Essays of Michel de Montaigne - 097

little well-doing has neither body nor life; it vanishes in the first
mouth, and goes no further than from one street to another. Talk of it
by all means to your son or your servant, like that old fellow who,
having no other auditor of his praises nor approver of his valour,
boasted to his chambermaid, crying, “O Perrete, what a brave, clever man
hast thou for thy master!” At the worst, talk of it to yourself, like a
councillor of my acquaintance, who, having disgorged a whole cartful of
law jargon with great heat and as great folly, coming out of the council
chamber to make water, was heard very complacently to mutter betwixt his
teeth:
“Non nobis, domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.”
[“Not unto us, O Lord, not to us: but unto Thy name be the glory.”
--Psalm cxiii. I.]
He who gets it of nobody else, let him pay himself out of his own purse.
Fame is not prostituted at so cheap a rate: rare and exemplary actions,
to which it is due, would not endure the company of this prodigious crowd
of petty daily performances. Marble may exalt your titles, as much as
you please, for having repaired a rod of wall or cleansed a public sewer;
but not men of sense. Renown does not follow all good deeds, if novelty
and difficulty be not conjoined; nay, so much as mere esteem, according
to the Stoics, is not due to every action that proceeds from virtue; nor
will they allow him bare thanks who, out of temperance, abstains from an
old blear-eyed crone. Those who have known the admirable qualities of
Scipio Africanus, deny him the glory that Panaetius attributes to him, of
being abstinent from gifts, as a glory not so much his as that of his
age. We have pleasures suitable to our lot; let us not usurp those of
grandeur: our own are more natural, and by so much more solid and sure,
as they are lower. If not for that of conscience, yet at least for
ambition’s sake, let us reject ambition; let us disdain that thirst of
honour and renown, so low and mendicant, that it makes us beg it of all
sorts of people:
“Quae est ista laus quae: possit e macello peti?”
[“What praise is that which is to be got in the market-place (meat
market)?” Cicero, De Fin., ii. 15.]
by abject means, and at what cheap rate soever: ‘tis dishonour to be so
honoured. Let us learn to be no more greedy, than we are capable, of
glory. To be puffed up with every action that is innocent or of use, is
only for those with whom such things are extraordinary and rare: they
will value it as it costs them. The more a good effect makes a noise,
the more do I abate of its goodness as I suspect that it was more
performed for the noise, than upon account of the goodness: exposed upon
the stall, ‘tis half sold. Those actions have much more grace and
lustre, that slip from the hand of him that does them, negligently and
without noise, and that some honest man thereafter finds out and raises
from the shade, to produce it to the light upon its own account,
“Mihi quidem laudabiliora videntur omnia, quae sine
venditatione, et sine populo teste fiunt,”
[“All things truly seem more laudable to me that are performed
without ostentation, and without the testimony of the people.”
--Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., ii. 26.]
says the most ostentatious man that ever lived.
I had but to conserve and to continue, which are silent and insensible
effects: innovation is of great lustre; but ‘tis interdicted in this age,
when we are pressed upon and have nothing to defend ourselves from but
novelties. To forbear doing is often as generous as to do; but ‘tis less
in the light, and the little good I have in me is of this kind. In fine,
occasions in this employment of mine have been confederate with my
humour, and I heartily thank them for it. Is there any who desires to be
sick, that he may see his physician at work? and would not the physician
deserve to be whipped who should wish the plague amongst us, that he
might put his art in practice? I have never been of that wicked humour,
and common enough, to desire that troubles and disorders in this city
should elevate and honour my government; I have ever heartily contributed
all I could to their tranquillity and ease.
He who will not thank me for the order, the sweet and silent calm that
has accompanied my administration, cannot, however, deprive me of the
share that belongs to me by title of my good fortune. And I am of such a
composition, that I would as willingly be lucky as wise, and had rather
owe my successes purely to the favour of Almighty God, than to any
operation of my own. I had sufficiently published to the world my
unfitness for such public offices; but I have something in me yet worse
than incapacity itself; which is, that I am not much displeased at it,
and that I do not much go about to cure it, considering the course of
life that I have proposed to myself.
Neither have I satisfied myself in this employment; but I have very near
arrived at what I expected from my own performance, and have much
surpassed what I promised them with whom I had to do: for I am apt to
promise something less than what I am able to do, and than what I hope to
make good. I assure myself that I have left no offence or hatred behind
me; to leave regret or desire for me amongst them, I at least know very
well that I never much aimed at it:
“Mene huic confidere monstro!
Mene salis placidi vultum, fluctusque quietos
Ignorare?”
[“Should I place confidence in this monster? Should I be ignorant
of the dangers of that seeming placid sea, those now quiet waves?”
--Virgil, Aeneid, V. 849.]


CHAPTER XI
OF CRIPPLES
‘Tis now two or three years ago that they made the year ten days shorter
in France.--[By the adoption of the Gregorian calendar.]--How many
changes may we expect should follow this reformation! it was really
moving heaven and earth at once. Yet nothing for all that stirs from its
place my neighbours still find their seasons of sowing and reaping, the
opportunities of doing their business, the hurtful and propitious days,
dust at the same time where they had, time out of mind, assigned them;
there was no more error perceived in our old use, than there is amendment
found in the alteration; so great an uncertainty there is throughout; so
gross, obscure, and obtuse is our perception. ‘Tis said that this
regulation might have been carried on with less inconvenience, by
subtracting for some years, according to the example of Augustus, the
Bissextile, which is in some sort a day of impediment and trouble, till
we had exactly satisfied this debt, the which itself is not done by this
correction, and we yet remain some days in arrear: and yet, by this
means, such order might be taken for the future, arranging that after the
revolution of such or such a number of years, the supernumerary day might
be always thrown out, so that we could not, henceforward, err above
four-and-twenty hours in our computation. We have no other account of
time but years; the world has for many ages made use of that only; and
yet it is a measure that to this day we are not agreed upon, and one that
we still doubt what form other nations have variously given to it, and
what was the true use of it. What does this saying of some mean, that
the heavens in growing old bow themselves down nearer towards us, and put
us into an uncertainty even of hours and days? and that which Plutarch
says of the months, that astrology had not in his time determined as to
the motion of the moon; what a fine condition are we in to keep records
of things past.
I was just now ruminating, as I often do, what a free and roving thing
human reason is. I ordinarily see that men, in things propounded to
them, more willingly study to find out reasons than to ascertain truth:
they slip over presuppositions, but are curious in examination of
consequences; they leave the things, and fly to the causes. Pleasant
talkers! The knowledge of causes only concerns him who has the conduct
of things; not us, who are merely to undergo them, and who have perfectly
full and accomplished use of them, according to our need, without
penetrating into the original and essence; wine is none the more pleasant
to him who knows its first faculties. On the contrary, both the body and
the soul interrupt and weaken the right they have of the use of the world
and of themselves, by mixing with it the opinion of learning; effects
concern us, but the means not at all. To determine and to distribute
appertain to superiority and command; as it does to subjection to accept.
Let me reprehend our custom. They commonly begin thus: “How is such a
thing done?” Whereas they should say, “Is such a thing done?” Our
reason is able to create a hundred other worlds, and to find out the
beginnings and contexture; it needs neither matter nor foundation: let it
but run on, it builds as well in the air as on the earth, and with
inanity as well as with matter:
“Dare pondus idonea fumo.”
[“Able to give weight to smoke.”--Persius, v. 20.]
I find that almost throughout we should say, “there is no such thing,”
and should myself often make use of this answer, but I dare not: for they
cry that it is an evasion produced from ignorance and weakness of
understanding; and I am fain, for the most part, to juggle for company,
and prate of frivolous subjects and tales that I believe not a word of;
besides that, in truth, ‘tis a little rude and quarrelsome flatly to deny
a stated fact; and few people but will affirm, especially in things hard
to be believed, that they have seen them, or at least will name witnesses
whose authority will stop our mouths from contradiction. In this way, we
know the foundations and means of things that never were; and the world
scuffles about a thousand questions, of which both the Pro and the Con
are false.
“Ita finitima sunt falsa veris, ut in praecipitem
locum non debeat se sapiens committere.”
[“False things are so near the true, that a wise man should not
trust himself in a precipitous place”--Cicero, Acad., ii. 21.]
Truth and lies are faced alike; their port, taste, and proceedings are
the same, and we look upon them with the same eye. I find that we are
not only remiss in defending ourselves from deceit, but that we seek and
offer ourselves to be gulled; we love to entangle ourselves in vanity, as
a thing conformable to our being.
I have seen the birth of many miracles in my time; which, although they
were abortive, yet have we not failed to foresee what they would have
come to, had they lived their full age. ‘Tis but finding the end of the
clew, and a man may wind off as much as he will; and there is a greater
distance betwixt nothing and the least thing in the world than there is
betwixt this and the greatest. Now the first that are imbued with this
beginning of novelty, when they set out with their tale, find, by the
oppositions they meet with, where the difficulty of persuasion lies, and
so caulk up that place with some false piece;
[Voltaire says of this passage, “He who would learn to doubt should
read this whole chapter of Montaigne, the least methodical of all
philosophers, but the wisest and most amiable.”
--Melanges Historiques, xvii. 694, ed. of Lefevre.]
besides that:
“Insita hominibus libido alendi de industria rumores,”
[“Men having a natural desire to nourish reports.”
--Livy, xxviii. 24.]
we naturally make a conscience of restoring what has been lent us,
without some usury and accession of our own. The particular error first
makes the public error, and afterwards, in turn, the public error makes
the particular one; and thus all this vast fabric goes forming and piling
itself up from hand to hand, so that the remotest witness knows more
about it than those who were nearest, and the last informed is better
persuaded than the first.
‘Tis a natural progress; for whoever believes anything, thinks it a work
of charity to persuade another into the same opinion; which the better to
do, he will make no difficulty of adding as much of his own invention as
he conceives necessary to his tale to encounter the resistance or want of
conception he meets with in others. I myself, who make a great
conscience of lying, and am not very solicitous of giving credit and
authority to what I say, yet find that in the arguments I have in hand,
being heated with the opposition of another, or by the proper warmth of
my own narration, I swell and puff up my subject by voice, motion,
vigour, and force of words, and moreover, by extension and amplification,
not without some prejudice to the naked truth; but I do it conditionally
withal, that to the first who brings me to myself, and who asks me the
plain and bare truth, I presently surrender my passion, and deliver the
matter to him without exaggeration, without emphasis, or any painting of
my own. A quick and earnest way of speaking, as mine is, is apt to run
into hyperbole. There is nothing to which men commonly are more inclined
than to make way for their own opinions; where the ordinary means fail
us, we add command, force, fire, and sword. ‘Tis a misfortune to be at
such a pass, that the best test of truth is the multitude of believers in
a crowd, where the number of fools so much exceeds the wise:
“Quasi vero quidquam sit tam valde, quam nil sapere, vulgare.”
[“As if anything were so common as ignorance.”
--Cicero, De Divin., ii.]
“Sanitatis patrocinium est, insanientium turba.”
[“The multitude of fools is a protection to the wise.”
--St. Augustine, De Civit. Dei, vi. 10.]
‘Tis hard to resolve a man’s judgment against the common opinions: the
first persuasion, taken from the very subject itself, possesses the
simple, and from them diffuses itself to the wise, under the authority of
the number and antiquity of the witnesses. For my part, what I should
not believe from one, I should not believe from a hundred and one: and I
do not judge opinions by years.
‘Tis not long since one of our princes, in whom the gout had spoiled an
excellent nature and sprightly disposition, suffered himself to be so far
persuaded with the report made to him of the marvellous operations of a
certain priest who by words and gestures cured all sorts of diseases,
as to go a long journey to seek him out, and by the force of his mere
imagination, for some hours so persuaded and laid his legs asleep, as to
obtain that service from them they had long time forgotten. Had fortune
heaped up five or six such-like incidents, it had been enough to have
brought this miracle into nature. There was afterwards discovered so
much simplicity and so little art in the author of these performances,
that he was thought too contemptible to be punished, as would be thought
of most such things, were they well examined:
“Miramur ex intervallo fallentia.”
[“We admire after an interval (or at a distance) things that
deceive.”--Seneca, Ep., 118, 2.]
So does our sight often represent to us strange images at a distance that
vanish on approaching near:
“Nunquam ad liquidum fama perducitur.”
[“Report is never fully substantiated.”
--Quintus Curtius, ix. 2.]
‘Tis wonderful from how many idle beginnings and frivolous causes such
famous impressions commonly, proceed. This it is that obstructs
information; for whilst we seek out causes and solid and weighty ends,
worthy of so great a name, we lose the true ones; they escape our sight
by their littleness. And, in truth, a very prudent, diligent, and subtle
inquisition is required in such searches, indifferent, and not
prepossessed. To this very hour, all these miracles and strange events
have concealed themselves from me: I have never seen greater monster or
miracle in the world than myself: one grows familiar with all strange
things by time and custom, but the more I frequent and the better I know
myself, the more does my own deformity astonish me, the less I understand
myself.
The principal right of advancing and producing such accidents is reserved
to fortune. Passing the day before yesterday through a village two
leagues from my house, I found the place yet warm with a miracle that had
lately failed of success there, where with first the neighbourhood had
been several months amused; then the neighbouring provinces began to take
it up, and to run thither in great companies of all sorts of people.
A young fellow of the place had one night in sport counterfeited the
voice of a spirit in his own house, without any other design at present,
but only for sport; but this having succeeded with him better than he
expected, to extend his farce with more actors he associated with him a
stupid silly country girl, and at last there were three of them of the
same age and understanding, who from domestic, proceeded to public,
preachings, hiding themselves under the altar of the church, never
speaking but by night, and forbidding any light to be brought. From
words which tended to the conversion of the world, and threats of the day
of judgment (for these are subjects under the authority and reverence of
which imposture most securely lurks), they proceeded to visions and
gesticulations so simple and ridiculous that--nothing could hardly be so
gross in the sports of little children. Yet had fortune never so little
favoured the design, who knows to what height this juggling might have at
last arrived? These poor devils are at present in prison, and are like
shortly to pay for the common folly; and I know not whether some judge
will not also make them smart for his. We see clearly into this, which
is discovered; but in many things of the like nature that exceed our
knowledge, I am of opinion that we ought to suspend our judgment, whether
as to rejection or as to reception.
Great abuses in the world are begotten, or, to speak more boldly, all the
abuses of the world are begotten, by our being taught to be afraid of
professing our ignorance, and that we are bound to accept all things we
are not able to refute: we speak of all things by precepts and decisions.
The style at Rome was that even that which a witness deposed to having
seen with his own eyes, and what a judge determined with his most certain
knowledge, was couched in this form of speaking: “it seems to me.” They
make me hate things that are likely, when they would impose them upon me
as infallible. I love these words which mollify and moderate the
temerity of our propositions: “peradventure; in some sort; some; ‘tis
said, I think,” and the like: and had I been set to train up children I
had put this way of answering into their mouths, inquiring and not
resolving: “What does this mean? I understand it not; it may be: is it
true?” so that they should rather have retained the form of pupils at
threescore years old than to go out doctors, as they do, at ten. Whoever
will be cured of ignorance must confess it.
Iris is the daughter of Thaumas;
[“That is, of Admiration. She (Iris, the rainbow) is beautiful, and
for that reason, because she has a face to be admired, she is said
to have been the daughter of Thamus.”
--Cicero, De Nat. Deor., iii. 20.]
admiration is the foundation of all philosophy, inquisition the progress,
ignorance the end. But there is a sort of ignorance, strong and
generous, that yields nothing in honour and courage to knowledge; an
ignorance which to conceive requires no less knowledge than to conceive
knowledge itself. I read in my younger years a trial that Corras,
[A celebrated Calvinist lawyer, born at Toulouse; 1513, and
assassinated there, 4th October 1572.]
a councillor of Toulouse, printed, of a strange incident, of two men who
presented themselves the one for the other. I remember (and I hardly
remember anything else) that he seemed to have rendered the imposture of
him whom he judged to be guilty, so wonderful and so far exceeding both
our knowledge and his own, who was the judge, that I thought it a very
bold sentence that condemned him to be hanged. Let us have some form of
decree that says, “The court understands nothing of the matter” more
freely and ingenuously than the Areopagites did, who, finding themselves
perplexed with a cause they could not unravel, ordered the parties to
appear again after a hundred years.
The witches of my neighbourhood run the hazard of their lives upon the
report of every new author who seeks to give body to their dreams. To
accommodate the examples that Holy Writ gives us of such things, most
certain and irrefragable examples, and to tie them to our modern events,
seeing that we neither see the causes nor the means, will require another
sort-of wit than ours. It, peradventure, only appertains to that sole
all-potent testimony to tell us. “This is, and that is, and not that
other.” God ought to be believed; and certainly with very good reason;
but not one amongst us for all that who is astonished at his own
narration (and he must of necessity be astonished if he be not out of his
wits), whether he employ it about other men’s affairs or against himself.
I am plain and heavy, and stick to the solid and the probable, avoiding
those ancient reproaches:
“Majorem fidem homines adhibent iis, quae non intelligunt;
--Cupidine humani ingenii libentius obscura creduntur.”
[“Men are most apt to believe what they least understand: and from
the acquisitiveness of the human intellect, obscure things are more
easily credited.” The second sentence is from Tacitus, Hist. 1. 22.]
I see very well that men get angry, and that I am forbidden to doubt upon
pain of execrable injuries; a new way of persuading! Thank God, I am not
to be cuffed into belief. Let them be angry with those who accuse their
opinion of falsity; I only accuse it of difficulty and boldness, and
condemn the opposite affirmation equally, if not so imperiously, with
them. He who will establish this proposition by authority and huffing
discovers his reason to be very weak. For a verbal and scholastic
altercation let them have as much appearance as their contradictors;
“Videantur sane, non affirmentur modo;”
[“They may indeed appear to be; let them not be affirmed (Let them
state the probabilities, but not affirm.)”
--Cicero, Acad., n. 27.]
but in the real consequence they draw from it these have much the
advantage. To kill men, a clear and strong light is required, and our
life is too real and essential to warrant these supernatural and
fantastic accidents.
As to drugs and poisons, I throw them out of my count, as being the worst
sort of homicides: yet even in this, ‘tis said, that men are not always
to rely upon the personal confessions of these people; for they have
sometimes been known to accuse themselves of the murder of persons who
have afterwards been found living and well. In these other extravagant
accusations, I should be apt to say, that it is sufficient a man, what
recommendation soever he may have, be believed as to human things; but of
what is beyond his conception, and of supernatural effect, he ought then
only to be believed when authorised by a supernatural approbation. The
privilege it has pleased Almighty God to give to some of our witnesses,
ought not to be lightly communicated and made cheap. I have my ears
battered with a thousand such tales as these: “Three persons saw him such
a day in the east three, the next day in the west: at such an hour, in
such a place, and in such habit”; assuredly I should not believe it
myself. How much more natural and likely do I find it that two men
should lie than that one man in twelve hours’ time should fly with the
wind from east to west? How much more natural that our understanding
should be carried from its place by the volubility of our disordered
minds, than that one of us should be carried by a strange spirit upon a
broomstaff, flesh and bones as we are, up the shaft of a chimney? Let
not us seek illusions from without and unknown, we who are perpetually
agitated with illusions domestic and our own. Methinks one is pardonable
in disbelieving a miracle, at least, at all events where one can elude
its verification as such, by means not miraculous; and I am of St.
Augustine’s opinion, that, “‘tis better to lean towards doubt than
assurance, in things hard to prove and dangerous to believe.”
‘Tis now some years ago that I travelled through the territories of a
sovereign prince, who, in my favour, and to abate my incredulity, did me
the honour to let me see, in his own presence, and in a private place,
ten or twelve prisoners of this kind, and amongst others, an old woman,
a real witch in foulness and deformity, who long had been famous in that
profession. I saw both proofs and free confessions, and I know not what
insensible mark upon the miserable creature: I examined and talked with
her and the rest as much and as long as I would, and gave the best and
soundest attention I could, and I am not a man to suffer my judgment to
be made captive by prepossession. In the end, and in all conscience, I
should rather have prescribed them hellebore than hemlock;
“Captisque res magis mentibus, quam consceleratis similis visa;”
[“The thing was rather to be attributed to madness, than malice.”
(“The thing seemed to resemble minds possessed rather than guilty.”)
--Livy, viii, 18.]
justice has its corrections proper for such maladies. As to the
oppositions and arguments that worthy men have made to me, both there,
and often in other places, I have met with none that have convinced me,
and that have not admitted a more likely solution than their conclusions.
It is true, indeed, that the proofs and reasons that are founded upon
experience and fact, I do not go about to untie, neither have they any
end; I often cut them, as Alexander did the Gordian knot. After all,
‘tis setting a man’s conjectures at a very high price upon them to cause
a man to be roasted alive.
We are told by several examples, as Praestantius of his father, that
being more profoundly, asleep than men usually are, he fancied himself
to be a mare, and that he served the soldiers for a sumpter; and what
he fancied himself to be, he really proved. If sorcerers dream so
materially; if dreams can sometimes so incorporate themselves with
effects, still I cannot believe that therefore our will should be
accountable to justice; which I say as one who am neither judge nor privy
councillor, and who think myself by many degrees unworthy so to be, but a
man of the common sort, born and avowed to the obedience of the public
reason, both in its words and acts. He who should record my idle talk as
being to the prejudice of the pettiest law, opinion, or custom of his
parish, would do himself a great deal of wrong, and me much more; for, in
what I say, I warrant no other certainty, but that ‘tis what I had then
in my thought, a tumultuous and wavering thought. All I say is by way of
discourse, and nothing by way of advice:
“Nec me pudet, ut istos fateri nescire, quod nesciam;”
[“Neither am I ashamed, as they are, to confess my ignorance of what
I do not know.”--Cicero, Tusc. Quaes., i. 25.]
I should not speak so boldly, if it were my due to be believed; and so I
told a great man, who complained of the tartness and contentiousness of
my exhortations. Perceiving you to be ready and prepared on one part, I
propose to you the other, with all the diligence and care I can, to clear
your judgment, not to compel it. God has your hearts in His hands, and
will furnish you with the means of choice. I am not so presumptuous even
as to desire that my opinions should bias you--in a thing of so great