IHnDer a Bogwoob witb /iDontatgne 



nest strikes him as true beyond cavil. In- 

 deed, he is delightfully contradictory. In 

 his preface he says: " C'est moy que je 

 peins," and '' Je suis moymesme la matiere 

 de mon livre." ('' It is myself that I de- 

 pict." *' I am the substance of my 

 book.") This he reiterates many times; 

 but three fourths of his matter relates to 

 what is very far from himself. 



Montaigne's literature is Shakspere's in 

 the raw materials : the wisdom, the folly, the 

 greatness, the littleness, the coarseness, 

 the amenities, the seriousness, the humor, 

 the ineptitudes, the irony of life — every- 

 thing is in the literary hash; but all is 

 prose monologue, Montaigne loquitur. 

 He was not tragic, however; but deep 

 under his placid indifference lay the 

 abysses of human fate, and into them 

 he let fall, with an air of playfulness, 

 many a searching plummet that struck 

 bottom. "J^ n'enseigne point ; je ra- 

 conte" ("I do not teach; I tell"), he 

 says, quite without reference to what our 

 modern realists boast of. No burden of 

 ** moral purpose " was offered as an ex- 

 258 



