lessly, even engagingly, pensive seems the foregoing strain of
sentiment. Who could suppose it a prelude to detailed reminiscence on
the author's part of sensual pleasures--the basest--enjoyed in the past?
The venerable voluptuary keeps himself in countenance for his lascivious
vein, by writing as follows:--

I have enjoined myself to dare to say all that I dare to do; even
thoughts that are not to be published, displease me; the worst of
my actions and qualities do not appear to me so evil, as I find it
evil and base not to dare to own them....

...I am greedy of making myself known, and I care not to how many,
provided it be truly.... Many things that I would not say to a
particular individual, I say to the people; and, as to my most
secret thoughts, send my most intimate friends to my book.... For
my part, if any one should recommend me as a good pilot, as being
very modest, or very chaste, I should owe him no thanks [because
the recommendation would be false].

We must leave it--as, however, Montaigne himself is far enough from
leaving it--to the imagination of readers to conjecture what "pleasures"
they are, of which this worn-out debauchee (nearing death, and thanking
God that he nears it "without fear") speaks in the following sentimental
strain:--

In farewells, we oftener than not heat our affections towards the
things we take leave of: I take my last leave of the pleasures of
this world; these are our last embraces.

Mr. Emerson, in his "Representative Men," makes Montaigne stand for The
Sceptic. Sceptic Montaigne was. He questioned, he considered, he
doubted. He stood poised in equilibrium, in indifference, between
contrary opinions. He saw reasons on this side, but he saw reasons also
on that, and he did not clear his mind. "_Que scai-je?_" was his motto
("What know I?"), a question as of hopeless ignorance,--nay, as of
ignorance also void of desire to know. His life was one long
interrogation, a balancing of opposites, to the end.

Such, speculatively, was Montaigne. Such, too, speculatively, was
Pascal. The difference, however, was greater than the likeness, between
these two minds. Pascal, doubting, gave the world of spiritual things
the benefit of his doubt. Montaigne, on the other hand, gave the benefit
of his doubt to the world of sense. He was a sensualist, he was a
glutton, he was a lecher. He, for his portion, chose the good