self into new parties; for my own part I shall not budge." It must have been a singular spectacle for the contemporaries of Montaigne to see one called, by his rank, his fortune, and his mental superiority, to play an active and influential part in the deadly struggle that was distracting France, thus withdrawing himself into retirement, and by the mere force of his character pouring as it were the precious oil of his philosophy upon the troublous waters, contrive for himself a calm spot amidst "the public tempest." For, as he informs us, he was "the only man of his condition" who dared at that time thus to entrust his homestead "purely to the protection of heaven, without removing either plate, deeds, or hangings." The strange and somewhat selfish part which he enacted, was the result, in a great measure, of the very peculiar education which he had received. some rudiments of Latin, or else be debarred from conversing with Michel. As a consequence of this system, the idiom of Marcus Tullius overflowed the neighborhood, and produced a sensible alteration in the dialect of the vicinity; many things changed names, and the unclassical Dordogne was startled in her progress, through that wild district of Gascony, by sounds which the echoes of the "Parent Tiber" had so long ceased to repeat. Thus instructed in Latin from the nursery, Michel made such progress that, at twelve years of age, he was able to converse in that language with the greatest scholars of the day, and George Buchanan was actually "afraid to enter into a discourse with him." Fortunately for Michel he had an elder brother, who seemed destined to inherit the paternal estate, so that no feudal prejudice interfered to compel him to adopt the profession of arms. His library was large for the times, and in his own free desultory way he very soon became Michel de Montaigne was born, as he intimately acquainted with the principal himself informs us with his egotistical ac- writers of antiquity. He was permitted to curacy, "betwixt eleven and twelve o'clock roam, at his own free will, through the rich in the forenoon, the last of February, field of ancient lore, and naturally formed 1533;" that is about the meridians of the predilections which he kept throughout his reign of Francis I, the generous patron of life. He admired Seneca and Plato, and letters. Italian art had been transplanted entertained a sort of quiet contempt for into the soil of France. Letters were re- Cicero, whom he seems to have considered viving. Learning was beginning to diffuse as a mouthy rhetorician. He was passionitself, even among the nobility. It was ately fond of Plutarch's style, and laughed no longer a disgrace for a gentleman to at the credulity of old Pliny, whom he know how to write; and Rabelais had just often quotes, as it were on purpose to bring demonstrated the power and richness of him into ridicule. To the ancient moralthe hitherto half barbarous French lan-ists he soon became accustomed to look for guage. The father of our author was a gallant Gascon nobleman, gifted with a strong though uncultivated mind, and full as eccentric in his way as the essayist himself. It would seem that he early discovered in his son Michel symptoms of a superior intellect; at all events he resolved to make him the subject of an experiment in education, which proved as judicious as it was original. A learned German tutor, with two assistants, was procured at great expense, and instructed to teach his pupil the Latin language in the same manner as it was taught Julius Cæsar or Scipio Africanus, viz., orally. No one was allowed to address the child in any other language. All the members of the family, and the servants themselves, were obliged to acquire rules of conduct, and gradually formed for himself out of their maxims a code of rather heathenish philosophy, which he deftly intertwined with the morality of Christianity, and by which he governed his actions through life. The doctrines of Epicurus formed the foundation of his system; but he was as much of an eclectic as Cicero himself, whom he affects to despise, and soon managed to engraft shoots of other schools upon his own. The easy maxims of Epicurus were well suited to the indolent genius of Montaigne, but the troublous times in which he lived, and the sorrows which assailed him, soon compelled him to call the sterner maxims of the stoics to his assistance. For there is this peculiarity about our author, that his phi แ Death itself he strove not altogether in losophy was wholly practical. And his writings being mere records of what he did and felt himself through a long career, derive from this circumstance an air of reality and business like matter of fact, which constitutes their principal charm. He does not so much speculate upon what might or ought to be done, as relate what he himself has done. If he seeks to demonstrate the usefulness of his principles, it is chiefly by adducing his own example to show how they can be carried out. Whether or not those principles were of the most exalted character, we will leave moralists to decide. After all, Montaigne's policy was founded upon a refined selfishness. This feeling, so uncongenial to real greatness, was born in him, and afterwards developed by his education and by the peculiar state of things around him. His natural disposition, he informs us, was made up of negative qualities. As a child, his sins were all of omission, never of commission. As he grew up, he shunned all active employments; he loved ease and independence more than any thing on earth. He governed his passions well, because ungoverned passions are troublesome. He kept his lively imagination under a constant check, because imagination excites overmuch the mind. He took no part in the wars of religion, partly because he considered that it would be hard "to muster a company of gendarmes" out of the sincere believers of both factions, but principally because war would have interfered with his quiet. In his style of living he was liberal, because, having lived once to hoard Michel de Montaigne was about forty up, he found that his accumulated treasure years of age when he conceived the idea was an intolerable weight upon his mind. of dignifying the leisure of his retirement For the same reason, he neglected to keep by writing for the public. We have alany account of his income and expenditure. ready adverted to the manner in which his He would not even trouble himself over- wonderful "Essays" grew as it were unmuch to study, preferring "to jog on at his der his pen, and exposed upon his own auown rate and ease. "" 66 I could wish," thority, the secret of the prodigious numsays he, "to have a more perfect know- ber of anecdotes wherewith he embellished ledge of things, but I will not buy it so his pages. "A defaut de memoire," says he, dear as it will cost. My design is to pass "je m'eu forge une de papier." He seemover easily, and not laboriously, the remain-ed but little prepared for a literary career. der of my life. There is nothing that I will break my brain about; no, not knowledge, of what price soever." Sorrows he knew he must perforce encounter in life, therefore he made it his business, by frequent meditation, to arm himself with a coat of mail of philosophic indifference. Thus we may consider that Montaigne's philosophy rested upon the narrow foundation of selfishness: nevertheless, he was a most devoted friend. He who was enthusiastic in nothing else, was so enthusiastic in his friendship, that years after the death of La Boetie, to whom he was ardently attached, he fainted at the mention of his name-a remarkable example of the inconsistency of human actions so shrewdly exposed by our author himself. His information was desultory and superficial. His French was not of the purest, but was tinged with Gascon. He had never learned any language except by rote, and knew "neither ablative nor conjunctive." He was indolent to excess, and lacked that stimulus which worldly inter In conclusion we will quote a passage which is prefixed to the works before us, and credited to the Edinburgh Review. We select it among many because it conveys in a few brief words a not inadequate idea of the obligations we owe to the father of modern essayists: course would have supplied. For latterly he had withdrawn himself from court, and had resigned his magisterial office as soon as by his brother's death he had become the head of the family. But it chanced that every one of those apparent disqualifications invested his writings with a pecular charm. Solitude made him original. Indolence made him concise and pointed. His bad memory led him to quote most accurately with the originals under his eyes, whilst to this conscious ignorance we are indebted for that delightful style, half prattle, half elo-tory, so Montaigne was the first conspicuous quence, that inimitable naiveté of manner, and that vivid strength of expression which will continue to make him a favorite for many generations. "Montaigne seems to have a distinct character as a philosopher. As Machiavel was the first who discussed grave questions in a vulgar tongue, and created a philosophy of hiswriter who, in a modern language, philosophized on the common concerns of men, and the ordinary subjects of private reflection and conversation. The degree which nature claims in the diversity of talents, the efficiency of It was our intention to offer our opinions education, the value of the learned languages, as to the degree of influence which Mon- the usages of socie y, the passions that actutaigne exerted upon his ate private life, the singular customs of differand age, literature of his own and other countries. in h's essays. In the period from Socrates to ent nations, are the subjects chiefly handled We had also proposed to ourselves the Plutarch, such questions had been well treatpleasing task of following the elegant es-ed before. But Montaigne was evidently the sayist on his journey beyond the Alps. founder of popular philosophy in modern But our limits compel us to forbear enter- times." ing upon those branches of our subject. upon the ST. PIERRE'S STORY. DURING a valetudinary journey on horseback, through the central parts of New England, some years ago, I turned aside from the highway to enjoy the greenness of a country road which wound under the arches of a forest, towards the bases of steep and rugged hills. Coming upon a steep ascent I fastened the bridle of my horse to the swinging arm of an oak, and pursued the ascent by a rocky ravine, through which a stream rushed full and foaming The branches that grew far above, interlaced a green canopy, which made the color of the rushing waters of the purest emerald. Stepping from rock to rock, I ascended. The waters came down by a succession of slender cataracts, lessening toward the summit. Here was an open and cultivated space, forming a ring of green fields, surrounding a lake, out of which these waters flowed. Deep forests rose around, on the sides of precipitous hills. A narrow footway led along the edge of the forest to a clearing beyond the lake, where a farm house of the smallest dimensions indicated a master whose poverty, or whose misanthropy led him to prefer a life of solitary, unassisted labor. The entire cultivated space lying about the lake did not exceed perhaps ten acres. It was not more than could have been rudely tilled by the hand of one man. A footway leading from the house to the lake, went out upon the water, by a pier of planks and stones, showing that the owner could content himself with the turbid and insipid waters of what must have been, most time, a standing pool. Rude implements of husbandry were laid on the bare earth before the door. A lean horse bit the herbage near by, and a dog of savage appearance saluted me with a surly, inhospitable growl. his The door opened slowly and suspiciously. A man evidently advanced in years made appearance, of a stature tall and perfectly erect. His head was bald, but a beard of snowy whiteness flowed from his face, almost to the girdle. The rough | dress of an husbandman indicated his occupation; but his invitation to enter was given with a voice that showed an early refinement and a knowledge of hospitality. His countenance, showed lines of character blended with the injuries of grief and melancholy, and somewhat impaired by the timidity of a long solitude. I entered, and accepting the sole chair, while my entertainer seated himself on the frame work of boards which served him for a bed, a conversation ensued, such as is usual between travellers and rustic entertainers. The situation of his farm, the character of the soil, the splendor of the scenery, for a while engaged us, and soon, as if forgetful of himself, and after he had set before me some temporary refreshment, he began to speak of other scenes in other lands. accent and a certain vivacity of manners showed that he was of foreign birth. From a beam in one corner of the room, among a collection of dried gourds and bunches of maize, hung, neglected and covered with dust, a suit of regimentals, and by a gold chain the star of an order, and the cross of the Legion of Honor. His Seeing my attention attracted by these marks of former though evidently not forgotten glory, a melancholy smile overspread his features, which communicated to them an expression of regret, though not unmixed with pride. "You have served," I said, " in the armies of the Emperor." "Yes, " he answered, "from the age of sixteen till that of twenty-five. After the defeat at Waterloo I renounced the military profession, and came to America. I brought with me a moderate fortune-what you here call a competency; and what was more, I brought hope, and even enthusiasm. The fortune I have still left me." A pause followed I began to have a strong desire to know something of the history of this recluse Wishing to open an avenue to further and freer conversation, I asked how it was, that in possession of wealth, he had chosen the hard conditions of poverty. "Merely to live," replied he carelessly, "is perhaps necessary while God pleases; but for happiness, I know of but one kind; and that is, to have a mind free from remorse, a conscience void of offence. The life I have chosen is that of a monk, of a penitent," he said bowing his head meekly; "and even in that I can find, if not happiness, at least content." Respect forbade my pressing this dignified ascetic with questions of his life; but he said, "Your countenance is one that most men would confide in, and as it is not my fortune to meet often with such, for here I am visited only by rustics, let me confess that it would be a pleasure to me to relate what you seem desirous to hear." I assented. We went out and took seats upon the greensward, under the shadows of a neighboring oak. After a pause of some minutes, during which he seemed to be collecting his thoughts, the stranger began as follows: "Living solitary, I have perhaps fallen into childishness, which is one of the effects of solitude; and at intervals I feel a desire to relate my history. This desire once indulged requires a second indulgence. At the age of twenty-five, in the full enjoyment of youth, health, and fortune, I landed at New Orleans, with the resolution, as I touched your shores, of becoming in every sense a citizen of your country. As I had faithfully served the Emperor in war, so I wished to serve the Republic in peace. Provided with letters of introduction, and accustomed to your language, in a little time I found myself accepted in cultivated and influential circles, with a prospect before me of realizing my ambitious hopes. I shunned the company of Europeans. I mingled especially with persons politically influential. I brought with me the frank ambition of a soldier: I learned from them something of the shrewdness and too much of the scepticism and the policy of those who seek power for its own sake." After living for a time an easy and somewhat dissipated life, into which I entered with the desire of familiarizing myself with the character and social habits of your countrymen, I began to contemplate a more serious and settled course of existence; and being taken with the manners and the beauty of a young heiress from Massachu setts, who was wintering in New Orleans, I made a formal offer of myself in marriage, and was accepted. An unexpected happiness ensued. As my opinion of the other sex had been formed by the rude experience of a soldier, and not much improved by the intercourse of a frivolous society, the virtues of my sweet companion were a new and delightful discovery. We soon became attached by the most ardent affection. The year after our marriage was passed in the enjoyment of the most innocent and heavenly delights. So absorbing was our attachment, it became more agreeable to us to withdraw into a comparative seclusion, in order to find more leisure for the enjoyment of each other. Our felicity was the envy and the admiration of those whom we admitted to our society. Among our most frequent visitors was a gentleman of my own age, an American, and a Northerner by birth, but educated, as I had been, in a French university. Foreign travel had improved the naturally easy and agreeable manners of my friend, (for as such I was soon obliged to regard him,) to a great refinement. His bold bearing was tempered with an acquired mildness, which only added fear to the respect with which he was regarded by his inferiors. The name of this gentleman was Eustis. He was of good extraction, and prided himself upon the antiquity and virtue of his family, and on a character uncontaminated by any meanness. Northern blood appeared in the metaphysical and calculating habit of his mind. Énjoying the reputation and the business of a popular advocate, he could yet find leisure to engage in speculative adventures, and though his losses were often equal to his gains, he preserved the equanimity and calmness of a man whose confidence in his resources never deserts him. His With me it had been always a necessity to have a friend, and even an intimate; and until the powerful passion of love made him seem less necessary to me, Eustis had been to me all that one man can be to another, a friend, a social intimate, a skillful adviser in business, and a means of introduction to good society. There was nothing in him, one would have thought, that he would desire to conceal, and his morality surpassed the standard of my own. |