Lowell, in one of his critical essays, says that "all men are interested in Montaigne in proportion as all men find more of themselves in him; and all men see but one image in the glass which the greatest of poets holds up to nature,--an image which at once startles and charms with its familiarity." Montaigne himself says, "Nature, that we may not be dejected with the sight of our deformities, has wisely thrust the action of seeing outward." "Know thyself," that Apollo caused to be written on the front of his temple at Delphi, appeared to him contradictory. We are vain of our knowledge, vain of our virtue, vain of everything that pertains to us. Reading La Rochefoucauld's Maxims at twenty, one is a little surprised that the first and longest should be upon self-love; at forty, one is not astonished at the rank and importance it has in the philosopher's system. "In vain," says Xavier de Maistre, "are looking-glasses multiplied around us which reflect light and truth with geometrical exactness. As soon as the rays reach our vision and paint us as we are, self-love slips its deceitful prism between us and our image, and presents a divinity to us. And of all the prisms that have existed since the first that came from the hands of the immortal Newton, none has possessed so powerful a refractive force, or produced such pleasing and lively colors, as the prism of self-love. Now, seeing that ordinary looking-glasses record the truth in vain, and that they cannot make men see their own imperfections, every one being satisfied with his face, what would a moral mirror avail? Few people would look at it, and no one would recognize himself." "Oh, the incomparable contrivance of Nature," exclaims Erasmus, "who has ordered all things in so even a method that wherever she has been less bountiful in her gifts, there she makes it up with a larger dose of self-love, which supplies the former defects, and makes all even." "Could all mankind," says John Norris, "lay claim to that estimate which they pass upon themselves, there would be little or no difference betwixt laps'd and perfect humanity, and God might again review his image with paternal complacency, and still pronounce it good." "Blinded as they are as to their true character by self-love, every man," says Plutarch, "is his own first and chiefest flatterer, prepared therefore to welcome the flatterer from the outside, who only comes confirming the verdict of the flatterer within." It was the habit of Sir Godfrey Kneller to say to his sitter, "Praise me, sir, praise me: how can I throw any animation into your face if you don't choose to animate me?" "I have heard," says Bulwer, in one of his essays, "that when the late Mr. Kean was performing in some city of the United States, he came to the manager at the end of the third act and said, 'I can't go on the stage again, sir, if the pit keeps its hands in its pockets. Such an audience would extinguish AEtna.' The audience being notified by the