which, in his exclusive devotion to such subjects, Montaigne has contrived and advocated in his essays, the answer is, that he has none. He pretends not to be the inventor, or the patient expounder of a system like the Monk Father Malebranche, or like that pattern of a scholar Des Cartes. He does not aspire to the honour of anything so purely scholastic. His education as a cavalier, and his practical acquaintance with fashionable society, had taught him to prefer a briefer method of speaking to those whom he would be supposed to address. There was. no theorising to excite his emulation-none, at least, upon a great scale among the ancients whom he chiefly admired; and any elaborate efforts of speculation would have been rebuked by the present genius of France which then displayed itself in those sketches of society, historical memoirs, and letters in which France has been hitherto unrivalled. Above all, the genius of Montaigne unfitted him for enterprises of that description; his volatile temperament, and active, prolific understanding, chose rather to exert themselves in short and vigorous sallies upon whatever presented itself with most temptation at the moment. Accordingly, he treats of the virtues individually, and less as a philosopher than as an amateur; and the whole of his mental physiology is but a collection of insulated facts. Even in this sort of flying speculation he cannot be said so much to treat of any subject as to cast a glance at it; and that glance itself is often most oblique, unexpected, and foreign to the subject on which he is immediately engaged.

After all, he is neither moralist nor metaphysician by his own confession. Examine the titles of his essays, and observe how most of them differ from the contents of a treatise professedly upon moral or metaphysical subjects-a treatise, for example, like that by his contemporary and friend Charon de la Sagesse. Under the name of "Coaches," we have a lesson of moderation in their expenditure to princes; under "Cannibals," a discussion of the qualities most requisite to an historian; under "Cripples," a dissertation upon miracles. In this manner he seeks to avoid all appearance of pedantry, and indicates that his own habit of philosophising is too genuine to wait upon the gross suggestion of a philosophical text. In the same view, the subjects of his essays are diversified in the very fashion of his thoughts, as they pass through his mind to the varying occasions of common life. After some remarks upon the "habit of wearing clothes," there follows a treatise in his noblest style upon the character of Cato the younger. In like manner, to suit his philosophy, to fashion, and to remove it as far as possible from the schools, we have a great deal of reflection upon matters that had come under his own experience in the course of his employment in the public service, forming a sort of diplomatic morality. Of this sort are his essays. "On ceremony at the interuiews of princes;" "Whether the governor of a place besieged ought himself to go out to parley;" "The time of parley is dangerous." Here, it may be seen, is a man who thinks and writes from the life, and who, if he meddles with philosophy at all, does it upon the instinct of an elevated understanding, and not from any motive of scholastic ambition. His very stoicism, in the same view, takes the form of table-talk, and its proudest examples are sought for in the wit of the condemned upon the scaffold. Another

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class of the essays is occupied in recording certain facts to gratify a trivial curiosity, such as on thumbs," "posts," "war-horses," and morous children." It seems as if the author had intended to prosccute under each of these some vein of reflection, but had desisted, invita Minerva, and left them to stand upon the interest which they possess as belonging to natural history. They contribute, however, to diversify the topics of his essays, and to relax, in a manner agreeable to the taste of Montaigne, the severity that belongs to the aspect of philosophy.

What, then, is the particular description or line of morality which is to be found in the essays of Montaigne? For to say that he is a moralist is not to distinguish him from thousands. Here again we are referred to the circumstances of his life for the matter of his books, for he declares that his whole study was to discover and appropriate such truths as might have an immediate application to himself. He is, therefore, no teacher of morality to others; his whole concern is to discover and to understand it for the delight and dignity of his own mind. On a rare and blameless principle of philosophical selfishness, justified by the analogy of all creatures striving to secure their own perfection before imparting it to others, we perceive Montaigne, in all his meditations, aiming, in the first place, at what might conduce to the proper regulation of his own mind, but foreseeing that love and benevolence to others would be the certain fruits of his own virtue. "He who rightly understands himself will never mistake another man's work for his own, but will love to improve himself above all other things." As he is exempted then, constitutionally, from most of the vices and feelings of low natures, there is little allusion to these in his book, either in proud disdain or in prudent dehortation. His own rank and fortune were such as not to prompt him to aim at any further advancement in the world; he therefore thinks little about the qualities requisite in the common pursuits of life, and omits the whole class of the prudential virtues; these, by the nature of his pursuits, were not much impressed on his attention. Like Milton, Montaigne does not love to contemplate" clowns and vices," but the loftiest forms of excellence which his fancy can present. His morality has always reference to the virtues which he admires, and not to the vices of which he is either unconscious or ashamed; he looks upward with a passionate veneration, and seldom downwards with self-control. From the vauntage ground of a well-disposed nature, he converses only with what is rare and transcendant in morality. He speaks of exalted courage in action or in council, of friendship like that amongst the noblest of the heathens, of candour and of truth not of words alone, but in the silent demonstrations of conduct, of generous loyalty and benevolent hospitality, of a wise moderation in all the desires, and of an universal sympathy with nature, even to the "venomed toad." On all these his fancy ranges, and with full license, as in its proper sphere. "For it is the duty," he says, "of good men to paint virtue as beautiful as possible and there would be no indecency in the case should our passion a little transport us in favour of its sacred forms." No matter how far his own character may linger behind the model of his imagina

tion. "It is a great matter for me to have my judgment regular, if the effects cannot be so, and to maintain the sovereign part at least free from corruption." Here is an apology singularly true to the character of Montaigne; though vulgar in the tenor of his life, he will yet be a nothing at heart. Better, no doubt, could an entire harmony have been maintained betwixt the "sovereign part" and "its effects." But better, too, that one should stand aloof in uncommunicated excellence, and "still recoil from its encumbering clay," than that both should amicably succumb to the same infirmities.

In this line of moral speculation, Montaigne had the example of all his favourites among the ancients, particularly of Seneca and Plutarch. No modern writer on morals has so much the stamp of antiquity. Not that we are to rank him under any one denomination of the ancient philosophy, not even the academic; for he is too much indebted, though generally without acknowledgment, to the ethics of Christianity. What he has derived from that source may easily be distinguished throughout his essays, particularly in his Commentary upon Stoicism, which, of all the ancient systems, he appears to have fancied most, but which he scruples not to try by the better revelations of divine truth. In the manner of his reasoning on such subjects, still more than in the doctrine, he differs from every example among the ancients. In that respect his genius is all his own, and preserves its proper lineaments above every foreign inscription, like the last characters of a palimpsest. He has the subtlety of a Greek, without his troublesome subjection to forms of completeness and proportion. Where shall we look for more extensive and philosophical analogies in the moral writings of the ancients? And therein Montaigne acknowledged the best influences of his age; for with the sensibility of genius, he submitted still more to the times in which he lived than to the visions of his fancy. In his writings, it is evident that he had not been insensible to the bold and inquiring genius of the Reformation-to the keen and delicate spirit of the politest society of the time-and he could profit by the subtlety of the schools which he admired, without respecting the frivolous subjects on which it was employed. If we are to look for a resemblance to Montaigne, we must rather turn to the writers of his own time, or to those of a period somewhat posterior. His very image, not impaired by transmission, will be found in the "Religio Medici" of Sir Thomas Brown. If a prototype existed anywhere to Lord Bacon, it might be sought for in Montaigne. The English philosopher is not distinguished indeed by the same constant pursuit of the beautiful; for in a far more philosophical spirit he professed himself as the interpreter of universal nature, and in that view, so analogous to the indiscriminating regards of the Creator, found deformity no less worthy of his attention than beauty, and vice than virtue. Is there not, however, in Montaigne the same; that extent of vision that better characterizes the philosophy of Bacon, the same pregnancy in his suggestions, and the same depth of meaning which he discovers in the most familiar examples?

We have seen that Montaigne has no pretensions to any branch of science; that all his views are directed to the higher aspects of mortality, and that his aim was to realize these by enamoured contempla

tion, and to fix them as attributes of his own character. There is something, however, at which we have not yet arrived, but which forms the key-stone in the structure of his intellect. "Let not the subjects I write on," he says, "be so much attended to as my manner of treating them." He thus flings away, as not belonging to his purpose, the whole subject matter of his morals, and seeks attention to the manner and the genius of the moralist. He desires to exhibit nothing but the native form and lineaments of his mind as developed by his studies. "I wish to make a show only of what is my own, and my own by nature." On this principle he declares that he values not in other men the mere matter of their discourse, but the shape or form of character which it indicates. For the knowledge which any one possesses he cares no more than the painter or the statuary, since he looks with the eye of an artist to the form or Bildung of the mind alone, and values learning only as contributing to its development. All acquired knowledge is with him but the worthless scaffolding to character. Nothing, in short, that exists is of value in his estimation but the mind that contemplates it, and that mind itself has no interest for him unless as it reveals itself in characters of beauty.

We perceive now to what a narrow sphere Montaigne has limited his philosophical curiosity, and on what sort of objects he has disciplined his understanding to employ its activities, and to seek for all its gratifications.

Here, indeed, he stands a Platonist confessed-a worshipper of virtue in all its fancied forms of beauty or sublimity-one who sets no value on the largest stores of human learning if only consecrated to utility, or if only qualified for the promoting of external dominion. The principle of this disposition in the mind of Montaigne may be discovered throughout his writings. It is this-What is the sum of all the knowledge which the mind of man can receive, compared with what the universe affords? Is it not so diminutive as to be the very image of mortality? "To my taste it savours too much of death and earth." In this manner, by the very ambition of his nature, and by a sort of false comprehension in his views, he is cut off from all respect for the common branches of human knowledge. From mere finite extent, he has recourse to form and proportion, which, being naturally incommensurable with extent, can suggest no ideas either of finitude or mortality.

We are aware that this Platonic attribute of his character has not been recognized by all his critics; and unquestionably it is at variance with many things about him. It is at variance with the air cavalier and the air du monde, which he affects in the most earnest efforts of his philosophy; and under the garrulous, conversational manner of Montaigne, who would look for the raptures of a belle-esprit? It is at variance with his diplomacy, with his keen and lively sympathies with the world, and with the vices which he permitted to settle on his personal character. But it is always, that the master-principle of a mind can compel the homage of all the rest, or effect their assimilation to itself. We have traced what appear to be the most important lines in the character of Montaigne; but sulvum sit jus cujuslibet-there are

other features that may strike more and reveal themselves earlier. Though dissimilar, they are not incompatible with what has now been pointed out. It does not fall, however, within our course to advert to

them at present.

In what follows we submit a few remarks on the personal character of this writer, which necessarily comes before us in any further consideration of his genius in that particular view which we have taken of it.

In the whole circle of literature, indeed, there is not an author who more solicits the reader to a consideration of his personal character; that, in fact, being announced as the great object of his literary performances. The hero is himself; and that, not in his actions, "for these are only scantlings of a particular figure, and are too much the result of fortune," but in the naked metaphysical properties of his mind. We know not, in truth, if Montaigne be so generally known for anything pertaining to him as for his egotism. With that characteristic, for good or for bad, his name is inseparably connected as an egotist he comes up to any example in literature; and it cannot be denied, that he has the merit of carrying off the character with unequalled bravery and success. Well was his apotheosis merited in France by the honour which he thus rendered to the first infirmity of the great nation. We are not of those, however, who censure, or of those who despise the egotism of Montaigne, both of whom appear to proceed upon false principles. For what constitutes the reproach of egotism, but its selfish neglect of the self-love of others. The peculiarity of this man's egotism, however, is, that it rather introverts the curiosity of the reader upon himself, than solicits his admiration to Montaigne. We seek no other proof than this of its legitimacy. In the very occasion of Montaigne's allusions to himself, there is something which justifies the habit, and even invests it with the dignity of philosophy. It is always after expatiating abstractedly on some uncommon excellence that Montaigne turns to examine, with abated raptures, his own poor condition, in respect to the virtue which has just been the object of his contemplation. His disinterested admiration is placed first; the reference to himself comes after it. But is not this the very process of which every man is conscious in his own mind, when an object of excellence has been placed before it a process not only natural and necessary, but the very method of all moral cultivation. The exhibition of this private movement is what distinguishes Montaigne, who viewed it, against the vulgar fashion, with an extraordinary candour and naïveté, with the frankness of a cavalier, and with the consciousness of inmost rectitude. "The worst of my qualities," he says, "do not appear to me so foul, as I think it foul and base not to dare to own them and those who know the freedom of their own thoughts, will not be disposed to quarrel with the freedom of my writings."

One cannot reasonably grudge him the importance which he attaches to his own humours, if he appears not to desire that the same importance shall be attached to them by others; and such is the predicaHe assumes no more room to himself in this majestic world than he permits to every other man; nay, for that matter, like Hamlet,

ment.