he would have done
in his gown:
"Nihil est his, qui placere volunt, turn adversarium,
quam expectatio."
["Nothing is so adverse to those who make it their business to
please as expectation"—Cicero, Acad., ii. 4]
It is recorded of the orator Curio, that when he proposed the
division of his oration into three or four parts, or three or four
arguments or reasons, it often happened either that he forgot some one,
or added one or two more. I have always avoided falling into this
inconvenience, having ever hated these promises and prescriptions, not
only out of distrust of my memory, but also because this method relishes
too much of the artist:
"Simpliciora militares decent."
["Simplicity becomes warriors."—Quintilian, Instit. Orat., xi. I.]
'Tis enough that I have promised to myself never again to take upon
me to speak in a place of respect, for as to speaking, when a man reads
his speech, besides that it is very absurd, it is a mighty disadvantage
to those who naturally could give it a grace by action; and to rely upon
the mercy of my present invention, I would much less do it; 'tis heavy
and perplexed, and such as would never furnish me in sudden and
important necessities.
Permit, reader, this essay its course also, and this third sitting to
finish the rest of my picture: I add, but I correct not. First, because
I conceive that a man having once parted with his labours to the world,
he has no further right to them; let him do better if he can, in some
new undertaking, but not adulterate what he has already sold. Of such
dealers nothing should be bought till after they are dead. Let them well
consider what they do before they, produce it to the light who hastens
them? My book is always the same, saving that upon every new edition
(that the buyer may not go away quite empty) I take the liberty to add
(as 'tis but an ill jointed marqueterie) some supernumerary emblem; it
is but overweight, that does not disfigure the primitive form of the
essays, but, by a little artful subtlety, gives a kind of particular
value to every one of those that follow. Thence, however, will easily
happen some transposition of chronology, my stories taking place
according to their opportuneness, not always according to their age.
Secondly, because as to what concerns myself, I fear to lose by
change: my understanding does not always go forward, it goes backward
too. I do not much less suspect my fancies for being the second or the
third, than for being the first, or present, or past; we often correct
ourselves as foolishly as we do others. I am grown older by a great many
years since my first publications, which were in the year 1580; but I
very much doubt whether I am grown an inch the wiser. I now, and I anon,
are two several persons; but whether better, I cannot determine. It were
a fine thing to be old, if we only travelled towards improvement; but
'tis a drunken, stumbling, reeling, infirm motion: like that of reeds,
which the air casually waves to and fro at pleasure. Antiochus had in
his youth strongly written in favour of the Academy; in his old age he
wrote as much against it; would not, which of these two soever I should
follow, be still Antiochus? After having established the uncertainty, to
go about to establish the certainty of human opinions, was it not to
establish doubt, and not certainty, and to promise, that had he had yet
another age to live, he would be always upon terms of altering his
judgment, not so much for the better, as for something else?
The public favour has given me a little more confidence than I
expected; but what I 'most fear is, lest I should glut the world with my
writings; I had rather, of the two, pique my reader than tire him, as a
learned man of my time has done. Praise is always pleasing, let it come
from whom, or upon what account it will; yet ought a man to understand
why he is commended, that he may know how to keep up the same reputation
still: imperfections themselves may get commendation. The vulgar and
common estimation is seldom happy in hitting; and I am much mistaken if,
amongst the writings of my time, the worst are not those which have most
gained the popular applause. For my part, I return my thanks to those
good-natured men who are pleased to take my weak endeavours in good
part; the faults of the workmanship are nowhere so apparent as in a
matter which of itself has no recommendation. Blame not me, reader, for
those that slip in here by the fancy or inadvertency of others; every
hand, every artisan, contribute their own materials; I neither concern
myself with orthography (and only care to have it after the old way) nor
pointing, being very inexpert both in the one and the other. Where they
wholly break the sense, I am very little concerned, for they at least
discharge me; but where they substitute a false one, as they so often
do, and wrest me to their conception, they ruin me. When the sentence,
nevertheless, is not strong enough for my proportion, a civil person
ought to reject it as spurious, and none of mine. Whoever shall know how
lazy I am, and how indulgent to my own humour, will easily believe that
I had rather write as many more essays, than be tied to revise these
over again for so childish a correction.
I said elsewhere, that being planted in the very centre of this new
religion, I am not only deprived of any great familiarity with men of
other kind of manners than my own, and of other opinions, by which they
hold together, as by a tie that supersedes all other obligations; but
moreover I do not live without danger, amongst men to whom all things
are equally lawful, and of whom the most part cannot offend the laws
more than they have already done; from which the extremist degree of
licence proceeds. All the particular being summed up together, I do not
find one man of my country, who pays so dear for the defence of our laws
both in loss and damages (as the lawyers say) as myself; and some there
are who vapour and brag of their zeal and constancy, that if things were
justly weighed, do much less than I. My house, as one that has ever been
open and free to all comers, and civil to all (for I could never
persuade myself to make it a garrison of war, war being a thing that I
prefer to see as remote as may be), has sufficiently merited popular
kindness, and so that it would be a hard matter justly to insult over me
upon my own dunghill; and I look upon it as a wonderful and exemplary
thing that it yet continues a virgin from blood and plunder during so
long a storm, and so many neighbouring revolutions and tumults. For to
confess the truth, it had been possible enough for a man of my
complexion to have shaken hands with any one constant and continued form
whatever; but the contrary invasions and incursions, alternations and
vicissitudes of fortune round about me, have hitherto more exasperated
than calmed and mollified the temper of the country, and involved me,
over and over again, with invincible difficulties and dangers.
I escape, 'tis true, but am troubled that it is more by chance, and
something of my own prudence, than by justice; and am not satisfied to
be out of the protection of the laws, and under any other safeguard than
theirs. As matters stand, I live, above one half, by the favour of
others, which is an untoward obligation. I do not like to owe my safety
either to the generosity or affection of great persons, who allow me my
legality and my liberty, or to the obliging manners of my predecessors,
or my own: for what if I were another kind of man? If my deportment, and
the frankness of my conversation or relationship, oblige my neighbours,
'tis that that they should acquit themselves of obligation in only
permitting me to live, and they may say, "We allow him the free liberty
of having divine service read in his own private chapel, when it is
interdicted in all churches round about, and allow him the use of his
goods and his life, as one who protects our wives and cattle in time of
need." For my house has for many descents shared in the reputation of
Lycurgus the Athenian, who was the general depository and guardian of
the purses of his fellow-citizens. Now I am clearly of opinion that a
man should live by right and by authority, and not either by recompense
or favour. How many gallant men have rather chosen to lose their lives
than to be debtors for them? I hate to subject myself to any sort of
obligation, but above all, to that which binds me by the duty of honour.
I think nothing so dear as what has been given me, and this because my
will lies at pawn under the title of gratitude, and more willingly
accept of services that are to be sold; I feel that for the last I give
nothing but money, but for the other I give myself.
The knot that binds me by the laws of courtesy binds me more than
that of civil constraint; I am much more at ease when bound by a
scrivener, than by myself. Is it not reason that my conscience should be
much more engaged when men simply rely upon it? In a bond, my faith owes
nothing, because it has nothing lent it; let them trust to the security
they have taken without me. I had much rather break the wall of a prison
and the laws themselves than my own word. I am nice, even to
superstition, in keeping my promises, and, therefore, upon all occasions
have a care to make them uncertain and conditional. To those of no great
moment, I add the jealousy of my own rule, to make them weight; it
wracks and oppresses me with its own interest. Even in actions wholly my
own and free, if I once say a thing, I conceive that I have bound
myself, and that delivering it to the knowledge of another, I have
positively enjoined it my own performance. Methinks I promise it, if I
but say it: and therefore am not apt to say much of that kind. The
sentence that I pass upon myself is more severe than that of a judge,
who only considers the common obligation; but my conscience looks upon
it with a more severe and penetrating eye. I lag in those duties to
which I should be compelled if I did not go:
"Hoc ipsum ita justum est, quod recte fit, si est voluntarium."
["This itself is so far just, that it is rightly done, if it is
voluntary."—Cicero, De Offic., i. 9.]
If the action has not some splendour of liberty, it has neither grace
nor honour:
"Quod vos jus cogit, vix voluntate impetrent:"
["That which the laws compel us to do, we scarcely do with a will."
—Terence, Adelph., iii. 3, 44.]
where necessity draws me, I love to let my will take its own course:
"Quia quicquid imperio cogitur, exigenti magis,
quam praestanti, acceptum refertur."
["For whatever is compelled by power, is more imputed to him that
exacts than to him that performs."—Valerius Maximus, ii. 2, 6.]
I know some who follow this rule, even to injustice; who will sooner
give than restore, sooner lend than pay, and will do them the least good
to whom they are most obliged. I don't go so far as that, but I'm not
far off.
I so much love to disengage and disobligate myself, that I have
sometimes looked upon ingratitudes, affronts, and indignities which I
have received from those to whom either by nature or accident I was
bound in some way of friendship, as an advantage to me; taking this
occasion of their ill-usage, for an acquaintance and discharge of so
much of my debt. And though I still continue to pay them all the
external offices of public reason, I, notwithstanding, find a great
saving in doing that upon the account of justice which I did upon the
score of affection, and am a little eased of the attention and
solicitude of my inward will:
"Est prudentis sustinere, ut currum, sic impetum benevolentia;"
["'Tis the part of a wise man to keep a curbing hand upon the
impetus of friendship, as upon that of his horse."
—Cicero, De Amicit., c. 17.]
'tis in me, too urging and pressing where I take; at least, for a man
who loves not to be strained at all. And this husbanding my friendship
serves me for a sort of consolation in the imperfections of those in
whom I am concerned. I am very sorry they are not such as I could wish
they were, but then I also am spared somewhat of my application and
engagement towards them. I approve of a man who is the less fond of his
child for having a scald head, or for being crooked; and not only when
he is ill-conditioned, but also when he is of unhappy disposition, and
imperfect in his limbs (God himself has abated so much from his value
and natural estimation), provided he carry himself in this coldness of
affection with moderation and exact justice: proximity, with me, lessens
not defects, but rather aggravates them.
After all, according to what I understand in the science of benefit
and acknowledgment, which is a subtle science, and of great use, I know
no person whatever more free and less indebted than I am at this hour.
What I do owe is simply to foreign obligations and benefits; as to
anything else, no man is more absolutely clear:
"Nec sunt mihi nota potentum
Munera."
["The gifts of great men are unknown to me."—AEneid, xii. 529.]
Princes give me a great deal if they take nothing from me; and do me
good enough if they do me no harm; that's all I ask from them. O how am
I obliged to God, that he has been pleased I should immediately receive
from his bounty all I have, and specially reserved all my obligation to
himself. How earnestly do I beg of his holy compassion that I may never
owe essential thanks to any one. O happy liberty wherein I have thus far
lived. May it continue with me to the last. I endeavour to have no
express need of any one:
"In me omnis spec est mihi."
["All my hope is in myself."—Terence, Adelph., iii. 5, 9.]
'Tis what every one may do in himself, but more easily they whom God
has placed in a condition exempt from natural and urgent necessities. It
is a wretched and dangerous thing to depend upon others; we ourselves,
in whom is ever the most just and safest dependence, are not
sufficiently sure.
I have nothing mine but myself, and yet the possession is, in part,
defective and borrowed. I fortify myself both in courage, which is the
strongest assistant, and also in fortune, therein wherewith to satisfy
myself, though everything else should forsake me. Hippias of Elis not
only furnished himself with knowledge, that he might, at need,
cheerfully retire from all other company to enjoy the Muses: nor only
with the knowledge of philosophy, to teach his soul to be contented with
itself, and bravely to subsist without outward conveniences, when fate
would have it so; he was, moreover, so careful as to learn to cook, to
shave himself, to make his own clothes, his own shoes and drawers, to
provide for all his necessities in himself, and to wean himself from the
assistance of others. A man more freely and cheerfully enjoys borrowed
conveniences, when it is not an enjoyment forced and constrained by
need; and when he has, in his own will and fortune, the means to live
without them. I know myself very well; but 'tis hard for me to imagine
any so pure liberality of any one towards me, any so frank and free
hospitality, that would not appear to me discreditable, tyrannical, and
tainted with reproach, if necessity had reduced me to it. As giving is
an ambitious and authoritative quality, so is accepting a quality of
submission; witness the insulting and quarrelsome refusal that Bajazet
made of the presents that Tamerlane sent him; and those that were
offered on the part of the Emperor Solyman to the Emperor of Calicut, so
angered him, that he not only rudely rejected them, saying that neither
he nor any of his predecessors had ever been wont to take, and that it
was their office to give; but, moreover, caused the ambassadors sent
with the gifts to be put into a dungeon. When Thetis, says Aristotle,
flatters Jupiter, when the Lacedaemonians flatter the Athenians, they do
not put them in mind of the good they have done them, which is always
odious, but of the benefits they have received from them. Such as I see
so frequently employ every one in their affairs, and thrust themselves
into so much obligation, would never do it, did they but relish as I do
the sweetness of a pure liberty, and did they but weigh, as wise: men
should, the burden of obligation: 'tis sometimes, peradventure, fully
paid, but 'tis never dissolved. 'Tis a miserable slavery to a man who
loves to be at full liberty in all reapects. Such as know me, both above
and below me in station, are able to say whether they have ever known a
man less importuning, soliciting, entreating, and pressing upon others
than I. If I am so, and a degree beyond all modern example, 'tis no
great wonder, so many parts of my manners contributing to it: a little
natural pride, an impatience at being refused, the moderation of my
desires and designs, my incapacity for business, and my most beloved
qualities, idleness and freedom; by all these together I have conceived
a mortal hatred to being obliged to any other, or by any other than
myself. I leave no stone unturned, to do without it, rather than employ
the bounty of another in any light or important occasion or necessity
whatever. My friends strangely trouble me when they ask me to ask a
third person; and I think it costs me little less to disengage him who
is indebted to me, by making use of him, than to engage myself to him
who owes me nothing. These conditions being removed, and provided they
require of me nothing if any great trouble or care (for I have declared
mortal war against all care), I am very ready to do every one the best
service I can. I have been very willing to seek occasion to do people a
good turn, and to attach them to me; and methinks there is no more
agreeable employment for our means. But I have yet more avoided
receiving than sought occasions of giving, and moreover, according to
Aristotle, it is more easy., My fortune has allowed me but little to do
others good withal, and the little it can afford, is put into a pretty
close hand. Had I been born a great person, I should have been ambitious
to have made myself beloved, not to make myself feared or admired: shall
I more plainly express it? I should more have endeavoured to please than
to profit others. Cyrus very wisely, and by the mouth of a great
captain, and still greater philosopher, prefers his bounty and benefits
much before his valour and warlike conquests; and the elder Scipio,
wherever he would raise himself in esteem, sets a higher value upon his
affability and humanity, than on his prowess and victories, and has
always this glorious saying in his mouth: "That he has given his enemies
as much occasion to love him as his friends." I will then say, that if a
man must, of necessity, owe something, it ought to be by a more
legitimate title than that whereof I am speaking, to which the necessity
of this miserable war compels me; and not in so great a debt as that of
my total preservation both of life and fortune: it overwhelms me.
I have a thousand times gone to bed in my own house with an
apprehension that I should be betrayed and murdered that very night;
compounding with fortune, that it might be without terror and with quick
despatch; and, after my Paternoster, I have cried out,
"Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit!"
["Shall impious soldiers have these new-ploughed grounds?"
—Virgil, Ecl., i. 71.]
What remedy? 'tis the place of my birth, and that of most of my
ancestors; they have here fixed their affection and name. We inure
ourselves to whatever we are accustomed to; and in so miserable a
condition as ours is, custom is a great bounty of nature, which benumbs
out senses to the sufferance of many evils. A civil war has this with it
worse than other wars have, to make us stand sentinels in our own
houses.
"Quam miserum, porta vitam muroque tueri,
Vixque suae tutum viribus esse domus!"
["'Tis miserable to protect one's life by doors and walls, and to be
scarcely safe in one's own house."—Ovid, Trist., iv. I, 69.]
'Tis a grievous extremity for a man to be jostled even in his own
house and domestic repose. The country where I live is always the first
in arms and the last that lays them down, and where there is never an
absolute peace:
"Tunc quoque, cum pax est, trepidant formidine belli....
Quoties Romam fortuna lacessit;
Hac iter est bellis.... Melius, Fortuna, dedisses
Orbe sub Eco sedem, gelidaque sub Arcto,
Errantesque domos."
["Even when there's peace, there is here still the dear of war when
Fortune troubles peace, this is ever the way by which war passes."
—Ovid, Trist., iii. 10, 67.]
["We might have lived happier in the remote East or in the icy
North, or among the wandering tribes."—Lucan, i. 255.]
I sometimes extract the means to fortify myself against these
considerations from indifference and indolence, which, in some sort,
bring us on to resolution. It often befalls me to imagine and expect
mortal dangers with a kind of delight: I stupidly plunge myself headlong
into death, without considering or taking a view of it, as into a deep
and obscure abyss which swallows me up at one leap, and involves me in
an instant in a profound sleep, without any sense of pain. And in these
short and violent deaths, the consequence that I foresee administers
more consolation to me than the effect does fear. They say, that as life
is not better for being long, so death is better for being not long. I
do not so much evade being dead, as I enter into confidence with dying.
I wrap and shroud myself into the storm that is to blind and carry me
away with the fury of a sudden and insensible attack. Moreover, if it
should fall out that, as some gardeners say, roses and violets spring
more odoriferous near garlic and onions, by reason that the last suck
and imbibe all the ill odour of the earth; so, if these depraved natures
should also attract all the malignity of my air and climate, and render
it so much better and purer by their vicinity, I should not lose all.
That cannot be: but there may be something in this, that goodness is
more beautiful and attractive when it is rare; and that contrariety and
diversity fortify and consolidate well-doing within itself, and inflame
it by the jealousy of opposition and by glory. Thieves and robbers, of
their special favour, have no particular spite at me; no more have I to
them: I should have my hands too full. Like consciences are lodged under
several sorts of robes; like cruelty, disloyalty, rapine; and so much
the worse, and more falsely, when the more secure and concealed under
colour of the laws. I less hate an open professed injury than one that
is treacherous; an enemy in arms, than an enemy in a gown. Our fever has
seized upon a body that is not much the worse for it; there was fire
before, and now 'tis broken out into a flame; the noise is greater, not
the evil. I ordinarily answer such as ask me the reason of my travels,
"That I know very well what I fly from, but not what I seek." If they
tell me that there may be as little soundness amongst foreigners, and
that their manners are no better than ours: I first reply, that it is
hard to be believed;
"Tam multa: scelerum facies!"
["There are so many forms of crime."—Virgil, Georg., i. 506.]
secondly, that it is always gain to change an ill condition for one
that is uncertain; and that the ills of others ought not to afflict us
so much as our own.
I will not here omit, that I never mutiny so much against France,
that I am not perfectly friends with Paris; that city has ever had my
heart from my infancy, and it has fallen out, as of excellent things,
that the more beautiful cities I have seen since, the more the beauty of
this still wins upon my affection. I love her for herself, and more in
her own native being, than in all the pomp of foreign and acquired
embellishments. I love her tenderly, even to her warts and blemishes. I
am a Frenchman only through this great city, great in people, great in
the felicity of her situation; but, above all, great and incomparable in
variety and diversity of commodities: the glory of France, and one of
the most noble ornaments of the world. May God drive our divisions far
from her. Entire and united, I think her sufficiently defended from all
other violences. I give her caution that, of all sorts of people, those
will be the worst that shall set her in discord; I have no fear for her,
but of herself, and, certainly, I have as much fear for her as for any
other part of the kingdom. Whilst she shall continue, I shall never want
a retreat, where I may stand at bay, sufficient to make me amends for
parting with any other retreat.
Not because Socrates has said so, but because it is in truth my own
humour, and peradventure not without some excess, I look upon all men as
my compatriots, and embrace a Polander as a Frenchman, preferring the
universal and common tie to all national ties whatever. I am not much
taken with the sweetness of a native air: acquaintance wholly new and
wholly my own appear to me full as good as the other common and
fortuitous ones with Four neighbours: friendships that are purely of our
own acquiring ordinarily carry it above those to which the communication
of climate or of blood oblige us. Nature has placed us in the world free
and unbound; we imprison ourselves in certain straits, like the kings of
Persia, who obliged themselves to drink no other water but that of the
river Choaspes, foolishly quitted claim to their right in all other
streams, and, so far as concerned themselves, dried up all the other
rivers of the world. What Socrates did towards his end, to look upon a
sentence of banishment as worse than a sentence of death against him, I
shall, I think, never be either so decrepid or so strictly habituated to
my own country to be of that opinion. These celestial lives have images
enough that I embrace more by esteem than affection; and they have some
also so elevated and extraordinary that I cannot embrace them so much as
by esteem, forasmuch as I cannot conceive them. That fancy was singular
in a man who thought the whole world his city; it is true that he
disdained travel, and had hardly ever set his foot out of the Attic
territories. What say you to his complaint of the money his friends
offered to save his life, and that he refused to come out of prison by
the mediation of others, in order not to disobey the laws in a time when
they were otherwise so corrupt? These examples are of the first kind for
me; of the second, there are others that I could find out in the same
person: many of these rare examples surpass the force of my action, but
some of them, moreover, surpass the force of my judgment.
Besides these reasons, travel is in my opinion a very profitable
exercise; the soul is there continually employed in observing new and
unknown things, and I do not know, as I have often said a better school
wherein to model life than by incessantly exposing to it the diversity
of so many other lives, fancies, and usances, and by making it relish a
perpetual variety of forms of human nature. The body is, therein,
neither idle nor overwrought; and that moderate agitation puts it in
breath. I can keep on horseback, tormented with the stone as I am,
without alighting or being weary, eight or ten hours together:
"Vires ultra sorternque senectae."
["Beyond the strength and lot of age."—AEneid, vi. 114.]
No season is enemy to me but the parching heat of a scorching sun;
for the umbrellas made use of in Italy, ever since the time of the
ancient Romans, more burden a man's arm than they relieve his head. I
would fain know how it was that the Persians, so long ago and in the
infancy of luxury, made ventilators where they wanted them, and planted
shades, as Xenophon reports they did. I love rain, and to dabble in the
dirt, as well as ducks do. The change of air and climate never touches
me; every sky is alike; I am only troubled with inward alterations which
I breed within myself, and those are not so frequent in travel. I am
hard to be got out, but being once upon the road, I hold out as well as
the best. I take as much pains in little as in great attempts, and am as
solicitous to equip myself for a short journey, if but to visit a
neighbour, as for the longest voyage. I have learned to travel after the
Spanish fashion, and to make but one stage of a great many miles; and in
excessive heats I always travel by night, from sun set to sunrise. The
other method of baiting by the way, in haste and hurry to gobble up a
dinner, is, especially in short days, very inconvenient. My horses
perform the better; never any horse tired under me that was able to hold
out the first day's journey. I water them at every brook I meet, and
have only a care they have so much way to go before I come to my inn, as
will digest the water in their bellies. My unwillingness to rise in a
morning gives my servants leisure to dine at their ease before they set
out; for my own part, I never eat too late; my appetite comes to me in
eating, and not else; I am never hungry but at table.
Some of my friends blame me for continuing this travelling humour,
being married and old. But they are out in't; 'tis the best time to
leave a man's house, when he has put it into a way of continuing without
him, and settled such order as corresponds with its former government.
'Tis much greater imprudence to abandon it to a less faithful
housekeeper, and who will be less solicitous to look after your affairs.
The most useful and honourable knowledge and employment for the
mother of a family is the science of good housewifery. I see some that
are covetous indeed, but very few that are good managers. 'Tis the
supreme quality of a woman, which a man ought to seek before any other,
as the only dowry that must ruin or preserve our houses. Let men say
what they will, according to the experience I have learned, I require in
married women the economical virtue above all other virtues; I put my
wife to't, as a concern of her own, leaving her, by my absence, the
whole government of my affairs. I see, and am vexed to see, in several
families I know, Monsieur about noon come home all jaded and ruffled
about his affairs, when Madame is still dressing her hair and tricking
up herself, forsooth, in her closet: this is for queens to do, and
that's a question, too: 'tis ridiculous and unjust that the laziness of
our wives should be maintained with our sweat and labour. No man, so far
as in me lie, shall have a clearer, a more quiet and free fruition of
his estate than I. If the husband bring matter, nature herself will that
the wife find the form.
As to the duties of conjugal friendship, that some think to be
impaired by these absences, I am quite of another opinion. It is, on the
contrary, an intelligence that easily cools by a too frequent and
assiduous companionship. Every strange woman appears charming, and we
all find by experience that being continually together is not so
pleasing as to part for a time and meet again. These interruptions fill
me with fresh affection towards my family, and render my house more
pleasant to me. Change warms my appetite to the one and then to the
other. I know that the arms of friendship are long enough to reach from
the one end of the world to the other, and especially this, where there
is a continual communication of offices that rouse the obligation and
remembrance. The Stoics say that there is so great connection and
relation amongst the sages, that he who dines in France nourishes his
companion in Egypt; and that whoever does but hold out his finger, in
what part of the world soever, all the sages upon the habitable earth
feel themselves assisted by it. Fruition and possession principally
appertain to the imagination; it more fervently and constantly embraces
what it is in quest of, than what we hold in our arms. Cast up your
daily amusements; you will find that you are most absent from your
friend when he is present with you; his presence relaxes your attention,
and gives you liberty to absent yourself at every turn and upon every
occasion. When I am away at Rome, I keep and govern my house, and the
conveniences I there left; see my walls rise, my trees shoot, and my
revenue increase or decrease, very near as well as when I am there:
"Ante oculos errat domus, errat forma locorum."
["My house and the forms of places float before my eyes"
—Ovid, Trist, iii. 4, 57.]
If we enjoy nothing but what we touch, we may say farewell to the
money in our chests, and to our sons when they are gone a hunting. We
will have them nearer to us: is the garden, or half a day's journey from
home, far? What is ten leagues: far or near? If near, what is eleven,
twelve, or thirteen, and so by degrees. In earnest, if there be a woman
who can tell her husband what step ends the near and what step begins
the remote, I would advise her to stop between;
"Excludat jurgia finis . . . .
Utor permisso; caudaeque pilos ut equinae
Paulatim vello, et demo unum, demo etiam unum
Dum cadat elusus ratione ruentis acervi:"
["Let the end shut out all disputes . . . . I use what is
permitted; I pluck out the hairs of the horse's tail one by one;
while I thus outwit my opponent."—Horace, Ep., ii, I, 38, 45]
and let them boldly call philosophy to their assistance; in whose
teeth it may be cast that, seeing it neither discerns the one nor the
other end of the joint, betwixt the too much and the little, the long
and the short, the light and the heavy, the near and the remote; that
seeing it discovers neither the beginning nor the end, it must needs
judge very uncertainly of the middle:
"Rerum natura nullam nobis dedit cognitionem finium."
["Nature has green to us no knowledge of the end of things."
—Cicero, Acad., ii. 29.]
Are they not still wives and friends to the dead who are not at the
end of this but in the other world? We embrace not only the absent, but
those who have been, and those who are not yet. We do not promise in
marriage to be continually twisted and linked together, like some little
animals that we see, or, like the bewitched folks of Karenty,—[Karantia,
a town in the isle of Rugen. See Saxo-Grammaticus, Hist. of Denmark,
book xiv.]—tied together like dogs; and a wife ought not to be so
greedily enamoured of her husband's foreparts, that she cannot endure to
see him turn his back, if occasion be. But may not this saying of that
excellent painter of woman's humours be here introduced, to show the
reason of their complaints?
"Uxor, si cesses, aut to amare cogitat,
Aut tete amari, aut potare, aut animo obsequi;
Et tibi bene esse soli, cum sibi sit male;"
["Your wife, if you loiter, thinks that you love or are beloved; or
that you are drinking or following your inclination; and that it is
well for you when it is ill for her (all the pleasure is yours and
hers all the care)."
—Terence, Adelph., act i., sc. I, v. 7.]
or may it not be, that of itself opposition and contradiction
entertain and nourish them, and that they sufficiently accommodate
themselves, provided they incommodate you?
In true friendship, wherein I am perfect, I more give myself to my
friend, than I endeavour to attract him to me. I am not only better
pleased in doing him service than if he conferred a benefit upon me,
but, moreover, had rather he should do himself good than me, and he most
obliges me when he does so; and if absence be either more pleasant or
convenient for him, 'tis also more acceptable to me than his presence;
neither is it properly absence, when we can write to one another: I have
sometimes made good use of our separation from one another: we better
filled and further extended the possession of life in being parted.
He—[La Boetie.]—lived, enjoyed, and saw for me, and I for him, as fully
as if he had himself been there; one part of us remained idle, and we
were too much blended in one another when we were together; the distance
of place rendered the conjunction of our wills more rich. This
insatiable desire of personal presence a little implies weakness in the
fruition of souls.
As to what concerns age, which is alleged against me, 'tis quite
contrary; 'tis for youth to subject itself to common opinions, and to
curb itself to please others; it has wherewithal to please both the
people and itself; we have but too much ado to please ourselves alone.
As natural conveniences fail, let us supply them with those that are
artificial. 'Tis injustice to excuse youth for pursuing its pleasures,
and to forbid old men to seek them. When young, I concealed my wanton
passions with prudence; now I am old, I chase away melancholy by
debauch. And thus do the platonic laws forbid men to travel till forty
or fifty years old, so that travel might be more useful and instructive
in so mature an age. I should sooner subscribe to the second article of
the same Laws, which forbids it after threescore.
"But, at such an age, you will never return from so long a journey."
What care I for that? I neither undertake it to return, nor to finish it
my business is only to keep myself in motion, whilst motion pleases me;
I only walk for the walk's sake. They who run after a benefit or a hare,
run not; they only run who run at base, and to exercise their running.
My design is divisible throughout: it is not grounded upon any great
hopes: every day concludes my expectation: and the journey of my life is
carried on after the same manner. And yet I have seen places enough a
great way off, where I could have wished to have stayed. And why not, if
Chrysippus, Cleanthes, Diogenes, Zeno, Antipater, so many sages of the
sourest sect, readily abandoned their country, without occasion of
complaint, and only for the enjoyment of another air. In earnest, that
which most displeases me in all my travels is, that I cannot resolve to
settle my abode where I should best like, but that I must always propose
to myself to return, to accommodate myself to the common humour.
If I feared to die in any other place than that of my birth; if I
thought I should die more uneasily remote from my own family, I should
hardly go out of France; I should not, without fear, step out of my
parish; I feel death always pinching me by the throat or by the back.
But I am otherwise constituted; 'tis in all places alike to me. Yet,
might I have my choice, I think I should rather choose to die on
horseback than in bed; out of my own house, and far from my own people.
There is more heartbreaking than consolation in taking leave of one's
friends; I am willing to omit that civility, for that, of all the
offices of friendship, is the only one that is unpleasant; and I could,
with all my heart, dispense with that great and eternal farewell. If
there be any convenience in so many standers-by, it brings an hundred
inconveniences along with it. I have seen many dying miserably
surrounded with all this train: 'tis a crowd that chokes them. 'Tis
against duty, and is a testimony of little kindness and little care, to
permit you to die in repose; one torments your eyes, another your ears,
another your tongue; you have neither sense nor member that is not
worried by them. Your heart is wounded with compassion to hear the
mourning of friends, and, perhaps with anger, to hear the counterfeit
condolings of pretenders. Who ever has been delicate and sensitive, when
well, is much more so when ill. In such a necessity, a gentle hand is
required, accommodated to his sentiment, to scratch him just in the
place where he itches, otherwise scratch him not at all. If we stand in
need of a wise woman—[midwife, Fr. 'sage femme'.]—to bring us into the
world, we have much more need of a still wiser man to help us out of it.
Such a one, and a friend to boot, a man ought to purchase at any cost
for such an occasion. I am not yet arrived to that pitch of disdainful
vigour that is fortified in itself, that nothing can assist or disturb;
I am of a lower form; I endeavour to hide myself, and to escape from
this passage, not by fear, but by art. I do not intend in this act of
dying to make proof and show of my constancy. For whom should I do it?
all the right and interest I have in reputation will then cease. I
content myself with a death involved within itself, quiet, solitary, and
all my own, suitable to my retired and private life; quite contrary to
the Roman superstition, where a man was looked upon as unhappy who died
without speaking, and who had not his nearest relations to close his
eyes. I have enough to do to comfort myself, without having to console
others; thoughts enough in my head, not to need that circumstances
should possess me with new; and matter enough to occupy me without
borrowing. This affair is out of the part of society; 'tis the act of
one single person. Let us live and be merry amongst our friends; let us
go repine and die amongst strangers; a man may find those, for his
money, who will shift his pillow and rub his feet, and will trouble him
no more than he would have them; who will present to him an indifferent
countenance, and suffer him to govern himself, and to complain according
to his own method.
I wean myself daily by my reason from this childish and inhuman
humour, of desiring by our sufferings to move the compassion and
mourning of our friends: we stretch our own incommodities beyond their
just extent when we extract tears from others; and the constancy which
we commend in every one in supporting his adverse fortune, we accuse and
reproach in our friends when the evil is our own; we are not satisfied
that they should be sensible of our condition only, unless they be,
moreover, afflicted. A man should diffuse joy, but, as much as he can,
smother grief. He who makes himself lamented without reason is a man not
to be lamented when there shall be real cause: to be always complaining
is the way never to be lamented; by making himself always in so pitiful
a taking, he is never commiserated by any. He who makes himself out dead
when he is alive, is subject to be thought living when he is dying. I
have seen some who have taken it ill when they have been told that they
looked well, and that their pulse was good; restrain their smiles,
because they betrayed a recovery, and be angry, at their health because
it was not to be lamented: and, which is a great deal more, these were
not women. I describe my infirmities, such as they really are, at most,
and avoid all expressions of evil prognostic and composed exclamations.
If not mirth, at least a temperate countenance in the standers-by, is
proper in the presence of a wise sick man: he does not quarrel with
health, for, seeing himself in a contrary condition, he is pleased to
contemplate it sound and entire in others, and at least to enjoy it for
company: he does not, for feeling himself melt away, abandon all living
thoughts, nor avoid ordinary discourse. I would study sickness whilst I
am well; when it has seized me, it will make its impression real enough,
without the help of my imagination. We prepare ourselves beforehand for
the journeys we undertake, and resolve upon them; we leave the
appointment of the hour when to take horse to the company, and in their
favour defer it.
I find this unexpected advantage in the publication of my manners,
that it in some sort serves me for a rule. I have, at times, some
consideration of not betraying the history of my life: this public
declaration obliges me to keep my way, and not to give the lie to the
image I have drawn of my qualities, commonly less deformed and
contradictory than consists with the malignity and infirmity of the
judgments of this age. The uniformity and simplicity of my manners
produce a face of easy interpretation; but because the fashion is a
little new and not in use, it gives too great opportunity to slander.
Yet so it is, that whoever would fairly assail me, I think I so
sufficiently assist his purpose in my known and avowed imperfections,
that he may that way satisfy his ill-nature without fighting with the
wind. If I myself, to anticipate accusation and discovery, confess
enough to frustrate his malice, as he conceives, 'tis but reason that he
make use of his right of amplification, and to wire-draw my vices as far
as he can; attack has its rights beyond justice; and let him make the
roots of those errors I have laid open to him shoot up into trees: let
him make his use, not only of those I am really affected with, but also
of those that only threaten me; injurious vices, both in quality and
number; let him cudgel me that way. I should willingly follow the
example of the philosopher Bion: Antigonus being about to reproach him
with the meanness of his birth, he presently cut him short with this
declaration: "I am," said he, "the son of a slave, a butcher, and
branded, and of a strumpet my father married in the lowest of his
fortune; both of them were whipped for offences they had committed. An
orator bought me, when a child, and finding me a pretty and hopeful boy,
bred me up, and when he died left me all his estate, which I have
transported into this city of Athens, and here settled myself to the
study of philosophy. Let the historians never trouble themselves with
inquiring about me: I will tell them about it." A free and generous
confession enervates reproach and disarms slander. So it is that, one
thing with another, I fancy men as often commend as undervalue me beyond
reason; as, methinks also, from my childhood, in rank and degree of
honour, they have given me a place rather above than below my right. I
should find myself more at ease in a country where these degrees were
either regulated or not regarded. Amongst men, when an altercation about
the precedence either of walking or sitting exceeds three replies, 'tis
reputed uncivil. I never stick at giving or taking place out of rule, to
avoid the trouble of such ceremony; and never any man had a mind to go
before me, but I permitted him to do it.
Besides this profit I make of writing of myself, I have also hoped
for this other advantage, that if it should fall out that my humour
should please or jump with those of some honest man before I die, he
would then desire and seek to be acquainted with me. I have given him a
great deal of made-way; for all that he could have, in many years,
acquired by close familiarity, he has seen in three days in this
memorial, and more surely and exactly. A pleasant fancy: many things
that I would not confess to any one in particular, I deliver to the
public, and send my best friends to a bookseller's shop, there to inform
themselves concerning my most secret thoughts;
"Excutienda damus praecordia."
["We give our hearts to be examined."—Persius, V. 22.]
Did I, by good direction, know where to seek any one proper for my
conversation, I should certainly go a great way to find him out: for the
sweetness of suitable and agreeable company cannot; in my opinion, be
bought too dear. O what a thing is a true friend! how true is that old
saying, that the use of a friend is more pleasing and necessary than the
elements of water and fire!
To return to my subject: there is, then, no great harm in dying
privately and far from home; we conceive ourselves obliged to retire for
natural actions less unseemly and less terrible than this. But,
moreover, such as are reduced to spin out a long languishing life, ought
not, perhaps, to wish to trouble a great family with their continual
miseries; therefore the Indians, in a certain province, thought it just
to knock a man on the head when reduced to such a necessity; and in
another of their provinces, they all forsook him to shift for himself as
well as he could. To whom do they not, at last, become tedious and
insupportable? the ordinary offices of fife do not go that length. You
teach your best friends to be cruel perforce; hardening wife and
children by long use neither to regard nor to lament your sufferings.
The groans of the stone are grown so familiar to my people, that nobody
takes any notice of them. And though we should extract some pleasure
from their conversation (which does not always happen, by reason of the
disparity of conditions, which easily begets contempt or envy toward any
one whatever), is it not too much to make abuse of this half a lifetime?
The more I should see them constrain themselves out of affection to be
serviceable to me, the more I should be sorry for their pains. We have
liberty to lean, but not to lay our whole weight upon others, so as to
prop ourselves by their ruin; like him who caused little children's
throats to be cut to make use of their blood for the cure of a disease
he had, or that other, who was continually supplied with tender young
girls to keep his old limbs warm in the night, and to mix the sweetness
of their breath with his, sour and stinking. I should readily advise
Venice as a retreat in this decline of life. Decrepitude is a solitary
quality. I am sociable even to excess, yet I think it reasonable that I
should now withdraw my troubles from the sight of the world and keep
them to myself. Let me shrink and draw up myself in my own shell, like a
tortoise, and learn to see men without hanging upon them. I should
endanger them in so slippery a passage: 'tis time to turn my back to
company.
"But, in these travels, you will be taken ill in some wretched place,
where nothing can be had to relieve you." I always carry most things
necessary about me; and besides, we cannot evade Fortune if she once
resolves to attack us. I need nothing extraordinary when I am sick. I
will not be beholden to my bolus to do that for me which nature cannot.
At the very beginning of my fevers and sicknesses that cast me down,
whilst still entire, and but little, disordered in health, I reconcile
myself to Almighty God by the last Christian, offices, and find myself
by so doing less oppressed and more easy, and have got, methinks, so
much the better of my disease. And I have yet less need of a notary or
counsellor than of a physician. What I have not settled of my affairs
when I was in health, let no one expect I should do it when I am sick.
What I will do for the service of death is always done; I durst not so
much as one day defer it; and if nothing be done, 'tis as much as to say
either that doubt hindered my choice (and sometimes 'tis well chosen not
to choose), or that I was positively resolved not to do anything at all.
I write my book for few men and for few years. Had it been matter of
duration, I should have put it into firmer language. According to the
continual variation that ours has been subject to, up to this day, who
can expect that its present form should be in use fifty years hence? It
slips every day through our fingers, and since I was born, it is altered
above one-half. We say that it is now perfect; and every age says the
same of its own. I shall hardly trust to that, so long as it varies and
changes as it does. 'Tis for good and useful writings to rivet it to
them, and its reputation will go according to the fortune of our state.
For which reason I am not afraid to insert in it several private
articles, which will spend their use amongst the men that are now
living, and that concern the particular knowledge of some who will see
further into them than every common reader. I will not, after all, as I
often hear dead men spoken of, that men should say of me: "He judged, he
lived so and so; he would have done this or that; could he have spoken
when he was dying, he would have said so or so, and have given this
thing or t'other; I knew him better than any." Now, as much as decency
permits, I here discover my inclinations and affections; but I do more
willingly and freely by word of mouth to any one who desires to be
informed. So it is that in these memoirs, if any one observe, he will
find that I have either told or designed to tell all; what I cannot
express, I point out with my finger:
"Verum animo satis haec vestigia parva sagaci
Sunt, per quae possis cognoscere caetera tute"
["By these footsteps a sagacious mind many easily find all other
matters (are sufficient to enable one to learn the rest well.)"
—Lucretius, i. 403.]
I leave nothing to be desired or to be guessed at concerning me. If
people must be talking of me, I would have it to be justly and truly; I
would come again, with all my heart, from the other world to give any
one the lie who should report me other than I was, though he did it to
honour me. I perceive that people represent, even living men, quite
another thing than what they really are; and had I not stoutly defended
a friend whom I have lost,—[De la Boetie.]—they would have torn him into
a thousand contrary pieces.
To conclude the account of my poor humours, I confess that in my
travels I seldom reach my inn but that it comes into my mind to consider
whether I could there be sick and dying at my ease. I desire to be
lodged in some private part of the house, remote from all noise, ill
scents, and smoke. I endeavour to flatter death by these frivolous
circumstances; or, to say better, to discharge myself from all other
incumbrances, that I may have nothing to do, nor be troubled with
anything but that which will lie heavy enough upon me without any other
load. I would have my death share in the ease and conveniences of my
life; 'tis a great part of it, and of great importance, and I hope it
will not in the future contradict the past. Death has some forms that
are more easy than others, and receives divers qualities, according to
every one's fancy. Amongst the natural deaths, that which proceeds from
weakness and stupor I think the most favourable; amongst those that are
violent, I can worse endure to think of a precipice than of the fall of
a house that will crush me in a moment, and of a wound with a sword than
of a harquebus shot; I should rather have chosen to poison myself with
Socrates, than stab myself with Cato. And, though it, be all one, yet my
imagination makes as great a difference as betwixt death and life,
betwixt throwing myself into a burning furnace and plunging into the
channel of a river: so idly does our fear more concern itself in the
means than the effect. It is but an instant, 'tis true, but withal an
instant of such weight, that I would willingly give a great many days of
my life to pass it over after my own fashion. Since every one's
imagination renders it more or less terrible, and since every one has
some choice amongst the several forms of dying, let us try a little
further to find some one that is wholly clear from all offence. Might
not one render it even voluptuous, like the Commoyientes of Antony and
Cleopatra? I set aside the brave and exemplary efforts produced by
philosophy and religion; but, amongst men of little mark there have been
found some, such as Petronius and Tigellinus at Rome, condemned to
despatch themselves, who have, as it were, rocked death asleep with the
delicacy of their preparations; they have made it slip and steal away in
the height of their accustomed diversions amongst girls and good
fellows; not a word of consolation, no mention of making a will, no
ambitious affectation of constancy, no talk of their future condition;
amongst sports, feastings, wit, and mirth, common and indifferent
discourses, music, and amorous verses. Were it not possible for us to
imitate this resolution after a more decent manner? Since there are
deaths that are good for fools, deaths good for the wise, let us find
out such as are fit for those who are betwixt both. My imagination
suggests to me one that is easy, and, since we must die, to be desired.
The Roman tyrants thought they did, in a manner, give a criminal life
when they gave him the choice of his death. But was not Theophrastus,
that so delicate, so modest, and so wise a philosopher, compelled by
reason, when he durst say this verse, translated by Cicero:
"Vitam regit fortuna, non sapientia?"
["Fortune, not wisdom, sways human life."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., V. 31.]
Fortune assists the facility of the bargain of my life, having placed
it in such a condition that for the future it can be neither advantage
nor hindrance to those who are concerned in me; 'tis a condition that I
would have accepted at any time of my life; but in this occasion of
trussing up my baggage, I am particularly pleased that in dying I shall
neither do them good nor harm. She has so ordered it, by a cunning
compensation, that they who may pretend to any considerable advantage by
my death will, at the same time, sustain a material inconvenience. Death
sometimes is more grievous to us, in that it is grievous to others, and
interests us in their interest as much as in our own, and sometimes
more.
In this conveniency of lodging that I desire, I mix nothing of pomp
and amplitude—I hate it rather; but a certain plain neatness, which is
oftenest found in places where there is less of art, and that Nature has
adorned with some grace that is all her own:
"Non ampliter, sea munditer convivium."
["To eat not largely, but cleanly."—Nepos, Life of Atticus, c. 13]
"Plus salis quam sumptus."
["Rather enough than costly (More wit than cost)"—Nonius, xi. 19.]
And besides, 'tis for those whose affairs compel them to travel in
the depth of winter through the Grisons country to be surprised upon the
way with great inconveniences. I, who, for the most part, travel for my
pleasure, do not order my affairs so ill. If the way be foul on my right
hand, I turn on my left; if I find myself unfit to ride, I stay where I
am; and, so doing, in earnest I see nothing that is not as pleasant and
commodious as my own house. 'Tis true that I always find superfluity
superfluous, and observe a kind of trouble even in abundance itself.
Have I left anything behind me unseen, I go back to see it; 'tis still
on my way; I trace no certain line, either straight or
crooked.—[Rousseau has translated this passage in his Emile, book v.]—Do
I not find in the place to which I go what was reported to me—as it
often falls out that the judgments of others do not jump with mine, and
that I have found their reports for the most part false—I never complain
of losing my labour: I have, at least, informed myself that what was
told me was not true.
I have a constitution of body as free, and a palate as indifferent,
as any man living: the diversity of manners of several nations only
affects me in the pleasure of variety: every usage has its reason. Let
the plate and dishes be pewter, wood, or earth; my meat be boiled or
roasted; let them give me butter or oil, of nuts or olives, hot or cold,
'tis all one to me; and so indifferent, that growing old, I accuse this
generous faculty, and would wish that delicacy and choice should correct
the indiscretion of my appetite, and sometimes soothe my stomach. When I
have been abroad out of France and that people, out of courtesy, have
asked me if I would be served after the French manner, I laughed at the
question, and always frequented tables the most filled with foreigners.
I am ashamed to see our countrymen besotted with this foolish humour of
quarrelling with forms contrary to their own; they seem to be out of
their element when out of their own village: wherever they go, they keep
to their own fashions and abominate those of strangers. Do they meet
with a compatriot in Hungary? O the happy chance! They are henceforward
inseparable; they cling together, and their whole discourse is to
condemn the barbarous manners they see about them. Why barbarous,
because they are not French? And those have made the best use of their
travels who have observed most to speak against. Most of them go for no
other end but to come back again; they proceed in their travel with vast
gravity and circumspection, with a silent and incommunicable prudence,
preserving themselves from the contagion of an unknown air. What I am
saying of them puts me in mind of something like it I have at times
observed in some of our young courtiers; they will not mix with any but
men of their own sort, and look upon us as men of another world, with
disdain or pity. Put them upon any discourse but the intrigues of the
court, and they are utterly at a loss; as very owls and novices to us as
we are to them. 'Tis truly said that a well-bred man is a compound man.
I, on the contrary, travel very much sated with our own fashions; I do
not look for Gascons in Sicily; I have left enough of them at home; I
rather seek for Greeks and Persians; they are the men I endeavour to be
acquainted with and the men I study; 'tis there that I bestow and employ
myself. And which is more, I fancy that I have met but with few customs
that are not as good as our own; I have not, I confess, travelled very
far; scarce out of the sight of the vanes of my own house.
As to the rest, most of the accidental company a man falls into upon
the road beget him more trouble than pleasure; I waive them as much as I
civilly can, especially now that age seems in some sort to privilege and
sequester me from the common forms. You suffer for others or others
suffer for you; both of them inconveniences of importance enough, but
the latter appears to me the greater. 'Tis a rare fortune, but of
inestimable solace; to have a worthy man, one of a sound judgment and of
manners conformable to your own, who takes a delight to bear you
company. I have been at an infinite loss for such upon my travels. But
such a companion should be chosen and acquired from your first setting
out. There can be no pleasure to me without communication: there is not
so much as a sprightly thought comes into my mind, that it does not
grieve me to have produced alone, and that I have no one to communicate
it to:
"Si cum hac exceptione detur sapientia,
ut illam inclusam teneam, nec enuntiem, rejiciam."
["If wisdom be conferred with this reservation, that I must keep it
to myself, and not communicate it to others, I would none of it."
—Seneca, Ep., 6.]
This other has strained it one note higher:
"Si contigerit ea vita sapienti, ut ommum rerum afliuentibus copiis,
quamvis omnia, quae cognitione digna sunt, summo otio secum ipse
consideret et contempletur, tamen, si solitudo tanta sit, ut hominem
videre non possit, excedat a vita."
["If such a condition of life should happen to a wise man, that in
the greatest plenty of all conveniences he might, at the most
undisturbed leisure, consider and contemplate all things worth the
knowing, yet if his solitude be such that he must not see a man, let
him depart from life."—Cicero, De Offic., i. 43.]
Architas pleases me when he says, "that it would be unpleasant, even
in heaven itself, to wander in those great and divine celestial bodies
without a companion. But yet 'tis much better to be alone than in
foolish and troublesome company. Aristippus loved to live as a stranger
in all places:
"Me si fata meis paterentur ducere vitam
Auspiciis,"
["If the fates would let me live in my own way."—AEneid, iv. 340.]
I should choose to pass away the greatest part of my life on
horseback:
"Visere gestiens,
Qua pane debacchentur ignes,
Qua nebula, pluviique rores."
["Visit the regions where the sun burns, where are the thick
rain-clouds and the frosts."—Horace, Od., iii. 3, 54.]
"Have you not more easy diversions at home? What do you there want?
Is not your house situated in a sweet and healthful air, sufficiently
furnished, and more than sufficiently large? Has not the royal majesty
been more than once there entertained with all its train? Are there not
more below your family in good ease than there are above it in eminence?
Is there any local, extraordinary, indigestible thought that afflicts
you?"
"Qua to nunc coquat, et vexet sub pectore fixa."
["That may now worry you, and vex, fixed in your breast."
—Cicero, De Senect, c. 1, Ex Ennio.]
"Where do you think to live without disturbance?"
"Nunquam simpliciter Fortuna indulget."
["Fortune is never simply complaisant (unmixed)."
—Quintus Curtius, iv. 14]
You see, then, it is only you that trouble yourself; you will
everywhere follow yourself, and everywhere complain; for there is no
satisfaction here below, but either for brutish or for divine souls. He
who, on so just an occasion, has no contentment, where will he think to
find it? How many thousands of men terminate their wishes in such a
condition as yours? Do but reform yourself; for that is wholly in your
own power! whereas you have no other right but patience towards fortune:
"Nulla placida quies est, nisi quam ratio composuit."
["There is no tranquillity but that which reason has conferred."
—Seneca, Ep., 56.]
I see the reason of this advice, and see it perfectly well; but he
might sooner have done, and more pertinently, in bidding me in one word
be wise; that resolution is beyond wisdom; 'tis her precise work and
product. Thus the physician keeps preaching to a poor languishing
patient to "be cheerful"; but he would advise him a little more
discreetly in bidding him "be well." For my part, I am but a man of the
common sort. 'Tis a wholesome precept, certain and easy to be
understood, "Be content with what you have," that is to say, with
reason: and yet to follow this advice is no more in the power of the
wise men of the world than in me. 'Tis a common saying, but of a
terrible extent: what does it not comprehend? All things fall under
discretion and qualification. I know very well that, to take it by the
letter, this pleasure of travelling is a testimony of uneasiness and
irresolution, and, in sooth, these two are our governing and
predominating qualities. Yes, I confess, I see nothing, not so much as
in a dream, in a wish, whereon I could set up my rest: variety only, and
the possession of diversity, can satisfy me; that is, if anything can.
In travelling, it pleases me that I may stay where I like, without
inconvenience, and that I have a place wherein commodiously to divert
myself. I love a private life, because 'tis my own choice that I love
it, not by any dissenting from or dislike of public life, which,
peradventure, is as much according to my complexion. I serve my prince
more cheerfully because it is by the free election of my own judgment
and reason, without any particular obligation; and that I am not reduced
and constrained so to do for being rejected or disliked by the other
party; and so of all the rest. I hate the morsels that necessity carves
me; any commodity upon which I had only to depend would have me by the
throat;
"Alter remus aquas, alter mihi radat arenas;"
["Let me have one oar in the water, and with the other rake the
shore."—Propertius, iii. 3, 23.]
one cord will never hold me fast enough. You will say, there is
vanity in this way of living. But where is there not? All these fine
precepts are vanity, and all wisdom is vanity:
"Dominus novit cogitationes sapientum, quoniam vanae sunt."
["The Lord knoweth the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain."
—Ps. xciii. II; or I Cor. iii. 20.]
These exquisite subtleties are only fit for sermons; they are
discourses that will send us all saddled into the other world. Life is a
material and corporal motion, an action imperfect and irregular of its
own proper essence; I make it my business to serve it according to
itself:
"Quisque suos patimur manes."
["We each of us suffer our own particular demon."—AEneid, vi. 743.]
"Sic est faciendum, ut contra naturam universam nihil contendamus;
ea tamen conservata propriam sequamur."
["We must so order it as by no means to contend against universal
nature; but yet, that rule being observed, to follow our own."
—Cicero, De Offcc., i. 31.]
To what end are these elevated points of philosophy, upon which no
human being can rely? and those rules that exceed both our use and
force?
I see often that we have theories of life set before us which neither
the proposer nor those who hear him have any hope, nor, which is more,
any inclination to follow. Of the same sheet of paper whereon the judge
has but just written a sentence against an adulterer, he steals a piece
whereon to write a love-letter to his companion's wife. She whom you
have but just now illicitly embraced will presently, even in your
hearing, more loudly inveigh against the same fault in her companion
than a Portia would do;—[The chaste daughter of Cato of Utica.]—and men
there are who will condemn others to death for crimes that they
themselves do not repute so much as faults. I have, in my youth, seen a
man of good rank with one hand present to the people verses that
excelled both in wit and debauchery, and with the other, at the same
time, the most ripe and pugnacious theological reformation that the
world has been treated withal these many years. And so men proceed; we
let the laws and precepts follow their way; ourselves keep another
course, not only from debauchery of manners, but ofttimes by judgment
and contrary opinion. Do but hear a philosophical lecture; the
invention, eloquence, pertinency immediately strike upon your mind and
move you; there is nothing that touches or stings your conscience; 'tis
not to this they address themselves. Is not this true? It made Aristo
say, that neither a bath nor a lecture did aught unless it scoured and
made men clean. One may stop at the skin; but it is after the marrow is
picked out as, after we have swallowed good wine out of a fine cup, we
examine the designs and workmanship. In all the courts of ancient
philosophy, this is to be found, that the same teacher publishes rules
of temperance and at the same time lessons in love and wantonness;
Xenophon, in the very bosom of Clinias, wrote against the Aristippic
virtue. 'Tis not that there is any miraculous conversion in it that
makes them thus wavering; 'tis that Solon represents himself, sometimes
in his own person, and sometimes in that of a legislator; one while he
speaks for the crowd, and another for himself; taking the free and
natural rules for his own share, feeling assured of a firm and entire
health:
"Curentur dubii medicis majoribus aegri."
["Desperate maladies require the best doctors."
—Juvenal, xiii. 124.]
Antisthenes allows a sage to love, and to do whatever he thinks
convenient, without regard to the laws, forasmuch as he is better
advised than they, and has a greater knowledge of virtue. His disciple
Diogenes said, that "men to perturbations were to oppose reason: to
fortune, courage: to the laws, nature." For tender stomachs, constrained
and artificial recipes must be prescribed: good and strong stomachs
serve themselves simply with the prescriptions of their own natural
appetite; after this manner do our physicians proceed, who eat melons
and drink iced wines, whilst they confine their patients to syrups and
sops. "I know not," said the courtezan Lais, "what they may talk of
books, wisdom, and philosophy; but these men knock as often at my door
as any others." At the same rate that our licence carries us beyond what
is lawful and allowed, men have, often beyond universal reason,
stretched the precepts and rules of our life:
"Nemo satis credit tantum delinquere, quantum
Permittas."
["No one thinks he has done ill to the full extent of what he may."
—Juvenal, xiv. 233.]
It were to be wished that there was more proportion betwixt the
command and the obedience; and the mark seems to be unjust to which one
cannot attain. There is no so good man, who so squares all his thoughts
and actions to the laws, that he is not faulty enough to deserve hanging
ten times in his life; and he may well be such a one, as it were great
injustice and great harm to punish and ruin:
"Ole, quid ad te
De cute quid faciat ille vel ille sua?"
["Olus, what is it to thee what he or she does with their skin?"
—Martial, vii. 9, I.]
and such an one there may be, who has no way offended the laws, who,
nevertheless, would not deserve the character of a virtuous man, and
whom philosophy would justly condemn to be whipped; so unequal and
perplexed is this relation. We are so far from being good men, according
to the laws of God, that we cannot be so according to our own human
wisdom never yet arrived at the duties it had itself prescribed; and
could it arrive there, it would still prescribe to itself others beyond,
to which it would ever aspire and pretend; so great an enemy to
consistency is our human condition. Man enjoins himself to be
necessarily in fault: he is not very discreet to cut out his own duty by
the measure of another being than his own. To whom does he prescribe
that which he does not expect any one should perform? is he unjust in
not doing what it is impossible for him to do? The laws which condemn us
not to be able, condemn us for not being able.
At the worst, this difform liberty of presenting ourselves two
several ways, the actions after one manner and the reasoning after
another, may be allowed to those who only speak of things; but it cannot
be allowed to those who speak of themselves, as I do: I must march my
pen as I do my feet. Common life ought to have relation to the other
lives: the virtue of Cato was vigorous beyond the reason of the age he
lived in; and for a man who made it his business to govern others, a man
dedicated to the public service, it might be called a justice, if not
unjust, at least vain and out of season. Even my own manners, which
differ not above an inch from those current amongst us, render me,
nevertheless, a little rough and unsociable at my age. I know not
whether it be without reason that I am disgusted with the world I
frequent; but I know very well that it would be without reason, should I
complain of its being disgusted with me, seeing I am so with it. The
virtue that is assigned to the affairs of the world is a virtue of many
wavings, corners, and elbows, to join and adapt itself to human frailty,
mixed and artificial, not straight, clear, constant, nor purely
innocent. Our annals to this very day reproach one of our kings for
suffering himself too simply to be carried away by the conscientious
persuasions of his confessor: affairs of state have bolder precepts;
"Exeat aula,
Qui vult esse pius."
["Let him who will be pious retire from the court."
—Lucan, viii. 493]
I formerly tried to employ in the service of public affairs opinions
and rules of living, as rough, new, unpolished or unpolluted, as they
were either born with me, or brought away from my education, and
wherewith I serve my own turn, if not so commodiously, at least
securely, in my own particular concerns: a scholastic and novice virtue;
but I have found them unapt and dangerous. He who goes into a crowd must
now go one way and then another, keep his elbows close, retire or
advance, and quit the straight way, according to what he encounters; and
must live not so much according to his own method as to that of others;
not according to what he proposes to himself, but according to what is
proposed to him, according to the time, according to the men, according
to the occasions. Plato says, that whoever escapes from the world's
handling with clean breeches, escapes by miracle: and says withal, that
when he appoints his philosopher the head of a government, he does not
mean a corrupt one like that of Athens, and much less such a one as this
of ours, wherein wisdom itself would be to seek. A good herb,
transplanted into a soil contrary to its own nature, much sooner
conforms itself to the soil than it reforms the soil to it. I found that
if I had wholly to apply myself to such employments, it would require a
great deal of change and new modelling in me before I could be any way
fit for it: And though I could so far prevail upon myself (and why might
I not with time and diligence work such a feat), I would not do it. The
little trial I have had of public employment has been so much disgust to
me; I feel at times temptations toward ambition rising in my soul, but I
obstinately oppose them:
"At tu, Catulle, obstinatus obdura."
["But thou, Catullus, be obstinately firm."—Catullus, viii. 19.]
I am seldom called to it, and as seldom offer myself uncalled;
liberty and laziness, the qualities most predominant in me, are
qualities diametrically contrary to that trade. We cannot well
distinguish the faculties of men; they have divisions and limits hard
and delicate to choose; to conclude from the discreet conduct of a
private life a capacity for the management of public affairs is to
conclude ill; a man may govern himself well who cannot govern others so,
and compose Essays who could not work effects: men there may be who can
order a siege well, who would ill marshal a battle; who can speak well
in private, who would ill harangue a people or a prince; nay, 'tis
peradventure rather a testimony in him who can do the one that he cannot
do the other, than otherwise. I find that elevated souls are not much
more proper for mean things than mean souls are for high ones. Could it
be imagined that Socrates should have administered occasion of laughter,
at the expense of his own reputation, to the Athenians for: having never
been able to sum up the votes of his tribe, to deliver it to the
council? Truly, the veneration I have for the perfections of this great
man deserves that his fortune should furnish, for the excuse of my
principal imperfections, so magnificent an example. Our sufficiency is
cut out into small parcels; mine has no latitude, and is also very
contemptible in number. Saturninus, to those who had conferred upon him
the command in chief: "Companions," said he, "you have lost a good
captain, to make of him a bad general."
Whoever boasts, in so sick a time as this, to employ a true and
sincere virtue in the world's service, either knows not what it is,
opinions growing corrupt with manners (and, in truth, to hear them
describe it, to hear the most of them glorify themselves in their
deportments, and lay down their rules; instead of painting virtue, they
paint pure vice and injustice, and so represent it false in the
education of princes); or if he does know it, boasts unjustly and let
him say what he will, does a thousand things of which his own conscience
must necessarily accuse him. I should willingly take Seneca's word on
the experience he made upon the like occasion, provided he would deal
sincerely with me. The most honourable mark of goodness in such a
necessity is freely to confess both one's own faults and those of
others; with the power of its virtue to stay one's inclination towards
evil; unwillingly to follow this propension; to hope better, to desire
better. I perceive that in these divisions wherein we are involved in
France, every one labours to defend his cause; but even the very best of
them with dissimulation and disguise: he who would write roundly of the
true state of the quarrel, would write rashly and wrongly. The most just
party is at best but a member of a decayed and worm-eaten body; but of
such a body, the member that is least affected calls itself sound, and
with good reason, forasmuch as our qualities have no title but in
comparison; civil innocence is measured according to times and places.
Imagine this in Xenophon, related as a fine commendation of Agesilaus:
that, being entreated by a neighbouring prince with whom he had formerly
had war, to permit him to pass through his country, he granted his
request, giving him free passage through Peloponnesus; and not only did
not imprison or poison him, being at his mercy, but courteously received
him according to the obligation of his promise, without doing him the
least injury or offence. To such ideas as theirs this were an act of no
especial note; elsewhere and in another age, the frankness and unanimity
of such an action would be thought wonderful; our monkeyish capets
[Capets, so called from their short capes, were the students of
Montaigne College at Paris, and were held in great contempt.]
would have laughed at it, so little does the Spartan innocence
resemble that of France. We are not without virtuous men, but 'tis
according to our notions of virtue. Whoever has his manners established
in regularity above the standard of the age he lives in, let him either
wrest or blunt his rules, or, which I would rather advise him to, let
him retire, and not meddle with us at all. What will he get by it?
"Egregium sanctumque virum si cerno, bimembri
Hoc monstrum puero, et miranti jam sub aratro
Piscibus inventis, et foetae comparo mulae."
["If I see an exemplary and good man, I liken it to a two-headed
boy, or a fish turned up by the plough, or a teeming mule."
—Juvenal, xiii. 64.]
One may regret better times, but cannot fly from the present; we may
wish for other magistrates, but we must, notwithstanding, obey those we
have; and, peradventure, 'tis more laudable to obey the bad than the
good. So long as the image of the ancient and received laws of this
monarchy shall shine in any corner of the kingdom, there will I be. If
they unfortunately happen to thwart and contradict one another, so as to
produce two parts, of doubtful and difficult choice, I will willingly
choose to withdraw and escape the tempest; in the meantime nature or the
hazards of war may lend me a helping hand. Betwixt Caesar and Pompey, I
should frankly have declared myself; but, as amongst the three robbers
who came after,—[Octavius, Mark Antony, and Lepidus.]—a man must have
been necessitated either to hide himself, or have gone along with the
current of the time, which I think one may fairly do when reason no
longer guides:
"Quo diversus abis?"
["Whither dost thou run wandering?"—AEneid, v. 166.]
This medley is a little from my theme; I go out of my way; but 'tis
rather by licence than oversight; my fancies follow one another, but
sometimes at a great distance, and look towards one another, but 'tis
with an oblique glance. I have read a dialogue of Plato,—[The
Phaedrus.]—of the like motley and fantastic composition, the beginning
about love, and all the rest to the end about rhetoric; they fear not
these variations, and have a marvellous grace in letting themselves be
carried away at the pleasure of the wind, or at least to seem as if they
were. The titles of my chapters do not always comprehend the whole
matter; they often denote it by some mark only, as these others, Andria,
Eunuchus; or these, Sylla, Cicero, Toyquatus. I love a poetic progress,
by leaps and skips; 'tis an art, as Plato says, light, nimble, demoniac.
There are pieces in Plutarch where he forgets his theme; where the
proposition of his argument is only found by incidence, stuffed and half
stifled in foreign matter. Observe his footsteps in the Daemon of
Socrates. O God! how beautiful are these frolicsome sallies, those
variations and digressions, and all the more when they seem most
fortuitous and careless. 'Tis the indiligent reader who loses my
subject, and not I; there will always be found some word or other in a
corner that is to the purpose, though it lie very close. I ramble
indiscreetly and tumultuously; my style and my wit wander at the same
rate. He must fool it a little who would not be deemed wholly a fool,
say both the precepts, and, still more, the examples of our masters. A
thousand poets flag and languish after a prosaic manner; but the best
old prose (and I strew it here up and down indifferently for verse)
shines throughout with the lustre, vigour, and boldness of poetry, and
not without some air of its fury. And certainly prose ought to have the
pre-eminence in speaking. The poet, says Plato, seated upon the muses
tripod, pours out with fury whatever comes into his mouth, like the pipe
of a fountain, without considering and weighing it; and things escape
him of various colours, of contrary substance, and with an irregular
torrent. Plato himself is throughout poetical; and the old theology, as
the learned tell us, is all poetry; and the first philosophy is the
original language of the gods. I would have my matter distinguish
itself; it sufficiently shows where it changes, where it concludes,
where it begins, and where it rejoins, without interlacing it with words
of connection introduced for the relief of weak or negligent ears, and
without explaining myself. Who is he that had not rather not be read at
all than after a drowsy or cursory manner?
"Nihil est tam utile, quod intransitu prosit."
["Nothing is so useful as that which is cursorily so."
—Seneca, Ep., 2.]
If to take books in hand were to learn them: to look upon them were
to consider them: and to run these slightly over were to grasp them, I
were then to blame to make myself out so ignorant as I say I am. Seeing
I cannot fix the attention of my reader by the weight of what I write,
'manco male', if I should chance to do it by my intricacies. "Nay, but
he will afterwards repent that he ever perplexed himself about it." 'Tis
very true, but he will yet be there perplexed. And, besides, there are
some humours in which comprehension produces disdain; who will think
better of me for not understanding what I say, and will conclude the
depth of my sense by its obscurity; which, to speak in good sooth, I
mortally hate, and would avoid it if I could. Aristotle boasts somewhere
in his writings that he affected it: a vicious affectation. The frequent
breaks into chapters that I made my method in the beginning of my book,
having since seemed to me to dissolve the attention before it was
raised, as making it disdain to settle itself to so little, I, upon that
account, have made them longer, such as require proposition and assigned
leisure. In such an employment, to whom you will not give an hour you
give nothing; and you do nothing for him for whom you only do it whilst
you are doing something else. To which may be added that I have,
peradventure, some particular obligation to speak only by halves, to
speak confusedly and discordantly. I am therefore angry at this
trouble-feast reason, and its extravagant projects that worry one's
life, and its opinions, so fine and subtle, though they be all true, I
think too dear bought and too inconvenient. On the contrary, I make it
my business to bring vanity itself in repute, and folly too, if it
produce me any pleasure; and let myself follow my own natural
inclinations, without carrying too strict a hand upon them.
I have seen elsewhere houses in ruins, and statues both of gods and
men: these are men still. 'Tis all true; and yet, for all that, I cannot
so often revisit the tomb of that so great and so puissant city,—[Rome]—
that I do not admire and reverence it. The care of the dead is
recommended to us; now, I have been bred up from my infancy with these
dead; I had knowledge of the affairs of Rome long before I had any of
those of my own house; I knew the Capitol and its plan before I knew the
Louvre, and the Tiber before I knew the Seine. The qualities and
fortunes of Lucullus, Metellus, and Scipio have ever run more in my head
than those of any of my own country; they are all dead; so is my father
as absolutely dead as they, and is removed as far from me and life in
eighteen years as they are in sixteen hundred: whose memory,
nevertheless, friendship and society, I do not cease to embrace and
utilise with a perfect and lively union. Nay, of my own inclination, I
pay more service to the dead; they can no longer help themselves, and
therefore, methinks, the more require my assistance: 'tis there that
gratitude appears in its full lustre. The benefit is not so generously
bestowed, where there is retrogradation and reflection. Arcesilaus,
going to visit Ctesibius, who was sick, and finding him in a very poor
condition, very finely conveyed some money under his pillow, and, by
concealing it from him, acquitted him, moreover, from the acknowledgment
due to such a benefit. Such as have merited from me friendship and
gratitude have never lost these by being no more; I have better and more
carefully paid them when gone and ignorant of what I did; I speak most
affectionately of my friends when they can no longer know it. I have had
a hundred quarrels in defending Pompey and for the cause of Brutus; this
acquaintance yet continues betwixt us; we have no other hold even on
present things but by fancy. Finding myself of no use to this age, I
throw myself back upon that other, and am so enamoured of it, that the
free, just, and flourishing state of that ancient Rome (for I neither
love it in its birth nor its old age) interests and impassionates me;
and therefore I cannot so often revisit the sites of their streets and
houses, and those ruins profound even to the Antipodes, that I am not
interested in them. Is it by nature, or through error of fancy, that the
sight of places which we know to have been frequented and inhabited by
persons whose memories are recommended in story, moves us in some sort
more than to hear a recital of their—acts or to read their writings?
"Tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis....Et id quidem in hac urbe
infinitum; quacumque enim ingredimur, in aliquam historiam vestigium
ponimus."
["So great a power of reminiscence resides in places; and that truly
in this city infinite, for which way soever we go, we find the
traces of some story."—Cicero, De Fin., v. I, 2.]
It pleases me to consider their face, bearing, and vestments: I
pronounce those great names betwixt my teeth, and make them ring in my
ears:
"Ego illos veneror, et tantis nominibus semper assurgo."
["I reverence them, and always rise to so great names."
—Seneca, Ep., 64.]
Of things that are in some part great and admirable, I admire even
the common parts: I could wish to see them in familiar relations, walk,
and sup. It were ingratitude to contemn the relics and images of so many
worthy and valiant men as I have seen live and die, and who, by their
example, give us so many good instructions, knew we how to follow them.
And, moreover, this very Rome that we now see, deserves to be
beloved, so long and by so many titles allied to our crown; the only
common and universal city; the sovereign magistrate that commands there
is equally acknowledged elsewhere 'tis the metropolitan city of all the
Christian nations the Spaniard and Frenchman is there at home: to be a
prince of that state, there needs no more but to be of Christendom
wheresoever. There is no place upon earth that heaven has embraced with
such an influence and constancy of favour; her very ruins are grand and
glorious,
"Laudandis pretiosior ruinis."
["More precious from her glorious ruins."
—Sidonius Apollinaris, Carm., xxiii.; Narba, v. 62.]
she yet in her very tomb retains the marks and images of empire:
"Ut palam sit, uno in loco gaudentis opus esse naturx."
["That it may be manifest that there is in one place the work of
rejoicing nature."—Pliny, Nat. Hist., iii. 5.]
Some would blame and be angry at themselves to perceive themselves
tickled with so vain a pleasure our humours are never too vain that are
pleasant let them be what they may, if they constantly content a man of
common understanding, I could not have the heart to blame him.
I am very much obliged to Fortune, in that, to this very hour, she
has offered me no outrage beyond what I was well able to bear. Is it not
her custom to let those live in quiet by whom she is not importuned?
"Quanto quisque sibi plum negaverit,
A diis plum feret: nil cupientium
Nudus castra peto . . . .
Multa petentibus
Desunt multa."
["The more each man denies himself, the more the gods give him.
Poor as I am, I seek the company of those who ask nothing; they who
desire much will be deficient in much."
—Horace, Od., iii. 16,21,42.]
If she continue her favour, she will dismiss me very well satisfied:
"Nihil supra
Deos lacesso."
["I trouble the gods no farther."—Horace, Od., ii. 18, 11.]
But beware a shock: there are a thousand who perish in the port. I
easily comfort myself for what shall here happen when I shall be gone,
present things trouble me enough:
"Fortunae caetera mando."
["I leave the rest to fortune."—Ovid, Metam., ii. 140.]
Besides, I have not that strong obligation that they say ties men to
the future, by the issue that succeeds to their name and honour; and
peradventure, ought less to covet them, if they are to be so much
desired. I am but too much tied to the world, and to this life, of
myself: I am content to be in Fortune's power by circumstances properly
necessary to my being, without otherwise enlarging her jurisdiction over
me; and have never thought that to be without children was a defect that
ought to render life less complete or less contented: a sterile vocation
has its conveniences too. Children are of the number of things that are
not so much to be desired, especially now that it would be so hard to
make them good:
"Bona jam nec nasci licet, ita corrupta Bunt semina;"
["Nothing good can be born now, the seed is so corrupt."
—Tertullian, De Pudicita.]
and yet they are justly to be lamented by such as lose them when they
have them.
He who left me my house in charge, foretold that I was like to ruin
it, considering my humour so little inclined to look after household
affairs. But he was mistaken; for I am in the same condition now as when
I first entered into it, or rather somewhat better; and yet without
office or any place of profit.
As to the rest, if Fortune has never done me any violent or
extraordinary injury, neither has she done me any particular favour;
whatever we derive from her bounty, was there above a hundred years
before my time: I have, as to my own particular, no essential and solid
good, that I stand indebted for to her liberality. She has, indeed, done
me some airy favours, honorary and titular favours, without substance,
and those in truth she has not granted, but offered me, who, God knows,
am all material, and who take nothing but what is real, and indeed
massive too, for current pay: and who, if I durst confess so much,
should not think avarice much less excusable than ambition: nor pain
less to be avoided than shame; nor health less to be coveted than
learning, or riches than nobility.
Amongst those empty favours of hers, there is none that so much
pleases vain humour natural to my country, as an authentic bull of a
Roman burgess-ship, that was granted me when I was last there, glorious
in seals and gilded letters, and granted with all gracious liberality.
And because 'tis couched in a mixt style, more or less favourable, and
that I could have been glad to have seen a copy of it before it had
passed the seal.
Being before burgess of no city at all, I am glad to be created one
of the most noble that ever was or ever shall be. If other men would
consider themselves at the rate I do, they would, as I do, discover
themselves to be full of inanity and foppery; to rid myself of it, I
cannot, without making myself away. We are all steeped in it, as well
one as another; but they who are not aware on't, have somewhat the
better bargain; and yet I know not whether they have or no.
This opinion and common usage to observe others more than ourselves
has very much relieved us that way: 'tis a very displeasing object: we
can there see nothing but misery and vanity: nature, that we may not be
dejected with the sight of our own deformities, has wisely thrust the
action of seeing outward. We go forward with the current, but to turn
back towards ourselves is a painful motion; so is the sea moved and
troubled when the waves rush against one another. Observe, says every
one, the motions of the heavens, of public affairs; observe the quarrel
of such a person, take notice of such a one's pulse, of such another's
last will and testament; in sum, be always looking high or low, on one
side, before or behind you. It was a paradoxical command anciently given
us by that god of Delphos: "Look into yourself; discover yourself; keep
close to yourself; call back your mind and will, that elsewhere consume
themselves into yourself; you run out, you spill yourself; carry a more
steady hand: men betray you, men spill you, men steal you from yourself.
Dost thou not see that this world we live in keeps all its sight
confined within, and its eyes open to contemplate itself? 'Tis always
vanity for thee, both within and without; but 'tis less vanity when less
extended. Excepting thee, O man, said that god, everything studies
itself first, and has bounds to its labours and desires, according to
its need. There is nothing so empty and necessitous as thou, who
embracest the universe; thou art the investigator without knowledge, the
magistrate without jurisdiction, and, after all, the fool of the farce."
CHAPTER X——OF MANAGING THE WILL
Few things, in comparison of what commonly affect other men, move,
or, to say better, possess me: for 'tis but reason they should concern a
man, provided they do not possess him. I am very solicitous, both by
study and argument, to enlarge this privilege of insensibility, which is
in me naturally raised to a pretty degree, so that consequently I
espouse and am very much moved with very few things. I have a clear
sight enough, but I fix it upon very few objects; I have a sense
delicate and tender enough; but an apprehension and application hard and
negligent. I am very unwilling to engage myself; as much as in me lies,
I employ myself wholly on myself, and even in that subject should rather
choose to curb and restrain my affection from plunging itself over head
and ears into it, it being a subject that I possess at the mercy of
others, and over which fortune has more right than I; so that even as to
health, which I so much value, 'tis all the more necessary for me not so
passionately to covet and heed it, than to find diseases so
insupportable. A man ought to moderate himself betwixt the hatred of
pain and the love of pleasure: and Plato sets down a middle path of life
betwixt the two. But against such affections as wholly carry me away
from myself and fix me elsewhere, against those, I say, I oppose myself
with my utmost power. 'Tis my opinion that a man should lend himself to
others, and only give himself to himself. Were my will easy to lend
itself out and to be swayed, I should not stick there; I am too tender
both by nature and use:
"Fugax rerum, securaque in otia natus."
["Avoiding affairs and born to secure ease."
—Ovid, De Trist., iii. 2, 9.]
Hot and obstinate disputes, wherein my adversary would at last have
the better, the issue that would render my heat and obstinacy
disgraceful would peradventure vex me to the last degree. Should I set
myself to it at the rate that others do, my soul would never have the
force to bear the emotion and alarms of those who grasp at so much; it
would immediately be disordered by this inward agitation. If, sometimes,
I have been put upon the management of other men's affairs, I have
promised to take them in hand, but not into my lungs and liver; to take
them upon me, not to incorporate them; to take pains, yes: to be
impassioned about it, by no means; I have a care of them, but I will not
sit upon them. I have enough to do to order and govern the domestic
throng of those that I have in my own veins and bowels, without
introducing a crowd of other men's affairs; and am sufficiently
concerned about my own proper and natural business, without meddling
with the concerns of others. Such as know how much they owe to
themselves, and how many offices they are bound to of their own, find
that nature has cut them out work enough of their own to keep them from
being idle. "Thou hast business enough at home: look to that."
Men let themselves out to hire; their faculties are not for
themselves, but for those to whom they have enslaved themselves; 'tis
their tenants occupy them, not themselves. This common humour pleases
not me. We must be thrifty of the liberty of our souls, and never let it
out but upon just occasions, which are very few, if we judge aright. Do
but observe such as have accustomed themselves to be at every one's
call: they do it indifferently upon all, as well little as great,
occasions; in that which nothing concerns them; as much as in what
imports them most. They thrust themselves in indifferently wherever
there is work to do and obligation, and are without life when not in
tumultuous bustle:
"In negotiis sunt, negotii cause,"
["They are in business for business' sake."—Seneca, Ep., 22.]
It is not so much that they will go, as it is that they cannot stand
still: like a rolling stone that cannot stop till it can go no further.
Occupation, with a certain sort of men, is a mark of understanding and
dignity: their souls seek repose in agitation, as children do by being
rocked in a cradle; they may pronounce themselves as serviceable to
their friends, as they are troublesome to themselves. No one distributes
his money to others, but every one distributes his time and his life:
there is nothing of which we are so prodigal as of these two things, of
which to be thrifty would be both commendable and useful. I am of a
quite contrary humour; I look to myself, and commonly covet with no
great ardour what I do desire, and desire little; and I employ and busy
myself at the same rate, rarely and temperately. Whatever they take in
hand, they do it with their utmost will and vehemence. There are so many
dangerous steps, that, for the more safety, we must a little lightly and
superficially glide over the world, and not rush through it. Pleasure
itself is painful in profundity:
"Incedis per ignes,
Suppositos cineri doloso."
["You tread on fire, hidden under deceitful ashes."
—Horace, Od., ii. i, 7.]
The Parliament of Bordeaux chose me mayor of their city at a time
when I was at a distance from France,—[At Bagno Della Villa, near Lucca,
September 1581]—and still more remote from any such thought. I entreated
to be excused, but I was told by my friends that I had committed an
error in so doing, and the greater because the king had, moreover,
interposed his command in that affair. 'Tis an office that ought to be
looked upon so much more honourable, as it has no other salary nor
advantage than the bare honour of its execution. It continues two years,
but may be extended by a second election, which very rarely happens; it
was to me, and had never been so but twice before: some years ago to
Monsieur de Lansac, and lately to Monsieur de Biron, Marshal of France,
in whose place I succeeded; and, I left mine to Monsieur de Matignon,
Marshal of France also: proud of so noble a fraternity—
"Uterque bonus pacis bellique minister."
["Either one a good minister in peace and war."
—AEneid, xi. 658.]
Fortune would have a hand in my promotion, by this particular
circumstance which she put in of her own, not altogether vain; for
Alexander disdained the ambassadors of Corinth, who came to offer him a
burgess-ship of their city; but when they proceeded to lay before him
that Bacchus and Hercules were also in the register, he graciously
thanked them.
At my arrival, I faithfully and conscientiously represented myself to
them for such as I find myself to be—a man without memory, without
vigilance, without experience, and without vigour; but withal, without
hatred, without ambition, without avarice, and without violence; that
they might be informed of my qualities, and know what they were to
expect from my service. And whereas the knowledge they had had of my
late father, and the honour they had for his memory, had alone incited
them to confer this favour upon me, I plainly told them that I should be
very sorry anything should make so great an impression upon me as their
affairs and the concerns of their city had made upon him, whilst he held
the government to which they had preferred me. I remembered, when a boy,
to have seen him in his old age cruelly tormented with these public
affairs, neglecting the soft repose of his own house, to which the
declension of his age had reduced him for several years before, the
management of his own affairs, and his health; and certainly despising
his own life, which was in great danger of being lost, by being engaged
in long and painful journeys on their behalf. Such was he; and this
humour of his proceeded from a marvellous good nature; never was there a
more charitable and popular soul. Yet this proceeding which I commend in
others, I do not love to follow myself, and am not without excuse.
He had learned that a man must forget himself for his neighbour, and
that the particular was of no manner of consideration in comparison with
the general. Most of the rules and precepts of the world run this way;
to drive us out of ourselves into the street for the benefit of public
society; they thought to do a great feat to divert and remove us from
ourselves, assuming we were but too much fixed there, and by a too
natural inclination; and have said all they could to that purpose: for
'tis no new thing for the sages to preach things as they serve, not as
they are. Truth has its obstructions, inconveniences, and
incompatibilities with us; we must often deceive that we may not deceive
ourselves; and shut our eyes and our understandings to redress and amend
them:
"Imperiti enim judicant, et qui frequenter
in hoc ipsum fallendi sunt, ne errent."
["For the ignorant judge, and therefore are oft to be deceived,
less they should err."—Quintil., Inst. Orat., xi. 17.]
When they order us to love three, four, or fifty degrees of things
above ourselves, they do like archers, who, to hit the white, take their
aim a great deal higher than the butt; to make a crooked stick straight,
we bend it the contrary way.
I believe that in the Temple of Pallas, as we see in all other
religions, there were apparent mysteries to be exposed to the people;
and others, more secret and high, that were only to be shown to such as
were professed; 'tis likely that in these the true point of friendship
that every one owes to himself is to be found; not a false friendship,
that makes us embrace glory, knowledge, riches, and the like, with a
principal and immoderate affection, as members of our being; nor an
indiscreet and effeminate friendship, wherein it happens, as with ivy,
that it decays and ruins the walls it embraces; but a sound and regular
friendship, equally useful and pleasant. He who knows the duties of this
friendship and practises them is truly of the cabinet of the Muses, and
has attained to the height of human wisdom and of our happiness, such an
one, exactly knowing what he owes to himself, will on his part find that
he ought to apply to himself the use of the world and of other men; and
to do this, to contribute to public society the duties and offices
appertaining to him. He who does not in some sort live for others, does
not live much for himself:
"Qui sibi amicus est, scito hunc amicum omnibus esse."
["He who is his own friend, is a friend to everybody else."
—Seneca, Ep., 6.]
The principal charge we have is, to every one his own conduct; and
'tis for this only that we here are. As he who should forget to live a
virtuous and holy life, and should think he acquitted himself of his
duty in instructing and training others up to it, would be a fool; even
so he who abandons his own particular healthful and pleasant living to
serve others therewith, takes, in my opinion, a wrong and unnatural
course.
I would not that men should refuse, in the employments they take upon
them, their attention, pains, eloquence, sweat, and blood if need be:
"Non ipse pro caris amicis
Aut patria, timidus perire:"
["Himself not afraid to die for beloved friends, or for his
country."—Horace, Od., iv. 9, 51.]
but 'tis only borrowed, and accidentally; his mind being always in
repose and in health; not without action, but without vexation, without
passion. To be simply acting costs him so little, that he acts even
sleeping; but it must be set on going with discretion; for the body
receives the offices imposed upon it just according to what they are;
the mind often extends and makes them heavier at its own expense, giving
them what measure it pleases. Men perform like things with several sorts
of endeavour, and different contention of will; the one does well enough
without the other; for how many people hazard themselves every day in
war without any concern which way it goes; and thrust themselves into
the dangers of battles, the loss of which will not break their next
night's sleep? and such a man may be at home, out of the danger which he
durst not have looked upon, who is more passionately concerned for the
issue of this war, and whose soul is more anxious about events than the
soldier who therein stakes his blood and his life. I could have engaged
myself in public employments without quitting my own matters a nail's
breadth, and have given myself to others without abandoning myself. This
sharpness and violence of desires more hinder than they advance the
execution of what we undertake; fill us with impatience against slow or
contrary events, and with heat and suspicion against those with whom we
have to do. We never carry on that thing well by which we are
prepossessed and led:
"Male cuncta ministrat
Impetus."
["Impulse manages all things ill."—Statius, Thebaid, x. 704.]
He who therein employs only his judgment and address proceeds more
cheerfully: he counterfeits, he gives way, he defers quite at his ease,
according to the necessities of occasions; he fails in his attempt
without trouble and affliction, ready and entire for a new enterprise;
he always marches with the bridle in his hand. In him who is intoxicated
with this violent and tyrannical intention, we discover, of necessity,
much imprudence and injustice; the impetuosity of his desire carries him
away; these are rash motions, and, if fortune do not very much assist,
of very little fruit. Philosophy directs that, in the revenge of
injuries received, we should strip ourselves of choler; not that the
chastisement should be less, but, on the contrary, that the revenge may
be the better and more heavily laid on, which, it conceives, will be by
this impetuosity hindered. For anger not only disturbs, but, of itself,
also wearies the arms of those who chastise; this fire benumbs and
wastes their force; as in precipitation, "festinatio tarda est,"—haste
trips up its own heels, fetters, and stops itself:
"Ipsa se velocitas implicat."—Seneca, Ep. 44
For example, according to what I commonly see, avarice has no greater
impediment than itself; the more bent and vigorous it is, the less it
rakes together, and commonly sooner grows rich when disguised in a visor
of liberality.
A very excellent gentleman, and a friend of mine, ran a risk of
impairing his faculties by a too passionate attention and affection to
the affairs of a certain prince his master;—[Probably the King of
Navarre, afterward Henry IV.]—which master has thus portrayed himself to
me; "that he foresees the weight of accidents as well as another, but
that in those for which there is no remedy, he presently resolves upon
suffering; in others, having taken all the necessary precautions which
by the vivacity of his understanding he can presently do, he quietly
awaits what may follow." And, in truth, I have accordingly seen him
maintain a great indifferency and liberty of actions and serenity of
countenance in very great and difficult affairs: I find him much
greater, and of greater capacity in adverse than in prosperous fortune;
his defeats are to him more glorious than his victories, and his
mourning than his triumph.
Consider, that even in vain and frivolous actions, as at chess,
tennis, and the like, this eager and ardent engaging with an impetuous
desire, immediately throws the mind and members into indiscretion and
disorder: a man astounds and hinders himself; he who carries himself
more moderately, both towards gain and loss, has always his wits about
him; the less peevish and passionate he is at play, he plays much more
advantageously and surely.
As to the rest, we hinder the mind's grasp and hold, in giving it so
many things to seize upon; some things we should only offer to it; tie
it to others, and with others incorporate it. It can feel and discern
all things, but ought to feed upon nothing but itself; and should be
instructed in what properly concerns itself, and that is properly of its
own having and substance. The laws of nature teach us what justly we
need. After the sages have told us that no one is indigent according to
nature, and that every one is so according to opinion, they very subtly
distinguish betwixt the desires that proceed from her, and those that
proceed from the disorder of our own fancy: those of which we can see
the end are hers; those that fly before us, and of which we can see no
end, are our own: the poverty of goods is easily cured; the poverty of
the soul is irreparable:
"Nam si, quod satis est homini, id satis esse potesset
Hoc sat erat: nunc, quum hoc non est, qui credimus porro
Divitias ullas animum mi explere potesse?"
["For if what is for man enough, could be enough, it were enough;
but since it is not so, how can I believe that any wealth can give
my mind content."—Lucilius aped Nonium Marcellinum, V. sec. 98.]
Socrates, seeing a great quantity of riches, jewels, and furniture
carried in pomp through his city: "How many things," said he, "I do not
desire!"—[Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., V. 32.]—Metrodorus lived on twelve
ounces a day, Epicurus upon less; Metrocles slept in winter abroad
amongst sheep, in summer in the cloisters of churches:
"Sufficit ad id natura, quod poscit."
["Nature suffices for what he requires."—Seneca, Ep., 90.]
Cleanthes lived by the labour of his own hands, and boasted that
Cleanthes, if he would, could yet maintain another Cleanthes.
If that which nature exactly and originally requires of us for the
conservation of our being be too little (as in truth what it is, and how
good cheap life may be maintained, cannot be better expressed than by
this consideration, that it is so little that by its littleness it
escapes the gripe and shock of fortune), let us allow ourselves a little
more; let us call every one of our habits and conditions nature; let us
rate and treat ourselves by this measure; let us stretch our
appurtenances and accounts so far; for so far, I fancy, we have some
excuse. Custom is a second nature, and no less powerful. What is wanting
to my custom, I reckon is wanting to me; and I should be almost as well
content that they took away my life as cut me short in the way wherein I
have so long lived. I am no longer in condition for any great change,
nor to put myself into a new and unwonted course, not even to
augmentation. 'Tis past the time for me to become other than what I am;
and as I should complain of any great good hap that should now befall
me, that it came not in time to be enjoyed:
"Quo mihi fortunas, si non conceditur uti?"
["What is the good fortune to me, if it is not granted to me
to use it."—Horace, Ep., i. 5, 12.]
so should I complain of any inward acquisition. It were almost better
never, than so late, to become an honest man, and well fit to live, when
one has no longer to live. I, who am about to make my exit out of the
world, would easily resign to any newcomer, who should desire it, all
the prudence I am now acquiring in the world's commerce; after meat,
mustard. I have no need of goods of which I can make no use; of what use
is knowledge to him who has lost his head? 'Tis an injury and unkindness
in fortune to tender us presents that will only inspire us with a just
despite that we had them not in their due season. Guide me no more; I
can no longer go. Of so many parts as make up a sufficiency, patience is
the most sufficient. Give the capacity of an excellent treble to the
chorister who has rotten lungs, and eloquence to a hermit exiled into
the deserts of Arabia. There needs no art to help a fall; the end finds
itself of itself at the conclusion of every affair. My world is at an
end, my form expired; I am totally of the past, and am bound to
authorise it, and to conform my outgoing to it. I will here declare, by
way of example, that the Pope's late ten days' diminution
[Gregory XIII., in 1582, reformed the Calendar, and, in consequence,
in France they all at once passed from the 9th to the 20th
December.]
has taken me so aback that I cannot well reconcile myself to it; I
belong to the years wherein we kept another kind of account. So ancient
and so long a custom challenges my adherence to it, so that I am
constrained to be somewhat heretical on that point incapable of any,
though corrective, innovation. My imagination, in spite of my teeth,
always pushes me ten days forward or backward, and is ever murmuring in
my ears: "This rule concerns those who are to begin to be." If health
itself, sweet as it is, returns to me by fits, 'tis rather to give me
cause of regret than possession of it; I have no place left to keep it
in. Time leaves me; without which nothing can be possessed. Oh, what
little account should I make of those great elective dignities that I
see in such esteem in the world, that are never conferred but upon men
who are taking leave of it; wherein they do not so much regard how well
the man will discharge his trust, as how short his administration will
be: from the very entry they look at the exit. In short, I am about
finishing this man, and not rebuilding another. By long use, this form
is in me turned into substance, and fortune into nature.
I say, therefore, that every one of us feeble creatures is excusable
in thinking that to be his own which is comprised under this measure;
but withal, beyond these limits, 'tis nothing but confusion; 'tis the
largest extent we can grant to our own claims. The more we amplify our
need and our possession, so much the more do we expose ourselves to the
blows of Fortune and adversities. The career of our desires ought to be
circumscribed and restrained to a short limit of the nearest and most
contiguous commodities; and their course ought, moreover, to be
performed not in a right line, that ends elsewhere, but in a circle, of
which the two points, by a short wheel, meet and terminate in ourselves.
Actions that are carried on without this reflection—a near and essential
reflection, I mean—such as those of ambitious and avaricious men, and so
many more as run point-blank, and to whose career always carries them
before themselves, such actions, I say; are erroneous and sickly.
Most of our business is farce:
"Mundus universus exercet histrioniam."
—[Petronius Arbiter, iii. 8.]
We must play our part properly, but withal as a part of a borrowed
personage; we must not make real essence of a mask and outward
appearance; nor of a strange person, our own; we cannot distinguish the
skin from the shirt: 'tis enough to meal the face, without mealing the
breast. I see some who transform and transubstantiate themselves into as
many new shapes and new beings as they undertake new employments; and
who strut and fume even to the heart and liver, and carry their state
along with them even to the close-stool: I cannot make them distinguish
the salutations made to themselves from those made to their commission,
their train, or their mule:
"Tantum se fortunx permittunt, etiam ut naturam dediscant."
["They so much give themselves up to fortune, as even to unlearn
nature."—Quintus Curtius, iii. 2.]
They swell and puff up their souls, and their natural way of
speaking, according to the height of their magisterial place. The Mayor
of Bordeaux and Montaigne have ever been two by very manifest
separation. Because one is an advocate or a financier, he must not
ignore the knavery there is in such callings; an honest man is not
accountable for the vice or absurdity of his employment, and ought not
on that account refuse to take the calling upon him: 'tis the usage of
his country, and there is money to be got by it; a man must live by the
world; and make his best of it, such as it is. But the judgment of an
emperor ought to be above his empire, and see and consider it as a
foreign accident; and he ought to know how to enjoy himself apart from
it, and to communicate himself as James and Peter, to himself, at all
events.
I cannot engage myself so deep and so entire; when my will gives me
to anything, 'tis not with so violent an obligation that my judgment is
infected with it. In the present broils of this kingdom, my own interest
has not made me blind to the laudable qualities of our adversaries, nor
to those that are reproachable in those men of our party. Others adore
all of their own side; for my part, I do not so much as excuse most
things in those of mine: a good work has never the worst grace with me
for being made against me. The knot of the controversy excepted, I have
always kept myself in equanimity and pure indifference:
"Neque extra necessitates belli praecipuum odium gero;"
["Nor bear particular hatred beyond the necessities of war."]
for which I am pleased with myself; and the more because I see others
commonly fail in the contrary direction. Such as extend their anger and
hatred beyond the dispute in question, as most men do, show that they
spring from some other occasion and private cause; like one who, being
cured of an ulcer, has yet a fever remaining, by which it appears that
the ulcer had another more concealed beginning. The reason is that they
are not concerned in the common cause, because it is wounding to the
state and general interest; but are only nettled by reason of their
particular concern. This is why they are so especially animated, and to
a degree so far beyond justice and public reason:
"Non tam omnia universi, quam ea, quae ad quemque pertinent,
singuli carpebant."
["Every one was not so much angry against things in general, as
against those that particularly concern himself."
—Livy, xxxiv. 36.]
I would have the advantage on our side; but if it be not, I shall not
run mad. I am heartily for the right party; but I do not want to be
taken notice of as an especial enemy to others, and beyond the general
quarrel. I marvellously challenge this vicious form of opinion: "He is
of the League because he admires the graciousness of Monsieur de Guise;
he is astonished at the King of Navarre's energy, therefore he is a
Huguenot; he finds this to say of the manners of the king, he is
therefore seditious in his heart." And I did not grant to the magistrate
himself that he did well in condemning a book because it had placed a
heretic —[Theodore de Beza.]—amongst the best poets of the time. Shall
we not dare to say of a thief that he has a handsome leg? If a woman be
a strumpet, must it needs follow that she has a foul smell? Did they in
the wisest ages revoke the proud title of Capitolinus they had before
conferred on Marcus Manlius as conservator of religion and the public
liberty, and stifle the memory of his liberality, his feats of arms, and
military recompenses granted to his valour, because he, afterwards
aspired to the sovereignty, to the prejudice of the laws of his country?
If we take a hatred against an advocate, he will not be allowed the next
day to be eloquent. I have elsewhere spoken of the zeal that pushed on
worthy men to the like faults. For my part, I can say, "Such an one does
this thing ill, and another thing virtuously and well." So in the
prognostication or sinister events of affairs they would have every one
in his party blind or a blockhead, and that our persuasion and judgment
should subserve not truth, but to the project of our desires. I should
rather incline towards the other extreme; so much I fear being suborned
by my desire; to which may be added that I am a little tenderly
distrustful of things that I wish.
I have in my time seen wonders in the indiscreet and prodigious
facility of people in suffering their hopes and belief to be led and
governed, which way best pleased and served their leaders, despite a
hundred mistakes one upon another, despite mere dreams and phantasms. I
no more wonder at those who have been blinded and seduced by the
fooleries of Apollonius and Mahomet. Their sense and understanding are
absolutely taken away by their passion; their discretion has no more any
other choice than that which smiles upon them and encourages their
cause. I had principally observed this in the beginning of our intestine
distempers; that other, which has sprung up since, in imitating, has
surpassed it; by which I am satisfied that it is a quality inseparable
from popular errors; after the first, that rolls, opinions drive on one
another like waves with the wind: a man is not a member of the body, if
it be in his power to forsake it, and if he do not roll the common way.
But, doubtless, they wrong the just side when they go about to assist it
with fraud; I have ever been against that practice: 'tis only fit to
work upon weak heads; for the sound, there are surer and more honest
ways to keep up their courage and to excuse adverse accidents.
Heaven never saw a greater animosity than that betwixt Caesar and
Pompey, nor ever shall; and yet I observe, methinks, in those brave
souls, a great moderation towards one another: it was a jealousy of
honour and command, which did not transport them to a furious and
indiscreet hatred, and was without malignity and detraction: in their
hottest exploits upon one another, I discover some remains of respect
and good-will: and am therefore of opinion that, had, it been possible,
each of them would rather have done his business without the ruin of the
other than with it. Take notice how much otherwise matters went with
Marius and Sylla.
We must not precipitate ourselves so headlong after our affections
and interests. As, when I was young, I opposed myself to the progress of
love which I perceived to advance too fast upon me, and had a care lest
it should at last become so pleasing as to force, captivate, and wholly
reduce me to its mercy: so I do the same upon all other occasions where
my will is running on with too warm an appetite. I lean opposite to the
side it inclines to; as I find it going to plunge and make itself drunk
with its own wine; I evade nourishing its pleasure so far, that I cannot
recover it without infinite loss. Souls that, through their own
stupidity, only discern things by halves, have this happiness, that they
smart less with hurtful things: 'tis a spiritual leprosy that has some
show of health, and such a health as philosophy does not altogether
contemn; but yet we have no reason to call it wisdom, as we often do.
And after this manner some one anciently mocked Diogeries, who, in the
depth of winter and quite naked, went embracing an image of snow for a
trial of his endurance: the other seeing him in this position, "Art thou
now very cold?" said he. "Not at all," replied Diogenes. "Why, then,"
pursued the other, "what difficult and exemplary thing dost thou think
thou doest in embracing that snow?" To take a true measure of constancy,
one must necessarily know what the suffering is.
But souls that are to meet with adverse events and the injuries of
fortune, in their depth and sharpness, that are to weigh and taste them
according to their natural weight and bitterness, let such show their
skill in avoiding the causes and diverting the blow. What did King Cotys
do? He paid liberally for the rich and beautiful vessel that had been
presented to him, but, seeing it was exceedingly brittle, he immediately
broke it betimes, to prevent so easy a matter of displeasure against his
servants. In like manner, I have willingly avoided all confusion in my
affairs, and never coveted to have my estate contiguous to those of my
relations, and such with whom I coveted a strict friendship; for thence
matter of unkindness and falling out often proceeds. I formerly loved
hazardous games of cards and dice; but have long since left them off,
only for this reason that, with whatever good air I carried my losses, I
could not help feeling vexed within. A man of honour, who ought to be
touchily sensible of the lie or of an insult, and who is not to take a
scurvy excuse for satisfaction, should avoid occasions of dispute. I
shun melancholy, crabbed men, as I would the plague; and in matters I
cannot talk of without emotion and concern I never meddle, if not
compelled by my duty:
"Melius non incipient, quam desinent."
["They had better never to begin than to have to desist."
—Seneca, Ep., 72.]
The surest way, therefore, is to prepare one's self beforehand for
occasions.
I know very well that some wise men have taken another way, and have
not feared to grapple and engage to the utmost upon several subjects
these are confident of their own strength, under which they protect
themselves in all ill successes, making their patience wrestle and
contend with disaster:
"Velut rupes, vastum quae prodit in aequor,
Obvia ventorum furiis, expostaque ponto,
Vim cunctam atque minas perfert coelique marisque;
Ipsa immota manens."
["As a rock, which projects into the vast ocean, exposed to the
furious winds and the raging sea, defies the force and menaces of
sky and sea, itself unshaken."—Virgil, AEneid, x. 693.]
Let us not attempt these examples; we shall never come up to them.
They set themselves resolutely, and without agitation, to behold the
ruin of their country, which possessed and commanded all their will:
this is too much, and too hard a task for our commoner souls. Cato gave
up the noblest life that ever was upon this account; we meaner spirits
must fly from the storm as far as we can; we must provide for sentiment,
and not for patience, and evade the blows we cannot meet. Zeno, seeing
Chremonides, a young man whom he loved, draw near to sit down by him,
suddenly started up; and Cleanthes demanding of him the reason why he
did so, "I hear," said he, "that physicians especially order repose, and
forbid emotion in all tumours." Socrates does not say: "Do not surrender
to the charms of beauty; stand your ground, and do your utmost to oppose
it." "Fly it," says he; "shun the fight and encounter of it, as of a
powerful poison that darts and wounds at a distance." And his good
disciple, feigning or reciting, but, in my opinion, rather reciting than
feigning, the rare perfections of the great Cyrus, makes him distrustful
of his own strength to resist the charms of the divine beauty of that
illustrous Panthea, his captive, and committing the visiting and keeping
her to another, who could not have so much liberty as himself. And the
Holy Ghost in like manner:
"Ne nos inducas in tentationem."
["Lead us not into temptation."—St. Matthew, vi. 13.]
We do not pray that our reason may not be combated and overcome by
concupiscence, but that it should not be so much as tried by it; that we
should not be brought into a state wherein we are so much as to suffer
the approaches, solicitations, and temptations of sin: and we beg of
Almighty God to keep our consciences quiet, fully and perfectly
delivered from all commerce of evil.
Such as say that they have reason for their revenging passion, or any
other sort of troublesome agitation of mind, often say true, as things
now are, but not as they were: they speak to us when the causes of their
error are by themselves nourished and advanced; but look backward—recall
these causes to their beginning—and there you will put them to a
nonplus. Will they have their faults less, for being of longer
continuance; and that of an unjust beginning, the sequel can be just?
Whoever shall desire the good of his country, as I do, without fretting
or pining himself, will be troubled, but will not swoon to see it
threatening either its own ruin, or a no less ruinous continuance; poor
vessel, that the waves, the winds, and the pilot toss and steer to so
contrary designs!
"In tam diversa magister
Ventus et unda trahunt."
He who does not gape after the favour of princes, as after a thing he
cannot live without, does not much concern himself at the coldness of
their reception and countenance, nor at the inconstancy of their wills.
He who does not brood over his children or his honours with a slavish
propension, ceases not to live commodiously enough after their loss. He
who does good principally for his own satisfaction will not be much
troubled to see men judge of his actions contrary to his merit. A
quarter of an ounce of patience will provide sufficiently against such
inconveniences. I find ease in this receipt, redeeming myself in the
beginning as good cheap as I can; and find that by this means I have
escaped much trouble and many difficulties. With very little ado I stop
the first sally of my emotions, and leave the subject that begins to be
troublesome before it transports me. He who stops not the start will
never be able to stop the course; he who cannot keep them out will
never, get them out when they are once got in; and he who cannot arrive
at the beginning will never arrive at the end of all. Nor will he bear
the fall who cannot sustain the shock:
"Etenim ipsae se impellunt, ubi semel a ratione discessum est;
ipsaque sibi imbecillitas indulget, in altumque provehitur
imprudens, nec reperit locum consistendi."
["For they throw themselves headlong when once they lose their
reason; and infirmity so far indulges itself, and from want of
prudence is carried out into deep water, nor finds a place to
shelter it."—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., iv. 18.]
I am betimes sensible of the little breezes that begin to sing and
whistle within, forerunners of the storm:
"Ceu flamina prima
Cum deprensa fremunt sylvis et caeca volutant
Murmura, venturos nautis prodentia ventos."
["As the breezes, pent in the woods, first send out dull murmurs,
announcing the approach of winds to mariners."—AEneid, x. 97.]
How often have I done myself a manifest injustice to avoid the hazard
of having yet a worse done me by the judges, after an age of vexations,
dirty and vile practices, more enemies to my nature than fire or the
rack?
"Convenit a litibus, quantum licet, et nescio an paulo plus etiam
quam licet, abhorrentem esse: est enim non modo liberale, paululum
nonnunquam de suo jure decedere, sed interdum etiam fructuosum."
["A man should abhor lawsuits as much as he may, and I know not
whether not something more; for 'tis not only liberal, but sometimes
also advantageous, too, a little to recede from one's right.
—"Cicero, De Offic., ii. 18.]
Were we wise, we ought to rejoice and boast, as I one day heard a
young gentleman of a good family very innocently do, that his mother had
lost her cause, as if it had been a cough, a fever, or something very
troublesome to keep. Even the favours that fortune might have given me
through relationship or acquaintance with those who have sovereign
authority in those affairs, I have very conscientiously and very
carefully avoided employing them to the prejudice of others, and of
advancing my pretensions above their true right. In fine, I have so much
prevailed by my endeavours (and happily I may say it) that I am to this
day a virgin from all suits in law; though I have had very fair offers
made me, and with very just title, would I have hearkened to them, and a
virgin from quarrels too. I have almost passed over a long life without
any offence of moment, either active or passive, or without ever hearing
a worse word than my own name: a rare favour of Heaven.
Our greatest agitations have ridiculous springs and causes: what ruin
did our last Duke of Burgundy run into about a cartload of sheepskins!
And was not the graving of a seal the first and principal cause of the
greatest commotion that this machine of the world ever underwent? —[The
civil war between Marius and Sylla; see Plutarch's Life of Marius, c.
3.]—for Pompey and Caesar were but the offsets and continuation of the
two others: and I have in my time seen the wisest heads in this kingdom
assembled with great ceremony, and at the public expense, about treaties
and agreements, of which the true decision, in the meantime, absolutely
depended upon the ladies' cabinet council, and the inclination of some
bit of a woman.
The poets very well understood this when they put all Greece and Asia
to fire and sword about an apple. Look why that man hazards his life and
honour upon the fortune of his rapier and dagger; let him acquaint you
with the occasion of the quarrel; he cannot do it without blushing: the
occasion is so idle and frivolous.
A little thing will engage you in it; but being once embarked, all
the cords draw; great provisions are then required, more hard and more
important. How much easier is it not to enter in than it is to get out?
Now we should proceed contrary to the reed, which, at its first
springing, produces a long and straight shoot, but afterwards, as if
tired and out of breath, it runs into thick and frequent joints and
knots, as so many pauses which demonstrate that it has no more its first
vigour and firmness; 'twere better to begin gently and coldly, and to
keep one's breath and vigorous efforts for the height and stress of the
business. We guide affairs in their beginnings, and have them in our own
power; but afterwards, when they are once at work, 'tis they that guide
and govern us, and we are to follow them.
Yet do I not mean to say that this counsel has discharged me of all
difficulty, and that I have not often had enough to do to curb and
restrain my passions; they are not always to be governed according to
the measure of occasions, and often have their entries very sharp and
violent. But still good fruit and profit may thence be reaped; except
for those who in well-doing are not satisfied with any benefit, if
reputation be wanting; for, in truth, such an effect is not valued but
by every one to himself; you are better contented, but not more
esteemed, seeing you reformed yourself before you got into the whirl of
the dance, or that the provocative matter was in sight. Yet not in this
only, but in all other duties of life also, the way of those who aim at
honour is very different from that they proceed by, who propose to
themselves order and reason. I find some who rashly and furiously rush
into the lists and cool in the course. As Plutarch says, that those who,
through false shame, are soft and facile to grant whatever is desired of
them, are afterwards as facile to break their word and to recant; so he
who enters lightly into a quarrel is apt to go as lightly out of it. The
same difficulty that keeps me from entering into it, would, when once
hot and engaged in quarrel, incite me to maintain it with great
obstinacy and resolution. 'Tis the tyranny of custom; when a man is once
engaged; he must go through with it, or die. "Undertake coolly," said
Bias, "but pursue with ardour." For want of prudence, men fall into want
of courage, which is still more intolerable.
Most accommodations of the quarrels of these days of ours are
shameful and false; we only seek to save appearances, and in the
meantime betray and disavow our true intentions; we salve over the fact.
We know very well how we said the thing, and in what sense we spoke it,
and the company know it, and our friends whom we have wished to make
sensible of our advantage, understand it well enough too: 'tis at the
expense of our frankness and of the honour of our courage, that we
disown our thoughts, and seek refuge in falsities, to make matters up.
We give ourselves the lie, to excuse the lie we have given to another.
You are not to consider if your word or action may admit of another
interpretation; 'tis your own true and sincere interpretation, your real
meaning in what you said or did, that you are thenceforward to maintain,
whatever it cost you. Men speak to your virtue and conscience, which are
not things to be put under a mask; let us leave these pitiful ways and
expedients to the jugglers of the law. The excuses and reparations that
I see every day made and given to repair indiscretion, seem to me more
scandalous than the indiscretion itself. It were better to affront your
adversary a second time than to offend yourself by giving him so unmanly
a satisfaction. You have braved him in your heat and anger, and you
would flatter and appease him in your cooler and better sense; and by
that means lay yourself lower and at his feet, whom before you pretended
to overtop. I do not find anything a gentleman can say so vicious in him
as unsaying what he has said is infamous, when to unsay it is
authoritatively extracted from him; forasmuch as obstinacy is more
excusable in a man of honour than pusillanimity. Passions are as easy
for me to evade, as they are hard for me to moderate:
"Exscinduntur facilius ammo, quam temperantur."
["They are more easily to be eradicated than governed."]
He who cannot attain the noble Stoical impassibility, let him secure
himself in the bosom of this popular stolidity of mine; what they
performed by virtue, I inure myself to do by temperament. The middle
region harbours storms and tempests; the two extremes, of philosophers
and peasants, concur in tranquillity and happiness:
"Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!
Fortunatus et ille, Deos qui novit agrestes,
Panaque, Sylvanumque senem, Nymphasque sorores!"
["Happy is he who could discover the causes of things, and place
under his feet all fears and inexorable fate, and the sound of
rapacious Acheron: he is blest who knows the country gods, and Pan,
and old Sylvanus, and the sister nymphs."—Virgil, Georg., ii. 490.]
The births of all things are weak and tender; and therefore we should
have our eyes intent on beginnings; for as when, in its infancy, the
danger is not perceived, so when it is grown up, the remedy is as little
to be found. I had every day encountered a million of crosses, harder to
digest in the progress of ambition, than it has been hard for me to curb
the natural propension that inclined me to it:
"Jure perhorrui
Lath conspicuum tollere verticem."
["I ever justly feared to raise my head too high."
—Horace, Od.,iii. 16, 18.]
All public actions are subject to uncertain and various
interpretations; for too many heads judge of them. Some say of this
civic employment of mine (and I am willing to say a word or two about
it, not that it is worth so much, but to give an account of my manners
in such things), that I have behaved myself in it as a man who is too
supine and of a languid temperament; and they have some colour for what
they say. I endeavoured to keep my mind and my thoughts in repose;
"Cum semper natura, tum etiam aetate jam quietus;"
["As being always quiet by nature, so also now by age."
—Cicero, De Petit. Consul., c. 2.]
and if they sometimes lash out upon some rude and sensible
impression, 'tis in truth without my advice. Yet from this natural
heaviness of mine, men ought not to conclude a total inability in me
(for want of care and want of sense are two very different things), and
much less any unkindness or ingratitude towards that corporation who
employed the utmost means they had in their power to oblige me, both
before they knew me and after; and they did much more for me in choosing
me anew than in conferring that honour upon me at first. I wish them all
imaginable good; and assuredly had occasion been, there is nothing I
would have spared for their service; I did for them as I would have done
for myself. 'Tis a good, warlike, and generous people, but capable of
obedience and discipline, and of whom the best use may be made, if well
guided. They say also that my administration passed over without leaving
any mark or trace. Good! They moreover accuse my cessation in a time
when everybody almost was convicted of doing too much. I am impatient to
be doing where my will spurs me on; but this itself is an enemy to
perseverance. Let him who will make use of me according to my own way,
employ me in affairs where vigour and liberty are required, where a
direct, short, and, moreover, a hazardous conduct are necessary; I may
do something; but if it must be long, subtle, laborious, artificial and
intricate, he had better call in somebody else. All important offices
are not necessarily difficult: I came prepared to do somewhat rougher
work, had there been great occasion; for it is in my power to do
something more than I do, or than I love to do. I did not, to my
knowledge, omit anything that my duty really required. I easily forgot
those offices that ambition mixes with duty and palliates with its
title; these are they that, for the most part, fill the eyes and ears,
and give men the most satisfaction; not the thing but the appearance
contents them; if they hear no noise, they think men sleep. My humour is
no friend to tumult; I could appease a commotion without commotion, and
chastise a disorder without being myself disorderly; if I stand in need
of anger and inflammation, I borrow it, and put it on. My manners are
languid, rather faint than sharp. I do not condemn a magistrate who
sleeps, provided the people under his charge sleep as well as he: the
laws in that case sleep too. For my part, I commend a gliding, staid,
and silent life:
"Neque submissam et abjectam, neque se efferentem;"
["Neither subject and abject, nor obtrusive."
—Cicero, De Offic., i. 34]
my fortune will have it so. I am descended from a family that has
lived without lustre or tumult, and, time out of mind, particularly
ambitious of a character for probity.
Our people nowadays are so bred up to bustle and ostentation, that
good nature, moderation, equability, constancy, and such like quiet and
obscure qualities, are no more thought on or regarded. Rough bodies make
themselves felt; the smooth are imperceptibly handled: sickness is felt,
health little or not at all; no more than the oils that foment us, in
comparison of the pains for which we are fomented. 'Tis acting for one's
particular reputation and profit, not for the public good, to refer that
to be done in the public squares which one may do in the council
chamber; and to noon day what might have been done the night before; and
to be jealous to do that himself which his colleague can do as well as
he; so were some surgeons of Greece wont to perform their operations
upon scaffolds in the sight of the people, to draw more practice and
profit. They think that good rules cannot be understood but by the sound
of trumpet. Ambition is not a vice of little people, nor of such modest
means as ours. One said to Alexander: "Your father will leave you a
great dominion, easy and pacific"; this youth was emulous of his
father's victories and of the justice of his government; he would not
have enjoyed the empire of the world in ease and peace. Alcibiades, in
Plato, had rather die young, beautiful, rich, noble, and learned, and
all this in full excellence, than to stop short of such condition; this
disease is, peradventure, excusable in so strong and so full a soul.
When wretched and dwarfish little souls cajole and deceive themselves,
and think to spread their fame for having given right judgment in an
affair, or maintained the discipline of the guard of a gate of their
city, the more they think to exalt their heads the more they show their
tails. This little well-doing has neither body nor life; it vanishes in
the first mouth, and goes no further than from one street to another.
Talk of it by all means to your son or your servant, like that old
fellow who, having no other auditor of his praises nor approver of his
valour, boasted to his chambermaid, crying, "O Perrete, what a brave,
clever man hast thou for thy master!" At the worst, talk of it to
yourself, like a councillor of my acquaintance, who, having disgorged a
whole cartful of law jargon with great heat and as great folly, coming
out of the council chamber to make water, was heard very complacently to
mutter betwixt his teeth:
"Non nobis, domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam."
["Not unto us, O Lord, not to us: but unto Thy name be the glory."
—Psalm cxiii. I.]
He who gets it of nobody else, let him pay himself out of his own
purse.
Fame is not prostituted at so cheap a rate: rare and exemplary
actions, to which it is due, would not endure the company of this
prodigious crowd of petty daily performances. Marble may exalt your
titles, as much as you please, for having repaired a rod of wall or
cleansed a public sewer; but not men of sense. Renown does not follow
all good deeds, if novelty and difficulty be not conjoined; nay, so much
as mere esteem, according to the Stoics, is not due to every action that
proceeds from virtue; nor will they allow him bare thanks who, out of
temperance, abstains from an old blear-eyed crone. Those who have known
the admirable qualities of Scipio Africanus, deny him the glory that
Panaetius attributes to him, of being abstinent from gifts, as a glory
not so much his as that of his age. We have pleasures suitable to our
lot; let us not usurp those of grandeur: our own are more natural, and
by so much more solid and sure, as they are lower. If not for that of
conscience, yet at least for ambition's sake, let us reject ambition;
let us disdain that thirst of honour and renown, so low and mendicant,
that it makes us beg it of all sorts of people:
"Quae est ista laus quae: possit e macello peti?"
["What praise is that which is to be got in the market-place (meat
market)?" Cicero, De Fin., ii. 15.]
by abject means, and at what cheap rate soever: 'tis dishonour to be
so honoured. Let us learn to be no more greedy, than we are capable, of
glory. To be puffed up with every action that is innocent or of use, is
only for those with whom such things are extraordinary and rare: they
will value it as it costs them. The more a good effect makes a noise,
the more do I abate of its goodness as I suspect that it was more
performed for the noise, than upon account of the goodness: exposed upon
the stall, 'tis half sold. Those actions have much more grace and
lustre, that slip from the hand of him that does them, negligently and
without noise, and that some honest man thereafter finds out and raises
from the shade, to produce it to the light upon its own account,
"Mihi quidem laudabiliora videntur omnia, quae sine
venditatione, et sine populo teste fiunt,"
["All things truly seem more laudable to me that are performed
without ostentation, and without the testimony of the people."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 26.]
says the most ostentatious man that ever lived.
I had but to conserve and to continue, which are silent and
insensible effects: innovation is of great lustre; but 'tis interdicted
in this age, when we are pressed upon and have nothing to defend
ourselves from but novelties. To forbear doing is often as generous as
to do; but 'tis less in the light, and the little good I have in me is
of this kind. In fine, occasions in this employment of mine have been
confederate with my humour, and I heartily thank them for it. Is there
any who desires to be sick, that he may see his physician at work? and
would not the physician deserve to be whipped who should wish the plague
amongst us, that he might put his art in practice? I have never been of
that wicked humour, and common enough, to desire that troubles and
disorders in this city should elevate and honour my government; I have
ever heartily contributed all I could to their tranquillity and ease.
He who will not thank me for the order, the sweet and silent calm
that has accompanied my administration, cannot, however, deprive me of
the share that belongs to me by title of my good fortune. And I am of
such a composition, that I would as willingly be lucky as wise, and had
rather owe my successes purely to the favour of Almighty God, than to
any operation of my own. I had sufficiently published to the world my
unfitness for such public offices; but I have something in me yet worse
than incapacity itself; which is, that I am not much displeased at it,
and that I do not much go about to cure it, considering the course of
life that I have proposed to myself.
Neither have I satisfied myself in this employment; but I have very
near arrived at what I expected from my own performance, and have much
surpassed what I promised them with whom I had to do: for I am apt to
promise something less than what I am able to do, and than what I hope
to make good. I assure myself that I have left no offence or hatred
behind me; to leave regret or desire for me amongst them, I at least
know very well that I never much aimed at it:
"Mene huic confidere monstro!
Mene salis placidi vultum, fluctusque quietos
Ignorare?"
["Should I place confidence in this monster? Should I be ignorant
of the dangers of that seeming placid sea, those now quiet waves?"
—Virgil, Aeneid, V. 849.]
CHAPTER XI——OF CRIPPLES
'Tis now two or three years ago that they made the year ten days
shorter in France.—[By the adoption of the Gregorian calendar.]—How many
changes may we expect should follow this reformation! it was really
moving heaven and earth at once. Yet nothing for all that stirs from its
place my neighbours still find their seasons of sowing and reaping, the
opportunities of doing their business, the hurtful and propitious days,
dust at the same time where they had, time out of mind, assigned them;
there was no more error perceived in our old use, than there is
amendment found in the alteration; so great an uncertainty there is
throughout; so gross, obscure, and obtuse is our perception. 'Tis said
that this regulation might have been carried on with less inconvenience,
by subtracting for some years, according to the example of Augustus, the
Bissextile, which is in some sort a day of impediment and trouble, till
we had exactly satisfied this debt, the which itself is not done by this
correction, and we yet remain some days in arrear: and yet, by this
means, such order might be taken for the future, arranging that after
the revolution of such or such a number of years, the supernumerary day
might be always thrown out, so that we could not, henceforward, err
above four-and-twenty hours in our computation. We have no other account
of time but years; the world has for many ages made use of that only;
and yet it is a measure that to this day we are not agreed upon, and one
that we still doubt what form other nations have variously given to it,
and what was the true use of it. What does this saying of some mean,
that the heavens in growing old bow themselves down nearer towards us,
and put us into an uncertainty even of hours and days? and that which
Plutarch says of the months, that astrology had not in his time
determined as to the motion of the moon; what a fine condition are we in
to keep records of things past.
I was just now ruminating, as I often do, what a free and roving
thing human reason is. I ordinarily see that men, in things propounded
to them, more willingly study to find out reasons than to ascertain
truth: they slip over presuppositions, but are curious in examination of
consequences; they leave the things, and fly to the causes. Pleasant
talkers! The knowledge of causes only concerns him who has the conduct
of things; not us, who are merely to undergo them, and who have
perfectly full and accomplished use of them, according to our need,
without penetrating into the original and essence; wine is none the more
pleasant to him who knows its first faculties. On the contrary, both the
body and the soul interrupt and weaken the right they have of the use of
the world and of themselves, by mixing with it the opinion of learning;
effects concern us, but the means not at all. To determine and to
distribute appertain to superiority and command; as it does to
subjection to accept. Let me reprehend our custom. They commonly begin
thus: "How is such a thing done?" Whereas they should say, "Is such a
thing done?" Our reason is able to create a hundred other worlds, and to
find out the beginnings and contexture; it needs neither matter nor
foundation: let it but run on, it builds as well in the air as on the
earth, and with inanity as well as with matter:
"Dare pondus idonea fumo."
["Able to give weight to smoke."—Persius, v. 20.]
I find that almost throughout we should say, "there is no such
thing," and should myself often make use of this answer, but I dare not:
for they cry that it is an evasion produced from ignorance and weakness
of understanding; and I am fain, for the most part, to juggle for
company, and prate of frivolous subjects and tales that I believe not a
word of; besides that, in truth, 'tis a little rude and quarrelsome
flatly to deny a stated fact; and few people but will affirm, especially
in things hard to be believed, that they have seen them, or at least
will name witnesses whose authority will stop our mouths from
contradiction. In this way, we know the foundations and means of things
that never were; and the world scuffles about a thousand questions, of
which both the Pro and the Con are false.
"Ita finitima sunt falsa veris, ut in praecipitem
locum non debeat se sapiens committere."
["False things are so near the true, that a wise man should not
trust himself in a precipitous place"—Cicero, Acad., ii. 21.]
Truth and lies are faced alike; their port, taste, and proceedings
are the same, and we look upon them with the same eye. I find that we
are not only remiss in defending ourselves from deceit, but that we seek
and offer ourselves to be gulled; we love to entangle ourselves in
vanity, as a thing conformable to our being.
I have seen the birth of many miracles in my time; which, although
they were abortive, yet have we not failed to foresee what they would
have come to, had they lived their full age. 'Tis but finding the end of
the clew, and a man may wind off as much as he will; and there is a
greater distance betwixt nothing and the least thing in the world than
there is betwixt this and the greatest. Now the first that are imbued
with this beginning of novelty, when they set out with their tale, find,
by the oppositions they meet with, where the difficulty of persuasion
lies, and so caulk up that place with some false piece;
[Voltaire says of this passage, "He who would learn to doubt should
read this whole chapter of Montaigne, the least methodical of all
philosophers, but the wisest and most amiable."
—Melanges Historiques, xvii. 694, ed. of Lefevre.]
besides that:
"Insita hominibus libido alendi de industria rumores,"
["Men having a natural desire to nourish reports."
—Livy, xxviii. 24.]
we naturally make a conscience of restoring what has been lent us,
without some usury and accession of our own. The particular error first
makes the public error, and afterwards, in turn, the public error makes
the particular one; and thus all this vast fabric goes forming and
piling itself up from hand to hand, so that the remotest witness knows
more about it than those who were nearest, and the last informed is
better persuaded than the first.
'Tis a natural progress; for whoever believes anything, thinks it a
work of charity to persuade another into the same opinion; which the
better to do, he will make no difficulty of adding as much of his own
invention as he conceives necessary to his tale to encounter the
resistance or want of conception he meets with in others. I myself, who
make a great conscience of lying, and am not very solicitous of giving
credit and authority to what I say, yet find that in the arguments I
have in hand, being heated with the opposition of another, or by the
proper warmth of my own narration, I swell and puff up my subject by
voice, motion, vigour, and force of words, and moreover, by extension
and amplification, not without some prejudice to the naked truth; but I
do it conditionally withal, that to the first who brings me to myself,
and who asks me the plain and bare truth, I presently surrender my
passion, and deliver the matter to him without exaggeration, without
emphasis, or any painting of my own. A quick and earnest way of
speaking, as mine is, is apt to run into hyperbole. There is nothing to
which men commonly are more inclined than to make way for their own
opinions; where the ordinary means fail us, we add command, force, fire,
and sword. 'Tis a misfortune to be at such a pass, that the best test of
truth is the multitude of believers in a crowd, where the number of
fools so much exceeds the wise:
"Quasi vero quidquam sit tam valde, quam nil sapere, vulgare."
["As if anything were so common as ignorance."
—Cicero, De Divin., ii.]
"Sanitatis patrocinium est, insanientium turba."
["The multitude of fools is a protection to the wise."
—St. Augustine, De Civit. Dei, vi. 10.]
'Tis hard to resolve a man's judgment against the common opinions:
the first persuasion, taken from the very subject itself, possesses the
simple, and from them diffuses itself to the wise, under the authority
of the number and antiquity of the witnesses. For my part, what I should
not believe from one, I should not believe from a hundred and one: and I
do not judge opinions by years.
'Tis not long since one of our princes, in whom the gout had spoiled
an excellent nature and sprightly disposition, suffered himself to be so
far persuaded with the report made to him of the marvellous operations
of a certain priest who by words and gestures cured all sorts of
diseases, as to go a long journey to seek him out, and by the force of
his mere imagination, for some hours so persuaded and laid his legs
asleep, as to obtain that service from them they had long time
forgotten. Had fortune heaped up five or six such-like incidents, it had
been enough to have brought this miracle into nature. There was
afterwards discovered so much simplicity and so little art in the author
of these performances, that he was thought too contemptible to be
punished, as would be thought of most such things, were they well
examined:
"Miramur ex intervallo fallentia."
["We admire after an interval (or at a distance) things that
deceive."—Seneca, Ep., 118, 2.]
So does our sight often represent to us strange images at a distance
that vanish on approaching near:
"Nunquam ad liquidum fama perducitur."
["Report is never fully substantiated."
—Quintus Curtius, ix. 2.]
'Tis wonderful from how many idle beginnings and frivolous causes
such famous impressions commonly, proceed. This it is that obstructs
information; for whilst we seek out causes and solid and weighty ends,
worthy of so great a name, we lose the true ones; they escape our sight
by their littleness. And, in truth, a very prudent, diligent, and subtle
inquisition is required in such searches, indifferent, and not
prepossessed. To this very hour, all these miracles and strange events
have concealed themselves from me: I have never seen greater monster or
miracle in the world than myself: one grows familiar with all strange
things by time and custom, but the more I frequent and the better I know
myself, the more does my own deformity astonish me, the less I
understand myself.
The principal right of advancing and producing such accidents is
reserved to fortune. Passing the day before yesterday through a village
two leagues from my house, I found the place yet warm with a miracle
that had lately failed of success there, where with first the
neighbourhood had been several months amused; then the neighbouring
provinces began to take it up, and to run thither in great companies of
all sorts of people. A young fellow of the place had one night in sport
counterfeited the voice of a spirit in his own house, without any other
design at present, but only for sport; but this having succeeded with
him better than he expected, to extend his farce with more actors he
associated with him a stupid silly country girl, and at last there were
three of them of the same age and understanding, who from domestic,
proceeded to public, preachings, hiding themselves under the altar of
the church, never speaking but by night, and forbidding any light to be
brought. From words which tended to the conversion of the world, and
threats of the day of judgment (for these are subjects under the
authority and reverence of which imposture most securely lurks), they
proceeded to visions and gesticulations so simple and ridiculous
that—nothing could hardly be so gross in the sports of little children.
Yet had fortune never so little favoured the design, who knows to what
height this juggling might have at last arrived? These poor devils are
at present in prison, and are like shortly to pay for the common folly;
and I know not whether some judge will not also make them smart for his.
We see clearly into this, which is discovered; but in many things of the
like nature that exceed our knowledge, I am of opinion that we ought to
suspend our judgment, whether as to rejection or as to reception.
Great abuses in the world are begotten, or, to speak more boldly, all
the abuses of the world are begotten, by our being taught to be afraid
of professing our ignorance, and that we are bound to accept all things
we are not able to refute: we speak of all things by precepts and
decisions. The style at Rome was that even that which a witness deposed
to having seen with his own eyes, and what a judge determined with his
most certain knowledge, was couched in this form of speaking: "it seems
to me." They make me hate things that are likely, when they would impose
them upon me as infallible. I love these words which mollify and
moderate the temerity of our propositions: "peradventure; in some sort;
some; 'tis said, I think," and the like: and had I been set to train up
children I had put this way of answering into their mouths, inquiring
and not resolving: "What does this mean? I understand it not; it may be:
is it true?" so that they should rather have retained the form of pupils
at threescore years old than to go out doctors, as they do, at ten.
Whoever will be cured of ignorance must confess it.
Iris is the daughter of Thaumas;
["That is, of Admiration. She (Iris, the rainbow) is beautiful, and
for that reason, because she has a face to be admired, she is said
to have been the daughter of Thamus."
—Cicero, De Nat. Deor., iii. 20.]
admiration is the foundation of all philosophy, inquisition the
progress, ignorance the end. But there is a sort of ignorance, strong
and generous, that yields nothing in honour and courage to knowledge; an
ignorance which to conceive requires no less knowledge than to conceive
knowledge itself. I read in my younger years a trial that Corras,
[A celebrated Calvinist lawyer, born at Toulouse; 1513, and
assassinated there, 4th October 1572.]
a councillor of Toulouse, printed, of a strange incident, of two men
who presented themselves the one for the other. I remember (and I hardly
remember anything else) that he seemed to have rendered the imposture of
him whom he judged to be guilty, so wonderful and so far exceeding both
our knowledge and his own, who was the judge, that I thought it a very
bold sentence that condemned him to be hanged. Let us have some form of
decree that says, "The court understands nothing of the matter" more
freely and ingenuously than the Areopagites did, who, finding themselves
perplexed with a cause they could not unravel, ordered the parties to
appear again after a hundred years.
The witches of my neighbourhood run the hazard of their lives upon
the report of every new author who seeks to give body to their dreams.
To accommodate the examples that Holy Writ gives us of such things, most
certain and irrefragable examples, and to tie them to our modern events,
seeing that we neither see the causes nor the means, will require
another sort-of wit than ours. It, peradventure, only appertains to that
sole all-potent testimony to tell us. "This is, and that is, and not
that other." God ought to be believed; and certainly with very good
reason; but not one amongst us for all that who is astonished at his own
narration (and he must of necessity be astonished if he be not out of
his wits), whether he employ it about other men's affairs or against
himself.
I am plain and heavy, and stick to the solid and the probable,
avoiding those ancient reproaches:
"Majorem fidem homines adhibent iis, quae non intelligunt;
—Cupidine humani ingenii libentius obscura creduntur."
["Men are most apt to believe what they least understand: and from
the acquisitiveness of the human intellect, obscure things are more
easily credited." The second sentence is from Tacitus, Hist. 1. 22.]
I see very well that men get angry, and that I am forbidden to doubt
upon pain of execrable injuries; a new way of persuading! Thank God, I
am not to be cuffed into belief. Let them be angry with those who accuse
their opinion of falsity; I only accuse it of difficulty and boldness,
and condemn the opposite affirmation equally, if not so imperiously,
with them. He who will establish this proposition by authority and
huffing discovers his reason to be very weak. For a verbal and
scholastic altercation let them have as much appearance as their
contradictors;
"Videantur sane, non affirmentur modo;"
["They may indeed appear to be; let them not be affirmed (Let them
state the probabilities, but not affirm.)"
—Cicero, Acad., n. 27.]
but in the real consequence they draw from it these have much the
advantage. To kill men, a clear and strong light is required, and our
life is too real and essential to warrant these supernatural and
fantastic accidents.
As to drugs and poisons, I throw them out of my count, as being the
worst sort of homicides: yet even in this, 'tis said, that men are not
always to rely upon the personal confessions of these people; for they
have sometimes been known to accuse themselves of the murder of persons
who have afterwards been found living and well. In these other
extravagant accusations, I should be apt to say, that it is sufficient a
man, what recommendation soever he may have, be believed as to human
things; but of what is beyond his conception, and of supernatural
effect, he ought then only to be believed when authorised by a
supernatural approbation. The privilege it has pleased Almighty God to
give to some of our witnesses, ought not to be lightly communicated and
made cheap. I have my ears battered with a thousand such tales as these:
"Three persons saw him such a day in the east three, the next day in the
west: at such an hour, in such a place, and in such habit"; assuredly I
should not believe it myself. How much more natural and likely do I find
it that two men should lie than that one man in twelve hours' time
should fly with the wind from east to west? How much more natural that
our understanding should be carried from its place by the volubility of
our disordered minds, than that one of us should be carried by a strange
spirit upon a broomstaff, flesh and bones as we are, up the shaft of a
chimney? Let not us seek illusions from without and unknown, we who are
perpetually agitated with illusions domestic and our own. Methinks one
is pardonable in disbelieving a miracle, at least, at all events where
one can elude its verification as such, by means not miraculous; and I
am of St. Augustine's opinion, that, "'tis better to lean towards doubt
than assurance, in things hard to prove and dangerous to believe."
'Tis now some years ago that I travelled through the territories of a
sovereign prince, who, in my favour, and to abate my incredulity, did me
the honour to let me see, in his own presence, and in a private place,
ten or twelve prisoners of this kind, and amongst others, an old woman,
a real witch in foulness and deformity, who long had been famous in that
profession. I saw both proofs and free confessions, and I know not what
insensible mark upon the miserable creature: I examined and talked with
her and the rest as much and as long as I would, and gave the best and
soundest attention I could, and I am not a man to suffer my judgment to
be made captive by prepossession. In the end, and in all conscience, I
should rather have prescribed them hellebore than hemlock;
"Captisque res magis mentibus, quam consceleratis similis visa;"
["The thing was rather to be attributed to madness, than malice."
("The thing seemed to resemble minds possessed rather than guilty.")
—Livy, viii, 18.]
justice has its corrections proper for such maladies. As to the
oppositions and arguments that worthy men have made to me, both there,
and often in other places, I have met with none that have convinced me,
and that have not admitted a more likely solution than their
conclusions. It is true, indeed, that the proofs and reasons that are
founded upon experience and fact, I do not go about to untie, neither
have they any end; I often cut them, as Alexander did the Gordian knot.
After all, 'tis setting a man's conjectures at a very high price upon
them to cause a man to be roasted alive.
We are told by several examples, as Praestantius of his father, that
being more profoundly, asleep than men usually are, he fancied himself
to be a mare, and that he served the soldiers for a sumpter; and what he
fancied himself to be, he really proved. If sorcerers dream so
materially; if dreams can sometimes so incorporate themselves with
effects, still I cannot believe that therefore our will should be
accountable to justice; which I say as one who am neither judge nor
privy councillor, and who think myself by many degrees unworthy so to
be, but a man of the common sort, born and avowed to the obedience of
the public reason, both in its words and acts. He who should record my
idle talk as being to the prejudice of the pettiest law, opinion, or
custom of his parish, would do himself a great deal of wrong, and me
much more; for, in what I say, I warrant no other certainty, but that
'tis what I had then in my thought, a tumultuous and wavering thought.
All I say is by way of discourse, and nothing by way of advice:
"Nec me pudet, ut istos fateri nescire, quod nesciam;"
["Neither am I ashamed, as they are, to confess my ignorance of what
I do not know."—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., i. 25.]
I should not speak so boldly, if it were my due to be believed; and
so I told a great man, who complained of the tartness and
contentiousness of my exhortations. Perceiving you to be ready and
prepared on one part, I propose to you the other, with all the diligence
and care I can, to clear your judgment, not to compel it. God has your
hearts in His hands, and will furnish you with the means of choice. I am
not so presumptuous even as to desire that my opinions should bias
you—in a thing of so great importance: my fortune has not trained them
up to so potent and elevated conclusions. Truly, I have not only a great
many humours, but also a great many opinions, that I would endeavour to
make my son dislike, if I had one. What, if the truest are not always
the most commodious to man, being of so wild a composition?
Whether it be to the purpose or not, tis no great matter: 'tis a
common proverb in Italy, that he knows not Venus in her perfect
sweetness who has never lain with a lame mistress. Fortune, or some
particular incident, long ago put this saying into the mouths of the
people; and the same is said of men as well as of women; for the queen
of the Amazons answered the Scythian who courted her to love, "Lame men
perform best." In this feminine republic, to evade the dominion of the
males, they lamed them in their infancy—arms, legs, and other members
that gave them advantage over them, and only made use of them in that
wherein we, in these parts of the world, make use of them. I should have
been apt to think; that the shuffling pace of the lame mistress added
some new pleasure to the work, and some extraordinary titillation to
those who were at the sport; but I have lately learnt that ancient
philosophy has itself determined it, which says that the legs and thighs
of lame women, not receiving, by reason of their imperfection, their due
aliment, it falls out that the genital parts above are fuller and better
supplied and much more vigorous; or else that this defect, hindering
exercise, they who are troubled with it less dissipate their strength,
and come more entire to the sports of Venus; which also is the reason
why the Greeks decried the women-weavers as being more hot than other
women by reason of their sedentary trade, which they carry on without
any great exercise of the body. What is it we may not reason of at this
rate? I might also say of these, that the jaggling about whilst so
sitting at work, rouses and provokes their desire, as the swinging and
jolting of coaches does that of our ladies.
Do not these examples serve to make good what I said at first: that
our reasons often anticipate the effect, and have so infinite an extent
of jurisdiction that they judge and exercise themselves even on inanity
itself and non-existency? Besides the flexibility of our invention to
forge reasons of all sorts of dreams, our imagination is equally facile
to receive impressions of falsity by very frivolous appearances; for, by
the sole authority of the ancient and common use of this proverb, I have
formerly made myself believe that I have had more pleasure in a woman by
reason she was not straight, and accordingly reckoned that deformity
amongst her graces.
Torquato Tasso, in the comparison he makes betwixt France and Italy,
says that he has observed that our legs are generally smaller than those
of the Italian gentlemen, and attributes the cause of it to our being
continually on horseback; which is the very same cause from which
Suetonius draws a quite opposite conclusion; for he says, on the
contrary, that Germanicus had made his legs bigger by the continuation
of the same exercise.
Nothing is so supple and erratic as our understanding; it is the shoe
of Theramenes, fit for all feet. It is double and diverse, and the
matters are double and diverse too. "Give me a drachm of silver," said a
Cynic philosopher to Antigonus. "That is not a present befitting a
king," replied he. "Give me then a talent," said the other. "That is not
a present befitting a Cynic."
"Seu plures calor ille vias et caeca relaxat
Spiramenta, novas veniat qua succus in herbas
Seu durat magis, et venas astringit hiantes;
Ne tenues pluviae, rapidive potentia colic
Acrior, aut Boreae penetrabile frigus adurat."
["Whether the heat opens more passages and secret pores through
which the sap may be derived into the new-born herbs; or whether it
rather hardens and binds the gaping veins that the small showers and
keen influence of the violent sun or penetrating cold of Boreas may
not hurt them."—Virg., Georg., i. 89.]
"Ogni medaglia ha il suo rovescio."
["Every medal has its reverse."—Italian Proverb.]
This is the reason why Clitomachus said of old that Carneades had
outdone the labours of Hercules, in having eradicated consent from men,
that is to say, opinion and the courage of judging. This so vigorous
fancy of Carneades sprang, in my opinion, anciently from the impudence
of those who made profession of knowledge and their immeasurable
self-conceit. AEsop was set to sale with two other slaves; the buyer
asked the first of these what he could do; he, to enhance his own value,
promised mountains and marvels, saying he could do this and that, and I
know not what; the second said as much of himself or more: when it came
to AEsop's turn, and that he was also asked what he could do; "Nothing,"
said he, "for these two have taken up all before me; they know
everything." So has it happened in the school of philosophy: the pride
of those who attributed the capacity of all things to the human mind
created in others, out of despite and emulation, this opinion, that it
is capable of nothing: the one maintain the same extreme in ignorance
that the others do in knowledge; to make it undeniably manifest that man
is immoderate throughout, and can never stop but of necessity and the
want of ability to proceed further.
CHAPTER XII——OF PHYSIOGNOMY
Almost all the opinions we have are taken on authority and trust; and
'tis not amiss; we could not choose worse than by ourselves in so weak
an age. That image of Socrates' discourses, which his friends have
transmitted to us, we approve upon no other account than a reverence to
public sanction: 'tis not according to our own knowledge; they are not
after our way; if anything of the kind should spring up now, few men
would value them. We discern no graces that are not pointed and puffed
out and inflated by art; such as glide on in their own purity and
simplicity easily escape so gross a sight as ours; they have a delicate
and concealed beauty, such as requires a clear and purified sight to
discover its secret light. Is not simplicity, as we take it,
cousin-german to folly and a quality of reproach? Socrates makes his
soul move a natural and common motion: a peasant said this; a woman said
that; he has never anybody in his mouth but carters, joiners, cobblers,
and masons; his are inductions and similitudes drawn from the most
common and known actions of men; every one understands him. We should
never have recognised the nobility and splendour of his admirable
conceptions under so mean a form; we, who think all things low and flat
that are not elevated, by learned doctrine, and who discern no riches
but in pomp and show. This world of ours is only formed for ostentation:
men are only puffed up with wind, and are bandied to and fro like
tennis-balls. He proposed to himself no vain and idle fancies; his
design was to furnish us with precepts and things that more really and
fitly serve to the use of life;
"Servare modum, finemque tenere,
Naturamque sequi."
["To keep a just mean, to observe a just limit,
and to follow Nature."—Lucan, ii. 381.]
He was also always one and the same, and raised himself, not by
starts but by complexion, to the highest pitch of vigour; or, to say
better, mounted not at all, but rather brought down, reduced, and
subjected all asperities and difficulties to his original and natural
condition; for in Cato 'tis most manifest that 'tis a procedure extended
far beyond the common ways of men: in the brave exploits of his life,
and in his death, we find him always mounted upon the great horse;
whereas the other ever creeps upon the ground, and with a gentle and
ordinary pace, treats of the most useful matters, and bears himself,
both at his death and in the rudest difficulties that could present
themselves, in the ordinary way of human life.
It has fallen out well that the man most worthy to be known and to be
presented to the world for example should be he of whom we have the most
certain knowledge; he has been pried into by the most clear-sighted men
that ever were; the testimonies we have of him are admirable both in
fidelity and fulness. 'Tis a great thing that he was able so to order
the pure imaginations of a child, that, without altering or wresting
them, he thereby produced the most beautiful effects of our soul: he
presents it neither elevated nor rich; he only represents it sound, but
assuredly with a brisk and full health. By these common and natural
springs, by these ordinary and popular fancies, without being moved or
put out, he set up not only the most regular, but the most high and
vigorous beliefs, actions, and manners that ever were. 'Tis he who
brought again from heaven, where she lost her time, human wisdom, to
restore her to man with whom her most just and greatest business lies.
See him plead before his judges; observe by what reasons he rouses his
courage to the hazards of war; with what arguments he fortifies his
patience against calumny, tyranny, death, and the perverseness of his
wife: you will find nothing in all this borrowed from arts and sciences:
the simplest may there discover their own means and strength; 'tis not
possible more to retire or to creep more low. He has done human nature a
great kindness in showing it how much it can do of itself.
We are all of us richer than we think we are; but we are taught to
borrow and to beg, and brought up more to make use of what is another's
than of our own. Man can in nothing fix himself to his actual necessity:
of pleasure, wealth, and power, he grasps at more than he can hold; his
greediness is incapable of moderation. And I find that in curiosity of
knowing he is the same; he cuts himself out more work than he can do,
and more than he needs to do: extending the utility of knowledge to the
full of its matter:
"Ut omnium rerum, sic litterarum quoque, intemperantia laboramus."
["We carry intemperance into the study of literature, as well as
into everything else."—Seneca, Ep., 106.]
And Tacitus had reason to commend the mother of Agricola for having
restrained her son in his too violent appetite for learning.
Tis a good, if duly considered, which has in it, as the other goods
of men have, a great deal of vanity and weakness, proper and natural to
itself, and that costs very dear. Its acquisition is far more hazardous
than that of all other meat or drink; for, as to other things, what we
have bought we carry home in some vessel, and there have full leisure to
examine our purchase, how much we shall eat or drink of it, and when:
but sciences we can, at the very first, stow into no other vessel than
the soul; we swallow them in buying, and return from the market, either
already infected or amended: there are some that only burden and
overcharge the stomach, instead of nourishing; and, moreover, some that,
under colour of curing, poison us. I have been pleased, in places where
I have been, to see men in devotion vow ignorance as well as chastity,
poverty, and penitence: 'tis also a gelding of our unruly appetites, to
blunt this cupidity that spurs us on to the study of books, and to
deprive the soul of this voluptuous complacency that tickles us with the
opinion of knowledge: and 'tis plenarily to accomplish the vow of
poverty, to add unto it that of the mind. We need little doctrine to
live at our ease; and Socrates teaches us that this is in us, and the
way how to find it, and the manner how to use it: All our sufficiency
which exceeds the natural is well-nigh superfluous and vain: 'tis much
if it does not rather burden and cumber us than do us good:
"Paucis opus est literis ad mentem bonam:"
["Little learning is needed to form a sound mind."
—Seneca, Ep., 106.]
'tis a feverish excess of the mind; a tempestuous and unquiet
instrument. Do but recollect yourself, and you will find in yourself
natural arguments against death, true, and the fittest to serve you in
time of necessity: 'tis they that make a peasant, and whole nations, die
with as much firmness as a philosopher. Should I have died less
cheerfully before I had read Cicero's Tusculan Quastiones? I believe
not; and when I find myself at the best, I perceive that my tongue is
enriched indeed, but my courage little or nothing elevated by them; that
is just as nature framed it at first, and defends itself against the
conflict only after a natural and ordinary way. Books have not so much
served me for instruction as exercise. What if knowledge, trying to arm
us with new defences against natural inconveniences, has more imprinted
in our fancies their weight and greatness, than her reasons and
subtleties to secure us from them? They are subtleties, indeed, with
which she often alarms us to little purpose. Do but observe how many
slight and frivolous, and, if nearly examined, incorporeal arguments,
the closest and wisest authors scatter about one good one: they are but
verbal quirks and fallacies to amuse and gull us: but forasmuch as it
may be with some profit, I will sift them no further; many of that sort
are here and there dispersed up and down this book, either borrowed or
by imitation. Therefore one ought to take a little heed not to call that
force which is only a pretty knack of writing, and that solid which is
only sharp, or that good which is only fine:
"Quae magis gustata quam potata, delectant,"
["Which more delight in the tasting than in being drunk."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., v. 5.]
everything that pleases does not nourish:
"Ubi non ingenii, sed animi negotium agitur."
["Where the question is not about the wit, but about the soul."
—Seneca, Ep., 75.]
To see the trouble that Seneca gives himself to fortify himself
against death; to see him so sweat and pant to harden and encourage
himself, and bustle so long upon this perch, would have lessened his
reputation with me, had he not very bravely held himself at the last.
His so ardent and frequent agitations discover that he was in himself
impetuous and passionate,
"Magnus animus remissius loquitur, et securius . . .
non est alius ingenio, alius ammo color;"
["A great courage speaks more calmly and more securely. There is
not one complexion for the wit and another for the mind."
—Seneca, Ep. 114, 115]
he must be convinced at his own expense; and he in some sort
discovers that he was hard pressed by his enemy. Plutarch's way, by how
much it is more disdainful and farther stretched, is, in my opinion, so
much more manly and persuasive: and I am apt to believe that his soul
had more assured and more regular motions. The one more sharp, pricks
and makes us start, and more touches the soul; the other more constantly
solid, forms, establishes, and supports us, and more touches the
understanding. That ravishes the judgment, this wins it. I have likewise
seen other writings, yet more reverenced than these, that in the
representation of the conflict they maintain against the temptations of
the flesh, paint them, so sharp, so powerful and invincible, that we
ourselves, who are of the common herd, are as much to wonder at the
strangeness and unknown force of their temptation, as at the resisting
it.
To what end do we so arm ourselves with this harness of science? Let
us look down upon the poor people that we see scattered upon the face of
the earth, prone and intent upon their business, that neither know
Aristotle nor Cato, example nor precept; from these nature every day
extracts effects of constancy and patience, more pure and manly than
those we so inquisitively study in the schools: how many do I ordinarily
see who slight poverty? how many who desire to die, or who die without
alarm or regret? He who is now digging in my garden, has this morning
buried his father or his son. The very names by which they call diseases
sweeten and mollify the sharpness of them: the phthisic is with them no
more than a cough, dysentery but a looseness, the pleurisy but a stitch;
and, as they gently name them, so they patiently endure them; they are
very great and grievous indeed when they hinder their ordinary labour;
they never keep their beds but to die:
"Simplex illa et aperta virtus in obscuram et solertem
scientiam versa est."
["That overt and simple virtue is converted into an obscure and
subtle science."—Seneca, Ep., 95.]
I was writing this about the time when a great load of our intestine
troubles for several months lay with all its weight upon me; I had the
enemy at my door on one side, and the freebooters, worse enemies, on the
other,
"Non armis, sed vitiis, certatur;"
["The fight is not with arms, but with vices."—Seneca, Ep. 95.]
and underwent all sorts of military injuries at once:
"Hostis adest dextra laevaque a parte timendus.
Vicinoque malo terret utrumque latus."
["Right and left a formidable enemy is to be feared, and threatens
me on both sides with impending danger."—Ovid, De Ponto, i. 3, 57.]
A monstrous war! Other wars are bent against strangers, this against
itself, destroying itself with its own poison. It is of so malignant and
ruinous a nature, that it ruins itself with the rest; and with its own
rage mangles and tears itself to pieces. We more often see it dissolve
of itself than through scarcity of any necessary thing or by force of
the enemy. All discipline evades it; it comes to compose sedition, and
is itself full of it; would chastise disobedience, and itself is the
example; and, employed for the defence of the laws, rebels against its
own. What a condition are we in! Our physic makes us sick!
"Nostre mal s'empoisonne
Du secours qu'on luy donne."
"Exuperat magis, aegrescitque medendo."
["Our disease is poisoned with its very remedies"—AEnead, xii. 46.]
"Omnia fanda, nefanda, malo permista furore,
Justificam nobis mentem avertere deorum."
["Right and wrong, all shuffled together in this wicked fury, have
deprived us of the gods' protection."
—Catullus, De Nuptiis Pelei et Thetidos, V. 405.]
In the beginning of these popular maladies, one may distinguish the
sound from the sick; but when they come to continue, as ours have done,
the whole body is then infected from head to foot; no part is free from
corruption, for there is no air that men so greedily draw in that
diffuses itself so soon and that penetrates so deep as that of licence.
Our armies only subsist and are kept together by the cement of
foreigners; for of Frenchmen there is now no constant and regular army
to be made. What a shame it is! there is no longer any discipline but
what we see in the mercenary soldiers. As to ourselves, our conduct is
at discretion, and that not of the chief, but every one at his own. The
general has a harder game to play within than he has without; he it is
who has to follow, to court the soldiers, to give way to them; he alone
has to obey: all the rest if disolution and free licence. It pleases me
to observe how much pusillanimity and cowardice there is in ambition; by
how abject and servile ways it must arrive at its end; but it displeases
me to see good and generous natures, and that are capable of justice,
every day corrupted in the management and command of this confusion.
Long toleration begets habit; habit, consent and imitation. We had
ill-formed souls enough, without spoiling those that were generous and
good; so that, if we hold on, there will scarcely remain any with whom
to intrust the health of this State of ours, in case fortune chance to
restore it:
"Hunc saltem everso juvenem succurrere seclo,
Ne prohibete."
["Forbid not, at least, that this young man repair this ruined age."
—Virgil, Georg., i. 500. Montaigne probably refers to Henry, king
of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV.]
What has become of the old precept, "That soldiers ought more to fear
their chief than the enemy"?—[Valerius Maximus, Ext. 2.]—and of that
wonderful example, that an orchard being enclosed within the precincts
of a camp of the Roman army, was seen at their dislodgment the next day
in the same condition, not an apple, though ripe and delicious, being
pulled off, but all left to the possessor? I could wish that our youth,
instead of the time they spend in less fruitful travels and less
honourable employments, would bestow one half of that time in being an
eye-witness of naval exploits, under some good captain of Rhodes, and
the other half in observing the discipline of the Turkish armies; for
they have many differences and advantages over ours; one of these is,
that our soldiers become more licentious in expeditions, theirs more
temperate and circumspect; for the thefts and insolencies committed upon
the common people, which are only punished with a cudgel in peace, are
capital in war; for an egg taken by a Turkish soldier without paying for
it, fifty blows with a stick is the fixed rate; for anything else, of
what sort or how trivial soever, not necessary to nourishment, they are
presently impaled or beheaded without mercy. I am astonished, in the
history of Selim, the most cruel conqueror that ever was, to see that
when he subdued Egypt, the beautiful gardens about Damascus being all
open, and in a conquered land, and his army encamped upon the very
place, should be left untouched by the hands of the soldiers, by reason
they had not received the signal of pillage.
But is there any disease in a government that it is worth while to
physic with such a mortal drug?—[i.e. as civil war.]—No, said Favonius,
not even the tyrannical usurpation of a Commonwealth. Plato, likewise,
will not consent that a man should violate the peace of his country in
order to cure it, and by no means approves of a reformation that
disturbs and hazards all, and that is to be purchased at the price of
the citizens' blood and ruin; determining it to be the duty of a good
patriot in such a case to let it alone, and only to pray to God for his
extraordinary assistance: and he seems to be angry with his great friend
Dion, for having proceeded somewhat after another manner. I was a
Platonist in this point before I knew there had ever been such a man as
Plato in the world. And if this person ought absolutely to be rejected
from our society (he who by the sincerity of his conscience merited from
the divine favour to penetrate so far into the Christian light, through
the universal darkness wherein the world was involved in his time), I do
not think it becomes us to suffer ourselves to be instructed by a
heathen, how great an impiety it is not to expect from God any relief
simply his own and without our co-operation. I often doubt, whether
amongst so many men as meddle in such affairs, there is not to be found
some one of so weak understanding as to have been really persuaded that
he went towards reformation by the worst of deformations; and advanced
towards salvation by the most express causes that we have of most
assured damnation; that by overthrowing government, the magistracy, and
the laws, in whose protection God has placed him, by dismembering his
good mother, and giving her limbs to be mangled by her old enemies,
filling fraternal hearts with parricidal hatreds, calling devils and
furies to his aid, he can assist the most holy sweetness and justice of
the divine law. Ambition, avarice, cruelty, and revenge have not
sufficient natural impetuosity of their own; let us bait them with the
glorious titles of justice and devotion. There cannot a worse state of
things be imagined than where wickedness comes to be legitimate, and
assumes, with the magistrates' permission, the cloak of virtue:
"Nihil in speciem fallacius, quam prava religio,
ubi deorum numen prxtenditur sceleribus."
["Nothing has a more deceiving face than false religion, where the
divinity of the gods is obscured by crimes."—Livy, xxxix. 16.]
The extremest sort of injustice, according to Plato, is where that
which is unjust should be reputed for just.
The common people then suffered very much, and not present damage
only:
"Undique totis
Usque adeo turbatur agris,"
["Such great disorders overtake our fields on every side."
—Virgil, Eclog., i. II.]
but future too; the living were to suffer, and so were they who were
yet unborn; they stript them, and consequently myself, even of hope,
taking from them all they had laid up in store to live on for many
years:
"Quae nequeunt secum ferre aut abducere, perdunt;
Et cremat insontes turba scelesta casas . . .
Muris nulla fides, squalent populatibus agri."
["What they cannot bear away, they spoil; and the wicked mob burn
harmless houses; walls cannot secure their masters, and the fields
are squalid with devastation."
—Ovid, Trist., iii. 10, 35; Claudianus, In Eutyop., i. 244.]
Besides this shock, I suffered others: I underwent the inconveniences
that moderation brings along with it in such a disease: I was robbed on
all hands; to the Ghibelline I was a Guelph, and to the Guelph a
Ghibelline; one of my poets expresses this very well, but I know not
where it is.
["So Tories called me Whig, and Whigs a Tory."—Pope, after Horace.]
The situation of my house, and my friendliness with my neighbours,
presented me with one face; my life and my actions with another. They
did not lay formal accusations to my charge, for they had no foundation
for so doing; I never hide my head from the laws, and whoever would have
questioned me, would have done himself a greater prejudice than me; they
were only mute suspicions that were whispered about, which never want
appearance in so confused a mixture, no more than envious or idle heads.
I commonly myself lend a hand to injurious presumptions that fortune
scatters abroad against me, by a way I have ever had of evading to
justify, excuse, or explain myself; conceiving that it were to
compromise my conscience to plead in its behalf:
"Perspicuitas enim argumentatione elevatur;"
["For perspicuity is lessened by argument."
("The clearness of a cause is clouded by argumentation.")
—Cicero, De Nat. Deor., iii. 4.]
and, as if every one saw as clearly into me as I do myself, instead
of retiring from an accusation, I step up to meet it, and rather give it
some kind of colour by an ironical and scoffing confession, if I do not
sit totally mute, as of a thing not worth my answer. But such as look
upon this kind of behaviour of mine as too haughty a confidence, have as
little kindness for me as they who interpret the weakness of an
indefensible cause; namely, the great folks, towards whom want of
submission is the great fault, harsh towards all justice that knows and
feels itself, and is not submissive humble, and suppliant; I have often
knocked my head against this pillar. So it is that at what then befell
me, an ambitious man would have hanged himself, and a covetous man would
have done the same. I have no manner of care of getting;
"Si mihi, quod nunc est, etiam minus; et mihi vivam
Quod superest aevi, si quid superesse volent dii:"
["If I may have what I now own, or even less, and may live for
myself what of life remains, if the gods grant me remaining years."
—Horace, Ep., i. 18, 107.]
but the losses that befall me by the injury of others, whether by
theft or violence, go almost as near my heart as they would to that of
the most avaricious man. The offence troubles me, without comparison,
more than the loss. A thousand several sorts of mischiefs fell upon me
in the neck of one another; I could more cheerfully have borne them all
at once.
I was already considering to whom, amongst my friends, I might commit
a necessitous and discredited old age; and having turned my eyes quite
round, I found myself bare. To let one's self fall plump down, and from
so great a height, it ought to be in the arms of a solid, vigorous, and
fortunate friendship: these are very rare, if there be any. At last, I
saw that it was safest for me to trust to myself in my necessity; and if
it should so fall out, that I should be but upon cold terms in Fortune's
favour, I should so much the more pressingly recommend me to my own, and
attach myself and look to myself all the more closely. Men on all
occasions throw themselves upon foreign assistance to spare their own,
which is alone certain and sufficient to him who knows how therewith to
arm himself. Every one runs elsewhere, and to the future, forasmuch as
no one is arrived at himself. And I was satisfied that they were
profitable inconveniences; forasmuch as, first, ill scholars are to be
admonished with the rod, when reason will not do, as a crooked piece of
wood is by fire and straining reduced to straightness. I have a great
while preached to myself to stick close to my own concerns, and separate
myself from the affairs of others; yet I am still turning my eyes aside.
A bow, a favourable word, a kind look from a great person tempts me; of
which God knows if there is scarcity in these days, and what they
signify. I, moreover, without wrinkling my forehead, hearken to the
persuasions offered me, to draw me into the marketplace, and so gently
refuse, as if I were half willing to be overcome. Now for so indocile a
spirit blows are required; this vessel which thus chops and cleaves, and
is ready to fall one piece from another, must have the hoops forced down
with good sound strokes of a mallet. Secondly, that this accident served
me for exercise to prepare me for worse, if I, who both by the benefit
of fortune, and by the condition of my manners, hoped to be among the
last, should happen to be one of the first assailed by this storm;
instructing myself betimes to constrain my life, and fit it for a new
state. The true liberty is to be able to do what a man will with
himself:
"Potentissimus est, qui se habet in potestate."
["He is most potent who is master of himself."—Seneca, Ep., 94.]
In an ordinary and quiet time, a man prepares himself for moderate
and common accidents; but in the confusion wherein we have been for
these thirty years, every Frenchman, whether personal or in general,
sees himself every hour upon the point of the total ruin and overthrow
of his fortune: by so much the more ought he to have his courage
supplied with the strongest and most vigorous provisions. Let us thank
fortune, that has not made us live in an effeminate, idle, and
languishing age; some who could never have been so by other means will
be made famous by their misfortunes. As I seldom read in histories the
confusions of other states without regret that I was not present, the
better to consider them, so does my curiosity make me in some sort
please myself in seeing with my own eyes this notable spectacle of our
public death, its form and symptoms; and since I cannot hinder it, I am
content to have been destined to be present therein, and thereby to
instruct myself. So do we eagerly covet to see, though but in shadow and
the fables of theatres, the pomp of tragic representations of human
fortune; 'tis not without compassion at what we hear, but we please
ourselves in rousing our displeasure, by the rarity of these pitiable
events. Nothing tickles that does not pinch. And good historians skip
over, as stagnant water and dead sea, calm narrations, to return to
seditions, to wars, to which they know that we invite them.
I question whether I can decently confess with how small a sacrifice
of its repose and tranquillity I have passed over above the one half of
my life amid the ruin of my country. I lend myself my patience somewhat
too cheap, in accidents that do not privately assail me; and do not so
much regard what they take from me, as what remains safe, both within
and without. There is comfort in evading, one while this, another while
that, of the evils that are levelled at ourselves too, at last, but at
present hurt others only about us; as also, that in matters of public
interest, the more universally my affection is dispersed, the weaker it
is: to which may be added, that it is half true:
"Tantum ex publicis malis sentimus,
quantum ad privatas res pertinet;"
["We are only so far sensible of public evils as they respect our
private affairs."—Livy, xxx. 44.]
and that the health from which we fell was so ill, that itself
relieves the regret we should have for it. It was health, but only in
comparison with the sickness that has succeeded it: we are not fallen
from any great height; the corruption and brigandage which are in
dignity and office seem to me the least supportable: we are less
injuriously rifled in a wood than in a place of security. It was an
universal juncture of particular members, each corrupted by emulation of
the others, and most of them with old ulcers, that neither received nor
required any cure. This convulsion, therefore, really more animated than
pressed me, by the assistance of my conscience, which was not only at
peace within itself, but elevated, and I did not find any reason to
complain of myself. Also, as God never sends evils, any more than goods,
absolutely pure to men, my health continued at that time more than
usually good; and, as I can do nothing without it, there are few things
that I cannot do with it. It afforded me means to rouse up all my
faculties, and to lay my hand before the wound that would else,
peradventure, have gone farther; and I experienced, in my patience, that
I had some stand against fortune, and that it must be a great shock
could throw me out of the saddle. I do not say this to provoke her to
give me a more vigorous charge: I am her humble servant, and submit to
her pleasure: let her be content, in God's name. Am I sensible of her
assaults? Yes, I am. But, as those who are possessed and oppressed with
sorrow sometimes suffer themselves, nevertheless, by intervals to taste
a little pleasure, and are sometimes surprised with a smile, so have I
so much power over myself, as to make my ordinary condition quiet and
free from disturbing thoughts; yet I suffer myself, withal, by fits to
be surprised with the stings of those unpleasing imaginations that
assault me, whilst I am arming myself to drive them away, or at least to
wrestle with them.
But behold another aggravation of the evil which befell me in the
tail of the rest: both without doors and within I was assailed with a
most violent plague, violent in comparison of all others; for as sound
bodies are subject to more grievous maladies, forasmuch as they, are not
to be forced but by such, so my very healthful air, where no contagion,
however near, in the memory of man, ever took footing, coming to be
corrupted, produced strange effects:
"Mista senum et juvenum densentur funera; nullum
Saeva caput Proserpina fugit;"
["Old and young die in mixed heaps. Cruel Proserpine forbears
none."—Horace, Od., i. 28, 19.]
I had to suffer this pleasant condition, that the sight of my house,
was frightful to me; whatever I had there was without guard, and left to
the mercy of any one who wished to take it. I myself, who am so
hospitable, was in very great distress for a retreat for my family; a
distracted family, frightful both to its friends and itself, and filling
every place with horror where it attempted to settle, having to shift
its abode so soon as any one's finger began but to ache; all diseases
are then concluded to be the plague, and people do not stay to examine
whether they are so or no. And the mischief on't is that, according to
the rules of art, in every danger that a man comes near, he must undergo
a quarantine in fear of the evil, your imagination all the while
tormenting you at pleasure, and turning even your health itself into a
fever. Yet all this would have much less affected me had I not withal
been compelled to be sensible of the sufferings of others, and miserably
to serve six months together for a guide to this caravan; for I carry my
own antidotes within myself, which are resolution and patience.
Apprehension, which is particularly feared in this disease, does not
much trouble me; and, if being alone, I should have been taken, it had
been a less cheerless and more remote departure; 'tis a kind of death
that I do not think of the worst sort; 'tis commonly short, stupid,
without pain, and consoled by the public condition; without ceremony,
without mourning, without a crowd. But as to the people about us, the
hundredth part of them could not be saved:
"Videas desertaque regna
Pastorum, et longe saltus lateque vacantes."
["You would see shepherds' haunts deserted, and far and wide empty
pastures."—Virgil, Georg., iii. 476.]
In this place my largest revenue is manual: what an hundred men
ploughed for me, lay a long time fallow.
But then, what example of resolution did we not see in the simplicity
of all this people? Generally, every one renounced all care of life; the
grapes, the principal wealth of the country, remained untouched upon the
vines; every man indifferently prepared for and expected death, either
to-night or to-morrow, with a countenance and voice so far from fear, as
if they had come to terms with this necessity, and that it was an
universal and inevitable sentence. 'Tis always such; but how slender
hold has the resolution of dying? The distance and difference of a few
hours, the sole consideration of company, renders its apprehension
various to us. Observe these people; by reason that they die in the same
month, children, young people, and old, they are no longer astonished at
it; they no longer lament. I saw some who were afraid of staying behind,
as in a dreadful solitude; and I did not commonly observe any other
solicitude amongst them than that of sepulture; they were troubled to
see the dead bodies scattered about the fields, at the mercy of the wild
beasts that presently flocked thither. How differing are the fancies of
men; the Neorites, a nation subjected by Alexander, threw the bodies of
their dead into the deepest and less frequented part of their woods, on
purpose to have them there eaten; the only sepulture reputed happy
amongst them. Some, who were yet in health, dug their own graves; others
laid themselves down in them whilst alive; and a labourer of mine, in
dying, with his hands and feet pulled the earth upon him. Was not this
to nestle and settle himself to sleep at greater ease? A bravery in some
sort like that of the Roman soldiers who, after the battle of Cannae,
were found with their heads thrust into holes in the earth, which they
had made, and in suffocating themselves, with their own hands pulled the
earth about their ears. In short, a whole province was, by the common
usage, at once brought to a course nothing inferior in undauntedness to
the most studied and premeditated resolution.
Most of the instructions of science to encourage us herein have in
them more of show than of force, and more of ornament than of effect. We
have abandoned Nature, and will teach her what to do; teach her who so
happily and so securely conducted us; and in the meantime, from the
footsteps of her instruction, and that little which, by the benefit of
ignorance, remains of her image imprinted in the life of this rustic
rout of unpolished men, science is constrained every day to borrow
patterns for her disciples of constancy, tranquillity, and innocence. It
is pretty to see that these persons, full of so much fine knowledge,
have to imitate this foolish simplicity, and this in the primary actions
of virtue; and that our wisdom must learn even from beasts the most
profitable instructions in the greatest and most necessary concerns of
our life; as, how we are to live and die, manage our property, love and
bring up our children, maintain justice: a singular testimony of human
infirmity; and that this reason we so handle at our pleasure, finding
evermore some diversity and novelty, leaves in us no apparent trace of
nature. Men have done with nature as perfumers with oils; they have
sophisticated her with so many argumentations and far-fetched
discourses, that she is become variable and particular to each, and has
lost her proper, constant, and universal face; so that we must seek
testimony from beasts, not subject to favour, corruption, or diversity
of opinions. It is, indeed, true that even these themselves do not
always go exactly in the path of nature, but wherein they swerve, it is
so little that you may always see the track; as horses that are led make
many bounds and curvets, but 'tis always at the length of the halter,
and still follow him that leads them; and as a young hawk takes its
flight, but still under the restraint of its tether:
"Exsilia, torments, bells, morbos, naufragia meditare . . .
ut nullo sis malo tiro."
["To meditate upon banishments, tortures, wars, diseases, and
shipwrecks, that thou mayest not be a novice in any disaster."
—Seneca, Ep., 91, 107.]
What good will this curiosity do us, to anticipate all the
inconveniences of human nature, and to prepare ourselves with so much
trouble against things which, peradventure, will never befall us?
"Parem passis tristitiam facit, pati posse;"
["It troubles men as much that they may possibly suffer,
as if they really did suffer."—Idem, ibid., 74.]
not only the blow, but the wind of the blow strikes us: or, like
phrenetic people—for certainly it is a phrensy—to go immediately and
whip yourself, because it may so fall out that Fortune may one day make
you undergo it; and to put on your furred gown at Midsummer, because you
will stand in need of it at Christmas! Throw yourselves, say they, into
the experience of all the evils, the most extreme evils that can
possibly befall you, and so be assured of them. On the contrary, the
most easy and most natural way would be to banish even the thoughts of
them; they will not come soon enough; their true being will not continue
with us long enough; our mind must lengthen and extend them; we must
incorporate them in us beforehand, and there entertain them, as if they
would not otherwise sufficiently press upon our senses. "We shall find
them heavy enough when they come," says one of our masters, of none of
the tender sects, but of the most severe; "in the meantime, favour
thyself; believe what pleases thee best; what good will it do thee to
anticipate thy ill fortune, to lose the present for fear of the future:
and to make thyself miserable now, because thou art to be so in time?"
These are his words. Science, indeed, does us one good office in
instructing us exactly as to the dimensions of evils,
"Curis acuens mortalia corda!"
["Probing mortal hearts with cares."—Virgil, Georg., i. 23.]
'Twere pity that any part of their greatness should escape our sense
and knowledge.
'Tis certain that for the most part the preparation for death has
administered more torment than the thing itself. It was of old truly
said, and by a very judicious author:
"Minus afficit sensus fatigatio, quam cogitatio."
["Suffering itself less afflicts the senses than the apprehension
of suffering."—Quintilian, Inst. Orat., i. 12.]
The sentiment of present death sometimes, of itself, animates us with
a prompt resolution not to avoid a thing that is utterly inevitable:
many gladiators have been seen in the olden time, who, after having
fought timorously and ill, have courageously entertained death, offering
their throats to the enemies' sword and bidding them despatch. The sight
of future death requires a courage that is slow, and consequently hard
to be got. If you know not how to die, never trouble yourself; nature
will, at the time, fully and sufficiently instruct you: she will exactly
do that business for you; take you no care—
"Incertam frustra, mortales, funeris horam,
Quaeritis et qua sit mors aditura via....
Poena minor certam subito perferre ruinam;
Quod timeas, gravius sustinuisse diu."
["Mortals, in vain you seek to know the uncertain hour of death,
and by what channel it will come upon you."—Propertius, ii. 27, 1.
"'Tis less painful to undergo sudden destruction; 'tis hard to bear
that which you long fear."—Incert. Auct.]
We trouble life by the care of death, and death by the care of life:
the one torments, the other frights us. It is not against death that we
prepare, that is too momentary a thing; a quarter of an hour's
suffering, without consequence and without damage, does not deserve
especial precepts: to say the truth, we prepare ourselves against the
preparations of death. Philosophy ordains that we should always have
death before our eyes, to see and consider it before the time, and then
gives us rules and precautions to provide that this foresight and
thought do us no harm; just so do physicians, who throw us into
diseases, to the end they may have whereon to employ their drugs and
their art. If we have not known how to live, 'tis injustice to teach us
how to die, and make the end difform from all the rest; if we have known
how to live firmly and quietly, we shall know how to die so too. They
may boast as much as they please:
"Tota philosophorum vita commentatio mortis est;"
["The whole life of philosophers is the meditation of death."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 30.]
but I fancy that, though it be the end, it is not the aim of life;
'tis its end, its extremity, but not, nevertheless, its object; it ought
itself to be its own aim and design; its true study is to order, govern,
and suffer itself. In the number of several other offices, that the
general and principal chapter of Knowing how to live comprehends, is
this article of Knowing how to die; and, did not our fears give it
weight, one of the lightest too.
To judge of them by utility and by the naked truth, the lessons of
simplicity are not much inferior to those which learning teaches us:
nay, quite the contrary. Men differ in sentiment and force; we must lead
them to their own good according to their capacities and by various
ways:
"Quo me comque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes."
["Wherever the season takes me,(where the tempest drives me)
there I am carried as a guest."—Horace, Ep., i. i, 15.]
I never saw any peasant among my neighbours cogitate with what
countenance and assurance he should pass over his last hour; nature
teaches him not to think of death till he is dying; and then he does it
with a better grace than Aristotle, upon whom death presses with a
double weight, both of itself and from so long a premeditation; and,
therefore, it was the opinion of Caesar, that the least premeditated
death was the easiest and the most happy:
"Plus dolet quam necesse est, qui ante dolet, quam necesse est."
["He grieves more than is necessary, who grieves before it is
necessary."—Seneca, Ep., 98.]
The sharpness of this imagination springs from our curiosity: 'tis
thus we ever impede ourselves, desiring to anticipate and regulate
natural prescripts. It is only for the doctors to dine worse for it,
when in the best health, and to frown at the image of death; the common
sort stand in need of no remedy or consolation, but just in the shock,
and when the blow comes; and consider on't no more than just what they
endure. Is it not then, as we say, that the stolidity and want of
apprehension in the vulgar give them that patience m present evils, and
that profound carelessness of future sinister accidents? That their
souls, in being more gross and dull, are less penetrable and not so
easily moved? If it be so, let us henceforth, in God's name, teach
nothing but ignorance; 'tis the utmost fruit the sciences promise us, to
which this stolidity so gently leads its disciples.
We have no want of good masters, interpreters of natural simplicity.
Socrates shall be one; for, as I remember, he speaks something to this
purpose to the judges who sat upon his life and death.
[That which follows is taken from the Apology of Socrates in Plato,
chap. 17, &c.]
"I am afraid, my masters, that if I entreat you not to put me to
death, I shall confirm the charge of my accusers, which is, that I
pretend to be wiser than others, as having some more secret knowledge of
things that are above and below us. I have neither frequented nor known
death, nor have ever seen any person that has tried its qualities, from
whom to inform myself. Such as fear it, presuppose they know it; as for
my part, I neither know what it is, nor what they do in the other world.
Death is, peradventure, an indifferent thing; peradventure, a thing to
be desired. 'Tis nevertheless to be believed, if it be a transmigration
from one place to another, that it is a bettering of one's condition to
go and live with so many great persons deceased, and to be exempt from
having any more to do with unjust and corrupt judges; if it be an
annihilation of our being, 'tis yet a bettering of one's condition to
enter into a long and peaceable night; we find nothing more sweet in
life than quiet repose and a profound sleep without dreams. The things
that I know to be evil, as to injure one's neighbour and to disobey
one's superior, whether it be God or man, I carefully avoid; such as I
do not know whether they be good or evil, I cannot fear them. If I am to
die and leave you alive, the gods alone only know whether it will go
better with you or with me. Wherefore, as to what concerns me, you may
do as you shall think fit. But according to my method of advising just
and profitable things, I say that you will do your consciences more
right to set me at liberty, unless you see further into my cause than I
do; and, judging according to my past actions, both public and private,
according to my intentions, and according to the profit that so many of
our citizens, both young and old, daily extract from my conversation,
and the fruit that you all reap from me, you cannot more duly acquit
yourselves towards my merit than in ordering that, my poverty
considered, I should be maintained at the Prytanaeum, at the public
expense, a thing that I have often known you, with less reason, grant to
others. Do not impute it to obstinacy or disdain that I do not,
according to the custom, supplicate and go about to move you to
commiseration. I have both friends and kindred, not being, as Homer
says, begotten of wood or of stone, no more than others, who might well
present themselves before you with tears and mourning, and I have three
desolate children with whom to move you to compassion; but I should do a
shame to our city at the age I am, and in the reputation of wisdom which
is now charged against me, to appear in such an abject form. What would
men say of the other Athenians? I have always admonished those who have
frequented my lectures, not to redeem their lives by an unbecoming
action; and in the wars of my country, at Amphipolis, Potidea, Delia,
and other expeditions where I have been, I have effectually manifested
how far I was from securing my safety by my shame. I should, moreover,
compromise your duty, and should invite you to unbecoming things; for
'tis not for my prayers to persuade you, but for the pure and solid
reasons of justice. You have sworn to the gods to keep yourselves
upright; and it would seem as if I suspected you, or would recriminate
upon you that I do not believe that you are so; and I should testify
against myself, not to believe them as I ought, mistrusting their
conduct, and not purely committing my affair into their hands. I wholly
rely upon them; and hold myself assured they will do in this what shall
be most fit both for you and for me: good men, whether living or dead,
have no reason to fear the gods."
Is not this an innocent child's pleading of an unimaginable
loftiness, true, frank, and just, unexampled?—and in what a necessity
employed! Truly, he had very good reason to prefer it before that which
the great orator Lysias had penned for him: admirably couched, indeed,
in the judiciary style, but unworthy of so noble a criminal. Had a
suppliant voice been heard out of the mouth of Socrates, that lofty
virtue had struck sail in the height of its glory; and ought his rich
and powerful nature to have committed her defence to art, and, in her
highest proof, have renounced truth and simplicity, the ornaments of his
speaking, to adorn and deck herself with the embellishments of figures
and the flourishes of a premeditated speech? He did very wisely, and
like himself, not to corrupt the tenor of an incorrupt life, and so
sacred an image of the human form, to spin out his decrepitude another
year, and to betray the immortal memory of that glorious end. He owed
his life not to himself, but to the example of the world; had it not
been a public damage, that he should have concluded it after a lazy and
obscure manner? Assuredly, that careless and indifferent consideration
of his death deserved that posterity should consider it so much the
more, as indeed they did; and there is nothing so just in justice than
that which fortune ordained for his recommendation; for the Athenians
abominated all those who had been causers of his death to such a degree,
that they avoided them as excommunicated persons, and looked upon
everything as polluted that had been touched by them; no one would wash
with them in the public baths, none would salute or own acquaintance
with them: so that, at last, unable longer to support this public
hatred, they hanged themselves.
If any one shall think that, amongst so many other examples that I
had to choose out of in the sayings of Socrates for my present purpose,
I have made an ill choice of this, and shall judge this discourse of his
elevated above common conceptions, I must tell them that I have properly
selected it; for I am of another opinion, and hold it to be a discourse,
in rank and simplicity, much below and behind common conceptions. He
represents, in an inartificial boldness and infantine security, the pure
and first impression and ignorance of nature; for it is to be believed
that we have naturally a fear of pain, but not of death, by reason of
itself; 'tis a part of our being, and no less essential than living.
To what end should nature have begotten in us a hatred to it and a
horror of it, considering that it is of so great utility to her in
maintaining the succession and vicissitude of her works? and that in
this universal republic, it conduces more to birth and augmentation than
to loss or ruin?
"Sic rerum summa novatur."
"Mille animas una necata dedit."
"The failing of one life is the passage to a thousand other lives."
Nature has imprinted in beasts the care of themselves and of their
conservation; they proceed so far as hitting or hurting to be timorous
of being worse, of themselves, of our haltering and beating them,
accidents subject to their sense and experience; but that we should kill
them, they cannot fear, nor have they the faculty to imagine and
conclude such a thing as death; it is said, indeed, that we see them not
only cheerfully undergo it, horses for the most part neighing and swans
singing when they die, but, moreover, seek it at need, of which
elephants have given many examples.
Besides, the method of arguing, of which Socrates here makes use, is
it not equally admirable both in simplicity and vehemence? Truly it is
much more easy to speak like Aristotle and to live like Caesar than to
speak and live as Socrates did; there lies the extreme degree of
perfection and difficulty; art cannot reach it. Now, our faculties are
not so trained up; we do not try, we do not know them; we invest
ourselves with those of others, and let our own lie idle; as some one
may say of me, that I have here only made a nosegay of foreign flowers,
having furnished nothing of my own but the thread to tie them.
Certainly I have so far yielded to public opinion, that those
borrowed ornaments accompany me; but I do not mean that they shall cover
me and hide me; that is quite contrary to my design, who desire to make
a show of nothing but what is my own, and what is my own by nature; and
had I taken my own advice, I had at all hazards spoken purely alone, I
more and more load myself every day,
[In fact, the first edition of the Essays (Bordeaux, 1580) has very
few quotations. These became more numerous in the edition of 1588;
but the multitude of classical texts which at times encumber
Montaigne's text, only dates from the posthumous edition of 1595, he
had made these collections in the four last years of his life, as an
amusement of his "idleness."—Le Clerc. They grow, however, more
sparing in the Third Book.]
beyond my purpose and first method, upon the account of idleness and
the humour of the age. If it misbecome me, as I believe it does, 'tis no
matter; it may be of use to some others. Such there are who quote Plato
and Homer, who never saw either of them; and I also have taken things
out of places far enough distant from their source. Without pains and
without learning, having a thousand volumes about me in the place where
I write, I can presently borrow, if I please, from a dozen such
scrap-gatherers, people about whom I do not much trouble myself,
wherewith to trick up this treatise of Physiognomy; there needs no more
but a preliminary epistle of a German to stuff me with quotations. And
so it is we go in quest of a tickling story to cheat the foolish world.
These lumber pies of commonplaces, wherewith so many furnish their
studies, are of little use but to common subjects, and serve but to show
us, and not to direct us: a ridiculous fruit of learning, that Socrates
so pleasantly discusses against Euthydemus. I have seen books made of
things that were never either studied or understood; the author
committing to several of his learned friends the examination of this and
t'other matter to compile it, contenting himself, for his share, with
having projected the design, and by his industry to have tied together
this faggot of unknown provisions; the ink and paper, at least, are his.
This is to buy or borrow a book, and not to make one; 'tis to show men
not that he can make a book, but that, whereof they may be in doubt, he
cannot make one. A president, where I was, boasted that he had amassed
together two hundred and odd commonplaces in one of his judgments; in
telling which, he deprived himself of the glory he had got by it: in my
opinion, a pusillanimous and absurd vanity for such a subject and such a
person. I do the contrary; and amongst so many borrowed things, am glad
if I can steal one, disguising and altering it for some new service; at
the hazard of having it said that 'tis for want of understanding its
natural use; I give it some particular touch of my own hand, to the end
it may not be so absolutely foreign. These set their thefts in show and
value themselves upon them, and so have more credit with the laws than I
have: we naturalists I think that there is a great and incomparable
preference in the honour of invention over that of allegation.
If I would have spoken by learning, I had spoken sooner; I had
written of the time nearer to my studies, when I had more wit and better
memory, and should sooner have trusted to the vigour of that age than of
this, would I have made a business of writing. And what if this gracious
favour —[His acquaintance with Mademoiselle de Gournay.]—which Fortune
has lately offered me upon the account of this work, had befallen me in
that time of my life, instead of this, wherein 'tis equally desirable to
possess, soon to be lost! Two of my acquaintance, great men in this
faculty, have, in my opinion, lost half, in refusing to publish at forty
years old, that they might stay till threescore. Maturity has its
defects as well as green years, and worse; and old age is as unfit for
this kind of business as any other. He who commits his decrepitude to
the press plays the fool if he think to squeeze anything out thence that
does not relish of dreaming, dotage, and drivelling; the mind grows
costive and thick in growing old. I deliver my ignorance in pomp and
state, and my learning meagrely and poorly; this accidentally and
accessorily, that principally and expressly; and write specifically of
nothing but nothing, nor of any science but of that inscience. I have
chosen a time when my life, which I am to give an account of, lies
wholly before me; what remains has more to do with death; and of my
death itself, should I find it a prating death, as others do, I would
willingly give an account at my departure.
Socrates was a perfect exemplar in all great qualities, and I am
vexed that he had so deformed a face and body as is said, and so
unsuitable to the beauty of his soul, himself being so amorous and such
an admirer of beauty: Nature did him wrong. There is nothing more
probable than the conformity and relation of the body to the soul:
"Ipsi animi magni refert, quali in corpore locati sint: multo enim a
corpore existunt, qux acuant mentem: multa qua obtundant;"
["It is of great consequence in what bodies minds are placed, for
many things spring from the body that may sharpen the mind, and many
that may blunt it."—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., i. 33.]
this refers to an unnatural ugliness and deformity of limbs; but we
call ugliness also an unseemliness at first sight, which is principally
lodged in the face, and disgusts us on very slight grounds: by the
complexion, a spot, a rugged countenance, for some reasons often wholly
inexplicable, in members nevertheless of good symmetry and perfect. The
deformity, that clothed a very beautiful soul in La Boetie, was of this
predicament: that superficial ugliness, which nevertheless is always the
most imperious, is of least prejudice to the state of the mind, and of
little certainty in the opinion of men. The other, which is never
properly called deformity, being more substantial, strikes deeper in.
Not every shoe of smooth shining leather, but every shoe well-made,
shews the shape of the foot within. As Socrates said of his, it betrayed
equal ugliness in his soul, had he not corrected it by education; but in
saying so, I hold he was in jest, as his custom was; never so excellent
a soul formed itself.
I cannot often enough repeat how great an esteem I have for beauty,
that potent and advantageous quality; he (La Boetie) called it "a short
tyranny," and Plato, "the privilege of nature." We have nothing that
excels it in reputation; it has the first place in the commerce of men;
it presents itself in the front; seduces and prepossesses our judgments
with great authority and wonderful impression. Phryne had lost her cause
in the hands of an excellent advocate, if, opening her robe, she had not
corrupted her judges by the lustre of her beauty. And I find that Cyrus,
Alexander, and Caesar, the three masters of the world, never neglected
beauty in their greatest affairs; no more did the first Scipio. The same
word in Greek signifies both fair and good; and the Holy Word often says
good when it means fair: I should willingly maintain the priority in
good things, according to the song that Plato calls an idle thing, taken
out of some ancient poet: "health, beauty, riches." Aristotle says that
the right of command appertains to the beautiful; and that, when there
is a person whose beauty comes near the images of the gods, veneration
is equally due to him. To him who asked why people oftener and longer
frequent the company of handsome persons: "That question," said he, "is
only to be asked by the blind." Most of the philosophers, and the
greatest, paid for their schooling, and acquired wisdom by the favour
and mediation of their beauty. Not only in the men that serve me, but
also in the beasts, I consider it within two fingers' breadth of
goodness.
And yet I fancy that those features and moulds of face, and those
lineaments, by which men guess at our internal complexions and our
fortunes to come, is a thing that does not very directly and simply lie
under the chapter of beauty and deformity, no more than every good odour
and serenity of air promises health, nor all fog and stink infection in
a time of pestilence. Such as accuse ladies of contradicting their
beauty by their manners, do not always hit right; for, in a face which
is none of the best, there may dwell some air of probity and trust; as,
on the contrary, I have read, betwixt two beautiful eyes, menaces of a
dangerous and malignant nature. There are favourable physiognomies, so
that in a crowd of victorious enemies, you shall presently choose,
amongst men you never saw before, one rather than another to whom to
surrender, and with whom to intrust your life; and yet not properly upon
the consideration of beauty.
A person's look is but a feeble warranty; and yet it is something
considerable too; and if I had to lash them, I would most severely
scourge the wicked ones who belie and betray the promises that nature
has planted in their foreheads; I should with greater severity punish
malice under a mild and gentle aspect. It seems as if there were some
lucky and some unlucky faces; and I believe there is some art in
distinguishing affable from merely simple faces, severe from rugged,
malicious from pensive, scornful from melancholic, and such other
bordering qualities. There are beauties which are not only haughty, but
sour, and others that are not only gentle, but more than that, insipid;
to prognosticate from them future events is a matter that I shall leave
undecided.
I have, as I have said elsewhere as to my own concern, simply and
implicitly embraced this ancient rule, "That we cannot fail in following
Nature," and that the sovereign precept is to conform ourselves to her.
I have not, as Socrates did, corrected my natural composition by the
force of reason, and have not in the least disturbed my inclination by
art; I have let myself go as I came: I contend not; my two principal
parts live, of their own accord, in peace and good intelligence, but my
nurse's milk, thank God, was tolerably wholesome and good. Shall I say
this by the way, that I see in greater esteem than 'tis worth, and in
use solely among ourselves, a certain image of scholastic probity, a
slave to precepts, and fettered with hope and fear? I would have it such
as that laws and religions should not make, but perfect and authorise
it; that finds it has wherewithal to support itself without help, born
and rooted in us from the seed of universal reason, imprinted in every
man by nature. That reason which strengthens Socrates from his vicious
bend renders him obedient to the gods and men of authority in his city:
courageous in death, not because his soul is immortal, but because he is
mortal. 'Tis a doctrine ruinous to all government, and much more hurtful
than ingenious and subtle, which persuades the people that a religious
belief is alone sufficient, and without conduct, to satisfy the divine
justice. Use demonstrates to us a vast distinction betwixt devotion and
conscience.
I have a favourable aspect, both in form and in interpretation:
"Quid dixi, habere me? imo habui, Chreme."
["What did I say? that I have? no, Chremes, I had."
—Terence, Heaut., act i., sec. 2, v. 42.]
"Heu! tantum attriti corporis ossa vides;"
["Alas! of a worn body thou seest only the bones"]
and that makes a quite contrary show to that of Socrates. It has
often befallen me, that upon the mere credit of my presence and air,
persons who had no manner of knowledge of me have put a very great
confidence in me, whether in their own affairs or mine; and I have in
foreign parts thence obtained singular and rare favours. But the two
following examples are, peradventure, worth particular relation. A
certain person planned to surprise my house and me in it; his scheme was
to come to my gates alone, and to be importunate to be let in. I knew
him by name, and had fair reason to repose confidence in him, as being
my neighbour and something related to me. I caused the gates to be
opened to him, as I do to every one. There I found him, with every
appearance of alarm, his horse panting and very tired. He entertained me
with this story: "That, about half a league off, he had met with a
certain enemy of his, whom I also knew, and had heard of their quarrel;
that his enemy had given him a very brisk chase, and that having been
surprised in disorder, and his party being too weak, he had fled to my
gates for refuge; and that he was in great trouble for his followers,
whom (he said) he concluded to be all either dead or taken." I
innocently did my best to comfort, assure, and refresh him. Shortly
after came four or five of his soldiers, who presented themselves in the
same countenance and affright, to get in too; and after them more, and
still more, very well mounted and armed, to the number of
five-and-twenty or thirty, pretending that they had the enemy at their
heels. This mystery began a little to awaken my suspicion; I was not
ignorant what an age I lived in, how much my house might be envied, and
I had several examples of others of my acquaintance to whom a mishap of
this sort had happened. But thinking there was nothing to be got by
having begun to do a courtesy, unless I went through with it, and that I
could not disengage myself from them without spoiling all, I let myself
go the most natural and simple way, as I always do, and invited them all
to come in. And in truth I am naturally very little inclined to
suspicion and distrust; I willingly incline towards excuse and the
gentlest interpretation; I take men according to the common order, and
do not more believe in those perverse and unnatural inclinations, unless
convinced by manifest evidence, than I do in monsters and miracles; and
I am, moreover, a man who willingly commit myself to Fortune, and throw
myself headlong into her arms; and I have hitherto found more reason to
applaud than to blame myself for so doing, having ever found her more
discreet about, and a greater friend to, my affairs than I am myself.
There are some actions in my life whereof the conduct may justly be
called difficult, or, if you please, prudent; of these, supposing the
third part to have been my own, doubtless the other two-thirds were
absolutely hers. We make, methinks, a mistake in that we do not enough
trust Heaven with our affairs, and pretend to more from our own conduct
than appertains to us; and therefore it is that our designs so often
miscarry. Heaven is jealous of the extent that we attribute to the right
of human prudence above its own, and cuts it all the shorter by how much
the more we amplify it. The last comers remained on horseback in my
courtyard, whilst their leader, who was with me in the parlour, would
not have his horse put up in the stable, saying he should immediately
retire, so soon as he had news of his men. He saw himself master of his
enterprise, and nothing now remained but its execution. He has since
several times said (for he was not ashamed to tell the story himself)
that my countenance and frankness had snatched the treachery out of his
hands. He again mounted his horse; his followers, who had their eyes
intent upon him, to see when he would give the signal, being very much
astonished to find him come away and leave his prey behind him.
Another time, relying upon some truce just published in the army, I
took a journey through a very ticklish country. I had not ridden far,
but I was discovered, and two or three parties of horse, from various
places, were sent out to seize me; one of them overtook me on the third
day, and I was attacked by fifteen or twenty gentlemen in vizors,
followed at a distance by a band of foot-soldiers. I was taken,
withdrawn into the thick of a neighbouring forest, dismounted, robbed,
my trunks rifled, my money-box taken, and my horses and equipage divided
amongst new masters. We had, in this copse, a very long contest about my
ransom, which they set so high, that it was manifest that I was not
known to them. They were, moreover, in a very great debate about my
life; and, in truth, there were various circumstances that clearly
showed the danger I was in:
"Tunc animis opus, AEnea, tunc pectore firmo."
["Then, AEneas, there is need of courage, of a firm heart."
—AEneid, vi. 261.]
I still insisted upon the truce, too willing they should have the
gain of what they had already taken from me, which was not to be
despised, without promise of any other ransom. After two or three hours
that we had been in this place, and that they had mounted me upon a
horse that was not likely to run from them, and committed me to the
guard of fifteen or twenty harquebusiers, and dispersed my servants to
others, having given order that they should carry us away prisoners
several ways, and I being already got some two or three musket-shots
from the place,
"Jam prece Pollucis, jam Castoris, implorata,"
["By a prayer addressed now to Pollux, now to Castor."
—Catullus, lxvi. 65.]
behold a sudden and unexpected alteration; I saw the chief return to
me with gentler language, making search amongst the troopers for my
scattered property, and causing as much as could be recovered to be
restored to me, even to my money-box; but the best present they made was
my liberty, for the rest did not much concern me at that time. The true
cause of so sudden a change, and of this reconsideration, without any
apparent impulse, and of so miraculous a repentance, in such a time, in
a planned and deliberate enterprise, and become just by usage (for, at
the first dash, I plainly confessed to them of what party I was, and
whither I was going), truly, I do not yet rightly understand. The most
prominent amongst them, who pulled off his vizor and told me his name,
repeatedly told me at the time, over and over again, that I owed my
deliverance to my countenance, and the liberty and boldness of my
speech, that rendered me unworthy of such a misadventure, and should
secure me from its repetition. 'Tis possible that the Divine goodness
willed to make use of this vain instrument for my preservation; and it,
moreover, defended me the next day from other and worse ambushes, of
which these my assailants had given me warning. The last of these two
gentlemen is yet living himself to tell the story; the first was killed
not long ago.
If my face did not answer for me, if men did not read in my eyes and
in my voice the innocence of intention, I had not lived so long without
quarrels and without giving offence, seeing the indiscreet whatever
comes into my head, and to judge so rashly of things. This way may, with
reason, appear uncivil, and ill adapted to our way of conversation; but
I have never met with any who judged it outrageous or malicious, or that
took offence at my liberty, if he had it from my own mouth; words
repeated have another kind of sound and sense. Nor do I hate any person;
and I am so slow to offend, that I cannot do it, even upon the account
of reason itself; and when occasion has required me to sentence
criminals, I have rather chosen to fail in point of justice than to do
it:
"Ut magis peccari nolim, quam satis animi
ad vindicanda peccata habeam."
["So that I had rather men should not commit faults than that I
should have sufficient courage to condemn them."—-Livy, xxxix. 21.]
Aristotle, 'tis said, was reproached for having been too merciful to
a wicked man: "I was indeed," said he, "merciful to the man, but not to
his wickedness." Ordinary judgments exasperate themselves to punishment
by the horror of the fact: but it cools mine; the horror of the first
murder makes me fear a second; and the deformity of the first cruelty
makes me abhor all imitation of it.' That may be applied to me, who am
but a Squire of Clubs, which was said of Charillus, king of Sparta: "He
cannot be good, seeing he is not evil even to the wicked." Or thus—for
Plutarch delivers it both these ways, as he does a thousand other
things, variously and contradictorily—"He must needs be good, because he
is so even to the wicked." Even as in lawful actions I dislike to employ
myself when for such as are displeased at it; so, to say the truth, in
unlawful things I do not make conscience enough of employing myself when
it is for such as are willing.
CHAPTER XIII——OF EXPERIENCE
There is no desire more natural than that of knowledge. We try all
ways that can lead us to it; where reason is wanting, we therein employ
experience,
"Per varios usus artem experientia fecit,
Exemplo monstrante viam,"
["By various trials experience created art, example shewing the
way."—Manilius, i. 59.]
which is a means much more weak and cheap; but truth is so great a
thing that we ought not to disdain any mediation that will guide us to
it. Reason has so many forms that we know not to which to take;
experience has no fewer; the consequence we would draw from the
comparison of events is unsure, by reason they are always unlike. There
is no quality so universal in this image of things as diversity and
variety. Both the Greeks and the Latins and we, for the most express
example of similitude, employ that of eggs; and yet there have been men,
particularly one at Delphos, who could distinguish marks of difference
amongst eggs so well that he never mistook one for another, and having
many hens, could tell which had laid it.
Dissimilitude intrudes itself of itself in our works; no art can
arrive at perfect similitude: neither Perrozet nor any other can so
carefully polish and blanch the backs of his cards that some gamesters
will not distinguish them by seeing them only shuffled by another.
Resemblance does not so much make one as difference makes another.
Nature has obliged herself to make nothing other that was not unlike.
And yet I am not much pleased with his opinion, who thought by the
multitude of laws to curb the authority of judges in cutting out for
them their several parcels; he was not aware that there is as much
liberty and latitude in the interpretation of laws as in their form; and
they but fool themselves, who think to lessen and stop our disputes by
recalling us to the express words of the Bible: forasmuch as our mind
does not find the field less spacious wherein to controvert the sense of
another than to deliver his own; and as if there were less animosity and
tartness in commentary than in invention. We see how much he was
mistaken, for we have more laws in France than all the rest of the world
put together, and more than would be necessary for the government of all
the worlds of Epicurus:
"Ut olim flagitiis, sic nunc legibus, laboramus."
["As we were formerly by crimes, so we are now overburdened by
laws."—Tacitus, Annal., iii. 25.]
and yet we have left so much to the opinions and decisions of our
judges that there never was so full a liberty or so full a license. What
have our legislators gained by culling out a hundred thousand particular
cases, and by applying to these a hundred thousand laws? This number
holds no manner of proportion with the infinite diversity of human
actions; the multiplication of our inventions will never arrive at the
variety of examples; add to these a hundred times as many more, it will
still not happen that, of events to come, there shall one be found that,
in this vast number of millions of events so chosen and recorded, shall
so tally with any other one, and be so exactly coupled and matched with
it that there will not remain some circumstance and diversity which will
require a diverse judgment. There is little relation betwixt our
actions, which are in perpetual mutation, and fixed and immutable laws;
the most to be desired are those that are the most rare, the most simple
and general; and I am even of opinion that we had better have none at
all than to have them in so prodigious a number as we have.
Nature always gives them better and happier than those we make
ourselves; witness the picture of the Golden Age of the Poets and the
state wherein we see nations live who have no other. Some there are, who
for their only judge take the first passer-by that travels along their
mountains, to determine their cause; and others who, on their market
day, choose out some one amongst them upon the spot to decide their
controversies. What danger would there be that the wisest amongst us
should so determine ours, according to occurrences and at sight, without
obligation of example and consequence? For every foot its own shoe. King
Ferdinand, sending colonies to the Indies, wisely provided that they
should not carry along with them any students of jurisprudence, for fear
lest suits should get footing in that new world, as being a science in
its own nature, breeder of altercation and division; judging with Plato,
"that lawyers and physicians are bad institutions of a country."
Whence does it come to pass that our common language, so easy for all
other uses, becomes obscure and unintelligible in wills and contracts?
and that he who so clearly expresses himself in whatever else he speaks
or writes, cannot find in these any way of declaring himself that does
not fall into doubt and contradiction? if it be not that the princes of
that art, applying themselves with a peculiar attention to cull out
portentous words and to contrive artificial sentences, have so weighed
every syllable, and so thoroughly sifted every sort of quirking
connection that they are now confounded and entangled in the infinity of
figures and minute divisions, and can no more fall within any rule or
prescription, nor any certain intelligence:
"Confusum est, quidquid usque in pulverem sectum est."
["Whatever is beaten into powder is undistinguishable (confused)."
—Seneca, Ep., 89.]
As you see children trying to bring a mass of quicksilver to a
certain number of parts, the more they press and work it and endeavour
to reduce it to their own will, the more they irritate the liberty of
this generous metal; it evades their endeavour and sprinkles itself into
so many separate bodies as frustrate all reckoning; so is it here, for
in subdividing these subtilties we teach men to increase their doubts;
they put us into a way of extending and diversifying difficulties, and
lengthen and disperse them. In sowing and retailing questions they make
the world fructify and increase in uncertainties and disputes, as the
earth is made fertile by being crumbled and dug deep.
"Difficultatem facit doctrina."
["Learning (Doctrine) begets difficulty."
—Quintilian, Insat. Orat., x. 3.]
We doubted of Ulpian, and are still now more perplexed with Bartolus
and Baldus. We should efface the trace of this innumerable diversity of
opinions; not adorn ourselves with it, and fill posterity with
crotchets. I know not what to say to it; but experience makes it
manifest, that so many interpretations dissipate truth and break it.
Aristotle wrote to be understood; if he could not do this, much less
will another that is not so good at it; and a third than he, who
expressed his own thoughts. We open the matter, and spill it in pouring
out: of one subject we make a thousand, and in multiplying and
subdividing them, fall again into the infinity of atoms of Epicurus.
Never did two men make the same judgment of the same thing; and 'tis
impossible to find two opinions exactly alike, not only in several men,
but in the same man, at diverse hours. I often find matter of doubt in
things of which the commentary has disdained to take notice; I am most
apt to stumble in an even country, like some horses that I have known,
that make most trips in the smoothest way.
Who will not say that glosses augment doubts and ignorance, since
there's no book to be found, either human or divine, which the world
busies itself about, whereof the difficulties are cleared by
interpretation. The hundredth commentator passes it on to the next,
still more knotty and perplexed than he found it. When were we ever
agreed amongst ourselves: "This book has enough; there is now no more to
be said about it"? This is most apparent in the law; we give the
authority of law to infinite doctors, infinite decrees, and as many
interpretations; yet do we find any end of the need of interpretating?
is there, for all that, any progress or advancement towards peace, or do
we stand in need of any fewer advocates and judges than when this great
mass of law was yet in its first infancy? On the contrary, we darken and
bury intelligence; we can no longer discover it, but at the mercy of so
many fences and barriers. Men do not know the natural disease of the
mind; it does nothing but ferret and inquire, and is eternally wheeling,
juggling, and perplexing itself like silkworms, and then suffocates
itself in its work; "Mus in pice."—["A mouse in a pitch barrel."]—It
thinks it discovers at a great distance, I know not what glimpses of
light and imaginary truth: but whilst running to it, so many
difficulties, hindrances, and new inquisitions cross it, that it loses
its way, and is made drunk with the motion: not much unlike AEsop's
dogs, that seeing something like a dead body floating in the sea, and
not being able to approach it, set to work to drink the water and lay
the passage dry, and so choked themselves. To which what one Crates'
said of the writings of Heraclitus falls pat enough, "that they required
a reader who could swim well," so that the depth and weight of his
learning might not overwhelm and stifle him. 'Tis nothing but particular
weakness that makes us content with what others or ourselves have found
out in this chase after knowledge: one of better understanding will not
rest so content; there is always room for one to follow, nay, even for
ourselves; and another road; there is no end of our inquisitions; our
end is in the other world. 'Tis a sign either that the mind has grown
shortsighted when it is satisfied, or that it has got weary. No generous
mind can stop in itself; it will still tend further and beyond its
power; it has sallies beyond its effects; if it do not advance and press
forward, and retire, and rush and wheel about, 'tis but half alive; its
pursuits are without bound or method; its aliment is admiration, the
chase, ambiguity, which Apollo sufficiently declared in always speaking
to us in a double, obscure, and oblique sense: not feeding, but amusing
and puzzling us. 'Tis an irregular and perpetual motion, without model
and without aim; its inventions heat, pursue, and interproduce one
another:
Estienne de la Boetie; thus translated by Cotton:
"So in a running stream one wave we see
After another roll incessantly,
And as they glide, each does successively
Pursue the other, each the other fly
By this that's evermore pushed on, and this
By that continually preceded is:
The water still does into water swill,
Still the same brook, but different water still."
There is more ado to interpret interpretations than to interpret
things, and more books upon books than upon any other subject; we do
nothing but comment upon one another. Every place swarms with
commentaries; of authors there is great scarcity. Is it not the
principal and most reputed knowledge of our later ages to understand the
learned? Is it not the common and final end of all studies? Our opinions
are grafted upon one another; the first serves as a stock to the second,
the second to the third, and so forth; thus step by step we climb the
ladder; whence it comes to pass that he who is mounted highest has often
more honour than merit, for he is got up but an inch upon the shoulders
of the last, but one.
How often, and, peradventure, how foolishly, have I extended my book
to make it speak of itself; foolishly, if for no other reason but this,
that it should remind me of what I say of others who do the same: that
the frequent amorous glances they cast upon their work witness that
their hearts pant with self-love, and that even the disdainful severity
wherewith they scourge them are but the dandlings and caressings of
maternal love; as Aristotle, whose valuing and undervaluing himself
often spring from the same air of arrogance. My own excuse is, that I
ought in this to have more liberty than others, forasmuch as I write
specifically of myself and of my writings, as I do of my other actions;
that my theme turns upon itself; but I know not whether others will
accept this excuse.
I observed in Germany that Luther has left as many divisions and
disputes about the doubt of his opinions, and more, than he himself
raised upon the Holy Scriptures. Our contest is verbal: I ask what
nature is, what pleasure, circle, and substitution are? the question is
about words, and is answered accordingly. A stone is a body; but if a
man should further urge: "And what is a body?"—"Substance"; "And what is
substance?" and so on, he would drive the respondent to the end of his
Calepin.
[Calepin (Ambrogio da Calepio), a famous lexicographer of the
fifteenth century. His Polyglot Dictionary became so famous, that
Calepin became a common appellation for a lexicon]
We exchange one word for another, and often for one less understood.
I better know what man is than I know what Animal is, or Mortal, or
Rational. To satisfy one doubt, they give me three; 'tis the Hydra's
head. Socrates asked Menon, "What virtue was." "There is," says Menon,
"the virtue of a man and of a woman, of a magistrate and of a private
person, of an old man and of a child." "Very fine," cried Socrates, "we
were in quest of one virtue, and thou hast brought us a whole swarm." We
put one question, and they return us a whole hive. As no event, no face,
entirely resembles another, so do they not entirely differ: an ingenious
mixture of nature. If our faces were not alike, we could not distinguish
man from beast; if they were not unlike, we could not distinguish one
man from another; all things hold by some similitude; every example
halts, and the relation which is drawn from experience is always faulty
and imperfect. Comparisons are ever-coupled at one end or other: so do
the laws serve, and are fitted to every one of our affairs, by some
wrested, biassed, and forced interpretation.
Since the ethic laws, that concern the particular duty of every one
in himself, are so hard to be framed, as we see they are, 'tis no wonder
if those which govern so many particulars are much more so. Do but
consider the form of this justice that governs us; 'tis a true testimony
of human weakness, so full is it of error and contradiction. What we
find to be favour and severity in justice—and we find so much of them
both, that I know not whether the medium is as often met with are sickly
and unjust members of the very body and essence of justice. Some country
people have just brought me news in great haste, that they presently
left in a forest of mine a man with a hundred wounds upon him, who was
yet breathing, and begged of them water for pity's sake, and help to
carry him to some place of relief; they tell me they durst not go near
him, but have run away, lest the officers of justice should catch them
there; and as happens to those who are found near a murdered person,
they should be called in question about this accident, to their utter
ruin, having neither money nor friends to defend their innocence. What
could I have said to these people? 'Tis certain that this office of
humanity would have brought them into trouble.
How many innocent people have we known that have been punished, and
this without the judge's fault; and how many that have not arrived at
our knowledge? This happened in my time: certain men were condemned to
die for a murder committed; their sentence, if not pronounced, at least
determined and concluded on. The judges, just in the nick, are informed
by the officers of an inferior court hard by, that they have some men in
custody, who have directly confessed the murder, and made an indubitable
discovery of all the particulars of the fact. Yet it was gravely
deliberated whether or not they ought to suspend the execution of the
sentence already passed upon the first accused: they considered the
novelty of the example judicially, and the consequence of reversing
judgments; that the sentence was passed, and the judges deprived of
repentance; and in the result, these poor devils were sacrificed by the
forms of justice. Philip, or some other, provided against a like
inconvenience after this manner. He had condemned a man in a great fine
towards another by an absolute judgment. The truth some time after being
discovered, he found that he had passed an unjust sentence. On one side
was the reason of the cause; on the other side, the reason of the
judicial forms: he in some sort satisfied both, leaving the sentence in
the state it was, and out of his own purse recompensing the condemned
party. But he had to do with a reparable affair; my men were irreparably
hanged. How many condemnations have I seen more criminal than the crimes
themselves?
All which makes me remember the ancient opinions, "That 'tis of
necessity a man must do wrong by retail who will do right in gross; and
injustice in little things, who would come to do justice in great: that
human justice is formed after the model of physic, according to which,
all that is useful is also just and honest: and of what is held by the
Stoics, that Nature herself proceeds contrary to justice in most of her
works: and of what is received by the Cyrenaics, that there is nothing
just of itself, but that customs and laws make justice: and what the
Theodorians held that theft, sacrilege, and all sorts of uncleanness,
are just in a sage, if he knows them to be profitable to him." There is
no remedy: I am in the same case that Alcibiades was, that I will never,
if I can help it, put myself into the hands of a man who may determine
as to my head, where my life and honour shall more depend upon the skill
and diligence of my attorney than on my own innocence. I would venture
myself with such justice as would take notice of my good deeds, as well
as my ill; where I had as much to hope as to fear: indemnity is not
sufficient pay to a man who does better than not to do amiss. Our
justice presents to us but one hand, and that the left hand, too; let
him be who he may, he shall be sure to come off with loss.
In China, of which kingdom the government and arts, without commerce
with or knowledge of ours, surpass our examples in several excellent
features, and of which the history teaches me how much greater and more
various the world is than either the ancients or we have been able to
penetrate, the officers deputed by the prince to visit the state of his
provinces, as they punish those who behave themselves ill in their
charge, so do they liberally reward those who have conducted themselves
better than the common sort, and beyond the necessity of their duty;
these there present themselves, not only to be approved but to get; not
simply to be paid, but to have a present made to them.
No judge, thank God, has ever yet spoken to me in the quality of a
judge, upon any account whatever, whether my own or that of a third
party, whether criminal or civil; nor no prison has ever received me,
not even to walk there. Imagination renders the very outside of a jail
displeasing to me; I am so enamoured of liberty, that should I be
interdicted the access to some corner of the Indies, I should live a
little less at my ease; and whilst I can find earth or air open
elsewhere, I shall never lurk in any place where I must hide myself. My
God! how ill should I endure the condition wherein I see so many people,
nailed to a corner of the kingdom, deprived of the right to enter the
principal cities and courts, and the liberty of the public roads, for
having quarrelled with our laws. If those under which I live should
shake a finger at me by way of menace, I would immediately go seek out
others, let them be where they would. All my little prudence in the
civil wars wherein we are now engaged is employed that they may not
hinder my liberty of going and coming.
Now, the laws keep up their credit, not for being just, but because
they are laws; 'tis the mystic foundation of their authority; they have
no other, and it well answers their purpose. They are often made by
fools, still oftener by men who, out of hatred to equality, fail in
equity, but always by men, vain and irresolute authors. There is nothing
so much, nor so grossly, nor so ordinarily faulty, as the laws. Whoever
obeys them because they are just, does not justly obey them as he ought.
Our French laws, by their irregularity and deformity, lend, in some
sort, a helping hand to the disorder and corruption that all manifest in
their dispensation and execution: the command is so perplexed and
inconstant, that it in some sort excuses alike disobedience and defect
in the interpretation, the administration and the observation of it.
What fruit then soever we may extract from experience, that will little
advantage our institution, which we draw from foreign examples, if we
make so little profit of that we have of our own, which is more familiar
to us, and, doubtless, sufficient to instruct us in that whereof we have
need. I study myself more than any other subject; 'tis my metaphysic, my
physic:
"Quis deus hanc mundi temperet arte domum:
Qua venit exoriens, qua deficit: unde coactis
Cornibus in plenum menstrua luna redit
Unde salo superant venti, quid flamine captet
Eurus, et in nubes unde perennis aqua;
Sit ventura dies mundi quae subruat arces...."
["What god may govern with skill this dwelling of the world? whence
rises the monthly moon, whither wanes she? how is it that her horns
are contracted and reopen? whence do winds prevail on the main?
what does the east wind court with its blasts? and whence are the
clouds perpetually supplied with water? is a day to come which may
undermine the world?"—Propertius, iii. 5, 26.]
"Quaerite, quos agitat mundi labor."
["Ask whom the cares of the world trouble"—Lucan, i. 417.]
In this universality, I suffer myself to be ignorantly and
negligently led by the general law of the world: I shall know it well
enough when I feel it; my learning cannot make it alter its course; it
will not change itself for me; 'tis folly to hope it, and a greater
folly to concern one's self about it, seeing it is necessarily alike
public and common. The goodness and capacity of the governor ought
absolutely to discharge us of all care of the government: philosophical
inquisitions and contemplations serve for no other use but to increase
our curiosity. The philosophers; with great reason, send us back to the
rules of nature; but they have nothing to do with so sublime a
knowledge; they falsify them, and present us her face painted with too
high and too adulterate a complexion, whence spring so many different
pictures of so uniform a subject. As she has given us feet to walk with,
so has she given us prudence to guide us in life: not so ingenious,
robust, and pompous a prudence as that of their invention; but yet one
that is easy, quiet, and salutary, and that very well performs what the
other promises, in him who has the good luck to know how to employ it
sincerely and regularly, that is to say, according to nature. The most
simply to commit one's self to nature is to do it most wisely. Oh, what
a soft, easy, and wholesome pillow is ignorance and incuriosity, whereon
to repose a well-ordered head!
I had rather understand myself well in myself, than in Cicero. Of the
experience I have of myself, I find enough to make me wise, if I were
but a good scholar: whoever will call to mind the excess of his past
anger, and to what a degree that fever transported him, will see the
deformity of this passion better than in Aristotle, and conceive a more
just hatred against it; whoever will remember the ills he has undergone,
those that have threatened him, and the light occasions that have
removed him from one state to another, will by that prepare himself for
future changes, and the knowledge of his condition. The life of Caesar
has no greater example for us than our own: though popular and of
command, 'tis still a life subject to all human accidents. Let us but
listen to it; we apply to ourselves all whereof we have principal need;
whoever shall call to memory how many and many times he has been
mistaken in his own judgment, is he not a great fool if he does not ever
after suspect it? When I find myself convinced, by the reason of
another, of a false opinion, I do not so much learn what he has said to
me that is new and the particular ignorance—that would be no great
acquisition—as, in general, I learn my own debility and the treachery of
my understanding, whence I extract the reformation of the whole mass. In
all my other errors I do the same, and find from this rule great utility
to life; I regard not the species and individual as a stone that I have
stumbled at; I learn to suspect my steps throughout, and am careful to
place them right. To learn that a man has said or done a foolish thing
is nothing: a man must learn that he is nothing but a fool, a much more
ample, and important instruction. The false steps that my memory has so
often made, even then when it was most secure and confident of itself,
are not idly thrown away; it vainly swears and assures me I shake my
ears; the first opposition that is made to its testimony puts me into
suspense, and I durst not rely upon it in anything of moment, nor
warrant it in another person's concerns: and were it not that what I do
for want of memory, others do more often for want of good faith, I
should always, in matter of fact, rather choose to take the truth from
another's mouth than from my own. If every one would pry into the
effects and circumstances of the passions that sway him, as I have done
into those which I am most subject to, he would see them coming, and
would a little break their impetuosity and career; they do not always
seize us on a sudden; there is threatening and degrees
"Fluctus uti primo coepit cum albescere vento,
Paulatim sese tollit mare, et altius undas
Erigit, inde imo consurgit ad aethera fundo."
["As with the first wind the sea begins to foam, and swells, thence
higher swells, and higher raises the waves, till the ocean rises
from its depths to the sky."—AEneid, vii. 528.]
Judgment holds in me a magisterial seat; at least it carefully
endeavours to make it so: it leaves my appetites to take their own
course, hatred and friendship, nay, even that I bear to myself, without
change or corruption; if it cannot reform the other parts according to
its own model, at least it suffers not itself to be corrupted by them,
but plays its game apart.
The advice to every one, "to know themselves," should be of important
effect, since that god of wisdom and light' caused it to be written on
the front of his temple,—[At Delphi]—as comprehending all he had to
advise us. Plato says also, that prudence is no other thing than the
execution of this ordinance; and Socrates minutely verifies it in
Xenophon. The difficulties and obscurity are not discerned in any
science but by those who are got into it; for a certain degree of
intelligence is required to be able to know that a man knows not, and we
must push against a door to know whether it be bolted against us or no:
whence this Platonic subtlety springs, that "neither they who know are
to enquire, forasmuch as they know; nor they who do not know, forasmuch
as to inquire they must know what they inquire of." So in this, "of
knowing a man's self," that every man is seen so resolved and satisfied
with himself, that every man thinks himself sufficiently intelligent,
signifies that every one knows nothing about the matter; as Socrates
gives Euthydemus to understand. I, who profess nothing else, therein
find so infinite a depth and variety, that all the fruit I have reaped
from my learning serves only to make me sensible how much I have to
learn. To my weakness, so often confessed, I owe the propension I have
to modesty, to the obedience of belief prescribed me, to a constant
coldness and moderation of opinions, and a hatred of that troublesome
and wrangling arrogance, wholly believing and trusting in itself, the
capital enemy of discipline and truth. Do but hear them domineer; the
first fopperies they utter, 'tis in the style wherewith men establish
religions and laws:
"Nihil est turpius, quam cognitioni et perceptions
assertionem approbationemque praecurrere."
["Nothing is worse than that assertion and decision should precede
knowledge and perception."—Cicero, Acad., i. 13.]
Aristarchus said that anciently there were scarce seven sages to be
found in the world, and in his time scarce so many fools: have not we
more reason than he to say so in this age of ours? Affirmation and
obstinacy are express signs of want of wit. This fellow may have knocked
his nose against the ground a hundred times in a day, yet he will be at
his Ergo's as resolute and sturdy as before. You would say he had had
some new soul and vigour of understanding infused into him since, and
that it happened to him, as to that ancient son of the earth, who took
fresh courage and vigour by his fall;
"Cui cum tetigere parentem,
jam defecta vigent renovata robore membra:"
["Whose broken limbs, when they touched his mother earth,
immediately new force acquired."—Lucan, iv. 599.]
does not this incorrigible coxcomb think that he assumes a new
understanding by undertaking a new dispute? 'Tis by my own experience
that I accuse human ignorance, which is, in my opinion, the surest part
of the world's school. Such as will not conclude it in themselves, by so
vain an example as mine, or their own, let them believe it from
Socrates, the master of masters; for the philosopher Antisthenes said to
his disciples, "Let us go and hear Socrates; there I will be a pupil
with you"; and, maintaining this doctrine of the Stoic sect, "that
virtue was sufficient to make a life completely happy, having no need of
any other thing whatever"; except of the force of Socrates, added he.
That long attention that I employ in considering myself, also fits
rile to judge tolerably enough of others; and there are few things
whereof I speak better and with better excuse. I happen very often more
exactly to see and distinguish the qualities of my friends than they do
themselves: I have astonished some with the pertinence of my
description, and have given them warning of themselves. By having from
my infancy been accustomed to contemplate my own life in those of
others, I have acquired a complexion studious in that particular; and
when I am once interit upon it, I let few things about me, whether
countenances, humours, or discourses, that serve to that purpose, escape
me. I study all, both what I am to avoid and what I am to follow. Also
in my friends, I discover by their productions their inward
inclinations; not by arranging this infinite variety of so diverse and
unconnected actions into certain species and chapters, and distinctly
distributing my parcels and divisions under known heads and classes;
"Sed neque quam multae species, nec nomina quae sint,
Est numerus."
["But neither can we enumerate how many kinds there what are their
names."—Virgil, Georg., ii. 103.]
The wise speak and deliver their fancies more specifically, and piece
by piece; I, who see no further into things than as use informs me,
present mine generally without rule and experimentally: I pronounce my
opinion by disjointed articles, as a thing that cannot be spoken at once
and in gross; relation and conformity are not to be found in such low
and common souls as ours. Wisdom is a solid and entire building, of
which every piece keeps its place and bears its mark:
"Sola sapientia in se tota conversa est."
["Wisdom only is wholly within itself"—Cicero, De Fin., iii. 7.]
I leave it to artists, and I know not whether or no they will be able
to bring it about, in so perplexed, minute, and fortuitous a thing, to
marshal into distinct bodies this infinite diversity of faces, to settle
our inconstancy, and set it in order. I do not only find it hard to
piece our actions to one another, but I moreover find it hard properly
to design each by itself by any principal quality, so ambiguous and
variform they are with diverse lights. That which is remarked for rare
in Perseus, king of Macedon, "that his mind, fixing itself to no one
condition, wandered in all sorts of living, and represented manners so
wild and erratic that it was neither known to himself or any other what
kind of man he was," seems almost to fit all the world; and, especially,
I have seen another of his make, to whom I think this conclusion might
more properly be applied; no moderate settledness, still running
headlong from one extreme to another, upon occasions not to be guessed
at; no line of path without traverse and wonderful contrariety: no one
quality simple and unmixed; so that the best guess men can one day make
will be, that he affected and studied to make himself known by being not
to be known. A man had need have sound ears to hear himself frankly
criticised; and as there are few who can endure to hear it without being
nettled, those who hazard the undertaking it to us manifest a singular
effect of friendship; for 'tis to love sincerely indeed, to venture to
wound and offend us, for our own good. I think it harsh to judge a man
whose ill qualities are more than his good ones: Plato requires three
things in him who will examine the soul of another: knowledge,
benevolence, boldness.
I was sometimes asked, what I should have thought myself fit for, had
any one designed to make use of me, while I was of suitable years:
"Dum melior vires sanguis dabat, aemula necdum
Temporibus geminis canebat sparsa senectus:"
["Whilst better blood gave me vigour, and before envious old age
whitened and thinned my temples."—AEneid, V. 415.]
"for nothing," said I; and I willingly excuse myself from knowing
anything which enslaves me to others. But I had told the truth to my
master,—[Was this Henri VI.? D.W.]—and had regulated his manners, if he
had so pleased, not in gross, by scholastic lessons, which I understand
not, and from which I see no true reformation spring in those that do;
but by observing them by leisure, at all opportunities, and simply and
naturally judging them as an eye-witness, distinctly one by one; giving
him to understand upon what terms he was in the common opinion, in
opposition to his flatterers. There is none of us who would not be worse
than kings, if so continually corrupted as they are with that sort of
canaille. How, if Alexander, that great king and philosopher, cannot
defend himself from them!
I should have had fidelity, judgment, and freedom enough for that
purpose. It would be a nameless office, otherwise it would lose its
grace and its effect; and 'tis a part that is not indifferently fit for
all men; for truth itself has not the privilege to be spoken at all
times and indiscriminately; its use, noble as it is, has its
circumspections and limits. It often falls out, as the world goes, that
a man lets it slip into the ear of a prince, not only to no purpose, but
moreover injuriously and unjustly; and no man shall make me believe that
a virtuous remonstrance may not be viciously applied, and that the
interest of the substance is not often to give way to that of the form.
For such a purpose, I would have a man who is content with his own
fortune:
"Quod sit, esse velit, nihilque malit,"
["Who is pleased with what he is and desires nothing further."
—Martial, x. ii, 18.]
and of moderate station; forasmuch as, on the one hand, he would not
be afraid to touch his master's heart to the quick, for fear by that
means of losing his preferment: and, on the other hand, being of no high
quality, he would have more easy communication with all sorts of people.
I would have this office limited to only one person; for to allow the
privilege of his liberty and privacy to many, would beget an
inconvenient irreverence; and of that one, I would above all things
require the fidelity of silence.
A king is not to be believed when he brags of his constancy in
standing the shock of the enemy for his glory, if for his profit and
amendment he cannot stand the liberty of a friend's advice, which has no
other power but to pinch his ear, the remainder of its effect being
still in his own hands. Now, there is no condition of men whatever who
stand in so great need of true and free advice and warning, as they do:
they sustain a public life, and have to satisfy the opinion of so many
spectators, that, as those about them conceal from them whatever should
divert them from their own way, they insensibly find themselves involved
in the hatred and detestation of their people, often upon occasions
which they might have avoided without any prejudice even of their
pleasures themselves, had they been advised and set right in time. Their
favourites commonly have more regard to themselves than to their master;
and indeed it answers with them, forasmuch as, in truth, most offices of
real friendship, when applied to the sovereign, are under a rude and
dangerous hazard, so that therein there is great need, not only of very
great affection and freedom, but of courage too.
In fine, all this hodge-podge which I scribble here, is nothing but a
register of the essays of my own life, which, for the internal
soundness, is exemplary enough to take instruction against the grain;
but as to bodily health, no man can furnish out more profitable
experience than I, who present it pure, and no way corrupted and changed
by art or opinion. Experience is properly upon its own dunghill in the
subject of physic, where reason wholly gives it place: Tiberius said
that whoever had lived twenty years ought to be responsible to himself
for all things that were hurtful or wholesome to him, and know how to
order himself without physic;
[All that Suetonius says in his Life of Tiberius is that this
emperor, after he was thirty years old, governed his health without
the aid of physicians; and what Plutarch tells us, in his essay on
the Rules and Precepts of Health, is that Tiberius said that the man
who, having attained sixty years, held out his pulse to a physician
was a fool.]
and he might have learned it of Socrates, who, advising his disciples
to be solicitous of their health as a chief study, added that it was
hard if a man of sense, having a care to his exercise and diet, did not
better know than any physician what was good or ill for him. And physic
itself professes always to have experience for the test of its
operations: so Plato had reason to say that, to be a right physician, it
would be necessary that he who would become such, should first himself
have passed through all the diseases he pretends to cure, and through
all the accidents and circumstances whereof he is to judge. 'Tis but
reason they should get the pox, if they will know how to cure it; for my
part, I should put myself into such hands; the others but guide us, like
him who paints seas and rocks and ports sitting at table, and there
makes the model of a ship sailing in all security; but put him to the
work itself, he knows not at which end to begin. They make such a
description of our maladies as a town crier does of a lost horse or
dog—such a color, such a height, such an ear—but bring it to him and he
knows it not, for all that. If physic should one day give me some good
and visible relief, then truly I will cry out in good earnest:
"Tandem effcaci do manus scientiae."
["Show me and efficacious science, and I will take it by the hand."
—Horace, xvii. I.]
The arts that promise to keep our bodies and souls in health promise
a great deal; but, withal, there are none that less keep their promise.
And, in our time, those who make profession of these arts amongst us,
less manifest the effects than any other sort of men; one may say of
them, at the most, that they sell medicinal drugs; but that they are
physicians, a man cannot say.
[The edition of 1588 adds: "Judging by themselves, and those
who are ruled by them."]
I have lived long enough to be able to give an account of the custom
that has carried me so far; for him who has a mind to try it, as his
taster, I have made the experiment. Here are some of the articles, as my
memory shall supply me with them; I have no custom that has not varied
according to circumstances; but I only record those that I have been
best acquainted with, and that hitherto have had the greatest possession
of me.
My form of life is the same in sickness as in health; the same bed,
the same hours, the same meat, and even the same drink, serve me in both
conditions alike; I add nothing to them but the moderation of more or
less, according to my strength and appetite. My health is to maintain my
wonted state without disturbance. I see that sickness puts me off it on
one side, and if I will be ruled by the physicians, they will put me off
on the other; so that by fortune and by art I am out of my way. I
believe nothing more certainly than this, that I cannot be hurt by the
use of things to which I have been so long accustomed. 'Tis for custom
to give a form to a man's life, such as it pleases him; she is all in
all in that: 'tis the potion of Circe, that varies our nature as she
best pleases. How many nations, and but three steps from us, think the
fear of the night-dew, that so manifestly is hurtful to us, a ridiculous
fancy; and our own watermen and peasants laugh at it. You make a German
sick if you lay him upon a mattress, as you do an Italian if you lay him
on a feather-bed, and a Frenchman, if without curtains or fire. A
Spanish stomach cannot hold out to eat as we can, nor ours to drink like
the Swiss. A German made me very merry at Augsburg, by finding fault
with our hearths, by the same arguments which we commonly make use of in
decrying their stoves: for, to say the truth, the smothered heat, and
then the smell of that heated matter of which the fire is composed, very
much offend such as are not used to them; not me; and, indeed, the heat
being always equal, constant, and universal, without flame, without
smoke, and without the wind that comes down our chimneys, they may many
ways sustain comparison with ours. Why do we not imitate the Roman
architecture? for they say that anciently fires were not made in the
houses, but on the outside, and at the foot of them, whence the heat was
conveyed to the whole fabric by pipes contrived in the wall, which were
drawn twining about the rooms that were to be warmed: which I have seen
plainly described somewhere in Seneca. This German hearing me commend
the conveniences and beauties of his city, which truly deserves it,
began to compassionate me that I had to leave it; and the first
inconvenience he alleged to me was, the heaviness of head that the
chimneys elsewhere would bring upon me. He had heard some one make this
complaint, and fixed it upon us, being by custom deprived of the means
of perceiving it at home. All heat that comes from the fire weakens and
dulls me. Evenus said that fire was the best condiment of life: I rather
choose any other way of making myself warm.
We are afraid to drink our wines, when toward the bottom of the cask;
in Portugal those fumes are reputed delicious, and it is the beverage of
princes. In short, every nation has many customs and usages that are not
only unknown to other nations, but savage and miraculous in their sight.
What should we do with those people who admit of no evidence that is not
in print, who believe not men if they are not in a book, nor truth if it
be not of competent age? we dignify our fopperies when we commit them to
the press: 'tis of a great deal more weight to say, "I have read such a
thing," than if you only say, "I have heard such a thing." But I, who no
more disbelieve a man's mouth than his pen, and who know that men write
as indiscreetly as they speak, and who look upon this age as one that is
past, as soon quote a friend as Aulus Gelliusor Macrobius; and what I
have seen, as what they have written. And, as 'tis held of virtue, that
it is not greater for having continued longer, so do I hold of truth,
that for being older it is none the wiser. I often say, that it is mere
folly that makes us run after foreign and scholastic examples; their
fertility is the same now that it was in the time of Homer and Plato.
But is it not that we seek more honour from the quotation, than from the
truth of the matter in hand? As if it were more to the purpose to borrow
our proofs from the shops of Vascosan or Plantin, than from what is to
be seen in our own village; or else, indeed, that we have not the wit to
cull out and make useful what we see before us, and to judge of it
clearly enough to draw it into example: for if we say that we want
authority to give faith to our testimony, we speak from the purpose;
forasmuch as, in my opinion, of the most ordinary, common, and known
things, could we but find out their light, the greatest miracles of
nature might be formed, and the most wonderful examples, especially upon
the subject of human actions.
Now, upon this subject, setting aside the examples I have gathered
from books, and what Aristotle says of Andron the Argian, that he
travelled over the arid sands of Lybia without drinking: a gentleman,
who has very well behaved himself in several employments, said, in a
place where I was, that he had ridden from Madrid to Lisbon, in the heat
of summer, without any drink at all. He is very healthful and vigorous
for his age, and has nothing extraordinary in the use of his life, but
this, to live sometimes two or three months, nay, a whole year, as he
has told me, without drinking. He is sometimes thirsty, but he lets it
pass over, and he holds that it is an appetite which easily goes off of
itself; and he drinks more out of caprice than either for need or
pleasure.
Here is another example: 'tis not long ago that I found one of the
learnedest men in France, among those of not inconsiderable fortune,
studying in a corner of a hall that they had separated for him with
tapestry, and about him a rabble of his servants full of licence. He
told me, and Seneca almost says the same of himself, he made an
advantage of this hubbub; that, beaten with this noise, he so much the
more collected and retired himself into himself for contemplation, and
that this tempest of voices drove back his thoughts within himself.
Being a student at Padua, he had his study so long situated amid the
rattle of coaches and the tumult of the square, that he not only formed
himself to the contempt, but even to the use of noise, for the service
of his studies. Socrates answered Alcibiades, who was astonished how he
could endure the perpetual scolding of his wife, "Why," said he, "as
those do who are accustomed to the ordinary noise of wheels drawing
water." I am quite otherwise; I have a tender head and easily
discomposed; when 'tis bent upon anything, the least buzzing of a fly
murders it.
Seneca in his youth having warmly espoused the example of Sextius, of
eating nothing that had died, for a whole year dispensed with such food,
and, as he said, with pleasure, and discontinued it that he might not be
suspected of taking up this rule from some new religion by which it was
prescribed: he adopted, in like manner, from the precepts of Attalus a
custom not to lie upon any sort of bedding that gave way under his
weight, and, even to his old age, made use of such as would not yield to
any pressure. What the usage of his time made him account roughness,
that of ours makes us look upon as effeminacy.
Do but observe the difference betwixt the way of living of my
labourers and my own; the Scythians and Indians have nothing more remote
both from my capacity and my form. I have picked up charity boys to
serve me: who soon after have quitted both my kitchen and livery, only
that they might return to their former course of life; and I found one
afterwards, picking mussels out of the sewer for his dinner, whom I
could neither by entreaties nor threats reclaim from the sweetness he
found in indigence. Beggars have their magnificences and delights, as
well as the rich, and, 'tis said, their dignities and polities. These
are the effects of custom; she can mould us, not only into what form she
pleases (the sages say we ought to apply ourselves to the best, which
she will soon make easy to us), but also to change and variation, which
is the most noble and most useful instruction of all she teaches us. The
best of my bodily conditions is that I am flexible and not very
obstinate: I have inclinations more my own and ordinary, and more
agreeable than others; but I am diverted from them with very little ado,
and easily slip into a contrary course. A young man ought to cross his
own rules, to awaken his vigour and to keep it from growing faint and
rusty; and there is no course of life so weak and sottish as that which
is carried on by rule and discipline;
"Ad primum lapidem vectari quum placet, hora
Sumitur ex libro; si prurit frictus ocelli
Angulus, inspecta genesi, collyria quaerit;"
["When he is pleased to have himself carried to the first milestone,
the hour is chosen from the almanac; if he but rub the corner of his
eye, his horoscope having been examined, he seeks the aid of
salves."—-Juvenal, vi. 576.]
he shall often throw himself even into excesses, if he will take my
advice; otherwise the least debauch will destroy him, and render him
troublesome and disagreeable in company. The worst quality in a
well-bred man is over-fastidiousness, and an obligation to a certain
particular way; and it is particular, if not pliable and supple. It is a
kind of reproach, not to be able, or not to dare, to do what we see
those about us do; let such as these stop at home. It is in every man
unbecoming, but in a soldier vicious and intolerable: who, as
Philopcemen said, ought to accustom himself to every variety and
inequality of life.
Though I have been brought up, as much as was possible, to liberty
and independence, yet so it is that, growing old, and having by
indifference more settled upon certain forms (my age is now past
instruction, and has henceforward nothing to do but to keep itself up as
well as it can), custom has already, ere I was aware, so imprinted its
character in me in certain things, that I look upon it as a kind of
excess to leave them off; and, without a force upon myself, cannot sleep
in the daytime, nor eat between meals, nor breakfast, nor go to bed,
without a great interval betwixt eating and sleeping,—[Gastroesophogeal
Reflux. D.W.]—as of three hours after supper; nor get children but
before I sleep, nor get them standing; nor endure my own sweat; nor
quench my thirst either with pure water or pure wine; nor keep my head
long bare, nor cut my hair after dinner; and I should be as uneasy
without my gloves as without my shirt, or without washing when I rise
from table or out of my bed; and I could not lie without a canopy and
curtains, as if they were essential things. I could dine without a
tablecloth, but without a clean napkin, after the German fashion, very
incommodiously; I foul them more than the Germans or Italians do, and
make but little use either of spoon or fork. I complain that they did
not keep up the fashion, begun after the example of kings, to change our
napkin at every service, as they do our plate. We are told of that
laborious soldier Marius that, growing old, he became nice in his drink,
and never drank but out of a particular cup of his own I, in like
manner, have suffered myself to fancy a certain form of glasses, and not
willingly to drink in common glasses, no more than from a strange common
hand: all metal offends me in comparison of a clear and transparent
matter: let my eyes taste, too, according to their capacity. I owe
several other such niceties to custom. Nature has also, on the other
side, helped me to some of hers: as not to be able to endure more than
two full meals in one day, without overcharging my stomach, nor a total
abstinence from one of those meals without filling myself with wind,
drying up my mouth, and dulling my appetite; the finding great
inconvenience from overmuch evening air; for of late years, in night
marches, which often happen to be all night long, after five or six
hours my stomach begins to be queasy, with a violent pain in my head, so
that I always vomit before the day can break. When the others go to
breakfast, I go to sleep; and when I rise, I am as brisk and gay as
before. I had always been told that the night dew never rises but in the
beginning of the night; but for some years past, long and familiar
intercourse with a lord, possessed with the opinion that the night dew
is more sharp and dangerous about the declining of the sun, an hour or
two before it sets, which he carefully avoids, and despises that of the
night, he almost impressed upon me, not so much his reasoning as his
experiences. What, shall mere doubt and inquiry strike our imagination,
so as to change us? Such as absolutely and on a sudden give way to these
propensions, draw total destruction upon themselves. I am sorry for
several gentlemen who, through the folly of their physicians, have in
their youth and health wholly shut themselves up: it were better to
endure a cough, than, by disuse, for ever to lose the commerce of common
life in things of so great utility. Malignant science, to interdict us
the most pleasant hours of the day! Let us keep our possession to the
last; for the most part, a man hardens himself by being obstinate, and
corrects his constitution, as Caesar did the falling sickness, by dint
of contempt. A man should addict himself to the best rules, but not
enslave himself to them, except to such, if there be any such, where
obligation and servitude are of profit.
Both kings and philosophers go to stool, and ladies too; public lives
are bound to ceremony; mine, that is obscure and private, enjoys all
natural dispensation; soldier and Gascon are also qualities a little
subject to indiscretion; wherefore I shall say of this act of relieving
nature, that it is desirable to refer it to certain prescribed and
nocturnal hours, and compel one's self to this by custom, as I have
done; but not to subject one's self, as I have done in my declining
years, to a particular convenience of place and seat for that purpose,
and make it troublesome by long sitting; and yet, in the fouler offices,
is it not in some measure excusable to require more care and
cleanliness?
"Naturt homo mundum et elegans animal est."
["Man is by nature a clean and delicate creature."—Seneca, Ep., 92.]
Of all the actions of nature, I am the most impatient of being
interrupted in that. I have seen many soldiers troubled with the
unruliness of their bellies; whereas mine and I never fail of our
punctual assignation, which is at leaping out of bed, if some
indispensable business or sickness does not molest us.
I think then, as I said before, that sick men cannot better place
themselves anywhere in more safety, than in sitting still in that course
of life wherein they have been bred and trained up; change, be it what
it will, distempers and puts one out. Do you believe that chestnuts can
hurt a Perigordin or a Lucchese, or milk and cheese the mountain people?
We enjoin them not only a new, but a contrary, method of life; a change
that the healthful cannot endure. Prescribe water to a Breton of
threescore and ten; shut a seaman up in a stove; forbid a Basque footman
to walk: you will deprive them of motion, and in the end of air and
light:
"An vivere tanti est?
Cogimur a suetis animum suspendere rebus,
Atque, ut vivamus, vivere desinimus. .
Hos superesse reor, quibus et spirabilis aer
Et lux, qua regimur, redditur ipsa gravis."
["Is life worth so much? We are compelled to withhold the mind
from things to which we are accustomed; and, that we may live, we
cease to live . . . . Do I conceive that they still live, to
whom the respirable air, and the light itself, by which we are
governed, is rendered oppressive?"
—Pseudo-Gallus, Eclog., i. 155, 247.]
If they do no other good, they do this at least, that they prepare
patients betimes for death, by little and little undermining and cutting
off the use of life.
Both well and sick, I have ever willingly suffered myself to obey the
appetites that pressed upon me. I give great rein to my desires and
propensities; I do not love to cure one disease by another; I hate
remedies that are more troublesome than the disease itself. To be
subject to the colic and subject to abstain from eating oysters are two
evils instead of one; the disease torments us on the one side, and the
remedy on the other. Since we are ever in danger of mistaking, let us
rather run the hazard of a mistake, after we have had the pleasure. The
world proceeds quite the other way, and thinks nothing profitable that
is not painful; it has great suspicion of facility. My appetite, in
various things, has of its own accord happily enough accommodated itself
to the health of my stomach. Relish and pungency in sauces were pleasant
to me when young; my stomach disliking them since, my taste
incontinently followed. Wine is hurtful to sick people, and 'tis the
first thing that my mouth then finds distasteful, and with an invincible
dislike. Whatever I take against my liking does me harm; and nothing
hurts me that I eat with appetite and delight. I never received harm by
any action that was very pleasant to me; and accordingly have made all
medicinal conclusions largely give way to my pleasure; and I have, when
I was young,
"Quem circumcursans huc atque huc saepe Cupido
Fulgebat crocink splendidus in tunic."
["When Cupid, fluttering round me here and there, shone in his rich
purple mantle."—Catullus, lxvi. 133.]
given myself the rein as licentiously and inconsiderately to the
desire that was predominant in me, as any other whomsoever:
"Et militavi non sine gloria;"
["And I have played the soldier not ingloriously."
—Horace, Od., iii. 26, 2.]
yet more in continuation and holding out, than in sally:
"Sex me vix memini sustinuisse vices."
["I can scarcely remember six bouts in one night"
—Ovid, Amor., iii. 7, 26.]
'Tis certainly a misfortune and a miracle at once to confess at what
a tender age I first came under the subjection of love: it was, indeed,
by chance; for it was long before the years of choice or knowledge; I do
not remember myself so far back; and my fortune may well be coupled with
that of Quartilla, who could not remember when she was a maid:
"Inde tragus, celeresque pili, mirandaque matri
Barba meae."
["Thence the odour of the arm-pits, the precocious hair, and the
beard which astonished my mother."—Martial, xi. 22, 7.]
Physicians modify their rules according to the violent longings that
happen to sick persons, ordinarily with good success; this great desire
cannot be imagined so strange and vicious, but that nature must have a
hand in it. And then how easy a thing is it to satisfy the fancy? In my
opinion; this part wholly carries it, at least, above all the rest. The
most grievous and ordinary evils are those that fancy loads us with;
this Spanish saying pleases me in several aspects:
"Defenda me Dios de me."
["God defend me from myself."]
I am sorry when I am sick, that I have not some longing that might
give me the pleasure of satisfying it; all the rules of physic would
hardly be able to divert me from it. I do the same when I am well; I can
see very little more to be hoped or wished for. 'Twere pity a man should
be so weak and languishing, as not to have even wishing left to him.
The art of physic is not so fixed, that we need be without authority
for whatever we do; it changes according to climates and moons,
according to Fernel and to Scaliger.—[Physicians to Henry II.]—If your
physician does not think it good for you to sleep, to drink wine, or to
eat such and such meats, never trouble yourself; I will find you another
that shall not be of his opinion; the diversity of medical arguments and
opinions embraces all sorts and forms. I saw a miserable sick person
panting and burning for thirst, that he might be cured, who was
afterwards laughed at for his pains by another physician, who condemned
that advice as prejudicial to him: had he not tormented himself to good
purpose? There lately died of the stone a man of that profession, who
had made use of extreme abstinence to contend with his disease: his
fellow-physicians say that, on the contrary, this abstinence had dried
him up and baked the gravel in his kidneys.
I have observed, that both in wounds and sicknesses, speaking
discomposes and hurts me, as much as any irregularity I can commit. My
voice pains and tires me, for 'tis loud and forced; so that when I have
gone to a whisper some great persons about affairs of consequence, they
have often desired me to moderate my voice.
This story is worth a diversion. Some one in a certain Greek school
speaking loud as I do, the master of the ceremonies sent to him to speak
softly: "Tell him, then, he must send me," replied the other, "the tone
he would have me speak in." To which the other replied, "That he should
take the tone from the ears of him to whom he spake." It was well said,
if it is to be understood: "Speak according to the affair you are
speaking about to your auditor," for if it mean, "'tis sufficient that
he hear you, or govern yourself by him," I do not find it to be reason.
The tone and motion of my voice carries with it a great deal of the
expression and signification of my meaning, and 'tis I who am to govern
it, to make myself understood: there is a voice to instruct, a voice to
flatter, and a voice to reprehend. I will not only that my voice reach
him, but, peradventure, that it strike and pierce him. When I rate my
valet with sharp and bitter language, it would be very pretty for him to
say; "Pray, master, speak lower; I hear you very well":
"Est quaedam vox ad auditum accommodata,
non magnitudine, sed proprietate."
["There is a certain voice accommodated to the hearing, not by its
loudness, but by its propriety."—Quintilian, xi. 3.]
Speaking is half his who speaks, and half his who hears; the latter
ought to prepare himself to receive it, according to its bias; as with
tennis-players, he who receives the ball, shifts and prepares, according
as he sees him move who strikes the stroke, and according to the stroke
itself.
Experience has, moreover, taught me this, that we ruin ourselves by
impatience. Evils have their life and limits, their diseases and their
recovery.
The constitution of maladies is formed by the pattern of the
constitution of animals; they have their fortune and their days limited
from their birth; he who attempts imperiously to cut them short by force
in the middle of their course, lengthens and multiplies them, and
incenses instead of appeasing them. I am of Crantor's opinion, that we
are neither obstinately and deafly to oppose evils, nor succumb to them
from want of courage; but that we are naturally to give way to them,
according to their condition and our own. We ought to grant free passage
to diseases; I find they stay less with me, who let them alone; and I
have lost some, reputed the most tenacious and obstinate, by their own
decay, without help and without art, and contrary to its rules. Let us a
little permit Nature to take her own way; she better understands her own
affairs than we. But such an one died of it; and so shall you: if not of
that disease, of another. And how many have not escaped dying, who have
had three physicians at their tails? Example is a vague and universal
mirror, and of various reflections. If it be a delicious medicine, take
it: 'tis always so much present good. I will never stick at the name nor
the colour, if it be pleasant and grateful to the palate: pleasure is
one of the chiefest kinds of profit. I have suffered colds, gouty
defluxions, relaxations, palpitations of the heart, megrims, and other
accidents, to grow old and die in time a natural death. I have so lost
them when I was half fit to keep them: they are sooner prevailed upon by
courtesy than huffing. We must patiently suffer the laws of our
condition; we are born to grow old, to grow weak, and to be sick, in
despite of all medicine. 'Tis the first lesson the Mexicans teach their
children; so soon as ever they are born they thus salute them: "Thou art
come into the world, child, to endure: endure, suffer, and say nothing."
'Tis injustice to lament that which has befallen any one which may
befall every one:
"Indignare, si quid in to inique proprio constitutum est."
["Then be angry, when there is anything unjustly decreed against
thee alone."—Seneca, Ep., 91.]
See an old man who begs of God that he will maintain his health
vigorous and entire; that is to say, that he restore him to youth:
"Stulte, quid haec frustra votis puerilibus optas?"
["Fool! why do you vainly form these puerile wishes?"
—Ovid., Trist., 111. 8, II.]
is it not folly? his condition is not capable of it. The gout, the
stone, and indigestion are symptoms of long years; as heat, rains, and
winds are of long journeys. Plato does not believe that AEsculapius
troubled himself to provide by regimen to prolong life in a weak and
wasted body, useless to his country and to his profession, or to beget
healthful and robust children; and does not think this care suitable to
the Divine justice and prudence, which is to direct all things to
utility. My good friend, your business is done; nobody can restore you;
they can, at the most, but patch you up, and prop you a little, and by
that means prolong your misery an hour or two:
"Non secus instantem cupiens fulcire ruinam,
Diversis contra nititur obiicibus;
Donec certa dies, omni compage soluta,
Ipsum cum rebus subruat auxilium."
["Like one who, desiring to stay an impending ruin, places various
props against it, till, in a short time, the house, the props, and
all, giving way, fall together."—Pseudo-Gallus, i. 171.]
We must learn to suffer what we cannot evade; our life, like the
harmony of the world, is composed of contrary things—of diverse tones,
sweet and harsh, sharp and flat, sprightly and solemn: the musician who
should only affect some of these, what would he be able to do? he must
know how to make use of them all, and to mix them; and so we should
mingle the goods and evils which are consubstantial with our life; our
being cannot subsist without this mixture, and the one part is no less
necessary to it than the other. To attempt to combat natural necessity,
is to represent the folly of Ctesiphon, who undertook to kick with his
mule.—[Plutarch, How to restrain Anger, c. 8.]
I consult little about the alterations I feel: for these doctors take
advantage; when they have you at their mercy, they surfeit your ears
with their prognostics; and formerly surprising me, weakened with
sickness, injuriously handled me with their dogmas and magisterial
fopperies—one while menacing me with great pains, and another with
approaching death. Hereby I was indeed moved and shaken, but not subdued
nor jostled from my place; and though my judgment was neither altered
nor distracted, yet it was at least disturbed: 'tis always agitation and
combat.
Now, I use my imagination as gently as I can, and would discharge it,
if I could, of all trouble and contest; a man must assist, flatter, and
deceive it, if he can; my mind is fit for that office; it needs no
appearances throughout: could it persuade as it preaches, it would
successfully relieve me. Will you have an example? It tells me: "that
'tis for my good to have the stone: that the structure of my age must
naturally suffer some decay, and it is now time it should begin to
disjoin and to confess a breach; 'tis a common necessity, and there is
nothing in it either miraculous or new; I therein pay what is due to old
age, and I cannot expect a better bargain; that society ought to comfort
me, being fallen into the most common infirmity of my age; I see
everywhere men tormented with the same disease, and am honoured by the
fellowship, forasmuch as men of the best quality are most frequently
afflicted with it: 'tis a noble and dignified disease: that of such as
are struck with it, few have it to a less degree of pain; that these are
put to the trouble of a strict diet and the daily taking of nauseous
potions, whereas I owe my better state purely to my good fortune; for
some ordinary broths of eringo or burst-wort that I have twice or thrice
taken to oblige the ladies, who, with greater kindness than my pain was
sharp, would needs present me half of theirs, seemed to me equally easy
to take and fruitless in operation, the others have to pay a thousand
vows to AEsculapius, and as many crowns to their physicians, for the
voiding a little gravel, which I often do by the aid of nature: even the
decorum of my countenance is not disturbed in company; and I can hold my
water ten hours, and as long as any man in health. The fear of this
disease," says my mind, "formerly affrighted thee, when it was unknown
to thee; the cries and despairing groans of those who make it worse by
their impatience, begot a horror in thee. 'Tis an infirmity that
punishes the members by which thou hast most offended. Thou art a
conscientious fellow;"
"Quae venit indigne poena, dolenda venit:"
["We are entitled to complain of a punishment that we have not
deserved."—Ovid, Heroid., v. 8.]
"consider this chastisement: 'tis very easy in comparison of others,
and inflicted with a paternal tenderness: do but observe how late it
comes; it only seizes on and incommodes that part of thy life which is,
one way and another, sterile and lost; having, as it were by
composition, given time for the licence and pleasures of thy youth. The
fear and the compassion that the people have of this disease serve thee
for matter of glory; a quality whereof if thou bast thy judgment
purified, and that thy reason has somewhat cured it, thy friends
notwithstanding, discern some tincture in thy complexion. 'Tis a
pleasure to hear it said of oneself what strength of mind, what
patience! Thou art seen to sweat with pain, to turn pale and red, to
tremble, to vomit blood, to suffer strange contractions and convulsions,
at times to let great tears drop from thine eyes, to urine thick, black,
and dreadful water, or to have it suppressed by some sharp and craggy
stone, that cruelly pricks and tears the neck of the bladder, whilst all
the while thou entertainest the company with an ordinary countenance;
droning by fits with thy people; making one in a continuous discourse,
now and then making excuse for thy pain, and representing thy suffering
less than it is. Dost thou call to mind the men of past times, who so
greedily sought diseases to keep their virtue in breath and exercise?
Put the case that nature sets thee on and impels thee to this glorious
school, into which thou wouldst never have entered of thy own free will.
If thou tellest me that it is a dangerous and mortal disease, what
others are not so? for 'tis a physical cheat to expect any that they say
do not go direct to death: what matters if they go thither by accident,
or if they easily slide and slip into the path that leads us to it? But
thou dost not die because thou art sick; thou diest because thou art
living: death kills thee without the help of sickness: and sickness has
deferred death in some, who have lived longer by reason that they
thought themselves always dying; to which may be added, that as in
wounds, so in diseases, some are medicinal and wholesome. The stone is
often no less long-lived than you; we see men with whom it has continued
from their infancy even to their extreme old age; and if they had not
broken company, it would have been with them longer still; you more
often kill it than it kills you. And though it should present to you the
image of approaching death, were it not a good office to a man of such
an age, to put him in mind of his end? And, which is worse, thou hast no
longer anything that should make thee desire to be cured. Whether or no,
common necessity will soon call thee away. Do but consider how skilfully
and gently she puts thee out of concern with life, and weans thee from
the world; not forcing thee with a tyrannical subjection, like so many
other infirmities which thou seest old men afflicted withal, that hold
them in continual torment, and keep them in perpetual and unintermitted
weakness and pains, but by warnings and instructions at intervals,
intermixing long pauses of repose, as it were to give thee opportunity
to meditate and ruminate upon thy lesson, at thy own ease and leisure.
To give thee means to judge aright, and to assume the resolution of a
man of courage, it presents to thee the state of thy entire condition,
both in good and evil; and one while a very cheerful and another an
insupportable life, in one and the same day. If thou embracest not
death, at least thou shakest hands with it once a month; whence thou
hast more cause to hope that it will one day surprise thee without
menace; and that being so often conducted to the water-side, but still
thinking thyself to be upon the accustomed terms, thou and thy
confidence will at one time or another be unexpectedly wafted over. A
man cannot reasonably complain of diseases that fairly divide the time
with health."
I am obliged to Fortune for having so often assaulted me with the
same sort of weapons: she forms and fashions me by use, hardens and
habituates me, so that I can know within a little for how much I shall
be quit. For want of natural memory, I make one of paper; and as any new
symptom happens in my disease, I set it down, whence it falls out that,
having now almost passed through all sorts of examples, if anything
striking threatens me, turning over these little loose notes, as the
Sybilline leaves, I never fail of finding matter of consolation from
some favourable prognostic in my past experience. Custom also makes me
hope better for the time to come; for, the conduct of this clearing out
having so long continued, 'tis to be believed that nature will not alter
her course, and that no other worse accident will happen than what I
already feel. And besides, the condition of this disease is not
unsuitable to my prompt and sudden complexion: when it assaults me
gently, I am afraid, for 'tis then for a great while; but it has,
naturally, brisk and vigorous excesses; it claws me to purpose for a day
or two. My kidneys held out an age without alteration; and I have almost
now lived another, since they changed their state; evils have their
periods, as well as benefits: peradventure, the infirmity draws towards
an end. Age weakens the heat of my stomach, and, its digestion being
less perfect, sends this crude matter to my kidneys; why, at a certain
revolution, may not the heat of my kidneys be also abated, so that they
can no more petrify my phlegm, and nature find out some other way of
purgation. Years have evidently helped me to drain certain rheums; and
why not these excrements which furnish matter for gravel? But is there
anything delightful in comparison of this sudden change, when from an
excessive pain, I come, by the voiding of a stone, to recover, as by a
flash of lightning, the beautiful light of health, so free and full, as
it happens in our sudden and sharpest colics? Is there anything in the
pain suffered, that one can counterpoise to the pleasure of so sudden an
amendment? Oh, how much does health seem the more pleasant to me, after
a sickness so near and so contiguous, that I can distinguish them in the
presence of one another, in their greatest show; when they appear in
emulation, as if to make head against and dispute it with one another!
As the Stoics say that vices are profitably introduced to give value to
and to set off virtue, we can, with better reason and less temerity of
conjecture, say that nature has given us pain for the honour and service
of pleasure and indolence. When Socrates, after his fetters were knocked
off, felt the pleasure of that itching which the weight of them had
caused in his legs, he rejoiced to consider the strict alliance betwixt
pain and pleasure; how they are linked together by a necessary
connection, so that by turns they follow and mutually beget one another;
and cried out to good AEsop, that he ought out of this consideration to
have taken matter for a fine fable.
The worst that I see in other diseases is, that they are not so
grievous in their effect as they are in their issue: a man is a whole
year in recovering, and all the while full of weakness and fear. There
is so much hazard, and so many steps to arrive at safety, that there is
no end on't before they have unmuffled you of a kerchief, and then of a
cap, before they allow you to walk abroad and take the air, to drink
wine, to lie with your wife, to eat melons, 'tis odds you relapse into
some new distemper. The stone has this privilege, that it carries itself
clean off: whereas the other maladies always leave behind them some
impression and alteration that render the body subject to a new disease,
and lend a hand to one another. Those are excusable that content
themselves with possessing us, without extending farther and introducing
their followers; but courteous and kind are those whose passage brings
us any profitable issue. Since I have been troubled with the stone, I
find myself freed from all other accidents, much more, methinks, than I
was before, and have never had any fever since; I argue that the extreme
and frequent vomitings that I am subject to purge me: and, on the other
hand, my distastes for this and that, and the strange fasts I am forced
to keep, digest my peccant humours, and nature, with those stones, voids
whatever there is in me superfluous and hurtful. Let them never tell me
that it is a medicine too dear bought: for what avail so many stinking
draughts, so many caustics, incisions, sweats, setons, diets, and so
many other methods of cure, which often, by reason we are not able to
undergo their violence and importunity, bring us to our graves? So that
when I have the stone, I look upon it as physic; when free from it, as
an absolute deliverance.
And here is another particular benefit of my disease; which is, that
it almost plays its game by itself, and lets 'me play mine, if I have
only courage to do it; for, in its greatest fury, I have endured it ten
hours together on horseback. Do but endure only; you need no other
regimen play, run, dine, do this and t'other, if you can; your debauch
will do you more good than harm; say as much to one that has the pox,
the gout, or hernia! The other diseases have more universal obligations;
rack our actions after another kind of manner, disturb our whole order,
and to their consideration engage the whole state of life: this only
pinches the skin; it leaves the understanding and the will wholly at our
own disposal, and the tongue, the hands, and the feet; it rather awakens
than stupefies you. The soul is struck with the ardour of a fever,
overwhelmed with an epilepsy, and displaced by a sharp megrim, and, in
short, astounded by all the diseases that hurt the whole mass and the
most noble parts; this never meddles with the soul; if anything goes
amiss with her, 'tis her own fault; she betrays, dismounts, and abandons
herself. There are none but fools who suffer themselves to be persuaded
that this hard and massive body which is baked in our kidneys is to be
dissolved by drinks; wherefore, when it is once stirred, there is
nothing to be done but to give it passage; and, for that matter, it will
itself make one.
I moreover observe this particular convenience in it, that it is a
disease wherein we have little to guess at: we are dispensed from the
trouble into which other diseases throw us by the uncertainty of their
causes, conditions, and progress; a trouble that is infinitely painful:
we have no need of consultations and doctoral interpretations; the
senses well enough inform us both what it is and where it is.
By suchlike arguments, weak and strong, as Cicero with the disease of
his old age, I try to rock asleep and amuse my imagination, and to dress
its wounds. If I find them worse tomorrow, I will provide new
stratagems. That this is true: I am come to that pass of late, that the
least motion forces pure blood out of my kidneys: what of that? I move
about, nevertheless, as before, and ride after my hounds with a juvenile
and insolent ardour; and hold that I have very good satisfaction for an
accident of that importance, when it costs me no more but a dull
heaviness and uneasiness in that part; 'tis some great stone that wastes
and consumes the substance of my kidneys and my life, which I by little
and little evacuate, not without some natural pleasure, as an excrement
henceforward superfluous and troublesome. Now if I feel anything
stirring, do not fancy that I trouble myself to consult my pulse or my
urine, thereby to put myself upon some annoying prevention; I shall soon
enough feel the pain, without making it more and longer by the disease
of fear. He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears. To
which may be added that the doubts and ignorance of those who take upon
them to expound the designs of nature and her internal progressions, and
the many false prognostics of their art, ought to give us to understand
that her ways are inscrutable and utterly unknown; there is great
uncertainty, variety, and obscurity in what she either promises or
threatens. Old age excepted, which is an indubitable sign of the
approach of death, in all other accidents I see few signs of the future,
whereon we may ground our divination. I only judge of myself by actual
sensation, not by reasoning: to what end, since I am resolved to bring
nothing to it but expectation and patience? Will you know how much I get
by this? observe those who do otherwise, and who rely upon so many
diverse persuasions and counsels; how often the imagination presses upon
them without any bodily pain. I have many times amused myself, being
well and in safety, and quite free from these dangerous attacks in
communicating them to the physicians as then beginning to discover
themselves in me; I underwent the decree of their dreadful conclusions,
being all the while quite at my ease, and so much the more obliged to
the favour of God and better satisfied of the vanity of this art.
There is nothing that ought so much to be recommended to youth as
activity and vigilance our life is nothing but movement. I bestir myself
with great difficulty, and am slow in everything, whether in rising,
going to bed, or eating: seven of the clock in the morning is early for
me, and where I rule, I never dine before eleven, nor sup till after
six. I formerly attributed the cause of the fevers and other diseases I
fell into to the heaviness that long sleeping had brought upon me, and
have ever repented going to sleep again in the morning. Plato is more
angry at excess of sleeping than at excess of drinking. I love to lie
hard and alone, even without my wife, as kings do; pretty well covered
with clothes. They never warm my bed, but since I have grown old they
give me at need cloths to lay to my feet and stomach. They found fault
with the great Scipio that he was a great sleeper; not, in my opinion,
for any other reason than that men were displeased that he alone should
have nothing in him to be found fault with. If I am anything fastidious
in my way of living 'tis rather in my lying than anything else; but
generally I give way and accommodate myself as well as any one to
necessity. Sleeping has taken up a great part of my life, and I yet
continue, at the age I now am, to sleep eight or nine hours at one
breath. I wean myself with utility from this proneness to sloth, and am
evidently the better for so doing. I find the change a little hard
indeed, but in three days 'tis over; and I see but few who live with
less sleep, when need requires, and who more constantly exercise
themselves, or to whom long journeys are less troublesome. My body is
capable of a firm, but not of a violent or sudden agitation. I escape of
late from violent exercises, and such as make me sweat: my limbs grow
weary before they are warm. I can stand a whole day together, and am
never weary of walking; but from my youth I have ever preferred to ride
upon paved roads; on foot, I get up to the haunches in dirt, and little
fellows as I am are subject in the streets to be elbowed and jostled for
want of presence; I have ever loved to repose myself, whether sitting or
lying, with my heels as high or higher than my seat.
There is no profession as pleasant as the military, a profession both
noble in its execution (for valour is the stoutest, proudest, and most
generous of all virtues), and noble in its cause: there is no utility
either more universal or more just than the protection of the peace and
greatness of one's country. The company of so many noble, young, and
active men delights you; the ordinary sight of so many tragic
spectacles; the freedom of the conversation, without art; a masculine
and unceremonious way of living, please you; the variety of a thousand
several actions; the encouraging harmony of martial music that ravishes
and inflames both your ears and souls; the honour of this occupation,
nay, even its hardships and difficulties, which Plato holds so light
that in his Republic he makes women and children share in them, are
delightful to you. You put yourself voluntarily upon particular exploits
and hazards, according as you judge of their lustre and importance; and,
a volunteer, find even life itself excusably employed:
"Pulchrumque mori succurrit in armis."
["'Tis fine to die sword in hand." ("And he remembers that it
is honourable to die in arms.")—AEneid, ii. 317.]
To fear common dangers that concern so great a multitude of men; not
to dare to do what so many sorts of souls, what a whole people dare, is
for a heart that is poor and mean beyond all measure: company encourages
even children. If others excel you in knowledge, in gracefulness, in
strength, or fortune, you have alternative resources at your disposal;
but to give place to them in stability of mind, you can blame no one for
that but yourself. Death is more abject, more languishing and
troublesome, in bed than in a fight: fevers and catarrhs as painful and
mortal as a musket-shot. Whoever has fortified himself valiantly to bear
the accidents of common life need not raise his courage to be a soldier:
"Vivere, mi Lucili, militare est."
["To live, my Lucilius, is (to make war) to be a soldier."
—Seneca, Ep., 96.]
I do not remember that I ever had the itch, and yet scratching is one
of nature's sweetest gratifications, and so much at hand; but repentance
follows too near. I use it most in my ears, which are at intervals apt
to itch.
I came into the world with all my senses entire, even to perfection.
My stomach is commodiously good, as also is my head and my breath; and,
for the most part, uphold themselves so in the height of fevers. I have
passed the age to which some nations, not without reason, have
prescribed so just a term of life that they would not suffer men to
exceed it; and yet I have some intermissions, though short and
inconstant, so clean and sound as to be little inferior to the health
and pleasantness of my youth. I do not speak of vigour and
sprightliness; 'tis not reason they should follow me beyond their
limits:
"Non hoc amplius est liminis, aut aquae
Coelestis, patiens latus."
["I am no longer able to stand waiting at a door in the rain."
—Horace, Od., iii. 10, 9.]
My face and eyes presently discover my condition; all my alterations
begin there, and appear somewhat worse than they really are; my friends
often pity me before I feel the cause in myself. My looking-glass does
not frighten me; for even in my youth it has befallen me more than once
to have a scurvy complexion and of ill augury, without any great
consequence, so that the physicians, not finding any cause within
answerable to that outward alteration, attributed it to the mind and to
some secret passion that tormented me within; but they were deceived. If
my body would govern itself as well, according to my rule, as my mind
does, we should move a little more at our ease. My mind was then not
only free from trouble, but, moreover, full of joy and satisfaction, as
it commonly is, half by its complexion, half by its design:
"Nec vitiant artus aegrae contagia mentis."
["Nor do the troubles of the body ever affect my mind."
—Ovid, Trist., iii. 8, 25.]
I am of the opinion that this temperature of my soul has often raised
my body from its lapses; this is often depressed; if the other be not
brisk and gay, 'tis at least tranquil and at rest. I had a quartan ague
four or five months, that made me look miserably ill; my mind was
always, if not calm, yet pleasant. If the pain be without me, the
weakness and languor do not much afflict me; I see various corporal
faintings, that beget a horror in me but to name, which yet I should
less fear than a thousand passions and agitations of the mind that I see
about me. I make up my mind no more to run; 'tis enough that I can crawl
along; nor do I more complain of the natural decadence that I feel in
myself:
"Quis tumidum guttur miratur in Alpibus?"
["Who is surprised to see a swollen goitre in the Alps?"
—Juvenal, xiii. 162.]
than I regret that my duration shall not be as long and entire as
that of an oak.
I have no reason to complain of my imagination; I have had few
thoughts in my life that have so much as broken my sleep, except those
of desire, which have awakened without afflicting me. I dream but
seldom, and then of chimaeras and fantastic things, commonly produced
from pleasant thoughts, and rather ridiculous than sad; and I believe it
to be true that dreams are faithful interpreters of our inclinations;
but there is art required to sort and understand them
"Res, quae in vita usurpant homines, cogitant, curant, vident,
Quaeque agunt vigilantes, agitantque, ea si cui in somno accidunt,
Minus mirandum est."
["'Tis less wonder, what men practise, think, care for, see, and do
when waking, (should also run in their heads and disturb them when
they are asleep) and which affect their feelings, if they happen to
any in sleep."—Attius, cited in Cicero, De Divin., i. 22.]
Plato, moreover, says, that 'tis the office of prudence to draw
instructions of divination of future things from dreams: I don't know
about this, but there are wonderful instances of it that Socrates,
Xenophon, and Aristotle, men of irreproachable authority, relate.
Historians say that the Atlantes never dream; who also never eat any
animal food, which I add, forasmuch as it is, peradventure, the reason
why they never dream, for Pythagoras ordered a certain preparation of
diet to beget appropriate dreams. Mine are very gentle, without any
agitation of body or expression of voice. I have seen several of my time
wonderfully disturbed by them. Theon the philosopher walked in his
sleep, and so did Pericles servant, and that upon the tiles and top of
the house.
I hardly ever choose my dish at table, but take the next at hand, and
unwillingly change it for another. A confusion of meats and a clatter of
dishes displease me as much as any other confusion: I am easily
satisfied with few dishes: and am an enemy to the opinion of Favorinus,
that in a feast they should snatch from you the meat you like, and set a
plate of another sort before you; and that 'tis a pitiful supper, if you
do not sate your guests with the rumps of various fowls, the beccafico
only deserving to be all eaten. I usually eat salt meats, yet I prefer
bread that has no salt in it; and my baker never sends up other to my
table, contrary to the custom of the country. In my infancy, what they
had most to correct in me was the refusal of things that children
commonly best love, as sugar, sweetmeats, and march-panes. My tutor
contended with this aversion to delicate things, as a kind of
over-nicety; and indeed 'tis nothing else but a difficulty of taste, in
anything it applies itself to. Whoever cures a child of an obstinate
liking for brown bread, bacon, or garlic, cures him also of pampering
his palate. There are some who affect temperance and plainness by
wishing for beef and ham amongst the partridges; 'tis all very fine;
this is the delicacy of the delicate; 'tis the taste of an effeminate
fortune that disrelishes ordinary and accustomed things.
"Per qux luxuria divitiarum taedio ludit."
["By which the luxury of wealth causes tedium."—Seneca, Ep., 18.]
Not to make good cheer with what another is enjoying, and to be
curious in what a man eats, is the essence of this vice:
"Si modica coenare times olus omne patella."
["If you can't be content with herbs in a small dish for supper."
—Horace, Ep., i. 5, 2.]
There is indeed this difference, that 'tis better to oblige one's
appetite to things that are most easy to be had; but 'tis always vice to
oblige one's self. I formerly said a kinsman of mine was overnice, who,
by being in our galleys, had unlearned the use of beds and to undress
when he went to sleep.
If I had any sons, I should willingly wish them my fortune. The good
father that God gave me (who has nothing of me but the acknowledgment of
his goodness, but truly 'tis a very hearty one) sent me from my cradle
to be brought up in a poor village of his, and there continued me all
the while I was at nurse, and still longer, bringing me up to the
meanest and most common way of living:
"Magna pars libertatis est bene moratus venter."
["A well-governed stomach is a great part of liberty."
—Seneca,Ep., 123.]
Never take upon yourselves, and much less give up to your wives, the
care of their nurture; leave the formation to fortune, under popular and
natural laws; leave it to custom to train them up to frugality and
hardship, that they may rather descend from rigour than mount up to it.
This humour of his yet aimed at another end, to make me familiar with
the people and the condition of men who most need our assistance;
considering that I should rather regard them who extend their arms to
me, than those who turn their backs upon me; and for this reason it was
that he provided to hold me at the font persons of the meanest fortune,
to oblige and attach me to them.
Nor has his design succeeded altogether ill; for, whether upon the
account of the more honour in such a condescension, or out of a natural
compassion that has a very great power over me, I have an inclination
towards the meaner sort of people. The faction which I should condemn in
our wars, I should more sharply condemn, flourishing and successful; it
will somewhat reconcile me to it, when I shall see it miserable and
overwhelmed. How willingly do I admire the fine humour of Cheilonis,
daughter and wife to kings of Sparta. Whilst her husband Cleombrotus, in
the commotion of her city, had the advantage over Leonidas her father,
she, like a good daughter, stuck close to her father in all his misery
and exile, in opposition to the conqueror. But so soon as the chance of
war turned, she changed her will with the change of fortune, and bravely
turned to her husband's side, whom she accompanied throughout, where his
ruin carried him: admitting, as it appears to me, no other choice than
to cleave to the side that stood most in need of her, and where she
could best manifest her compassion. I am naturally more apt to follow
the example of Flaminius, who rather gave his assistance to those who
had most need of him than to those who had power to do him good, than I
do to that of Pyrrhus, who was of an humour to truckle under the great
and to domineer over the poor.
Long sittings at table both trouble me and do me harm; for, be it
that I was so accustomed when a child, I eat all the while I sit.
Therefore it is that at my own house, though the meals there are of the
shortest, I usually sit down a little while after the rest, after the
manner of Augustus, but I do not imitate him in rising also before the
rest; on the contrary, I love to sit still a long time after, and to
hear them talk, provided I am none of the talkers: for I tire and hurt
myself with speaking upon a full stomach, as much as I find it very
wholesome and pleasant to argue and to strain my voice before dinner.
The ancient Greeks and Romans had more reason than we in setting
apart for eating, which is a principal action of life, if they were not
prevented by other extraordinary business, many hours and the greatest
part of the night; eating and drinking more deliberately than we do, who
perform all our actions post-haste; and in extending this natural
pleasure to more leisure and better use, intermixing with profitable
conversation.
They whose concern it is to have a care of me, may very easily hinder
me from eating anything they think will do me harm; for in such matters
I never covet nor miss anything I do not see; but withal, if it once
comes in my sight, 'tis in vain to persuade me to forbear; so that when
I design to fast I must be kept apart from the suppers, and must have
only so much given me as is required for a prescribed collation; for if
to table, I forget my resolution. When I order my cook to alter the
manner of dressing any dish, all my family know what it means, that my
stomach is out of order, and that I shall not touch it.
I love to have all meats, that will endure it, very little boiled or
roasted, and prefer them very high, and even, as to several, quite gone.
Nothing but hardness generally offends me (of any other quality I am as
patient and indifferent as any man I have known); so that, contrary to
the common humour, even in fish it often happens that I find them both
too fresh and too firm; not for want of teeth, which I ever had good,
even to excellence, and which age does not now begin to threaten; I have
always been used every morning to rub them with a napkin, and before and
after dinner. God is favourable to those whom He makes to die by
degrees; 'tis the only benefit of old age; the last death will be so
much the less painful; it will kill but a half or a quarter of a man.
There is one tooth lately fallen out without drawing and without pain;
it was the natural term of its duration; in that part of my being and
several others, are already dead, others half dead, of those that were
most active and in the first rank during my vigorous years; 'tis so I
melt and steal away from myself. What a folly it would be in my
understanding to apprehend the height of this fall, already so much
advanced, as if it were from the very top! I hope I shall not. I, in
truth, receive a principal consolation in meditating my death, that it
will be just and natural, and that henceforward I cannot herein either
require or hope from Destiny any other but unlawful favour. Men make
themselves believe that we formerly had longer lives as well as greater
stature. But they deceive themselves; and Solon, who was of those elder
times, limits the duration of life to threescore and ten years. I, who
have so much and so universally adored that "The mean is best," of the
passed time, and who have concluded the most moderate measures to be the
most perfect, shall I pretend to an immeasurable and prodigious old age?
Whatever happens contrary to the course of nature may be troublesome;
but what comes according to her should always be pleasant:
"Omnia, quae secundum naturam fiunt, sunt habenda in bonis."
["All things that are done according to nature
are to be accounted good."—Cicero, De Senect., c. 19.]
And so, says Plato, the death which is occasioned by wounds and
diseases is violent; but that which comes upon us, old age conducting us
to it, is of all others the most easy, and in some sort delicious:
"Vitam adolescentibus vis aufert, senibus maturitas."
["Young men are taken away by violence, old men by maturity."
—Cicero, ubi sup.]
Death mixes and confounds itself throughout with life; decay
anticipates its hour, and shoulders itself even into the course of our
advance. I have portraits of myself taken at five-and-twenty and
five-and-thirty years of age. I compare them with that lately drawn: how
many times is it no longer me; how much more is my present image unlike
the former, than unlike my dying one? It is too much to abuse nature, to
make her trot so far that she must be forced to leave us, and abandon
our conduct, our eyes, teeth, legs, and all the rest to the mercy of a
foreign and haggard countenance, and to resign us into the hands of art,
being weary of following us herself.
I am not excessively fond either of salads or fruits, except melons.
My father hated all sorts of sauces; I love them all. Eating too much
hurts me; but, as to the quality of what I eat, I do not yet certainly
know that any sort of meat disagrees with me; neither have I observed
that either full moon or decrease, autumn or spring, have any influence
upon me. We have in us motions that are inconstant and unknown; for
example, I found radishes first grateful to my stomach, since that
nauseous, and now again grateful. In several other things, I find my
stomach and appetite vary after the same manner; I have changed again
and again from white wine to claret, from claret to white wine.
I am a great lover of fish, and consequently make my fasts feasts and
feasts fasts; and I believe what some people say, that it is more easy
of digestion than flesh. As I make a conscience of eating flesh upon
fish-days, so does my taste make a conscience of mixing fish and flesh;
the difference betwixt them seems to me too remote.
From my youth, I have sometimes kept out of the way at meals; either
to sharpen my appetite against the next morning (for, as Epicurus fasted
and made lean meals to accustom his pleasure to make shift without
abundance, I, on the contrary, do it to prepare my pleasure to make
better and more cheerful use of abundance); or else I fasted to preserve
my vigour for the service of some action of body or mind: for both the
one and the other of these is cruelly dulled in me by repletion; and,
above all things, I hate that foolish coupling of so healthful and
sprightly a goddess with that little belching god, bloated with the
fumes of his liquor—[ Montaigne did not approve of coupling Bacchus with
Venus.]— or to cure my sick stomach, or for want of fit company; for I
say, as the same Epicurus did, that one is not so much to regard what he
eats, as with whom; and I commend Chilo, that he would not engage
himself to be at Periander's feast till he was first informed who were
to be the other guests; no dish is so acceptable to me, nor no sauce so
appetising, as that which is extracted from society. I think it more
wholesome to eat more leisurely and less, and to eat oftener; but I
would have appetite and hunger attended to; I should take no pleasure to
be fed with three or four pitiful and stinted repasts a day, after a
medicinal manner: who will assure me that, if I have a good appetite in
the morning, I shall have the same at supper? But we old fellows
especially, let us take the first opportune time of eating, and leave to
almanac-makers hopes and prognostics. The utmost fruit of my health is
pleasure; let us take hold of the present and known. I avoid the
invariable in these laws of fasting; he who would have one form serve
him, let him avoid the continuing it; we harden ourselves in it; our
strength is there stupefied and laid asleep; six months after, you shall
find your stomach so inured to it, that all you have got is the loss of
your liberty of doing otherwise but to your prejudice.
I never keep my legs and thighs warmer in winter than in summer; one
simple pair of silk stockings is all. I have suffered myself, for the
relief of my colds, to keep my head warmer, and my belly upon the
account of my colic: my diseases in a few days habituate themselves
thereto, and disdained my ordinary provisions: we soon get from a coif
to a kerchief over it, from a simple cap to a quilted hat; the trimmings
of the doublet must not merely serve for ornament: there must be added a
hare's skin or a vulture's skin, and a cap under the hat: follow this
gradation, and you will go a very fine way to work. I will do nothing of
the sort, and would willingly leave off what I have begun. If you fall
into any new inconvenience, all this is labour lost; you are accustomed
to it; seek out some other. Thus do they destroy themselves who submit
to be pestered with these enforced and superstitious rules; they must
add something more, and something more after that; there is no end on't.
For what concerns our affairs and pleasures, it is much more
commodious, as the ancients did, to lose one's dinner, and defer making
good cheer till the hour of retirement and repose, without breaking up a
day; and so was I formerly used to do. As to health, I since by
experience find, on the contrary, that it is better to dine, and that
the digestion is better while awake. I am not very used to be thirsty,
either well or sick; my mouth is, indeed, apt to be dry, but without
thirst; and commonly I never drink but with thirst that is created by
eating, and far on in the meal; I drink pretty well for a man of my
pitch: in summer, and at a relishing meal, I do not only exceed the
limits of Augustus, who drank but thrice precisely; but not to offend
Democritus rule, who forbade that men should stop at four times as an
unlucky number, I proceed at need to the fifth glass, about three
half-pints; for the little glasses are my favourites, and I like to
drink them off, which other people avoid as an unbecoming thing. I mix
my wine sometimes with half, sometimes with the third part water; and
when I am at home, by an ancient custom that my father's physician
prescribed both to him and himself, they mix that which is designed for
me in the buttery, two or three hours before 'tis brought in. 'Tis said
that Cranabs, king of Attica, was the inventor of this custom of
diluting wine; whether useful or no, I have heard disputed. I think it
more decent and wholesome for children to drink no wine till after
sixteen or eighteen years of age. The most usual and common method of
living is the most becoming; all particularity, in my opinion, is to be
avoided; and I should as much hate a German who mixed water with his
wine, as I should a Frenchman who drank it pure. Public usage gives the
law in these things.
I fear a mist, and fly from smoke as from the plague: the first
repairs I fell upon in my own house were the chimneys and houses of
office, the common and insupportable defects of all old buildings; and
amongst the difficulties of war I reckon the choking dust they made us
ride in a whole day together. I have a free and easy respiration, and my
colds for the most part go off without offence to the lungs and without
a cough.
The heat of summer is more an enemy to me than the cold of winter;
for, besides the incommodity of heat, less remediable than cold, and
besides the force of the sunbeams that strike upon the head, all
glittering light offends my eyes, so that I could not now sit at dinner
over against a flaming fire.
To dull the whiteness of paper, in those times when I was more wont
to read, I laid a piece of glass upon my book, and found my eyes much
relieved by it. I am to this hour—to the age of fifty-four—Ignorant of
the use of spectacles; and I can see as far as ever I did, or any other.
'Tis true that in the evening I begin to find a little disturbance and
weakness in my sight if I read, an exercise I have always found
troublesome, especially by night. Here is one step back, and a very
manifest one; I shall retire another: from the second to the third, and
so to the fourth, so gently, that I shall be stark blind before I shall
be sensible of the age and decay of my sight: so artificially do the
Fatal Sisters untwist our lives. And so I doubt whether my hearing
begins to grow thick; and you will see I shall have half lost it, when I
shall still lay the fault on the voices of those who speak to me. A man
must screw up his soul to a high pitch to make it sensible how it ebbs
away.
My walking is quick and firm; and I know not which of the two, my
mind or my body, I have most to do to keep in the same state. That
preacher is very much my friend who can fix my attention a whole sermon
through: in places of ceremony, where every one's countenance is so
starched, where I have seen the ladies keep even their eyes so fixed, I
could never order it so, that some part or other of me did not lash out;
so that though I was seated, I was never settled; and as to
gesticulation, I am never without a switch in my hand, walking or
riding. As the philosopher Chrysippus' maid said of her master, that he
was only drunk in his legs, for it was his custom to be always kicking
them about in what place soever he sat; and she said it when, the wine
having made all his companions drunk, he found no alteration in himself
at all; it may have been said of me from my infancy, that I had either
folly or quicksilver in my feet, so much stirring and unsettledness
there is in them, wherever they are placed.
'Tis indecent, besides the hurt it does to one's health, and even to
the pleasure of eating, to eat greedily as I do; I often bite my tongue,
and sometimes my fingers, in my haste. Diogenes, meeting a boy eating
after that manner, gave his tutor a box on the ear! There were men at
Rome that taught people to chew, as well as to walk, with a good grace.
I lose thereby the leisure of speaking, which gives great relish to the
table, provided the discourse be suitable, that is, pleasant and short.
There is jealousy and envy amongst our pleasures; they cross and
hinder one another. Alcibiades, a man who well understood how to make
good cheer, banished even music from the table, that it might not
disturb the entertainment of discourse, for the reason, as Plato tells
us, "that it is the custom of ordinary people to call fiddlers and
singing men to feasts, for want of good discourse and pleasant talk,
with which men of understanding know how to entertain one another."
Varro requires all this in entertainments: "Persons of graceful presence
and agreeable conversation, who are neither silent nor garrulous;
neatness and delicacy, both of meat and place; and fair weather." The
art of dining well is no slight art, the pleasure not a slight pleasure;
neither the greatest captains nor the greatest philosophers have
disdained the use or science of eating well. My imagination has
delivered three repasts to the custody of my memory, which fortune
rendered sovereignly sweet to me, upon several occasions in my more
flourishing age; my present state excludes me; for every one, according
to the good temper of body and mind wherein he then finds himself,
furnishes for his own share a particular grace and savour. I, who but
crawl upon the earth, hate this inhuman wisdom, that will have us
despise and hate all culture of the body; I look upon it as an equal
injustice to loath natural pleasures as to be too much in love with
them. Xerxes was a blockhead, who, environed with all human delights,
proposed a reward to him who could find out others; but he is not much
less so who cuts off any of those pleasures that nature has provided for
him. A man should neither pursue nor avoid them, but receive them. I
receive them, I confess, a little too warmly and kindly, and easily
suffer myself to follow my natural propensions. We have no need to
exaggerate their inanity; they themselves will make us sufficiently
sensible of it, thanks to our sick wet-blanket mind, that puts us out of
taste with them as with itself; it treats both itself and all it
receives, one while better, and another worse, according to its
insatiable, vagabond, and versatile essence:
"Sincerum est nisi vas, quodcunque infundis, acescit."
["Unless the vessel be clean, it will sour whatever
you put into it."—Horace, Ep., i. 2, 54.]
I, who boast that I so curiously and particularly embrace the
conveniences of life, find them, when I most nearly consider them, very
little more than wind. But what? We are all wind throughout; and,
moreover, the wind itself, more discreet than we, loves to bluster and
shift from corner to corner, and contents itself with its proper offices
without desiring stability and solidity-qualities not its own.
The pure pleasures, as well as the pure displeasures, of the
imagination, say some, are the greatest, as was expressed by the balance
of Critolaiis. 'Tis no wonder; it makes them to its own liking, and cuts
them out of the whole cloth; of this I every day see notable examples,
and, peradventure, to be desired. But I, who am of a mixed and heavy
condition, cannot snap so soon at this one simple object, but that I
negligently suffer myself to be carried away with the present pleasures
of the, general human law, intellectually sensible, and sensibly
intellectual. The Cyrenaic philosophers will have it that as corporal
pains, so corporal pleasures are more powerful, both as double and as
more just. There are some, as Aristotle says, who out of a savage kind
of stupidity dislike them; and I know others who out of ambition do the
same. Why do they not, moreover, forswear breathing? why do they not
live of their own? why not refuse light, because it is gratuitous, and
costs them neither invention nor exertion? Let Mars, Pallas, or Mercury
afford them their light by which to see, instead of Venus, Ceres, and
Bacchus. These boastful humours may counterfeit some content, for what
will not fancy do? But as to wisdom, there is no touch of it. Will they
not seek the quadrature of the circle, even when on their wives? I hate
that we should be enjoined to have our minds in the clouds, when our
bodies are at table; I would not have the mind nailed there, nor wallow
there; I would have it take place there and sit, but not lie down.
Aristippus maintained nothing but the body, as if we had no soul; Zeno
comprehended only the soul, as if we had no body: both of them faultily.
Pythagoras, they say, followed a philosophy that was all contemplation,
Socrates one that was all conduct and action; Plato found a mean betwixt
the two; but they only say this for the sake of talking. The true
temperament is found in Socrates; and, Plato is much more Socratic than
Pythagoric, and it becomes him better. When I dance, I dance; when I
sleep, I sleep. Nay, when I walk alone in a beautiful orchard, if my
thoughts are some part of the time taken up with external occurrences, I
some part of the time call them back again to my walk, to the orchard,
to the sweetness of that solitude, and to myself.
Nature has mother-like observed this, that the actions she has
enjoined us for our necessity should be also pleasurable to us; and she
invites us to them, not only by reason, but also by appetite, and 'tis
injustice to infringe her laws. When I see alike Caesar and Alexander,
in the midst of his greatest business, so fully enjoy human and corporal
pleasures, I do not say that he relaxed his mind: I say that he
strengthened it, by vigour of courage subjecting those violent
employments and laborious thoughts to the ordinary usage of life: wise,
had he believed the last was his ordinary, the first his extraordinary,
vocation. We are great fools. "He has passed his life in idleness," say
we: "I have done nothing to-day." What? have you not lived? that is not
only the fundamental, but the most illustrious, of your occupations.
"Had I been put to the management of great affairs, I should have made
it seen what I could do." "Have you known how to meditate and manage
your life? you have performed the greatest work of all." In order to
shew and develop herself, nature needs only fortune; she equally
manifests herself in all stages, and behind a curtain as well as without
one. Have you known how to regulate your conduct, you have done a great
deal more than he who has composed books. Have you known how to take
repose, you have done more than he who has taken empires and cities.
The glorious masterpiece of man is to live to purpose; all other
things: to reign, to lay up treasure, to build, are but little
appendices and props. I take pleasure in seeing a general of an army, at
the foot of a breach he is presently to assault, give himself up entire
and free at dinner, to talk and be merry with his friends. And Brutus,
when heaven and earth were conspired against him and the Roman liberty,
stealing some hour of the night from his rounds to read and scan
Polybius in all security. 'Tis for little souls, buried under the weight
of affairs, not from them to know how clearly to disengage themselves,
not to know how to lay them aside and take them up again:
"O fortes, pejoraque passi
Mecum saepe viri! nunc vino pellite curas
Cras ingens iterabimus aequor."
["O brave spirits, who have often suffered sorrow with me, drink
cares away; tomorrow we will embark once more on the vast sea."
—Horace, Od., i. 7, 30.]
Whether it be in jest or earnest, that the theological and
Sorbonnical wine, and their feasts, are turned into a proverb, I find it
reasonable they should dine so much more commodiously and pleasantly, as
they have profitably and seriously employed the morning in the exercise
of their schools. The conscience of having well spent the other hours,
is the just and savoury sauce of the dinner-table. The sages lived after
that manner; and that inimitable emulation to virtue, which astonishes
us both in the one and the other Cato, that humour of theirs, so severe
as even to be importunate, gently submits itself and yields to the laws
of the human condition, of Venus and Bacchus; according to the precepts
of their sect, that require the perfect sage to be as expert and
intelligent in the use of natural pleasures as in all other duties of
life:
"Cui cor sapiat, ei et sapiat palatus."
Relaxation and facility, methinks, wonderfully honour and best become
a strong and generous soul. Epaminondas did not think that to take part,
and that heartily, in songs and sports and dances with the young men of
his city, were things that in any way derogated from the honour of his
glorious victories and the perfect purity of manners that was in him.
And amongst so many admirable actions of Scipio the grandfather, a
person worthy to be reputed of a heavenly extraction, there is nothing
that gives him a greater grace than to see him carelessly and childishly
trifling at gathering and selecting cockle shells, and playing at
quoits,
[This game, as the "Dictionnaire de Trevoux" describes it, is one
wherein two persons contend which of them shall soonest pick up some
object.]
amusing and tickling himself in representing by writing in comedies
the meanest and most popular actions of men. And his head full of that
wonderful enterprise of Hannibal and Africa, visiting the schools in
Sicily, and attending philosophical lectures, to the extent of arming
the blind envy of his enemies at Rome. Nor is there anything more
remarkable in Socrates than that, old as he was, he found time to make
himself taught dancing and playing upon instruments, and thought it time
well spent. This same man was seen in an ecstasy, standing upon his feet
a whole day and a night together, in the presence of all the Grecian
army, surprised and absorbed by some profound thought. He was the first,
amongst so many valiant men of the army, to run to the relief of
Alcibiades, oppressed with the enemy, to shield him with his own body,
and disengage him from the crowd by absolute force of arms. It was he
who, in the Delian battle, raised and saved Xenophon when fallen from
his horse; and who, amongst all the people of Athens, enraged as he was
at so unworthy a spectacle, first presented himself to rescue
Theramenes, whom the thirty tyrants were leading to execution by their
satellites, and desisted not from his bold enterprise but at the
remonstrance of Theramenes himself, though he was only followed by two
more in all. He was seen, when courted by a beauty with whom he was in
love, to maintain at need a severe abstinence. He was seen ever to go to
the wars, and walk upon ice, with bare feet; to wear the same robe,
winter and summer; to surpass all his companions in patience of bearing
hardships, and to eat no more at a feast than at his own private dinner.
He was seen, for seven-and-twenty years together, to endure hunger,
poverty, the indocility of his children, and the nails of his wife, with
the same countenance. And, in the end, calumny, tyranny, imprisonment,
fetters, and poison. But was this man obliged to drink full bumpers by
any rule of civility? he was also the man of the whole army with whom
the advantage in drinking, remained. And he never refused to play at
noisettes, nor to ride the hobby-horse with children, and it became him
well; for all actions, says philosophy, equally become and equally
honour a wise man. We have enough wherewithal to do it, and we ought
never to be weary of presenting the image of this great man in all the
patterns and forms of perfection. There are very few examples of life,
full and pure; and we wrong our teaching every day, to propose to
ourselves those that are weak and imperfect, scarce good for any one
service, and rather pull us back; corrupters rather than correctors of
manners. The people deceive themselves; a man goes much more easily
indeed by the ends, where the extremity serves for a bound, a stop, and
guide, than by the middle way, large and open; and according to art,
more than according to nature: but withal much less nobly and
commendably.
Greatness of soul consists not so much in mounting and in pressing
forward, as in knowing how to govern and circumscribe itself; it takes
everything for great, that is enough, and demonstrates itself in
preferring moderate to eminent things. There is nothing so fine and
legitimate as well and duly to play the man; nor science so arduous as
well and naturally to know how to live this life; and of all the
infirmities we have, 'tis the most barbarous to despise our being.
Whoever has a mind to isolate his spirit, when the body is ill at
ease, to preserve it from the contagion, let him by all means do it if
he can: but otherwise let him on the contrary favour and assist it, and
not refuse to participate of its natural pleasures with a conjugal
complacency, bringing to it, if it be the wiser, moderation, lest by
indiscretion they should get confounded with displeasure. Intemperance
is the pest of pleasure; and temperance is not its scourge, but rather
its seasoning. Euxodus, who therein established the sovereign good, and
his companions, who set so high a value upon it, tasted it in its most
charming sweetness, by the means of temperance, which in them was
singular and exemplary.
I enjoin my soul to look upon pain and pleasure with an eye equally
regulated:
"Eodem enim vitio est effusio animi in laetitia
quo in dolore contractio,"
["For from the same imperfection arises the expansion of the
mind in pleasure and its contraction in sorrow."
—Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., iv. 31.]
and equally firm; but the one gaily and the other severely, and so
far as it is able, to be careful to extinguish the one as to extend the
other. The judging rightly of good brings along with it the judging
soundly of evil: pain has something of the inevitable in its tender
beginnings, and pleasure something of the evitable in its excessive end.
Plato couples them together, and wills that it should be equally the
office of fortitude to fight against pain, and against the immoderate
and charming blandishments of pleasure: they are two fountains, from
which whoever draws, when and as much as he needs, whether city, man, or
beast, is very fortunate. The first is to be taken medicinally and upon
necessity, and more scantily; the other for thirst, but not to,
drunkenness. Pain, pleasure, love and hatred are the first things that a
child is sensible of: if, when reason comes, they apply it to
themselves, that is virtue.
I have a special vocabulary of my own; I "pass away time," when it is
ill and uneasy, but when 'tis good I do not pass it away: "I taste it
over again and adhere to it"; one must run over the ill and settle upon
the good. This ordinary phrase of pastime, and passing away the time,
represents the usage of those wise sort of people who think they cannot
do better with their lives than to let them run out and slide away, pass
them over, and baulk them, and, as much as they can, ignore them and
shun them as a thing of troublesome and contemptible quality: but I know
it to be another kind of thing, and find it both valuable and
commodious, even in its latest decay, wherein I now enjoy it; and nature
has delivered it into our hands in such and so favourable circumstances
that we have only ourselves to blame if it be troublesome to us, or
escapes us unprofitably:
"Stulti vita ingrata est, trepida est, tota in futurum fertur."
["The life of a fool is thankless, timorous, and wholly bent upon
the future."—Seneca, Ep:, 15.]
Nevertheless I compose myself to lose mine without regret; but withal
as a thing that is perishable by its condition, not that it molests or
annoys me. Nor does it properly well become any not to be displeased
when they die, excepting such as are pleased to live. There is good
husbandry in enjoying it: I enjoy it double to what others do; for the
measure of its fruition depends upon our more or less application to it.
Chiefly that I perceive mine to be so short in time, I desire to extend
it in weight; I will stop the promptitude of its flight by the
promptitude of my grasp; and by the vigour of using it compensate the
speed of its running away. In proportion as the possession of life is
more short, I must make it so much deeper and fuller.
Others feel the pleasure of content and prosperity; I feel it too, as
well as they, but not as it passes and slips by; one should study,
taste, and ruminate upon it to render condign thanks to Him who grants
it to us. They enjoy the other pleasures as they do that of sleep,
without knowing it. To the end that even sleep itself should not so
stupidly escape from me, I have formerly caused myself to be disturbed
in my sleep, so that I might the better and more sensibly relish and
taste it. I ponder with myself of content; I do not skim over, but sound
it; and I bend my reason, now grown perverse and peevish, to entertain
it. Do I find myself in any calm composedness? is there any pleasure
that tickles me? I do not suffer it to dally with my senses only; I
associate my soul to it too: not there to engage itself, but therein to
take delight; not there to lose itself, but to be present there; and I
employ it, on its part, to view itself in this prosperous state, to
weigh and appreciate its happiness and to amplify it. It reckons how
much it stands indebted to God that its conscience and the intestine
passions are in repose; that it has the body in its natural disposition,
orderly and competently enjoying the soft and soothing functions by
which He, of His grace is pleased to compensate the sufferings wherewith
His justice at His good pleasure chastises us. It reflects how great a
benefit it is to be so protected, that which way soever it turns its eye
the heavens are calm around it. No desire, no fear, no doubt, troubles
the air; no difficulty, past, present, or to, come, that its imagination
may not pass over without offence. This consideration takes great lustre
from the comparison of different conditions. So it is that I present to
my thought, in a thousand aspects, those whom fortune or their own error
carries away and torments. And, again, those who, more like to me, so
negligently and incuriously receive their good fortune. Those are folks
who spend their time indeed; they pass over the present and that which
they possess, to wait on hope, and for shadows and vain images which
fancy puts before them:
"Morte obita quales fama est volitare figuras,
Aut quae sopitos deludunt somnia sensus:"
["Such forms as those which after death are reputed to hover about,
or dreams which delude the senses in sleep."—AEneid, x. 641.]
which hasten and prolong their flight, according as they are pursued.
The fruit and end of their pursuit is to pursue; as Alexander said, that
the end of his labour was to labour:
"Nil actum credens, cum quid superesset agendum."
["Thinking nothing done, if anything remained to be done.
—"Lucan, ii. 657.]
For my part then, I love life and cultivate it, such as it has
pleased God to bestow it upon us. I do not desire it should be without
the necessity of eating and drinking; and I should think it a not less
excusable failing to wish it had been twice as long;
"Sapiens divitiarum naturalium quaesitor acerrimus:"
["A wise man is the keenest seeker for natural riches."
—Seneca, Ep., 119.]
nor that we should support ourselves by putting only a little of that
drug into our mouths, by which Epimenides took away his appetite and
kept himself alive; nor that we should stupidly beget children with our
fingers or heels, but rather; with reverence be it spoken, that we might
voluptuously beget them with our fingers and heels; nor that the body
should be without desire and without titillation. These are ungrateful
and wicked complaints. I accept kindly, and with gratitude, what nature
has done for me; am well pleased with it, and proud of it. A man does
wrong to that great and omnipotent giver to refuse, annul, or disfigure
his gift: all goodness himself, he has made everything good:
"Omnia quae secundum naturam sunt, aestimatione digna sunt."
["All things that are according to nature are worthy of esteem."
—Cicero, De Fin., iii. 6.]
Of philosophical opinions, I preferably embrace those that are most
solid, that is to say, the most human and most our own: my discourse is,
suitable to my manners, low and humble: philosophy plays the child, to
my thinking, when it puts itself upon its Ergos to preach to us that
'tis a barbarous alliance to marry the divine with the earthly, the
reasonable with the unreasonable, the severe with the indulgent, the
honest with the dishonest. That pleasure is a brutish quality, unworthy
to be tasted by a wise man; that the sole pleasure he extracts from the
enjoyment of a fair young wife is a pleasure of his conscience to
perform an action according to order, as to put on his boots for a
profitable journey. Oh, that its followers had no more right, nor
nerves, nor vigour in getting their wives' maidenheads than in its
lesson.
This is not what Socrates says, who is its master and ours: he
values, as he ought, bodily pleasure; but he prefers that of the mind as
having more force, constancy, facility, variety, and dignity. This,
according to him, goes by no means alone—he is not so fantastic—but only
it goes first; temperance with him is the moderatrix, not the adversary
of pleasure. Nature is a gentle guide, but not more sweet and gentle
than prudent and just.
"Intrandum est in rerum naturam, et penitus,
quid ea postulet, pervidendum."
["A man must search into the nature of things, and fully examine
what she requires."—Cicero, De Fin., V. 16.]
I hunt after her foot throughout: we have confounded it with
artificial traces; and that academic and peripatetic good, which is "to
live according to it," becomes on this account hard to limit and
explain; and that of the Stoics, neighbour to it, which is "to consent
to nature." Is it not an error to esteem any actions less worthy,
because they are necessary? And yet they will not take it out of my
head, that it is not a very convenient marriage of pleasure with
necessity, with which, says an ancient, the gods always conspire. To
what end do we dismember by divorce a building united by so close and
brotherly a correspondence? Let us, on the contrary, confirm it by
mutual offices; let the mind rouse and quicken the heaviness of the
body, and the body stay and fix the levity of the soul:
"Qui, velut summum bonum, laudat animac naturam, et, tanquam malum,
naturam carnis accusat, profectd et animam carnatiter appetit, et
carnem carnaliter fugit; quoniam id vanitate sentit humans, non
veritate divina."
["He who commends the nature of the soul as the supreme good, and
condemns the nature of the flesh as evil, at once both carnally
desires the soul, and carnally flies the flesh, because he feels
thus from human vanity, not from divine truth."
—St. Augustin, De Civit. Dei, xiv. 5.]
In this present that God has made us, there is nothing unworthy our
care; we stand accountable for it even to a hair; and is it not a
commission to man, to conduct man according to his condition; 'tis
express, plain, and the very principal one, and the Creator has
seriously and strictly prescribed it to us. Authority has power only to
work in regard to matters of common judgment, and is of more weight in a
foreign language; therefore let us again charge at it in this place:
"Stultitiae proprium quis non dixerit, ignave et contumaciter
facere, quae facienda sunt; et alio corpus impellere, alio animum;
distrahique inter diversissimos motus?"
["Who will not say, that it is the property of folly, slothfully and
contumaciously to perform what is to be done, and to bend the body
one way and the mind another, and to be distracted betwixt wholly
different motions?"—Seneca, Ep., 74.]
To make this apparent, ask any one, some day, to tell you what
whimsies and imaginations he put into his pate, upon the account of
which he diverted his thoughts from a good meal, and regrets the time he
spends in eating; you will find there is nothing so insipid in all the
dishes at your table as this wise meditation of his (for the most part
we had better sleep than wake to the purpose we wake); and that his
discourses and notions are not worth the worst mess there. Though they
were the ecstasies of Archimedes himself, what then? I do not here speak
of, nor mix with the rabble of us ordinary men, and the vanity of the
thoughts and desires that divert us, those venerable souls, elevated by
the ardour of devotion and religion, to a constant and conscientious
meditation of divine things, who, by the energy of vivid and vehement
hope, prepossessing the use of the eternal nourishment, the final aim
and last step of Christian desires, the sole constant, and incorruptible
pleasure, disdain to apply themselves to our necessitous, fluid, and
ambiguous conveniences, and easily resign to the body the care and use
of sensual and temporal pasture; 'tis a privileged study. Between
ourselves, I have ever observed supercelestial opinions and subterranean
manners to be of singular accord.
AEsop, that great man, saw his master piss as he walked: "What then,"
said he, "must we drop as we run?" Let us manage our time; there yet
remains a great deal idle and ill employed. The mind has not willingly
other hours enough wherein to do its business, without disassociating
itself from the body, in that little space it must have for its
necessity. They would put themselves out of themselves, and escape from
being men. It is folly; instead of transforming themselves into angels,
they transform themselves into beasts; instead of elevating, they lay
themselves lower. These transcendental humours affright me, like high
and inaccessible places; and nothing is hard for me to digest in the
life of Socrates but his ecstasies and communication with demons;
nothing so human in Plato as that for which they say he was called
divine; and of our sciences, those seem to be the most terrestrial and
low that are highest mounted; and I find nothing so humble and mortal in
the life of Alexander as his fancies about his immortalisation. Philotas
pleasantly quipped him in his answer; he congratulated him by letter
concerning the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, which had placed him amongst the
gods: "Upon thy account I am glad of it, but the men are to be pitied
who are to live with a man, and to obey him, who exceeds and is not
contented with the measure of a man:"
"Diis to minorem quod geris, imperas."
["Because thou carriest thyself lower than the gods, thou rulest."
—Horace, Od., iii. 6, 5.]
The pretty inscription wherewith the Athenians honoured the entry of
Pompey into their city is conformable to my sense: "By so much thou art
a god, as thou confessest thee a man." 'Tis an absolute and, as it were,
a divine perfection, for a man to know how loyally to enjoy his being.
We seek other conditions, by reason we do not understand the use of our
own; and go out of ourselves, because we know not how there to reside.
'Tis to much purpose to go upon stilts, for, when upon stilts, we must
yet walk with our legs; and when seated upon the most elevated throne in
the world, we are but seated upon our breech. The fairest lives, in my
opinion, are those which regularly accommodate themselves to the common
and human model without miracle, without extravagance. Old age stands a
little in need of a more gentle treatment. Let us recommend that to God,
the protector of health and wisdom, but let it be gay and sociable:
"Frui paratis et valido mihi
Latoe, dones, et precor, integra
Cum mente; nec turpem senectam
Degere, nec Cithara carentem."
["Grant it to me, Apollo, that I may enjoy my possessions in good
health; let me be sound in mind; let me not lead a dishonourable
old age, nor want the cittern."—Horace, Od., i. 31, 17.]
Or:
["Grant it to me, Apollo, that I may enjoy what I have in good
health; let me be sound in body and mind; let me live in honour when
old, nor let music be wanting."]
