Project Gutenberg’s The Essays of Montaigne, Complete, by Michel de Montaigne

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Title: The Essays of Montaigne, Complete

Author: Michel de Montaigne

Release Date: September 17, 2006 [EBook #3600] Last Updated: August 8, 2016

Language: English

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START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESSAYS OF MONTAIGNE, COMPLETE

Produced by David Widger

ESSAYS OF
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

Translated by Charles Cotton
Edited by William Carew Hazlitt

1877

  <br />

  > 
  > 
    <br /> 

PREFACE

I. — To Monsieur de MONTAIGNE

    [ II. — ](#link2H_4_0004)To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de
    MONTAIGNE. 

III. — To Monsieur, Monsieur de LANSAC,

IV. — To Monsieur, Monsieur de MESMES, Lord of Roissy and Malassize, Privy

V. — To Monsieur, Monsieur de L’HOSPITAL, Chancellor of France

    [ VI. — ](#link2H_4_0008)To Monsieur, Monsieur de Folx,
    Privy Councillor, to the Signory of Venice. 

VII. — To Mademoiselle de MONTAIGNE, my Wife.

VIII. —    To Monsieur DUPUY,

IX. — To the Jurats of Bordeaux.

X. — To the same.

XI. — To the same.

XII. —  

XIII. — To Mademoiselle PAULMIER.

XIV. — To the KING, HENRY IV.

XV. — To the same.

XVI. — To the Governor of Guienne.

—

CHAPTER I — THAT MEN BY VARIOUS WAYS ARRIVE AT THE SAME END.

    [ CHAPTER II — ](#link2HCH0002)OF SORROW 

CHAPTER III — THAT OUR AFFECTIONS CARRY THEMSELVES BEYOND US

CHAPTER IV — THAT THE SOUL EXPENDS ITS PASSIONS UPON FALSE OBJECTS

    [ CHAPTER V — ](#link2HCH0005)WHETHER THE GOVERNOR
    HIMSELF GO OUT TO PARLEY 

CHAPTER VI — THAT THE HOUR OF PARLEY DANGEROUS

CHAPTER VII — THAT THE INTENTION IS JUDGE OF OUR ACTIONS

CHAPTER VIII — OF IDLENESS

CHAPTER IX — OF LIARS

CHAPTER X — OF QUICK OR SLOW SPEECH

CHAPTER XI — OF PROGNOSTICATIONS

CHAPTER XII — OF CONSTANCY

CHAPTER XIII — THE CEREMONY OF THE INTERVIEW OF PRINCES

CHAPTER XIV — THAT MEN ARE JUSTLY PUNISHED FOR BEING OBSTINATE

    [ CHAPTER XV — ](#link2HCH0015)OF THE PUNISHMENT OF
    COWARDICE 

CHAPTER XVI — A PROCEEDING OF SOME AMBASSADORS

CHAPTER XVII — OF FEAR

CHAPTER XVIII — NOT TO JUDGE OF OUR HAPPINESS TILL AFTER DEATH.

CHAPTER XIX — THAT TO STUDY PHILOSOPY IS TO LEARN TO DIE

CHAPTER XX — OF THE FORCE OF IMAGINATION

CHAPTER XXI — THAT THE PROFIT OF ONE MAN IS THE DAMAGE OF ANOTHER

CHAPTER XXII — OF CUSTOM; WE SHOULD NOT EASILY CHANGE A LAW RECEIVED

CHAPTER XXIII — VARIOUS EVENTS FROM THE SAME COUNSEL

CHAPTER XXIV — OF PEDANTRY

CHAPTER XXV — OF THE EDUCATION OF CHILDREN

CHAPTER XXVI — FOLLY TO MEASURE TRUTH AND ERROR BY OUR OWN CAPACITY

CHAPTER XXVII — OF FRIENDSHIP

CHAPTER XXVIII — NINE AND TWENTY SONNETS OF ESTIENNE DE LA BOITIE

CHAPTER XXIX — OF MODERATION

CHAPTER XXX — OF CANNIBALS

CHAPTER XXXI — THAT A MAN IS SOBERLY TO JUDGE OF THE DIVINE ORDINANCES

CHAPTER XXXII — WE ARE TO AVOID PLEASURES, EVEN AT THE EXPENSE OF LIFE

CHAPTER XXXIII — FORTUNE IS OFTEN OBSERVED TO ACT BY THE RULE OF REASON

CHAPTER XXXIV — OF ONE DEFECT IN OUR GOVERNMENT

CHAPTER XXXV — OF THE CUSTOM OF WEARING CLOTHES

CHAPTER XXXVI — OF CATO THE YOUNGER

CHAPTER XXXVII — THAT WE LAUGH AND CRY FOR THE SAME THING

CHAPTER XXXVIII —    OF SOLITUDE

CHAPTER XXXIX — A CONSIDERATION UPON CICERO

CHAPTER XL — RELISH FOR GOOD AND EVIL DEPENDS UPON OUR OPINION

    [ CHAPTER XLI — ](#link2HCH0041)NOT TO COMMUNICATE A
    MAN’S HONOUR 

CHAPTER XLII — OF THE INEQUALITY AMOUNGST US.

CHAPTER XLIII — OF SUMPTUARY LAWS

    [ CHAPTER XLIV — ](#link2HCH0044)OF SLEEP 

CHAPTER XLV — OF THE BATTLE OF DREUX

CHAPTER XLVI — OF NAMES

CHAPTER XLVII — OF THE UNCERTAINTY OF OUR JUDGMENT

CHAPTER XLVIII — OF WAR HORSES, OR DESTRIERS

CHAPTER XLIX — OF ANCIENT CUSTOMS

    [ CHAPTER L — ](#link2HCH0050)OF DEMOCRITUS AND
    HERACLITUS 

CHAPTER LI — OF THE VANITY OF WORDS

CHAPTER LII — OF THE PARSIMONY OF THE ANCIENTS

CHAPTER LIII — OF A SAYING OF CAESAR

CHAPTER LIV — OF VAIN SUBTLETIES

CHAPTER LV — OF SMELLS

CHAPTER LVI — OF PRAYERS

CHAPTER LVII — OF AGE

—

CHAPTER I — OF THE INCONSTANCY OF OUR ACTIONS

CHAPTER II — OF DRUNKENNESS

CHAPTER III — A CUSTOM OF THE ISLE OF CEA

CHAPTER IV — TO-MORROW’S A NEW DAY

CHAPTER V — OF CONSCIENCE

CHAPTER VI — USE MAKES PERFECT

CHAPTER VII — OF RECOMPENSES OF HONOUR

CHAPTER VIII — OF THE AFFECTION OF FATHERS TO THEIR CHILDREN

CHAPTER IX — OF THE ARMS OF THE PARTHIANS

CHAPTER X — OF BOOKS

CHAPTER XI — OF CRUELTY

CHAPTER XII — APOLOGY FOR RAIMOND SEBOND

CHAPTER XIII — OF JUDGING OF THE DEATH OF ANOTHER

CHAPTER XIV — THAT OUR MIND HINDERS ITSELF

CHAPTER XV — THAT OUR DESIRES ARE AUGMENTED BY DIFFICULTY

CHAPTER XVI — OF GLORY

CHAPTER XVII — OF PRESUMPTION

    [ CHAPTER XVIII — ](#link2HCH0074)OF GIVING THE LIE

CHAPTER XIX — OF LIBERTY OF CONSCIENCE

CHAPTER XX — THAT WE TASTE NOTHING PURE

CHAPTER XXI — AGAINST IDLENESS

CHAPTER XXII — OF POSTING

CHAPTER XXIII — OF ILL MEANS EMPLOYED TO A GOOD END

CHAPTER XXIV — OF THE ROMAN GRANDEUR

CHAPTER XXV — NOT TO COUNTERFEIT BEING SICK

CHAPTER XXVI — OF THUMBS

CHAPTER XXVII — COWARDICE THE MOTHER OF CRUELTY

CHAPTER XXVIII — ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR SEASON

CHAPTER XXIX — OF VIRTUE

CHAPTER XXX — OF A MONSTROUS CHILD

CHAPTER XXXI — OF ANGER

CHAPTER XXXII — DEFENCE OF SENECA AND PLUTARCH

CHAPTER XXXIII —    THE STORY OF SPURINA

CHAPTER XXXIV — OBSERVATION ON A WAR ACCORDING TO JULIUS CAESAR

    [ CHAPTER XXXV — ](#link2HCH0091)OF THREE GOOD WOMEN

CHAPTER XXXVI — OF THE MOST EXCELLENT MEN

CHAPTER XXXVII — OF THE RESEMBLANCE OF CHILDREN TO THEIR FATHERS

    [  — ](#link2H_4_0114)
    [ CHAPTER I — ](#link2HCH0094)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

APOLOGY

PROJECT GUTENBERG EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS

  [
    ]()

PREFACE

  The present publication is intended to supply a recognised deficiency in
  our literature—a library edition of the Essays of Montaigne. This
  great French writer deserves to be regarded as a classic, not only in the
  land of his birth, but in all countries and in all literatures. His
  Essays, which are at once the most celebrated and the most permanent of
  his productions, form a magazine out of which such minds as those of Bacon
  and Shakespeare did not disdain to help themselves; and, indeed, as Hallam
  observes, the Frenchman’s literary importance largely results from
  the share which his mind had in influencing other minds, coeval and
  subsequent. But, at the same time, estimating the value and rank of the
  essayist, we are not to leave out of the account the drawbacks and the
  circumstances of the period: the imperfect state of education, the
  comparative scarcity of books, and the limited opportunities of
  intellectual intercourse. Montaigne freely borrowed of others, and he has
  found men willing to borrow of him as freely. We need not wonder at the
  reputation which he with seeming facility achieved. He was, without being
  aware of it, the leader of a new school in letters and morals. His book
  was different from all others which were at that date in the world. It
  diverted the ancient currents of thought into new channels. It told its
  readers, with unexampled frankness, what its writer’s opinion was
  about men and things, and threw what must have been a strange kind of new
  light on many matters but darkly understood. Above all, the essayist
  uncased himself, and made his intellectual and physical organism public
  property. He took the world into his confidence on all subjects. His
  essays were a sort of literary anatomy, where we get a diagnosis of the
  writer’s mind, made by himself at different levels and under a large
  variety of operating influences.
<br />
  Of all egotists, Montaigne, if not the greatest, was the most fascinating,
  because, perhaps, he was the least affected and most truthful. What he
  did, and what he had professed to do, was to dissect his mind, and show
  us, as best he could, how it was made, and what relation it bore to
  external objects. He investigated his mental structure as a schoolboy
  pulls his watch to pieces, to examine the mechanism of the works; and the
  result, accompanied by illustrations abounding with originality and force,
  he delivered to his fellow-men in a book.
<br />
  Eloquence, rhetorical effect, poetry, were alike remote from his design.
  He did not write from necessity, scarcely perhaps for fame. But he desired
  to leave France, nay, and the world, something to be remembered by,
  something which should tell what kind of a man he was&mdash;what he felt,
  thought, suffered&mdash;and he succeeded immeasurably, I apprehend, beyond
  his expectations.
<br />
  It was reasonable enough that Montaigne should expect for his work a
  certain share of celebrity in Gascony, and even, as time went on,
  throughout France; but it is scarcely probable that he foresaw how his
  renown was to become world-wide; how he was to occupy an almost unique
  position as a man of letters and a moralist; how the Essays would be read,
  in all the principal languages of Europe, by millions of intelligent human
  beings, who never heard of Perigord or the League, and who are in doubt,
  if they are questioned, whether the author lived in the sixteenth or the
  eighteenth century. This is true fame. A man of genius belongs to no
  period and no country. He speaks the language of nature, which is always
  everywhere the same.
<br />
  The text of these volumes is taken from the first edition of Cotton&rsquo;s
  version, printed in 3 vols. 8vo, 1685-6, and republished in 1693, 1700,
  1711, 1738, and 1743, in the same number of volumes and the same size. In
  the earliest impression the errors of the press are corrected merely as
  far as page 240 of the first volume, and all the editions follow one
  another. That of 1685-6 was the only one which the translator lived to
  see. He died in 1687, leaving behind him an interesting and little-known
  collection of poems, which appeared posthumously, 8vo, 1689.
<br />
  It was considered imperative to correct Cotton&rsquo;s translation by a
  careful collation with the &lsquo;variorum&rsquo; edition of the original,
  Paris, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo or 12mo, and parallel passages from Florin&rsquo;s
  earlier undertaking have occasionally been inserted at the foot of the
  page. A Life of the Author and all his recovered Letters, sixteen in
  number, have also been given; but, as regards the correspondence, it can
  scarcely be doubted that it is in a purely fragmentary state. To do more
  than furnish a sketch of the leading incidents in Montaigne&rsquo;s life
  seemed, in the presence of Bayle St. John&rsquo;s charming and able
  biography, an attempt as difficult as it was useless.
<br />
  The besetting sin of both Montaigne&rsquo;s translators seems to have been
  a propensity for reducing his language and phraseology to the language and
  phraseology of the age and country to which they belonged, and, moreover,
  inserting paragraphs and words, not here and there only, but constantly
  and habitually, from an evident desire and view to elucidate or strengthen
  their author&rsquo;s meaning. The result has generally been unfortunate;
  and I have, in the case of all these interpolations on Cotton&rsquo;s
  part, felt bound, where I did not cancel them, to throw them down into the
  notes, not thinking it right that Montaigne should be allowed any longer
  to stand sponsor for what he never wrote; and reluctant, on the other
  hand, to suppress the intruding matter entirely, where it appeared to
  possess a value of its own.
<br />
  Nor is redundancy or paraphrase the only form of transgression in Cotton,
  for there are places in his author which he thought proper to omit, and it
  is hardly necessary to say that the restoration of all such matter to the
  text was considered essential to its integrity and completeness.
<br />
  My warmest thanks are due to my father, Mr Registrar Hazlitt, the author
  of the well-known and excellent edition of Montaigne published in 1842,
  for the important assistance which he has rendered to me in verifying and
  retranslating the quotations, which were in a most corrupt state, and of
  which Cotton&rsquo;s English versions were singularly loose and inexact,
  and for the zeal with which he has co-operated with me in collating the
  English text, line for line and word for word, with the best French
  edition.
<br />
  By the favour of Mr F. W. Cosens, I have had by me, while at work on this
  subject, the copy of Cotgrave&rsquo;s Dictionary, folio, 1650, which
  belonged to Cotton. It has his autograph and copious MSS. notes, nor is it
  too much to presume that it is the very book employed by him in his
  translation.
<br />
  W. C. H.
<br />
  KENSINGTON, November 1877.
<br />
  [
    ]()

THE LIFE OF MONTAIGNE

  [This is translated freely from that prefixed to the ‘variorum’
  Paris edition, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo. This biography is the more desirable
  that it contains all really interesting and important matter in the
  journal of the Tour in Germany and Italy, which, as it was merely written
  under Montaigne’s dictation, is in the third person, is scarcely
  worth publication, as a whole, in an English dress.]
<br />
  The author of the Essays was born, as he informs us himself, between
  eleven and twelve o&rsquo;clock in the day, the last of February 1533, at
  the chateau of St. Michel de Montaigne. His father, Pierre Eyquem,
  esquire, was successively first Jurat of the town of Bordeaux (1530),
  Under-Mayor 1536, Jurat for the second time in 1540, Procureur in 1546,
  and at length Mayor from 1553 to 1556. He was a man of austere probity,
  who had &ldquo;a particular regard for honour and for propriety in his
  person and attire . . . a mighty good faith in his speech, and a
  conscience and a religious feeling inclining to superstition, rather than
  to the other extreme."[Essays, ii. 2.] Pierre Eyquem bestowed great care
  on the education of his children, especially on the practical side of it.
  To associate closely his son Michel with the people, and attach him to
  those who stand in need of assistance, he caused him to be held at the
  font by persons of meanest position; subsequently he put him out to nurse
  with a poor villager, and then, at a later period, made him accustom
  himself to the most common sort of living, taking care, nevertheless, to
  cultivate his mind, and superintend its development without the exercise
  of undue rigour or constraint. Michel, who gives us the minutest account
  of his earliest years, charmingly narrates how they used to awake him by
  the sound of some agreeable music, and how he learned Latin, without
  suffering the rod or shedding a tear, before beginning French, thanks to
  the German teacher whom his father had placed near him, and who never
  addressed him except in the language of Virgil and Cicero. The study of
  Greek took precedence. At six years of age young Montaigne went to the
  College of Guienne at Bordeaux, where he had as preceptors the most
  eminent scholars of the sixteenth century, Nicolas Grouchy, Guerente,
  Muret, and Buchanan. At thirteen he had passed through all the classes,
  and as he was destined for the law he left school to study that science.
  He was then about fourteen, but these early years of his life are involved
  in obscurity. The next information that we have is that in 1554 he
  received the appointment of councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux; in
  1559 he was at Bar-le-Duc with the court of Francis II, and in the year
  following he was present at Rouen to witness the declaration of the
  majority of Charles IX. We do not know in what manner he was engaged on
  these occasions.
<br />
  Between 1556 and 1563 an important incident occurred in the life of
  Montaigne, in the commencement of his romantic friendship with Etienne de
  la Boetie, whom he had met, as he tells us, by pure chance at some festive
  celebration in the town. From their very first interview the two found
  themselves drawn irresistibly close to one another, and during six years
  this alliance was foremost in the heart of Montaigne, as it was afterwards
  in his memory, when death had severed it.
<br />
  Although he blames severely in his own book [Essays, i. 27.] those who,
  contrary to the opinion of Aristotle, marry before five-and-thirty,
  Montaigne did not wait for the period fixed by the philosopher of Stagyra,
  but in 1566, in his thirty-third year, he espoused Francoise de
  Chassaigne, daughter of a councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux. The
  history of his early married life vies in obscurity with that of his
  youth. His biographers are not agreed among themselves; and in the same
  degree that he lays open to our view all that concerns his secret
  thoughts, the innermost mechanism of his mind, he observes too much
  reticence in respect to his public functions and conduct, and his social
  relations. The title of Gentleman in Ordinary to the King, which he
  assumes, in a preface, and which Henry II. gives him in a letter, which we
  print a little farther on; what he says as to the commotions of courts,
  where he passed a portion of his life; the Instructions which he wrote
  under the dictation of Catherine de Medici for King Charles IX., and his
  noble correspondence with Henry IV., leave no doubt, however, as to the
  part which he played in the transactions of those times, and we find an
  unanswerable proof of the esteem in which he was held by the most exalted
  personages, in a letter which was addressed to him by Charles at the time
  he was admitted to the Order of St. Michael, which was, as he informs us
  himself, the highest honour of the French noblesse.
<br />
  According to Lacroix du Maine, Montaigne, upon the death of his eldest
  brother, resigned his post of Councillor, in order to adopt the military
  profession, while, if we might credit the President Bouhier, he never
  discharged any functions connected with arms. However, several passages in
  the Essays seem to indicate that he not only took service, but that he was
  actually in numerous campaigns with the Catholic armies. Let us add, that
  on his monument he is represented in a coat of mail, with his casque and
  gauntlets on his right side, and a lion at his feet, all which signifies,
  in the language of funeral emblems, that the departed has been engaged in
  some important military transactions.
<br />
  However it may be as to these conjectures, our author, having arrived at
  his thirty-eighth year, resolved to dedicate to study and contemplation
  the remaining term of his life; and on his birthday, the last of February
  1571, he caused a philosophical inscription, in Latin, to be placed upon
  one of the walls of his chateau, where it is still to be seen, and of
  which the translation is to this effect:&mdash;&ldquo;In the year of
  Christ . . . in his thirty-eighth year, on the eve of the Calends of
  March, his birthday, Michel Montaigne, already weary of court employments
  and public honours, withdrew himself entirely into the converse of the
  learned virgins where he intends to spend the remaining moiety of the to
  allotted to him in tranquil seclusion.&rdquo;
<br />
  At the time to which we have come, Montaigne was unknown to the world of
  letters, except as a translator and editor. In 1569 he had published a
  translation of the &ldquo;Natural Theology&rdquo; of Raymond de Sebonde,
  which he had solely undertaken to please his father. In 1571 he had caused
  to be printed at Paris certain &lsquo;opuscucla&rsquo; of Etienne de la
  Boetie; and these two efforts, inspired in one case by filial duty, and in
  the other by friendship, prove that affectionate motives overruled with
  him mere personal ambition as a literary man. We may suppose that he began
  to compose the Essays at the very outset of his retirement from public
  engagements; for as, according to his own account, observes the President
  Bouhier, he cared neither for the chase, nor building, nor gardening, nor
  agricultural pursuits, and was exclusively occupied with reading and
  reflection, he devoted himself with satisfaction to the task of setting
  down his thoughts just as they occurred to him. Those thoughts became a
  book, and the first part of that book, which was to confer immortality on
  the writer, appeared at Bordeaux in 1580. Montaigne was then fifty-seven;
  he had suffered for some years past from renal colic and gravel; and it
  was with the necessity of distraction from his pain, and the hope of
  deriving relief from the waters, that he undertook at this time a great
  journey. As the account which he has left of his travels in Germany and
  Italy comprises some highly interesting particulars of his life and
  personal history, it seems worth while to furnish a sketch or analysis of
  it.
<br />
  &ldquo;The Journey, of which we proceed to describe the course simply,&rdquo;
  says the editor of the Itinerary, &ldquo;had, from Beaumont-sur-Oise to
  Plombieres, in Lorraine, nothing sufficiently interesting to detain us . .
  . we must go as far, as Basle, of which we have a description, acquainting
  us with its physical and political condition at that period, as well as
  with the character of its baths. The passage of Montaigne through
  Switzerland is not without interest, as we see there how our philosophical
  traveller accommodated himself everywhere to the ways of the country. The
  hotels, the provisions, the Swiss cookery, everything, was agreeable to
  him; it appears, indeed, as if he preferred to the French manners and
  tastes those of the places he was visiting, and of which the simplicity
  and freedom (or frankness) accorded more with his own mode of life and
  thinking. In the towns where he stayed, Montaigne took care to see the
  Protestant divines, to make himself conversant with all their dogmas. He
  even had disputations with them occasionally.
<br />
  &ldquo;Having left Switzerland he went to Isne, an imperial then on to
  Augsburg and Munich. He afterwards proceeded to the Tyrol, where he was
  agreeably surprised, after the warnings which he had received, at the very
  slight inconveniences which he suffered, which gave him occasion to remark
  that he had all his life distrusted the statements of others respecting
  foreign countries, each person&rsquo;s tastes being according to the
  notions of his native place; and that he had consequently set very little
  on what he was told beforehand.
<br />
  &ldquo;Upon his arrival at Botzen, Montaigne wrote to Francois Hottmann,
  to say that he had been so pleased with his visit to Germany that he
  quitted it with great regret, although it was to go into Italy. He then
  passed through Brunsol, Trent, where he put up at the Rose; thence going
  to Rovera; and here he first lamented the scarcity of crawfish, but made
  up for the loss by partaking of truffles cooked in oil and vinegar;
  oranges, citrons, and olives, in all of which he delighted.&rdquo;
<br />
  After passing a restless night, when he bethought himself in the morning
  that there was some new town or district to be seen, he rose, we are told,
  with alacrity and pleasure.
<br />
  His secretary, to whom he dictated his Journal, assures us that he never
  saw him take so much interest in surrounding scenes and persons, and
  believes that the complete change helped to mitigate his sufferings in
  concentrating his attention on other points. When there was a complaint
  made that he had led his party out of the beaten route, and then returned
  very near the spot from which they started, his answer was that he had no
  settled course, and that he merely proposed to himself to pay visits to
  places which he had not seen, and so long as they could not convict him of
  traversing the same path twice, or revisiting a point already seen, he
  could perceive no harm in his plan. As to Rome, he cared less to go there,
  inasmuch as everybody went there; and he said that he never had a lacquey
  who could not tell him all about Florence or Ferrara. He also would say
  that he seemed to himself like those who are reading some pleasant story
  or some fine book, of which they fear to come to the end: he felt so much
  pleasure in travelling that he dreaded the moment of arrival at the place
  where they were to stop for the night.
<br />
  We see that Montaigne travelled, just as he wrote, completely at his ease,
  and without the least constraint, turning, just as he fancied, from the
  common or ordinary roads taken by tourists. The good inns, the soft beds,
  the fine views, attracted his notice at every point, and in his
  observations on men and things he confines himself chiefly to the
  practical side. The consideration of his health was constantly before him,
  and it was in consequence of this that, while at Venice, which
  disappointed him, he took occasion to note, for the benefit of readers,
  that he had an attack of colic, and that he evacuated two large stones
  after supper. On quitting Venice, he went in succession to Ferrara,
  Rovigo, Padua, Bologna (where he had a stomach-ache), Florence, &c.;
  and everywhere, before alighting, he made it a rule to send some of his
  servants to ascertain where the best accommodation was to be had. He
  pronounced the Florentine women the finest in the world, but had not an
  equally good opinion of the food, which was less plentiful than in
  Germany, and not so well served. He lets us understand that in Italy they
  send up dishes without dressing, but in Germany they were much better
  seasoned, and served with a variety of sauces and gravies. He remarked
  further, that the glasses were singularly small and the wines insipid.
<br />
  After dining with the Grand-Duke of Florence, Montaigne passed rapidly
  over the intermediate country, which had no fascination for him, and
  arrived at Rome on the last day of November, entering by the Porta del
  Popolo, and putting up at Bear. But he afterwards hired, at twenty crowns
  a month, fine furnished rooms in the house of a Spaniard, who included in
  these terms the use of the kitchen fire. What most annoyed him in the
  Eternal City was the number of Frenchmen he met, who all saluted him in
  his native tongue; but otherwise he was very comfortable, and his stay
  extended to five months. A mind like his, full of grand classical
  reflections, could not fail to be profoundly impressed in the presence of
  the ruins at Rome, and he has enshrined in a magnificent passage of the
  Journal the feelings of the moment: &ldquo;He said,&rdquo; writes his
  secretary, &ldquo;that at Rome one saw nothing but the sky under which she
  had been built, and the outline of her site: that the knowledge we had of
  her was abstract, contemplative, not palpable to the actual senses: that
  those who said they beheld at least the ruins of Rome, went too far, for
  the ruins of so gigantic a structure must have commanded greater
  reverence-it was nothing but her sepulchre. The world, jealous of her,
  prolonged empire, had in the first place broken to pieces that admirable
  body, and then, when they perceived that the remains attracted worship and
  awe, had buried the very wreck itself.&mdash;[Compare a passage in one of
  Horace Walpole&rsquo;s letters to Richard West, 22 March 1740 (Cunningham&rsquo;s
  edit. i. 41), where Walpole, speaking of Rome, describes her very ruins as
  ruined.]&mdash;As to those small fragments which were still to be seen on
  the surface, notwithstanding the assaults of time and all other attacks,
  again and again repeated, they had been favoured by fortune to be some
  slight evidence of that infinite grandeur which nothing could entirely
  extingish. But it was likely that these disfigured remains were the least
  entitled to attention, and that the enemies of that immortal renown, in
  their fury, had addressed themselves in the first instance to the
  destruction of what was most beautiful and worthiest of preservation; and
  that the buildings of this bastard Rome, raised upon the ancient
  productions, although they might excite the admiration of the present age,
  reminded him of the crows&rsquo; and sparrows&rsquo; nests built in the
  walls and arches of the old churches, destroyed by the Huguenots. Again,
  he was apprehensive, seeing the space which this grave occupied, that the
  whole might not have been recovered, and that the burial itself had been
  buried. And, moreover, to see a wretched heap of rubbish, as pieces of
  tile and pottery, grow (as it had ages since) to a height equal to that of
  Mount Gurson,&mdash;[In Perigord.]&mdash;and thrice the width of it,
  appeared to show a conspiracy of destiny against the glory and
  pre-eminence of that city, affording at the same time a novel and
  extraordinary proof of its departed greatness. He (Montaigne) observed
  that it was difficult to believe considering the limited area taken up by
  any of her seven hills and particularly the two most favoured ones, the
  Capitoline and the Palatine, that so many buildings stood on the site.
  Judging only from what is left of the Temple of Concord, along the &lsquo;Forum
  Romanum&rsquo;, of which the fall seems quite recent, like that of some
  huge mountain split into horrible crags, it does not look as if more than
  two such edifices could have found room on the Capitoline, on which there
  were at one period from five-and-twenty to thirty temples, besides private
  dwellings. But, in point of fact, there is scarcely any probability of the
  views which we take of the city being correct, its plan and form having
  changed infinitely; for instance, the &lsquo;Velabrum&rsquo;, which on
  account of its depressed level, received the sewage of the city, and had a
  lake, has been raised by artificial accumulation to a height with the
  other hills, and Mount Savello has, in truth, grown simply out of the
  ruins of the theatre of Marcellus. He believed that an ancient Roman would
  not recognise the place again. It often happened that in digging down into
  earth the workmen came upon the crown of some lofty column, which, though
  thus buried, was still standing upright. The people there have no recourse
  to other foundations than the vaults and arches of the old houses, upon
  which, as on slabs of rock, they raise their modern palaces. It is easy to
  see that several of the ancient streets are thirty feet below those at
  present in use.&rdquo;
<br />
  Sceptical as Montaigne shows himself in his books, yet during his sojourn
  at Rome he manifested a great regard for religion. He solicited the honour
  of being admitted to kiss the feet of the Holy Father, Gregory XIII.; and
  the Pontiff exhorted him always to continue in the devotion which he had
  hitherto exhibited to the Church and the service of the Most Christian
  King.
<br />
  &ldquo;After this, one sees,&rdquo; says the editor of the Journal,
  &ldquo;Montaigne employing all his time in making excursions bout the
  neighbourhood on horseback or on foot, in visits, in observations of every
  kind. The churches, the stations, the processions even, the sermons; then
  the palaces, the vineyards, the gardens, the public amusements, as the
  Carnival, &c.&mdash;nothing was overlooked. He saw a Jewish child
  circumcised, and wrote down a most minute account of the operation. He met
  at San Sisto a Muscovite ambassador, the second who had come to Rome since
  the pontificate of Paul III. This minister had despatches from his court
  for Venice, addressed to the &lsquo;Grand Governor of the Signory&rsquo;.
  The court of Muscovy had at that time such limited relations with the
  other powers of Europe, and it was so imperfect in its information, that
  it thought Venice to be a dependency of the Holy See.&rdquo;
<br />
  Of all the particulars with which he has furnished us during his stay at
  Rome, the following passage in reference to the Essays is not the least
  singular: &ldquo;The Master of the Sacred Palace returned him his Essays,
  castigated in accordance with the views of the learned monks. &lsquo;He
  had only been able to form a judgment of them,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;through
  a certain French monk, not understanding French himself&rsquo;&rdquo;&mdash;we
  leave Montaigne himself to tell the story&mdash;&ldquo;and he received so
  complacently my excuses and explanations on each of the passages which had
  been animadverted upon by the French monk, that he concluded by leaving me
  at liberty to revise the text agreeably to the dictates of my own
  conscience. I begged him, on the contrary, to abide by the opinion of the
  person who had criticised me, confessing, among other matters, as, for
  example, in my use of the word fortune, in quoting historical poets, in my
  apology for Julian, in my animadversion on the theory that he who prayed
  ought to be exempt from vicious inclinations for the time being; item, in
  my estimate of cruelty, as something beyond simple death; item, in my view
  that a child ought to be brought up to do everything, and so on; that
  these were my opinions, which I did not think wrong; as to other things, I
  said that the corrector understood not my meaning. The Master, who is a
  clever man, made many excuses for me, and gave me to suppose that he did
  not concur in the suggested improvements; and pleaded very ingeniously for
  me in my presence against another (also an Italian) who opposed my
  sentiments.&rdquo;
<br />
  Such is what passed between Montaigne and these two personages at that
  time; but when the Essayist was leaving, and went to bid them farewell,
  they used very different language to him. &ldquo;They prayed me,&rdquo;
  says he, &ldquo;to pay no attention to the censure passed on my book, in
  which other French persons had apprised them that there were many foolish
  things; adding, that they honoured my affectionate intention towards the
  Church, and my capacity; and had so high an opinion of my candour and
  conscientiousness that they should leave it to me to make such alterations
  as were proper in the book, when I reprinted it; among other things, the
  word fortune. To excuse themselves for what they had said against my book,
  they instanced works of our time by cardinals and other divines of
  excellent repute which had been blamed for similar faults, which in no way
  affected reputation of the author, or of the publication as a whole; they
  requested me to lend the Church the support of my eloquence (this was
  their fair speech), and to make longer stay in the place, where I should
  be free from all further intrusion on their part. It seemed to me that we
  parted very good friends.&rdquo;
<br />
  Before quitting Rome, Montaigne received his diploma of citizenship, by
  which he was greatly flattered; and after a visit to Tivoli he set out for
  Loretto, stopping at Ancona, Fano, and Urbino. He arrived at the beginning
  of May 1581, at Bagno della Villa, where he established himself, order to
  try the waters. There, we find in the Journal, of his own accord the
  Essayist lived in the strictest conformity with the regime, and henceforth
  we only hear of diet, the effect which the waters had by degrees upon
  system, of the manner in which he took them; in a word, he does not omit
  an item of the circumstances connected with his daily routine, his habit
  of body, his baths, and the rest. It was no longer the journal of a
  traveller which he kept, but the diary of an invalid,&mdash;[&ldquo;I am
  reading Montaigne&rsquo;s Travels, which have lately been found; there is
  little in them but the baths and medicines he took, and what he had
  everywhere for dinner.&rdquo;&mdash;H. Walpole to Sir Horace Mann, June 8,
  1774.]&mdash;attentive to the minutest details of the cure which he was
  endeavouring to accomplish: a sort of memorandum book, in which he was
  noting down everything that he felt and did, for the benefit of his
  medical man at home, who would have the care of his health on his return,
  and the attendance on his subsequent infirmities. Montaigne gives it as
  his reason and justification for enlarging to this extent here, that he
  had omitted, to his regret, to do so in his visits to other baths, which
  might have saved him the trouble of writing at such great length now; but
  it is perhaps a better reason in our eyes, that what he wrote he wrote for
  his own use.
<br />
  We find in these accounts, however, many touches which are valuable as
  illustrating the manners of the place. The greater part of the entries in
  the Journal, giving the account of these waters, and of the travels, down
  to Montaigne&rsquo;s arrival at the first French town on his homeward
  route, are in Italian, because he wished to exercise himself in that
  language.
<br />
  The minute and constant watchfulness of Montaigne over his health and over
  himself might lead one to suspect that excessive fear of death which
  degenerates into cowardice. But was it not rather the fear of the
  operation for the stone, at that time really formidable? Or perhaps he was
  of the same way of thinking with the Greek poet, of whom Cicero reports
  this saying: &ldquo;I do not desire to die; but the thought of being dead
  is indifferent to me.&rdquo; Let us hear, however, what he says himself on
  this point very frankly: &ldquo;It would be too weak and unmanly on my
  part if, certain as I am of always finding myself in the position of
  having to succumb in that way,&mdash;[To the stone or gravel.]&mdash;and
  death coming nearer and nearer to me, I did not make some effort, before
  the time came, to bear the trial with fortitude. For reason prescribes
  that we should joyfully accept what it may please God to send us.
  Therefore the only remedy, the only rule, and the sole doctrine for
  avoiding the evils by which mankind is surrounded, whatever they are, is
  to resolve to bear them so far as our nature permits, or to put an end to
  them courageously and promptly.&rdquo;
<br />
  He was still at the waters of La Villa, when, on the 7th September 1581,
  he learned by letter that he had been elected Mayor of Bordeaux on the 1st
  August preceding. This intelligence made him hasten his departure; and
  from Lucca he proceeded to Rome. He again made some stay in that city, and
  he there received the letter of the jurats of Bordeaux, notifying to him
  officially his election to the Mayoralty, and inviting him to return as
  speedily as possible. He left for France, accompanied by young D&rsquo;Estissac
  and several other gentlemen, who escorted him a considerable distance; but
  none went back to France with him, not even his travelling companion. He
  passed by Padua, Milan, Mont Cenis, and Chambery; thence he went on to
  Lyons, and lost no time in repairing to his chateau, after an absence of
  seventeen months and eight days.
<br />
  We have just seen that, during his absence in Italy, the author of the
  Essays was elected mayor of Bordeaux. &ldquo;The gentlemen of Bordeaux,&rdquo;
  says he, &ldquo;elected me Mayor of their town while I was at a distance
  from France, and far from the thought of such a thing. I excused myself;
  but they gave to understand that I was wrong in so doing, it being also
  the command of the king that I should stand.&rdquo; This the letter which
  Henry III. wrote to him on the occasion:
<br />
  MONSIEUR, DE MONTAIGNE,&mdash;Inasmuch as I hold in great esteem your
  fidelity and zealous devotion to my service, it has been a pleasure to me
  to learn that you have been chosen mayor of my town of Bordeaux. I have
  had the agreeable duty of confirming the selection, and I did so the more
  willingly, seeing that it was made during your distant absence; wherefore
  it is my desire, and I require and command you expressly that you proceed
  without delay to enter on the duties to which you have received so
  legitimate a call. And so you will act in a manner very agreeable to me,
  while the contrary will displease me greatly. Praying God, M. de
  Montaigne, to have you in his holy keeping.
<br />
  &ldquo;Written at Paris, the 25th day of November 1581.
<br />
  &ldquo;HENRI.
<br />
  &ldquo;A Monsieur de MONTAIGNE, Knight of my Order, Gentleman in Ordinary
  of my Chamber, being at present in Rome.&rdquo;
<br />
  Montaigne, in his new employment, the most important in the province,
  obeyed the axiom, that a man may not refuse a duty, though it absorb his
  time and attention, and even involve the sacrifice of his blood. Placed
  between two extreme parties, ever on the point of getting to blows, he
  showed himself in practice what he is in his book, the friend of a middle
  and temperate policy. Tolerant by character and on principle, he belonged,
  like all the great minds of the sixteenth century, to that political sect
  which sought to improve, without destroying, institutions; and we may say
  of him, what he himself said of La Boetie, &ldquo;that he had that maxim
  indelibly impressed on his mind, to obey and submit himself religiously to
  the laws under which he was born. Affectionately attached to the repose of
  his country, an enemy to changes and innovations, he would have preferred
  to employ what means he had towards their discouragement and suppression,
  than in promoting their success.&rdquo; Such was the platform of his
  administration.
<br />
  He applied himself, in an especial manner, to the maintenance of peace
  between the two religious factions which at that time divided the town of
  Bordeaux; and at the end of his two first years of office, his grateful
  fellow-citizens conferred on him (in 1583) the mayoralty for two years
  more, a distinction which had been enjoyed, as he tells us, only twice
  before. On the expiration of his official career, after four years&rsquo;
  duration, he could say fairly enough of himself that he left behind him
  neither hatred nor cause of offence.
<br />
  In the midst of the cares of government, Montaigne found time to revise
  and enlarge his Essays, which, since their appearance in 1580, were
  continually receiving augmentation in the form of additional chapters or
  papers. Two more editions were printed in 1582 and 1587; and during this
  time the author, while making alterations in the original text, had
  composed part of the Third Book. He went to Paris to make arrangements for
  the publication of his enlarged labours, and a fourth impression in 1588
  was the result. He remained in the capital some time on this occasion, and
  it was now that he met for the first time Mademoiselle de Gournay. Gifted
  with an active and inquiring spirit, and, above all, possessing a sound
  and healthy tone of mind, Mademoiselle de Gournay had been carried from
  her childhood with that tide which set in with sixteenth century towards
  controversy, learning, and knowledge. She learnt Latin without a master;
  and when, the age of eighteen, she accidentally became possessor of a copy
  of the Essays, she was transported with delight and admiration.
<br />
  She quitted the chateau of Gournay, to come and see him. We cannot do
  better, in connection with this journey of sympathy, than to repeat the
  words of Pasquier: &ldquo;That young lady, allied to several great and
  noble families of Paris, proposed to herself no other marriage than with
  her honour, enriched with the knowledge gained from good books, and,
  beyond all others, from the essays of M. de Montaigne, who making in the
  year 1588 a lengthened stay in the town of Paris, she went there for the
  purpose of forming his personal acquaintance; and her mother, Madame de
  Gournay, and herself took him back with them to their chateau, where, at
  two or three different times, he spent three months altogether, most
  welcome of visitors.&rdquo; It was from this moment that Mademoiselle de
  Gournay dated her adoption as Montaigne&rsquo;s daughter, a circumstance
  which has tended to confer immortality upon her in a far greater measure
  than her own literary productions.
<br />
  Montaigne, on leaving Paris, stayed a short time at Blois, to attend the
  meeting of the States-General. We do not know what part he took in that
  assembly: but it is known that he was commissioned, about this period, to
  negotiate between Henry of Navarre (afterwards Henry IV.) and the Duke of
  Guise. His political life is almost a blank; but De Thou assures us that
  Montaigne enjoyed the confidence of the principal persons of his time. De
  Thou, who calls him a frank man without constraint, tells us that, walking
  with him and Pasquier in the court at the Castle of Blois, he heard him
  pronounce some very remarkable opinions on contemporary events, and he
  adds that Montaigne had foreseen that the troubles in France could not end
  without witnessing the death of either the King of Navarre or of the Duke
  of Guise. He had made himself so completely master of the views of these
  two princes, that he told De Thou that the King of Navarre would have been
  prepared to embrace Catholicism, if he had not been afraid of being
  abandoned by his party, and that the Duke of Guise, on his part, had no
  particular repugnance to the Confession of Augsburg, for which the
  Cardinal of Lorraine, his uncle, had inspired him with a liking, if it had
  not been for the peril involved in quitting the Romish communion. It would
  have been easy for Montaigne to play, as we call it, a great part in
  politics, and create for himself a lofty position but his motto was,
  &lsquo;Otio et Libertati&rsquo;; and he returned quietly home to compose a
  chapter for his next edition on inconveniences of Greatness.
<br />
  The author of the Essays was now fifty-five. The malady which tormented
  him grew only worse and worse with years; and yet he occupied himself
  continually with reading, meditating, and composition. He employed the
  years 1589, 1590, and 1591 in making fresh additions to his book; and even
  in the approaches of old age he might fairly anticipate many happy hours,
  when he was attacked by quinsy, depriving him of the power utterance.
  Pasquier, who has left us some details his last hours, narrates that he
  remained three days in full possession of his faculties, but unable to
  speak, so that, in order to make known his desires, he was obliged to
  resort to writing; and as he felt his end drawing near, he begged his wife
  to summon certain of the gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood to bid
  them a last farewell. When they had arrived, he caused mass to be
  celebrated in apartment; and just as the priest was elevating the host,
  Montaigne fell forward with his arms extended in front of him, on the bed,
  and so expired. He was in his sixtieth year. It was the 13th September
  1592.
<br />
  Montaigne was buried near his own house; but a few years after his
  decease, his remains were removed to the church of a Commandery of St.
  Antoine at Bordeaux, where they still continue. His monument was restored
  in 1803 by a descendant. It was seen about 1858 by an English traveller
  (Mr. St. John).&rsquo;&mdash;[&ldquo;Montaigne the Essayist,&rdquo; by
  Bayle St. John, 1858, 2 vols. 8vo, is one of most delightful books of the
  kind.]&mdash; and was then in good preservation.
<br />
  In 1595 Mademoiselle de Gournay published a new edition of Montaigne&rsquo;s
  Essays, and the first with the latest emendations of the author, from a
  copy presented to her by his widow, and which has not been recovered,
  although it is known to have been in existence some years after the date
  of the impression, made on its authority.
<br />
  Coldly as Montaigne&rsquo;s literary productions appear to have been
  received by the generation immediately succeeding his own age, his genius
  grew into just appreciation in the seventeenth century, when such great
  spirits arose as La Bruyere, Moliere, La Fontaine, Madame de Sevigne.
  &ldquo;O,&rdquo; exclaimed the Chatelaine des Rochers, &ldquo;what capital
  company he is, the dear man! he is my old friend; and just for the reason
  that he is so, he always seems new. My God! how full is that book of
  sense!&rdquo; Balzac said that he had carried human reason as far and as
  high as it could go, both in politics and in morals. On the other hand,
  Malebranche and the writers of Port Royal were against him; some
  reprehended the licentiousness of his writings; others their impiety,
  materialism, epicureanism. Even Pascal, who had carefully read the Essays,
  and gained no small profit by them, did not spare his reproaches. But
  Montaigne has outlived detraction. As time has gone on, his admirers and
  borrowers have increased in number, and his Jansenism, which recommended
  him to the eighteenth century, may not be his least recommendation in the
  nineteenth. Here we have certainly, on the whole, a first-class man, and
  one proof of his masterly genius seems to be, that his merits and his
  beauties are sufficient to induce us to leave out of consideration
  blemishes and faults which would have been fatal to an inferior writer.
                   THE LETTERS OF MONTAIGNE.
  [
    ]()

I.——To Monsieur de MONTAIGNE

  [This account of the death of La Boetie begins imperfectly. It first
  appeared in a little volume of Miscellanies in 1571. See Hazlitt, ubi sup.
  p. 630.]—As to his last words, doubtless, if any man can give good
  account of them, it is I, both because, during the whole of his sickness
  he conversed as fully with me as with any one, and also because, in
  consequence of the singular and brotherly friendship which we had
  entertained for each other, I was perfectly acquainted with the
  intentions, opinions, and wishes which he had formed in the course of his
  life, as much so, certainly, as one man can possibly be with those of
  another man; and because I knew them to be elevated, virtuous, full of
  steady resolution, and (after all said) admirable. I well foresaw that, if
  his illness permitted him to express himself, he would allow nothing to
  fall from him, in such an extremity, that was not replete with good
  example. I consequently took every care in my power to treasure what was
  said. True it is, Monseigneur, as my memory is not only in itself very
  short, but in this case affected by the trouble which I have undergone,
  through so heavy and important a loss, that I have forgotten a number of
  things which I should wish to have had known; but those which I recollect
  shall be related to you as exactly as lies in my power. For to represent
  in full measure his noble career suddenly arrested, to paint to you his
  indomitable courage, in a body worn out and prostrated by pain and the
  assaults of death, I confess, would demand a far better ability than mine:
  because, although, when in former years he discoursed on serious and
  important matters, he handled them in such a manner that it was difficult
  to reproduce exactly what he said, yet his ideas and his words at the last
  seemed to rival each other in serving him. For I am sure that I never knew
  him give birth to such fine conceptions, or display so much eloquence, as
  in the time of his sickness. If, Monseigneur, you blame me for introducing
  his more ordinary observations, please to know that I do so advisedly; for
  since they proceeded from him at a season of such great trouble, they
  indicate the perfect tranquillity of his mind and thoughts to the last.
<br />
  On Monday, the 9th day of August 1563, on my return from the Court, I sent
  an invitation to him to come and dine with me. He returned word that he
  was obliged, but, being indisposed, he would thank me to do him the
  pleasure of spending an hour with him before he started for Medoc. Shortly
  after my dinner I went to him. He had laid himself down on the bed with
  his clothes on, and he was already, I perceived, much changed. He
  complained of diarrhoea, accompanied by the gripes, and said that he had
  it about him ever since he played with M. d&rsquo;Escars with nothing but
  his doublet on, and that with him a cold often brought on such attacks. I
  advised him to go as he had proposed, but to stay for the night at
  Germignac, which is only about two leagues from the town. I gave him this
  advice, because some houses, near to that where he was ping, were visited
  by the plague, about which he was nervous since his return from Perigord
  and the Agenois, here it had been raging; and, besides, horse exercise
  was, from my own experience, beneficial under similar circumstances. He
  set out, accordingly, with his wife and M. Bouillhonnas, his uncle.
<br />
  Early on the following morning, however, I had intelligence from Madame de
  la Boetie, that in the night he had fresh and violent attack of dysentery.
  She had called in physician and apothecary, and prayed me to lose no time
  coming, which (after dinner) I did. He was delighted to see me; and when I
  was going away, under promise to turn the following day, he begged me more
  importunately and affectionately than he was wont to do, to give him as
  such of my company as possible. I was a little affected; yet was about to
  leave, when Madame de la Boetie, as if she foresaw something about to
  happen, implored me with tears to stay the night. When I consented, he
  seemed to grow more cheerful. I returned home the next day, and on the
  Thursday I paid him another visit. He had become worse; and his loss of
  blood from the dysentery, which reduced his strength very much, was
  largely on the increase. I quitted his side on Friday, but on Saturday I
  went to him, and found him very weak. He then gave me to understand that
  his complaint was infectious, and, moreover, disagreeable and depressing;
  and that he, knowing thoroughly my constitution, desired that I should
  content myself with coming to see him now and then. On the contrary, after
  that I never left his side.
<br />
  It was only on the Sunday that he began to converse with me on any subject
  beyond the immediate one of his illness, and what the ancient doctors
  thought of it: we had not touched on public affairs, for I found at the
  very outset that he had a dislike to them.
<br />
  But, on the Sunday, he had a fainting fit; and when he came to himself, he
  told me that everything seemed to him confused, as if in a mist and in
  disorder, and that, nevertheless, this visitation was not unpleasing to
  him. &ldquo;Death,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;has no worse sensation, my
  brother.&rdquo; &ldquo;None so bad,&rdquo; was his answer. He had had no
  regular sleep since the beginning of his illness; and as he became worse
  and worse, he began to turn his attention to questions which men commonly
  occupy themselves with in the last extremity, despairing now of getting
  better, and intimating as much to me. On that day, as he appeared in
  tolerably good spirits, I took occasion to say to him that, in
  consideration of the singular love I bore him, it would become me to take
  care that his affairs, which he had conducted with such rare prudence in
  his life, should not be neglected at present; and that I should regret it
  if, from want of proper counsel, he should leave anything unsettled, not
  only on account of the loss to his family, but also to his good name.
<br />
  He thanked me for my kindness; and after a little reflection, as if he was
  resolving certain doubts in his own mind, he desired me to summon his
  uncle and his wife by themselves, in order that he might acquaint them
  with his testamentary dispositions. I told him that this would shock them.
  &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;I will cheer them by making out
  my case to be better than it is.&rdquo; And then he inquired, whether we
  were not all much taken by surprise at his having fainted? I replied, that
  it was of no importance, being incidental to the complaint from which he
  suffered. &ldquo;True, my brother,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;it would be
  unimportant, even though it should lead to what you most dread.&rdquo;
  &ldquo;For you,&rdquo; I rejoined, &ldquo;it might be a happy thing; but I
  should be the loser, who would thereby be deprived of so great, so wise,
  and so steadfast a friend, a friend whose place I should never see
  supplied.&rdquo; &ldquo;It is very likely you may not,&rdquo; was his
  answer; &ldquo;and be sure that one thing which makes me somewhat anxious
  to recover, and to delay my journey to that place, whither I am already
  half-way gone, is the thought of the loss both you and that poor man and
  woman there (referring to his uncle and wife) must sustain; for I love
  them with my whole heart, and I feel certain that they will find it very
  hard to lose me. I should also regret it on account of such as have, in my
  lifetime, valued me, and whose conversation I should like to have enjoyed
  a little longer; and I beseech you, my brother, if I leave the world, to
  carry to them for me an assurance of the esteem I entertained for them to
  the last moment of my existence. My birth was, moreover, scarcely to so
  little purpose but that, had I lived, I might have done some service to
  the public; but, however this may be, I am prepared to submit to the will
  of God, when it shall please Him to call me, being confident of enjoying
  the tranquillity which you have foretold for me. As for you, my friend, I
  feel sure that you are so wise, that you will control your emotions, and
  submit to His divine ordinance regarding me; and I beg of you to see that
  that good man and woman do not mourn for my departure unnecessarily.&rdquo;
<br />
  He proceeded to inquire how they behaved at present. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo;
  said I, &ldquo;considering the circumstances.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he
  replied, &ldquo;that is, so long as they do not abandon all hope of me;
  but when that shall be the case, you will have a hard task to support
  them.&rdquo; It was owing to his strong regard for his wife and uncle that
  he studiously disguised from them his own conviction as to the certainty
  of his end, and he prayed me to do the same. When they were near him he
  assumed an appearance of gaiety, and flattered them with hopes. I then
  went to call them. They came, wearing as composed an air as possible; and
  when we four were together, he addressed us, with an untroubled
  countenance, as follows: &ldquo;Uncle and wife, rest assured that no new
  attack of my disease, or fresh doubt that I have as to my recovery, has
  led me to take this step of communicating to you my intentions, for, thank
  God, I feel very well and hopeful; but taught by observation and
  experience the instability of all human things, and even of the life to
  which we are so much attached, and which is, nevertheless, a mere bubble;
  and knowing, moreover, that my state of health brings me more within the
  danger of death, I have thought proper to settle my worldly affairs,
  having the benefit of your advice.&rdquo; Then addressing himself more
  particularly to his uncle, &ldquo;Good uncle,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if I
  were to rehearse all the obligations under which I lie to you, I am sure
  that I never should make an end. Let me only say that, wherever I have
  been, and with whomsoever I have conversed, I have represented you as
  doing for me all that a father could do for a son; both in the care with
  which you tended my education, and in the zeal with which you pushed me
  forward into public life, so that my whole existence is a testimony of
  your good offices towards me. In short, I am indebted for all that I have
  to you, who have been to me as a parent; and therefore I have no right to
  part with anything, unless it be with your approval.&rdquo;
<br />
  There was a general silence hereupon, and his uncle was prevented from
  replying by tears and sobs. At last he said that whatever he thought for
  the best would be agreeable to him; and as he intended to make him his
  heir, he was at liberty to dispose of what would be his.
<br />
  Then he turned to his wife. &ldquo;My image,&rdquo; said he (for so he
  often called her, there being some sort of relationship between them),
  &ldquo;since I have been united to you by marriage, which is one of the
  most weighty and sacred ties imposed on us by God, for the purpose of
  maintaining human society, I have continued to love, cherish, and value
  you; and I know that you have returned my affection, for which I have no
  sufficient acknowledgment. I beg you to accept such portion of my estate
  as I bequeath to you, and be satisfied with it, though it is very
  inadequate to your desert.&rdquo;
<br />
  Afterwards he turned to me. &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;for
  whom I have so entire a love, and whom I selected out of so large a
  number, thinking to revive with you that virtuous and sincere friendship
  which, owing to the degeneracy of the age, has grown to be almost unknown
  to us, and now exists only in certain vestiges of antiquity, I beg of you,
  as a mark of my affection to you, to accept my library: a slender
  offering, but given with a cordial will, and suitable to you, seeing that
  you are fond of learning. It will be a memorial of your old companion.&rdquo;
<br />
  Then he addressed all three of us. He blessed God that in his extremity he
  had the happiness to be surrounded by those whom he held dearest in the
  world, and he looked upon it as a fine spectacle, where four persons were
  together, so unanimous in their feelings, and loving each other for each
  other&rsquo;s sake. He commended us one to the other; and proceeded thus:
  &ldquo;My worldly matters being arranged, I must now think of the welfare
  of my soul. I am a Christian; I am a Catholic. I have lived one, and I
  shall die one. Send for a priest; for I wish to conform to this last
  Christian obligation.&rdquo; He now concluded his discourse, which he had
  conducted with such a firm face and with so distinct an utterance, that
  whereas, when I first entered his room, he was feeble, inarticulate in his
  speech, his pulse low and feverish, and his features pallid, now, by a
  sort of miracle, he appeared to have rallied, and his pulse was so strong
  that for the sake of comparison, I asked him to feel mine.
<br />
  I felt my heart so oppressed at this moment, that I had not the power to
  make him any answer; but in the course of two or three hours, solicitous
  to keep up his courage, and, likewise, out of the tenderness which I had
  had all my life for his honour and fame, wishing a larger number of
  witnesses to his admirable fortitude, I said to him, how much I was
  ashamed to think that I lacked courage to listen to what he, so great a
  sufferer, had the courage to deliver; that down to the present time I had
  scarcely conceived that God granted us such command over human
  infirmities, and had found a difficulty in crediting the examples I had
  read in histories; but that with such evidence of the thing before my
  eyes, I gave praise to God that it had shown itself in one so excessively
  dear to me, and who loved me so entirely, and that his example would help
  me to act in a similar manner when my turn came. Interrupting me, he
  begged that it might happen so, and that the conversation which had passed
  between us might not be mere words, but might be impressed deeply on our
  minds, to be put in exercise at the first occasion; and that this was the
  real object and aim of all philosophy.
<br />
  He then took my hand, and continued: &ldquo;Brother, friend, there are
  many acts of my life, I think, which have cost me as much difficulty as
  this one is likely to do; and, after all, I have been long prepared for
  it, and have my lesson by heart. Have I not lived long enough? I am just
  upon thirty-three. By the grace of God, my days so far have known nothing
  but health and happiness; but in the ordinary course of our unstable human
  affairs, this could not have lasted much longer; it would have become time
  for me to enter on graver avocations, and I should thus have involved
  myself in numberless vexations, and, among them, the troubles of old age,
  from which I shall now be exempt. Moreover, it is probable that hitherto
  my life has been spent more simply, and with less of evil, than if God had
  spared me, and I had survived to feel the thirst for riches and worldly
  prosperity. I am sure, for my part, that I now go to God and the place of
  the blessed.&rdquo; He seemed to detect in my expression some inquietude
  at his words; and he exclaimed, &ldquo;What, my brother, would you make me
  entertain apprehensions? Had I any, whom would it become so much as
  yourself to remove them?&rdquo;
<br />
  The notary, who had been summoned to draw up his will, came in the
  evening, and when he had the documents prepared, I inquired of La Boetie
  if he would sign them. &ldquo;Sign them,&rdquo; cried he; &ldquo;I will do
  so with my own hand; but I could desire more time, for I feel exceedingly
  timid and weak, and in a manner exhausted.&rdquo; But when I was going to
  change the conversation, he suddenly rallied, said he had but a short time
  to live, and asked if the notary wrote rapidly, for he should dictate
  without making any pause. The notary was called, and he dictated his will
  there and then with such speed that the man could scarcely keep up with
  him; and when he had done, he asked me to read it out, saying to me,
  &ldquo;What a good thing it is to look after what are called our riches.&rdquo;
  &lsquo;Sunt haec, quoe hominibus vocantur bona&rsquo;. As soon as the will
  was signed, the chamber being full, he asked me if it would hurt him to
  talk. I answered, that it would not, if he did not speak too loud. He then
  summoned Mademoiselle de Saint Quentin, his niece, to him, and addressed
  her thus: &ldquo;Dear niece, since my earliest acquaintance with thee, I
  have observed the marks of, great natural goodness in thee; but the
  services which thou rendered to me, with so much affectionate diligence,
  in my present and last necessity, inspire me with high hopes of thee; and
  I am under great obligations to thee, and give thee most affectionate
  thanks. Let me relieve my conscience by counselling thee to be, in the
  first place, devout, to God: for this doubtless is our first duty, failing
  which all others can be of little advantage or grace, but which, duly
  observed, carries with it necessarily all other virtues. After God, thou
  shouldest love thy father and mother&mdash;thy mother, my sister, whom I
  regard as one of the best and most intelligent of women, and by whom I beg
  of thee to let thy own life be regulated. Allow not thyself to be led away
  by pleasures; shun, like the plague, the foolish familiarities thou seest
  between some men and women; harmless enough at first, but which by
  insidious degrees corrupt the heart, and thence lead it to negligence, and
  then into the vile slough of vice. Credit me, the greatest safeguard to
  female chastity is sobriety of demeanour. I beseech and direct that thou
  often call to mind the friendship which was betwixt us; but I do not wish
  thee to mourn for me too much&mdash;an injunction which, so far as it is
  in my power, I lay on all my friends, since it might seem that by doing so
  they felt a jealousy of that blessed condition in which I am about to be
  placed by death. I assure thee, my dear, that if I had the option now of
  continuing in life or of completing the voyage on which I have set out, I
  should find it very hard to choose. Adieu, dear niece.&rdquo;
<br />
  Mademoiselle d&rsquo;Arsat, his stepdaughter, was next called. He said to
  her: &ldquo;Daughter, you stand in no great need of advice from me,
  insomuch as you have a mother, whom I have ever found most sagacious, and
  entirely in conformity with my own opinions and wishes, and whom I have
  never found faulty; with such a preceptress, you cannot fail to be
  properly instructed. Do not account it singular that I, with no tie of
  blood to you, am interested in you; for, being the child of one who is so
  closely allied to me, I am necessarily concerned in what concerns you; and
  consequently the affairs of your brother, M. d&rsquo;Arsat, have ever been
  watched by me with as much care as my own; nor perhaps will it be to your
  disadvantage that you were my step-daughter. You enjoy sufficient store of
  wealth and beauty; you are a lady of good family; it only remains for you
  to add to these possessions the cultivation of your mind, in which I
  exhort you not to fail. I do not think necessary to warn you against vice,
  a thing so odious in women, for I would not even suppose that you could
  harbour any inclination for it&mdash;nay, I believe that you hold the very
  name in abhorrence. Dear daughter, farewell.&rdquo;
<br />
  All in the room were weeping and lamenting; but he held without
  interruption the thread of his discourse, which was pretty long. But when
  he had done, he directed us all to leave the room, except the women
  attendants, whom he styled his garrison. But first, calling to him my
  brother, M. de Beauregard, he said to him: &ldquo;M. de Beauregard, you
  have my best thanks for all the care you have taken of me. I have now a
  thing which I am very anxious indeed to mention to you, and with your
  permission I will do so.&rdquo; As my brother gave him encouragement to
  proceed, he added: &ldquo;I assure you that I never knew any man who
  engaged in the reformation of our Church with greater sincerity,
  earnestness, and single-heartedness than yourself. I consider that you
  were led to it by observing the vicious character of our prelates, which
  no doubt much requires setting in order, and by imperfections which time
  has brought into our Church. It is not my desire at present discourage you
  from this course, for I would have no one act in opposition to his
  conscience; but I wish, having regard to the good repute acquired by your
  family from its enduring concord&mdash;a family than which none can be
  dearer to me; a family, thank God! no member of which has ever been guilty
  of dishonour &mdash;in regard, further, to the will of your good father to
  whom you owe so much, and of your, uncle, I wish you to avoid extreme
  means; avoid harshness and violence: be reconciled with your relatives; do
  not act apart, but unite. You perceive what disasters our quarrels have
  brought upon this kingdom, and I anticipate still worse mischiefs; and in
  your goodness and wisdom, beware of involving your family in such broils;
  let it continue to enjoy its former reputation and happiness. M. de
  Beauregard, take what I say in good part, and as a proof of the friendship
  I feel for you. I postponed till now any communication with you on the
  subject, and perhaps the condition in which you see me address you, may
  cause my advice and opinion to carry greater authority.&rdquo; My brother
  expressed his thanks to him cordially.
<br />
  On the Monday morning he had become so ill that he quite despaired of
  himself; and he said to me very pitifully: &ldquo;Brother, do not you feel
  pain for all the pain I am suffering? Do you not perceive now that the
  help you give me has no other effect than that of lengthening my
  suffering?&rdquo;
<br />
  Shortly afterwards he fainted, and we all thought him gone; but by the
  application of vinegar and wine he rallied. But he soon sank, and when he
  heard us in lamentation, he murmured, &ldquo;O God! who is it that teases
  me so? Why did you break the agreeable repose I was enjoying? I beg of you
  to leave me.&rdquo; And then, when he caught the sound of my voice, he
  continued: &ldquo;And art thou, my brother, likewise unwilling to see me
  at peace? O, how thou robbest me of my repose!&rdquo; After a while, he
  seemed to gain more strength, and called for wine, which he relished, and
  declared it to be the finest drink possible. I, in order to change the
  current of his thoughts, put in, &ldquo;Surely not; water is the best.&rdquo;
  &ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; he returned, &ldquo;doubtless so;&mdash;(Greek
  phrase)&mdash;.&rdquo; He had now become, icy-cold at his extremities,
  even to his face; a deathly perspiration was upon him, and his pulse was
  scarcely perceptible.
<br />
  This morning he confessed, but the priest had omitted to bring with him
  the necessary apparatus for celebrating Mass. On the Tuesday, however, M.
  de la Boetie summoned him to aid him, as he said, in discharging the last
  office of a Christian. After the conclusion of Mass, he took the
  sacrament; when the priest was about to depart, he said to him: &ldquo;Spiritual
  father, I implore you humbly, as well as those over whom you are set, to
  pray to the Almighty on my behalf; that, if it be decreed in heaven that I
  am now to end my life, He will take compassion on my soul, and pardon me
  my sins, which are manifold, it not being possible for so weak and poor a
  creature as I to obey completely the will of such a Master; or, if He
  think fit to keep me longer here, that it may please Him to release my
  present extreme anguish, and to direct my footsteps in the right path,
  that I may become a better man than I have been.&rdquo; He paused to
  recover breath a little; priest was about to go away, he called him back
  and proceeded: &ldquo;I desire to say, besides, in your hearing this: I
  declare that I was christened and I have lived, and that so I wish to die,
  in the faith which Moses preached in Egypt; which afterwards the
  Patriarchs accepted and professed in Judaea; and which, in the course of
  time, has been transmitted to France and to us.&rdquo; He seemed desirous
  of adding something more, but he ended with a request to his uncle and me
  to send up prayers for him; &ldquo;for those are,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the
  best duties that Christians can fulfil one for another.&rdquo; In the
  course of talking, his shoulder was uncovered, and although a man-servant
  stood near him, he asked his uncle to re-adjust the clothes. Then, turning
  his eyes towards me, he said, &ldquo;Ingenui est, cui multum debeas, ei
  plurimum velle debere.&rdquo;
<br />
  M. de Belot called in the afternoon to see him, and M. de la Boetie,
  taking his hand, said to him: &ldquo;I was on the point of discharging my
  debt, but my kind creditor has given me a little further time.&rdquo; A
  little while after, appearing to wake out of a sort of reverie, he uttered
  words which he had employed once or twice before in the course of his
  sickness: &ldquo;Ah well, ah well, whenever the hour comes, I await it
  with pleasure and fortitude.&rdquo; And then, as they were holding his
  mouth open by force to give him a draught, he observed to M. de Belot:
  &ldquo;An vivere tanti est?&rdquo;
<br />
  As the evening approached, he began perceptibly to sink; and while I
  supped, he sent for me to come, being no more than the shadow of a man,
  or, as he put it himself, &lsquo;non homo, sed species hominis&rsquo;; and
  he said to me with the utmost difficulty: &ldquo;My brother, my friend,
  please God I may realise the imaginations I have just enjoyed.&rdquo;
  Afterwards, having waited for some time while he remained silent, and by
  painful efforts was drawing long sighs (for his tongue at this point began
  to refuse its functions), I said, &ldquo;What are they?&rdquo; &ldquo;Grand,
  grand!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have never yet failed,&rdquo; returned
  I, &ldquo;to have the honour of hearing your conceptions and imaginations
  communicated to me; will you not now still let me enjoy them?&rdquo;
  &ldquo;I would indeed,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;but, my brother, I am
  not able to do so; they are admirable, infinite, and unspeakable.&rdquo;
  We stopped short there, for he could not go on. A little before, indeed,
  he had shown a desire to speak to his wife, and had told her, with as gay
  a countenance as he could contrive to assume, that he had a story to tell
  her. And it seemed as if he was making an attempt to gain utterance; but,
  his strength failing him, he begged a little wine to resuscitate it. It
  was of no avail, for he fainted away suddenly, and was for some time
  insensible. Having become so near a neighbour to death, and hearing the
  sobs of Mademoiselle de la Boetie, he called her, and said to her thus:
  &ldquo;My own likeness, you grieve yourself beforehand; will you not have
  pity on me? take courage. Assuredly, it costs me more than half the pain I
  endure, to see you suffer; and reasonably so, because the evils which we
  ourselves feel we do not actually ourselves suffer, but it certain
  sentient faculties which God plants in us, that feel them: whereas what we
  feel on account of others, we feel by consequence of a certain reasoning
  process which goes on within our minds. But I am going away&rdquo; &mdash;That
  he said because his strength was failing him; and fearing that he had
  frightened his wife, he resumed, observing: &ldquo;I am going to sleep.
  Good night, my wife; go thy way.&rdquo; This was the last farewell he took
  of her.
<br />
  After she had left, &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; said he to me, &ldquo;keep
  near me, if you please;&rdquo; and then feeling the advance of death more
  pressing and more acute, or else the effect of some warm draught which
  they had made him swallow, his voice grew stronger and clearer, and he
  turned quite with violence in his bed, so that all began again to
  entertain the hope which we had lost only upon witnessing his extreme
  prostration.
<br />
  At this stage he proceeded, among other things, to pray me again and
  again, in a most affectionate manner, to give him a place; so that I was
  apprehensive that his reason might be impaired, particularly when, on my
  pointing out to him that he was doing himself harm, and that these were
  not of the words of a rational man, he did not yield at first, but
  redoubled his outcry, saying, &ldquo;My brother, my brother! dost thou
  then refuse me a place?&rdquo; insomuch that he constrained me to
  demonstrate to him that, as he breathed and spoke, and had his physical
  being, therefore he had his place. &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he responded,
  &ldquo;I have; but it is not that which I need; and, besides, when all is
  said, I have no longer any existence.&rdquo; &ldquo;God,&rdquo; I replied,
  &ldquo;will grant you a better one soon.&rdquo; &ldquo;Would it were now,
  my brother,&rdquo; was his answer. &ldquo;It is now three days since I
  have been eager to take my departure.&rdquo;
<br />
  Being in this extremity, he frequently called me, merely to satisfy him
  that I was at his side. At length, he composed himself a little to rest,
  which strengthened our hopes; so much so, indeed, that I left the room,
  and went to rejoice thereupon with Mademoiselle de la Boetie. But, an hour
  or so afterwards, he called me by name once or twice, and then with a long
  sigh expired at three o&rsquo;clock on Wednesday morning, the 18th August
  1563, having lived thirty-two years, nine months, and seventeen days.
<br />
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