Essays of Michel de Montaigne - 089

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.


ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:
A hundred more escape us than ever come to our knowledge
A man must have courage to fear
A man never speaks of himself without loss
A man’s accusations of himself are always believed
Agitation has usurped the place of reason
All judgments in gross are weak and imperfect
Any argument if it be carried on with method
Apprenticeships that are to be served beforehand
Arrogant ignorance
Avoid all magnificences that will in a short time be forgotten
Being as impatient of commanding as of being commanded
Defer my revenge to another and better time
Desires, that still increase as they are fulfilled
Detest in others the defects which are more manifest in us
Disdainful, contemplative, serious and grave as the ass
Do not, nevertheless, always believe myself
Events are a very poor testimony of our worth and parts.
Every abridgment of a good book is a foolish abridgment
Fault not to discern how far a man’s worth extends
Folly and absurdity are not to be cured by bare admonition
Folly satisfied with itself than any reason can reasonably be
Folly than to be moved and angry at the follies of the world
Give us history, more as they receive it than as they believe it
I every day hear fools say things that are not foolish
I hail and caress truth in what quarter soever I find it
I hate all sorts of tyranny, both in word and deed
I love stout expressions amongst gentle men
I was too frightened to be ill
If it be the writer’s wit or borrowed from some other
Ignorance does not offend me, but the foppery of it.
It is not a book to read, ‘tis a book to study and learn
“It was what I was about to say; it was just my idea,”
Judge by justice, and choose men by reason
Knock you down with the authority of their experience
Learning improves fortunes enough, but not minds
Liberality at the expense of others
Malice must be employed to correct this arrogant ignorance
Man must have a care not to do his master so great service
Mix railing, indiscretion, and fury in his disputations
Most men are rich in borrowed sufficiency
My humour is unfit either to speak or write for beginners
My reason is not obliged to bow and bend; my knees are
Never oppose them either by word or sign, how false or absurd
New World: sold it opinions and our arts at a very dear rate
Obstinancy and heat in argument are the surest proofs of folly
One must first know what is his own and what is not
Our knowledge, which is a wretched foundation
Passion has already confounded his judgment
Pinch the secret strings of our imperfections
Practical Jokes: Tis unhandsome to fight in play
Presumptive knowledge by silence
Silent mien procured the credit of prudence and capacity
Spectators can claim no interest in the honour and pleasure
Study of books is a languishing and feeble motion
The cause of truth ought to be the common cause
The event often justifies a very foolish conduct
The ignorant return from the combat full of joy and triumph
The very name Liberality sounds of Liberty.
There are some upon whom their rich clothes weep
There is no merchant that always gains
There is nothing single and rare in respect of nature
They have heard, they have seen, they have done so and so
They have not the courage to suffer themselves to be corrected
Tis impossible to deal fairly with a fool
To fret and vex at folly, as I do, is folly itself
Transferring of money from the right owners to strangers
Tutor to the ignorance and folly of the first we meet
Tyrannic sourness not to endure a form contrary to one’s own
Universal judgments that I see so common, signify nothing
“What he laughed at, being alone?”--“That I do laugh alone,”
We are not to judge of counsels by events
We do not correct the man we hang; we correct others by him
We neither see far forward nor far backward
Whilst thou wast silent, thou seemedst to be some great thing
Who has once been a very fool, will never after be very wise
Wide of the mark in judging of their own works
Wise may learn more of fools, than fools can of the wise



ESSAYS OF MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE
Translated by Charles Cotton
Edited by William Carew Hazlitt
1877


CONTENTS OF VOLUME 17.
IX. Of Vanity

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