Montaigne names another glory: presumption, the flattering opinion that we are better than we are, like love beautifying its object. Judgment must stay honest; ceremony, he says, makes us hold branches and quit the trunk, forbidding plain words while permitting debauchery. He is fettered by ceremony here, yet obscure men may write themselves as Lucilius did, portraying life on a votive tablet without shame.
Presumption has two parts: overrating ourselves and underrating others. Montaigne undervalues his own possessions, overrates what is foreign, and distrusts his powers while marveling at others' certainty. Husbands slight their wives, fathers their children; he inclines against his own side between equal merits. Philosophy that undervalues man pleases him most because it attacks vanity at the root.
He calls himself common, unsatisfied with his poetry, prose, memory, and lost Latin. Dionysius the elder was thrashed for bad verses at Olympia; Montaigne knows mediocrity in poets is intolerable. His style is rough and free; he becomes obscure striving for brevity, speaks better than he writes, and envies men who can entertain a room while he bores princes with solid talk.
Body and fortune complete the portrait: below middle height, clumsy hands, illegible writing, no skill at tennis, vaulting, saddling, hawking, or carving. Beauty and stature matter in command; Philopoemen paid the penalty of ugliness carrying water for an innkeeper. Past forty he feels half a being stolen year by year; idle yet candid, content with enough fortune, refusing ambition that must hazard all to rise.
He hates dissimulation as cowardly servility and speaks truth plainly, though civility calls it incivility. Princes who boast they would burn shirts before revealing intent teach others never to trust their words; Tiberius is unreadable because he is always another than he seems. Soliman restored prisoners when breach of faith would cost future treaties; Montaigne prefers indiscretion to flattering lies.
Memory fails catastrophically: names, watchwords, purses, his own writings quoted back to him; he must memorise speeches word for word. Command paralyzes body and will; a forced pledge at table once closed his throat though liberty was allowed. An excellent archer refused a pardon shot lest tension make him miss, proving will can defeat even practiced skill when forced.
Despite managing his estate since boyhood he cannot cast accounts, distinguish grains, use leaven, or name farm tools; given a kitchen he would starve. He plays chess and draughts poorly, sees clearly yet dazzles when working, and forgets his own book as readily as others'. Irresolution haunts politics: balanced scales in his mind, dice chosen in doubt, Machiavelli controverted line by line, yet ancient custom may be safer than restless reform.
Soul and body must not be divorced: Christians expect judgment on the whole man; Peripatetics say wisdom cares for both associates. He reunites them in self-study while admitting his French is corrupted by Perigordin drawl, though he loves blunt Gascon speech. At Barleduc he excuses painting his own portrait as Francis II received René's crayon likeness; irresolution remains his blemish, Petrarch's neither yes nor no sounding in his chest.
He circulates in himself while the world rushes outward, condemning his imperfections yet finding little to admire around him. Education, he repeats, teaches derivation of virtue, not virtue; we know how to decline Prudence, not practice it. Polemon reformed at one Xenocrates lecture; our schools imprint vain humours of antiquity instead.
He names a few modern men without pretending a golden age: Guise, Strozzi, de l'Hospital, Turnebus, Montmorency's death, de la Noue's conscience in armed treason. Poetry flourishes in Ronsard and Du Bellay; yet learned men display vanity as openly as fools when they quote Cicero, Galen, and Jerome without understanding. Country manners often suit true philosophy better than school jargon; vulgar wisdom knows only what it needs, which is enough for life.
No porter or silly girl but thinks she has sense enough; advantage in judgment we yield to none, though we grant courage or beauty in others. Writing essays wins little praise because everyone believes he could have found the thought himself; Montaigne therefore dedicates study to himself alone.
He praises Etienne de la Boetie as the greatest soul he knew, and Marie de Gournay, who loved his Essays before they met. Valour alone wins credit in civil wars, with souls brave to perfection in such numbers that choice is impossible. Yet he names no modern equal to ancient grandeur, and ends where confession must: extraordinary examples are few, and this essay is his votive tablet.
