On entering office Montaigne was careful to warn the aldermen of Bordeaux not to expect to find in him more than there really was; he presented himself to them without affectation.  “I represented to them faithfully and conscientiously all that I felt myself to be,—­a man without memory, without vigilance, without experience, and without energy; but also, without hate, without ambition, without avarice, and without violence.”  He should be sorry, while taking the affairs of the town in hand, that his feelings should be so strongly affected as those of his worthy father had been, who in the end had lost his place and health.  The eager and ardent pledge to satisfy an impetuous desire was not his method.  His opinion was “that you must lend yourself to others, and only give yourself to yourself.”  And repeating his thought, according to his custom in all kinds of metaphors and picturesque forms, he said again that if he some times allowed himself to be urged to the management of other men’s affairs, he promised to take them in hand, not “into my lungs and liver.”  We are thus forewarned, we know what to expect.  The mayor and Montaigne were two distinct persons; under his role and office he reserved to himself a certain freedom and secret security.  He continued to judge things in his own fashion and impartially, although acting loyally for the cause confided to him.  He was far from approving or even excusing all he saw in his party, and he could judge his adversaries and say of them:  “He did that thing wickedly, and this virtuously.”  “I would have,” he added, “matters go well on our side; but if they do not, I shall not run mad.  I am heartily for the right party; but I do not affect to be taken notice of for an especial enemy to others.”  And he entered into some details and applications which at that time were piquant.  Let us remark, however, in order to explain and justify his somewhat extensive profession of impartiality, that the chiefs of the party then in evidence, the three Henris, were famous and considerable men on several counts:  Henri, Duke of Guise, head of the League; Henri, King of Navarre, leader of the Opposition; and the King Henri iii. in whose name Montaigne was mayor, who wavered between the two.  When parties have neither chief nor head, when they are known by the body only, that is to say, in their hideous and brutal reality, it is more difficult and also more hazardous to be just towards them and to assign to each its share of action.

The principle which guided him in his administration was to look only at the fact, at the result, and to grant nothing to noise and outward show:  “How much more a good effect makes a noise, so much I abate of the goodness of it.”  For it is always to be feared that it was more performed for the sake of the noise than upon the account of goodness:  “Being exposed upon the stall, ’tis half sold.”  That was not Montaigne’s way:  he made no show; he managed men and affairs as quietly