play the last, and, doubtless, the hardest act of his part.  There may be disguise and dissimulation in all the rest:  where these fine philosophical discourses are only put on, and where accident, not touching us to the quick, gives us leisure to maintain the same gravity of aspect; but, in this last scene of death, there is no more counterfeiting:  we must speak out plain, and discover what there is of good and clean in the bottom of the pot,

              “Nam vera; voces turn demum pectore ab imo
               Ejiciuntur; et eripitur persona, manet res.”

["Then at last truth issues from the heart; the visor’s gone,
the man remains.”—­Lucretius, iii. 57.]

Wherefore, at this last, all the other actions of our life ought to be tried and sifted:  ’tis the master-day, ’tis the day that is judge of all the rest, “’tis the day,” says one of the ancients,—­[Seneca, Ep., 102]—­ “that must be judge of all my foregoing years.”  To death do I refer the assay of the fruit of all my studies:  we shall then see whether my discourses came only from my mouth or from my heart.  I have seen many by their death give a good or an ill repute to their whole life.  Scipio, the father-in-law of Pompey, in dying, well removed the ill opinion that till then every one had conceived of him.  Epaminondas being asked which of the three he had in greatest esteem, Chabrias, Iphicrates, or himself.  “You must first see us die,” said he, “before that question can be resolved.”—­[Plutarch, Apoth.]—­And, in truth, he would infinitely wrong that man who would weigh him without the honour and grandeur of his end.

God has ordered all things as it has best pleased Him; but I have, in my time, seen three of the most execrable persons that ever I knew in all manner of abominable living, and the most infamous to boot, who all died a very regular death, and in all circumstances composed, even to perfection.  There are brave and fortunate deaths:  I have seen death cut the thread of the progress of a prodigious advancement, and in the height and flower of its increase, of a certain person,—­[Montaigne doubtless refers to his friend Etienne de la Boetie, at whose death in 1563 he was present.]—­with so glorious an end that, in my opinion, his ambitious and generous designs had nothing in them so high and great as their interruption.  He arrived, without completing his course, at the place to which his ambition aimed, with greater glory than he could either have hoped or desired, anticipating by his fall the name and power to which he aspired in perfecting his career.  In the judgment I make of another man’s life, I always observe how he carried himself at his death; and the principal concern I have for my own is that I may die well—­that is, patiently and tranquilly.

CHAPTER XIX

THAT TO STUDY PHILOSOPY IS TO LEARN TO DIE