In this excited mood he rides with his companions to the Priory, not far away, of which Ronsard was the Prior, to see the great man himself. And here Pater is at his best. They find the Prior himself digging in his garden; they attend a solemnity in the church; they sup with the poet, who, touched by the generous enthusiasm of the boys, abandons himself to a sociable mood, shows them his treasures, his manuscripts, his portraits. But Gaston finds that Ronsard has attained to no serenity of spirit; his “roving, astonished eyes” reveal him as “the haggard soul of a haggard generation.” Ronsard is sympathetically interested in the ardent spirit of the boy, and gives him an introduction to the great Montaigne; whom he presently goes to visit, in his château in Dordogne. “It was pleasant to sleep as if in the sea’s arms, amid the low murmurs, the salt odour mingled with the wild garden scents of a little inn or farm, forlorn in the wide enclosure of an ancient manor, deserted as the sea encroached—long ago, for the fig-trees in the riven walls were tough and old.” He finds the great man in his towered manor, with the view from the roof of the rich noonday scenery. He feels after a few moments’ talk as if he had known the genial philosopher all his life. “In the presence of this indefatigable analyst of act and motive all fixed outlines seemed to vanish away. The healthful pleasure of motion, of thoughts in motion!” “Montaigne was constantly, gratefully, announcing his contact, in life, in books, with undeniable power and greatness, with forces full of beauty in their vigour, like lightning, the sea, the torrents.” The portrait of this splendid human egotist is admirably touched, with a wealth of subtle illustration from his writings. His deeply sceptical spirit, his vivid agnosticism, confronted again and again with hopeless mysteries, and yet for ever turning back upon the quest, undaunted, unsated, absolutely sincere, admitting his own egotism with frank humour—“in favour of the Huguenots, who condemn our private confession, I confess myself in public.” And this outward egotism of manner was but the symptom of a certain deeper doctrinal egotism;—“I have no other end in writing but to discover _myself_.” Pater indicates, with perfect insight, the “broad, easy, indifferent” passage of Montaigne through the world, his relish for meat and drink and corporeal sensation; and yet, side by side with this, a curious, superstitious, formal kind of piety, all springing from the same worship for the whole of humanity. But after all, it was the sincerity and tolerance of the man that was the charm, his quaint fancy, his rich sympathy, his perfect comprehension; the influence that he exercised was that of one who made no selection of moods and things, but tasted all, enjoyed all.