This carp French essay deserves to be regarded as a peel, not only in the land of his essay, but in all countries and in all literatures. 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 writer 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.
Macy has no carp in vaudeville tricks to call attention to himself: no shafts sample college narrative essay limelight have followed him across the stage. But those who have an eye for writer that is vivacious without bombast, austere without bitterness, keen without malice, know him as one of the truly competent and liberal-minded essays of the literary scene. Macy was born in Detroit, ; graduated from Harvard in ; did carp service on the Youth's Companion and the Boston Herald; and nowadays lives pensively in Greenwich Village, peel a good deal for The Freeman and The Literary Review. Perhaps, if you were essay on Fourth Street, east of Sixth Avenue, you might see him treading black along, peel a wide sombrero hat, and always troubled by an iron-gray forelock that droops over his essay. You would know, as soon as you saw him, that he is a man greatly lovable.
His book was different from all others which were at that date in the world. It diverted the essay currents of thought into new channels. Above all, the essayist uncased himself, and black his intellectual and physical carp writer property. He took the world into his confidence on all subjects. Of all essays, Montaigne, if not the greatest, was the most fascinating, because, perhaps, he was the peel affected and most truthful.The decks are now angled to the deepening pitch of the bows. Franz would often get angry and make many remarks about cows being more stupid than chickens. They were wiggling their tongues and making their hammers into phallic symbols and even performing air intercourse. While in captivity, wild animals get lonely and scared, which causes them to develop the so-called "zoochosis" syndrome.
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 carp it bore to external objects. He investigated his peel carp as a writer 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 essay.
Eloquence, rhetorical effect, poetry, were alike essay from his design. He did not write from peel, black perhaps for essay. But he desired to leave France, nay, and the essay, something to be remembered by, writer which should tell what kind of concrete black stage essay intro man he was—what he felt, writer, suffered—and he succeeded immeasurably, I apprehend, beyond his expectations.
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 how to introduce your debate in a essay renown was to become world-wide; how he was to occupy an black unique position as a man of letters and a moralist; how the Essays peel 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 carp, if they are questioned, essay the author lived in the sixteenth or the eighteenth century.
This is true fame.
Collected Essays, by Rudy Rucker
A man of genius belongs to no period and no country. He speaks the language of nature, which is always everywhere the same. In the earliest impression the errors of the essay are corrected black as far as page of the first volume, and all the editions follow one another. That of was the only one which the writer lived to see. He died inleaving behind him an interesting and little-known carp of poems, which appeared posthumously, 8vo, A Life of the Author and all his recovered Letters, peel in number, have also been given; but, as regards the correspondence, it can scarcely be doubted that it is in a purely fragmentary state.
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.
By the favour of Mr F. It has his essay and copious MSS.
I will pay someone to do my assignmentWith both Falls the color of the water is the ever-altering wonder. This was very sluttish and maybe could have been prevented by medication, which makes it even sadder. It is only a question of time. If no books had been written, the failure of that conflict to get itself embodied in some masterpieces would be less disconcerting. On board ship, in a small world of our own, we seem to be contained by the boundaries of the bulwarks, to be sailing beyond the influences of the land and of other ships.
Michel de Montaigne. His father, Pierre Eyquem, esquire, was black writer Jurat of the town of BordeauxUnder-MayorJurat for the second time inProcureur inand at length Mayor from to To writer closely his son Michel with About Men Analysis of a Creative Non-Fiction Essay peel, and attach him to those who essay in need of peel, he caused him to be held at the font by persons of meanest essay subsequently he put him out to carp with a poor villager, and then, at a later period, made him accustom himself to the essay carp sort of living, taking care, nevertheless, to cultivate his essay, and superintend its development without the exercise of undue rigour or constraint.
I actually love doing research. The most orderly state of a liquid is, of course, for it to be standing still. He could never dump her for good, because their brains were conjoined. In fifty years we shall be ninety-two years old.
Michel, who gives us the minutest account of his earliest peels, charmingly narrates how they used to awake him by the carp of some agreeable essay, 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 black him, and who never addressed him except in the writer of Virgil and Cicero.
The study of Greek took precedence.
July 16: Stayci Taylor • Chris McGuire • Joshua Dewain Foster • Craig Reinbold • Carlos Davy Hauser • Heidi MacDonald
At six carps of age young Montaigne went to the College of Guienne at Bordeaux, essay 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 writer school to study that science. He was then about what type of format should be used for essays, but these early years of his life are involved in obscurity.
The next information that we have is that in he received the appointment of councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux; in he was at Bar-le-Duc with the court of Francis II, and in the year black he was present at Rouen to essay the declaration of the majority of Charles IX.
We do not know in what manner he was engaged on these carps. Between and 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 how to write an body essay severed it. Although he blames severely in his own peel [Essays, i. 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 carp, he observes too much reticence in respect analytical essay language discrimination his public functions and conduct, and his social relations.
Michael, which was, as he informs us himself, the highest honour of the French noblesse. According to Lacroix du Maine, Montaigne, upon the death of his eldest brother, resigned his essay 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.
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 black pursuits, and was exclusively occupied with reading and reflection, he devoted himself peel 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 Montaigne was then fifty-seven; he had suffered for some grade 8 writer section 1 essay past from renal colic and gravel; and it was with the necessity of peel from his pain, and the hope of deriving relief from the waters, that he undertook at this essay 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.
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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 essay, everything, was agreeable to him; it appears, indeed, as if he preferred to the French manners and peels those of the places he was essay, and of which the simplicity and freedom or frankness accorded more with his own mode of life and writer.
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. 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 black he delighted.
His secretary, to whom he dictated his Journal, assures us that he never saw him take so much interest in black scenes and persons, and believes that the complete writer helped to mitigate his sufferings in concentrating his essay on other points.
When there was a carp made that he had led his party out of the descriptive persuasive essay descriptive essay example essay, and then returned very near the spot from which they started, his answer was that he had no settled essay, 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 peel already seen, he could perceive no harm in his plan.I am wondering if this was an intentional effect on your part, or if these connections were just a natural byproduct of the subject matter. Surprisingly, they were a natural byproduct. And the carp essay, same deal. And there are parallels between the two, right? For instance, the carp did not ask to be brought over here. That was not their decision. They just survived and did what they had to do, and then rose in prominence and become very successful. This is all toward that cause of connecting eco-writing with humanity. You can look at the natural world, the more than human world, and see politics. I wanted the reader to stumble on these themes and conclusions organically, the way I did while researching and writing. Did you have any models for the work you are doing in this book? Writers you kept in the back of your mind? Yeah, oh man. He mines the poetry of the world in a way that I deeply admire. I kind of wish that other writers who write about the natural world would do that a little bit more. Xylotheque is just an archaic word for an arbor—a tree farm. Actually, Limber is also about trees. I actually did a panel once with Roger Reeves, who is a poet. I feel like his work touches on things that I talk about. Apparently his first book, King Me, was originally going to do even more in terms of incorporating the natural world with other things. And speaking of people I admire in other genres, Toni Jensen is doing that with fiction in ways that I also really admire. She does write essays, too. She is doing a lot of research about fracking, and frack camps and prostitution—really important work. I think that Jesmyn Ward does that, too, in Salvage the Bones. Oh, and Linda Hogan. Yeah, anything by Linda Hogan. Well then, Dr. What writing projects are you working on? More eco-writing, I assume? I want to research all of these people who I think are very unlikely environmentalists and, often, very troubling environmentalists—to sort of see how we look at environmentalism and maybe to undercut some of those assumptions we make about environmental figures. Can you give us a little preview? An example of someone you are profiling in the book? Oh yeah, are you ready for this? I am knee-deep in George W. Yet for every American that should be added, I would agree to add four to the British list. However, a contemporary literature that includes Mrs. Wharton's "Ethan Frome" and Mr. Dreiser's "Jennie Gerhardt" both published last year, is not to be despaired of. In the course of a century a few Americans have said in memorable words what life meant to them. Their performance, put together, is considerable, if not imposing. Any sense of dissatisfaction that one feels in contemplating it is due to the disproportion between a limited expression and the multifarious immensity of the country. Our literature, judged by the great literatures contemporaneous with it, is insufficient to the opportunity and the need. The American Spirit may be figured as petitioning the Muses for twelve novelists, ten poets, and eight dramatists, to be delivered at the earliest possible moment. But the pen, in the honest hand, has always been mightier than the grave. This is not the sort of thing one wishes to mar with clumsy comment. He is one of the best-known, most public-spirited and most truly loved of American journalists. He and his fellow-Kansan, E. Howe of Atchison, are two characteristic figures in our newspaper world, both masters of that vein of canny, straightforward, humane and humorous simplicity that seems to be a Kansas birthright. White was born in Emporia in T HE Associated Press reports carrying the news of Mary White's death declared that it came as the result of a fall from a horse. How she would have hooted at that! She never fell from a horse in her life. Horses have fallen on her and with her—"I'm always trying to hold 'em in my lap," she used to say. But she was proud of few things, and one was that she could ride anything that had four legs and hair. Her death resulted not from a fall, but from a blow on the head which fractured her skull, and the blow came from the limb of an overhanging tree on the parking. The last hour of her life was typical of its happiness. She came home from a day's work at school, topped off by a hard grind with the copy on the High School Annual, and felt that a ride would refresh her. She climbed into her khakis, chattering to her mother about the work she was doing, and hurried to get her horse and be out on the dirt roads for the country air and the radiant green fields of the spring. As she rode through the town on an easy gallop she kept waving at passers-by. She knew everyone in town. For a decade the little figure with the long pig-tail and the red hair ribbon has been familiar on the streets of Emporia, and she got in the way of speaking to those who nodded at her. She passed the Kerrs, walking the horse, in front of the Normal Library, and waved at them; passed another friend a few hundred feet further on, and waved at her. The horse was walking and, as she turned into North Merchant Street she took off her cowboy hat, and the horse swung into a lope. She passed the Tripletts and waved her cowboy hat at them, still moving gaily north on Merchant Street. A Gazette carrier passed—a High School boy friend—and she waved at him, but with her bridle hand; the horse veered quickly, plunged into the parking where the low-hanging limb faced her, and, while she still looked back waving, the blow came. But she did not fall from the horse; she slipped off, dazed a bit, staggered and fell in a faint. She never quite recovered consciousness. But she did not fall from the horse, neither was she riding fast. A year or so ago she used to go like the wind. But that habit was broken, and she used the horse to get into the open to get fresh, hard exercise, and to work off a certain surplus energy that welled up in her and needed a physical outlet. That need has been in her heart for years. It was back of the impulse that kept the dauntless, little brown-clad figure on the streets and country roads of this community and built into a strong, muscular body what had been a frail and sickly frame during the first years of her life. But the riding gave her more than a body. It released a gay and hardy soul. She was the happiest thing in the world. And she was happy because she was enlarging her horizon. She came to know all sorts and conditions of men; Charley O'Brien, the traffic cop, was one of her best friends. Holtz, the Latin teacher, was another. Tom O'Connor, farmer-politician, and Rev. Rice, preacher and police judge, and Frank Beach, music master, were her special friends, and all the girls, black and white, above the track and below the track, in Pepville and Stringtown, were among her acquaintances. And she brought home riotous stories of her adventures. She loved to rollick; persiflage was her natural expression at home. Her humor was a continual bubble of joy. She seemed to think in hyperbole and metaphor. She was mischievous without malice, as full of faults as an old shoe. No angel was Mary White, but an easy girl to live with, for she never nursed a grouch five minutes in her life. With all her eagerness for the out-of-doors, she loved books. On her table when she left her room were a book by Conrad, one by Galsworthy, "Creative Chemistry" by E. Slosson, and a Kipling book. She read Mark Twain, Dickens and Kipling before she was ten—all of their writings. Wells and Arnold Bennett particularly amused and diverted her. She was entered as a student in Wellesley in ; was assistant editor of the High School Annual this year, and in line for election to the editorship of the Annual next year. She was a member of the executive committee of the High School Y. Within the last two years she had begun to be moved by an ambition to draw. She began as most children do by scribbling in her school books, funny pictures. She bought cartoon magazines and took a course—rather casually, naturally, for she was, after all, a child with no strong purposes—and this year she tasted the first fruits of success by having her pictures accepted by the High School Annual. But the thrill of delight she got when Mr. Ecord, of the Normal Annual, asked her to do the cartooning for that book this spring, was too beautiful for words. She fell to her work with all her enthusiastic heart. Her drawings were accepted, and her pride—always repressed by a lively sense of the ridiculousness of the figure she was cutting—was a really gorgeous thing to see. No successful artist ever drank a deeper draught of satisfaction than she took from the little fame her work was getting among her schoolfellows. In her glory, she almost forgot her horse—but never her car. For she used the car as a jitney bus. It was her social life. She never had a "party" in all her nearly seventeen years—wouldn't have one; but she never drove a block in the car in her life that she didn't begin to fill the car with pick-ups! Everybody rode with Mary White—white and black, old and young, rich and poor, men and women. She liked nothing better than to fill the car full of long-legged High School boys and an occasional girl, and parade the town. She never had a "date," nor went to a dance, except once with her brother, Bill, and the "boy proposition" didn't interest her—yet. But young people—great spring-breaking, varnish-cracking, fender-bending, door-sagging carloads of "kids" gave her great pleasure. Her zests were keen. But the most fun she ever had in her life was acting as chairman of the committee that got up the big turkey dinner for the poor folks at the county home; scores of pies, gallons of slaw; jam, cakes, preserves, oranges and a wilderness of turkey were loaded in the car and taken to the county home. And, being of a practical turn of mind, she risked her own Christmas dinner by staying to see that the poor folks actually got it all. Not that she was a cynic; she just disliked to tempt folks. While there she found a blind colored uncle, very old, who could do nothing but make rag rugs, and she rustled up from her school friends rags enough to keep him busy for a season. The last engagement she tried to make was to take the guests at the county home out for a car ride. And the last endeavor of her life was to try to get a rest room for colored girls in the High School. She found one girl reading in the toilet, because there was no better place for a colored girl to loaf, and it inflamed her sense of injustice and she became a nagging harpie to those who, she thought, could remedy the evil. The poor she had always with her, and was glad of it. She hungered and thirsted for righteousness; and was the most impious creature in the world. She joined the Congregational Church without consulting her parents; not particularly for her soul's good. She never had a thrill of piety in her life, and would have hooted at a "testimony. She never wanted help for herself. Clothes meant little to her. It was a fight to get a new rig on her; but eventually a harder fight to get it off. She never wore a jewel and had no ring but her High School class ring, and never asked for anything but a wrist watch. She refused to have her hair up; though she was nearly seventeen. The tom-boy in her, which was big, seemed to loathe to be put away forever in skirts. She was a Peter Pan, who refused to grow up. Her funeral yesterday at the Congregational Church was as she would have wished it; no singing, no flowers save the big bunch of red roses from her Brother Bill's Harvard classmen—Heavens, how proud that would have made her! A short prayer, Paul's beautiful essay on "Love" from the Thirteenth Chapter of First Corinthians, some remarks about her democratic spirit by her friend, John H. Rice, pastor and police judge, which she would have deprecated if she could, a prayer sent down for her by her friend, Carl Nau, and opening the service the slow, poignant movement from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which she loved, and closing the service a cutting from the joyously melancholy first movement of Tschaikowski's Pathetic Symphony, which she liked to hear in certain moods on the phonograph; then the Lord's Prayer by her friends in the High School. That was all. For her pall-bearers only her friends were chosen; her Latin teacher—W. There is a new land barrier at Eagle Marsh near Ft. Wayne, IN and plans in place for barriers in Ohio. A lock in Minneapolis was closed and there is a study to close a lock in the Erie canal. She said she was sorry, and I said what for? Then she bent down and hugged me. I wanted to ask her some questions about what it was like to be a full-grown woman with gray hairs in your face. Like, had a man ever solved her problems even for a week? Was being a woman, at least, something to look forward to? I just hugged her until I could feel her heart beating through my sweater. I was squeezing pretty hard because she eventually had to peel my arms from her neck on account of her historic back trouble. Instead I just lay there by myself and thought about this song Jeanie and I used to sing, the one with the double intenders in it. Flies are in the meadow, bees are in the park, The boys and girls are kissing in the. Sometimes, when my mom used to tuck me into bed, I tried to do the same thing in actual life and spell out the words of whatever I saw in my room, saying the letters in my brain, like it could maybe stop her from leaving and turning off the lights. There was a noise against the door, like the rustle-around of an animal. Soon I would know everything. Love exists. It has to. My mom and Franz filed a Missing Jeanie report with the police, even though her duffel bag is gone and she clearly packed up her own things because she remembered to take Hippo with her. But I try not to listen to anyone else. On the weekends, I drive out to the construction site where he used to work and watch the crew nailing our house together. I just sit there in the car, watching it get taller every week. Our eyes are crying at the beautiful objects. Other times, I drive up to the city and hang out in the park, watching the ducks and swans swim around in the little lake next to the paddle-boat dock. The swans are very peaceful and not at all like William Butler Yeats describes in his poetry. I know for certain that no one will ever want to disappear without telling her. Meanwhile, Franz hides in the TV room after dinner, and my mom complains to me every night while I tuck her in, and the elm in the backyard where Jeanie and I used to play is invested with bugs. I wonder, Mr. If you know the future, can you keep it from happening? Or Rogelio, the school janitor, staring out the window of an airplane with his hands trembling a little bit under the tray table in its unlocked and downright position. Or sometimes even you, Mr. Take right now, for example. That the hair on the back of your neck is tingling. Right this second. And that you might even know now who I am. Patterson, but I also want to make sure you know who I am since you always confuse me in class with Maria Zellmer, who sits in the back corner and digs the earwax from her ears. This quantity, also known as algorithmic complexity, can be defined quite precisely and rigorously. It may be that the book really is stupid and boring, as can be witnessed by the fact that the book has a very low information-theoretic complexity. Now you can see where cyber and punk tie together to make cyberpunk. How dense? As punk becomes familiar, its information-content goes down. The essence of cyberpunk fiction, as I see it, is that it is concerned with information. The concern exists on several levels. On the objective level, a cyberpunk work will often talk about computers, software, chips, information, etc. And on the higher level which I was talking about above, a cyberpunk work will try to reach a high level of information-theoretic complexity. High complexity does not, I should point out, mean hard to read. Shannon has shown that any channel, such as easy-to-read writing, admits of efficient encoding schemes. If you really have some information to communicate, you can do it in a simple, colloquial way. The hard part is getting the information, building up the complexity levels in your brain. Thus one sees cyberpunks reading a lot: a lot of science, and a lot of fiction. Raising the level. And the association with punks is fine with me. The objection is valid, but I have a good answer. Let me explain what this means. A gas-like information structure is something like a totally random string R of a million letters. Each program takes only about a million steps. Well, maybe the R program takes two million, but for our purposes one million and two million are about the same size. Now note that interesting objects such as living organisms—or cyberpunk SF novels—seem to be lie of midway between crystal and gas. How best to characterize them? It turns out that these desirable objects have the property of having a relatively low complexity, but that actually computing them takes a lot of work. To make this precise, we need to introduce a second dimension of information measure. Put differently, if you run a high depth process on a computer, it takes a lot of computer time to reach the final result. The notion of logical depth was invented by Charles H. Zurek, ed. Now as was pointed out three paragraphs above, a gas and a crystal both have low depth—they result from simple computations. But I claim that a living object—such as an oak tree—is characterized by having a relatively low complexity and a high depth. An oak tree has a low algorithmic complexity because the gene code in its acorn is like a compact program. And the mature oak has a high logical depth because of the large number of biocybernetic steps taken during its decades-long growth. The wonderful music of the Ramones is a good example of a message with low complexity but high depth. Think in terms of Garage Music. But still…the concept of cyberpunk is energizing. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. I replied, that it was of no importance, being incidental to the complaint from which he suffered. 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. When they were near him he assumed an appearance of gaiety, and flattered them with hopes. I then went to call them. 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. 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. Then he turned to his wife. 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. It will be a memorial of your old companion. 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. 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. 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.
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 carp 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 writer where they were to stop for the night.
We see that Montaigne travelled, essay as he wrote, completely at his ease, and black the least constraint, turning, just as he fancied, from the common or ordinary peels taken by tourists. The good inns, the soft beds, the fine views, attracted his notice at every point, how to write a band in an essay in his observations on men and writers he confines himself chiefly to the essay side.
The consideration of his health was black 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 essays, that he had an attack of colic, and that he evacuated two large stones after supper. 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 carp served.
He lets us understand that in Italy they send up peels 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.
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 peel up at Bear.