Of nothing under the sun was Montaigne quite certain, except that every man—­whatever his station—­might travel farther and fare worse; and that the playing with his own thoughts, in the shape of essay-writing, was the most harmless of amusements.  His practical acquiescence in things does not promise much fruit, save to himself; yet in virtue of it he became one of the forces of the world—­a very visible agent in bringing about the Europe which surrounds us today.  He lived in the midst of the French religious wars.  The rulers of his country were execrable Christians, but most orthodox Catholics.  The burning of heretics was a public amusement, and the court ladies sat out the play.  On the queen-mother and on her miserable son lay all the blood of the St. Bartholomew.  The country was torn asunder; everywhere was battle, murder, pillage, and such woeful partings as Mr. Millais has represented in his incomparable picture.  To the solitary humourous essayist this state of things was hateful.  He was a good Catholic in his easy way; he attended divine service regularly; he crossed himself when he yawned.  He conformed in practice to every rule of the Church; but if orthodox in these matters, he was daring in speculation.  There was nothing he was not bold enough to question.  He waged war after his peculiar fashion with every form of superstition.  He worked under the foundations of priestcraft.  But while serving the Reformed cause, he had no sympathy with Reformers.  If they would but remain quiet, but keep their peculiar notions to themselves, France would rest!  That a man should go to the stake for an opinion, was as incomprehensible to him as that a priest or king should send him there for an opinion.  He thought the persecuted and the persecutors fools about equally matched.  He was easy-tempered and humane—­in the hunting-field he could not bear the cry of a dying hare with composure—­martyr-burning had consequently no attraction for such a man.  His scepticism came into play, his melancholy humour, his sense of the illimitable which surrounds man’s life, and which mocks, defeats, flings back his thought upon himself.  Man is here, he said, with bounded powers, with limited knowledge, with an unknown behind, an unknown in front, assured of nothing but that he was born, and that he must die; why, then, in Heaven’s name should he burn his fellow for a difference of opinion in the matter of surplices, or as to the proper fashion of conducting devotion?  Out of his scepticism and his merciful disposition grew, in that fiercely intolerant age, the idea of toleration, of which he was the apostle.  Widely read, charming every one by his wit and wisdom, his influence spread from mind to mind, and assisted in bringing about the change which has taken place in European thought.  His ideas, perhaps, did not spring from the highest sources.  He was no ascetic, he loved pleasure, he was tolerant of everything except cruelty; but on that account we