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7. The ‘Pensées’



From Pascal's finished work we turn to his unfinished Remains. The one will always be regarded as the chief monument of his literary skill, and of the executive completeness of his mind. But the other is the worthier and nobler tribute to the greatness of his soul, and the depth and power of his moral genius. Few comparatively now read the ‘Provincial Letters' as a whole; fewer still are interested in the controversy which they commemorate. But there are hardly any of higher culture—none certainly of higher thoughtfulness—to whom the ‘Pensées' are not still attractive, and who have not sought in them at one time or another some answer to the obstinate questionings which the deeper scrutiny of human life and destiny is ever renewing in the human heart. No answer may have been found in them, but every spiritual mind must have so far met in the author of the ‘Pensées' a kindred spirit which, if it has seen no farther than others, has yet entered keenly upon the great quest, and traversed with a singular boldness the great lines of higher speculation that "slope through darkness up to God."

The literary history of the ‘Pensées' is a very curious one. They first appeared in the end of 1669, in a small duodecimo volume, with the appropriate motto, "Pendent opera interrupta." Their preparation for the press had been a subject of much anxiety to Pascal's friends. What is known as the "Peace of the Church"—a period of temporary quiet and prosperity to Port Royal—had begun in 1663; and it was important that nothing should be done by the Port Royalists to disturb this peace. It had been agreed, therefore, that all passages bearing on the controversy with the Jesuits and the Formulary should be omitted; but beyond this Madame Périer desired that the volume should only contain what proceeded from her brother, and in the precise form and style in which it had left his hand. She evidently lacked full confidence in the Committee of Editors, of whom the Duc de Roannez was the chief, notwithstanding their professions of strict adherence to the manuscripts. The volume at last appeared, with a preface by her own son, and no fewer than nine "approbations," signed amongst others by three bishops, one archdeacon, and three doctors of the Sorbonne.

Unhappily Madame Périer had too much cause for alarm. Editors and Approvers alike had claimed the liberty, not only of arranging but of modifying both the matter and the style of the ‘Pensées,' and this notwithstanding a statement in the preface that, in giving, as they professed to do, only "the clearest and most finished" of the fragments, they had given them as they found them, without adding or changing anything. "These fragments," says M. Faugère, "which sickness and death had left unfinished, suffered, without ceasing to be immortal, all the mutilation which an exaggerated prudence or a misdirected zeal could suggest, with the view not only of guarding their orthodoxy, but of embellishing their style—the style of the author of the ‘Provincials'!" "There are not," he adds, "twenty successive lines which do not present some alteration, great or small. As for total omissions and partial suppressions, they are without number." M. Cousin is equally emphatic. "There are," he says, "examples of every kind of alteration—alteration of words, alteration of phrases, suppressions, substitutions, additions, arbitrary compositions, and, what is worse, decompositions more arbitrary still."

It is impossible to defend the first editors of the ‘Pensées.' But it should be remembered that their task was one not only of theological perplexity, but of great literary difficulty. Pascal's manuscripts were a mere mass of confused papers, sometimes written on both sides, and in a hand for the most part so obscure and imperfectly formed as to be illegible to all who had not made it a special study. The papers were pasted or bundled together without any natural connection, parts containing the same piece being sometimes intersected and sometimes widely separated from one another. If the editors, therefore, did their work ill, it was partly no doubt from incompetency, but partly from its inherent difficulty, and from the fact that being so near to Pascal they could hardly appreciate the feelings of the modern critic as to the sacredness of his style, and of all that came from his pen.

The edition of 1669 continued to be reprinted with little alteration for a century. Various additional fragments were brought to light, especially the famous conversation between De Saci and Pascal regarding Epictetus and Montaigne; but the form of the fragments remained unchanged. It was not till the edition of Condorcet in 1776 that they can be said to have undergone any new rédaction. Unhappily Pascal suffered in the hands of the Encyclopedists, as he had previously suffered in the hands of the Jansenists and the Sorbonne. The first editors had expunged whatever might seem at variance with orthodoxy. Condorcet suppressed or modified whatever partook of a too lofty enthusiasm or a too fervent piety. It became a current idea among the Encyclopedists that the accident at Neuilly had affected Pascal's brain. We have already seen how Voltaire spoke of this; and he directed an early attack (1734) upon the doctrine of human nature contained in the ‘Pensées.' Now, in his old age, he hailed Condorcet's edition, and reissued it two years later, with an Introduction and Notes by himself.

In the following year, 1779, appeared the elaborate and well-known edition of Pascal's works by the Abbé Bossut, accompanied by an admirable "Discours sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Pascal." In this edition the remains are found for the first time in some degree of completeness. All the fragments published by Port Royal, and all those subsequently brought to light by Des Molets and others, are included and arranged in a new order. But meritorious as were Bossut's editorial labours as a whole, they did not attempt any restoration of the ‘Pensées' to their original text; and even the new fragments published by him were not left untouched. He embodied, for example, the famous conversation with De Saci, but without giving De Saci's part of the dialogue. In short, he reproduced, as M. Havet says, all the faults of the first editors, and made others of his own. This is the more remarkable that he is said to have had in his possession a copy of the original manuscripts. Condorcet, however, consulted the original manuscripts themselves, without any thought of doing justice to Pascal's text.

So matters remained till 1842, when M. Cousin published his famous Report on the subject to the French Academy. The French public then found to their astonishment that, with so many editions of the ‘Pensées,' they had not the ‘Pensées' themselves. While philosophers had disputed as to his ideas, and critics admired his style, the veritable Pascal of the ‘Pensées' had all the time lain concealed in a mass of manuscripts in the National Library. Such a story, it may be imagined, did not lack any force in the manner in which M. Cousin told it; and an eager desire arose for a new and complete edition of the fragments. Cousin had prepared the way, but he did not himself undertake this task, which was reserved for M. Faugère, whose great edition appeared two years later, in 1844. Nothing can deprive M. Faugère of the credit of being the first editor of a complete and authentic text of the ‘Pensées.'

Other editions of distinctive merit have since appeared; and it may be admitted that, in the natural reaction from the laxity of former editions, he gave a too literal transcript of the manuscripts, including some things of little importance, and others more properly belonging to an edition of the ‘Provincial Letters' than of the ‘Pensées.' But, whether it be the result of early association or of greater familiarity with M. Faugère's pages, I own still a preference for this edition, while admitting the admirable perspicuity and intelligence of many of M. Havet's notes, and the splendour of the edition of M. Victor Rochet, the most recent (1873) that has come under my notice.

The principle observed by M. Faugère is strongly defended in his preface. He allowed himself no discretionary powers of emendation, because "the limits of such a power might," he says, "be too easily overstepped, and would have left room for belief that greater liberties had been taken than was actually the case." "The manuscripts," he adds, "have been read, or rather studied, page by page, line by line, syllable by syllable, to the end; and, with the exception of illegible words (which, however, are carefully indicated), they have passed completely into the present edition."

So far, this principle has been adhered to by subsequent editors. There has been no further tampering with Pascal's words, but more or less latitude has been taken in publishing all the manuscript details, and especially in the arrangement of the several fragments. Faugère fancied that he could trace in Pascal's own notes the indication of an interior arrangement, into which the several parts of his proposed work in defence of religion were intended to fall; and he has grouped the fragments in his second volume according to these supposed indications. M. Havet does not think that it is possible any longer to discover the true order of the fragments. He does not believe that any such order existed in the author's own mind. He had a general design, and certain great divisions; a preface was sketched here, and a chapter there; but in throwing his thoughts upon paper as they presented themselves to him, he did not stop to assort them, or to bring them into any fitting connection. What Pascal himself did not do, M. Havet does not think it possible any editor can do. Accordingly, he recurs to the old, if somewhat arbitrary, arrangement of Bossut, as the most familiar and useful. M. Rochet follows an elaborate arrangement, professedly founded on the original plan of Pascal, as sketched by himself in the conversation reported by his nephew in the preface to the primary edition of the fragments. He considers that all the Thoughts find their natural place in this plan and in no other. But M. Rochet's classifications are, partly at least, inspired by his own ecclesiastical tendencies; and he is far from just to the labours of M. Faugère, and the real light and order which these labours introduced into the development of Pascal's ideas.

It is unnecessary for us to attempt to hold the balance between Pascal's several editors, or to say which of them has most justice on his side. Of two things there can be no doubt: first, that any special arrangement of the ‘Pensées,' so as to give the idea of a connected book in defence of religion, is, so far, arbitrary—the work, that is to say, of the editor rather than of the author; and secondly, that there is no difficulty, from the original preface and otherwise, of gathering the general order of Pascal's ideas, and the method which appeared to him the true one of meeting the irreligion of his day, and vindicating the divine truth of Christianity—points which shall afterwards come before us.

The special question raised by M. Cousin as to Pascal's scepticism will also be best discussed in its true order, in connection with such passages as have suggested it. Considering Pascal's traditionary reputation as the defender of religion, there was a character of surprise in this question, that forced a lively debate, as soon as it was raised, in France and Germany, and even England. Vinet and Neander both joined in it; and the two lectures delivered by the latter before the Royal Academy of Sciences in Berlin in 1847, are highly deserving of perusal by all students of philosophy. {164} But the issue is an absurd one, before the combatants are agreed as to the meaning of the word Scepticism, and before the reader has before him the views of Pascal, and the manner in which he defines his own attitude in relation to what he considered the two great lines of thought opposed to Christianity. When we are in possession of his own statements, we may find that much of the indignant rhetoric of M. Cousin is beside the question, and that, although Pascal was certainly no Cartesian, and has used some strong and rash expressions about the weakness of human reason, neither is he a sceptic in any usual sense. He has, in fact, defined his own position with singular clearness and force.

But before turning to his views on these higher subjects, it will be well to present our readers with some of Pascal's more miscellaneous and general Thoughts. In doing so, it is not necessary, in such a volume as this, that we indicate throughout the edition from which we take our quotations. We shall quote from the editions of Faugère or Havet, as may be most convenient, and take them in such order as suits our own purpose of exhibiting Pascal's mind as clearly as we can. For the same reason, we shall give such passages as appear to us not always the most just or accurate in thought, but the most characteristic or representative of the veritable Pascal, whose true words were so long concealed from the world. We cannot do better, in the first instance, than note what so great a mathematician has to say of geometry and the "mathematical mind," compared with the naturally acute mind ("l'esprit de finesse"), betwixt which he draws an interesting parallel. The fragment on the "Mathematical" or "Geometric Mind" was, with the exception of a brief passage given by Des Molets {165} in 1728, originally published, although with numerous suppressions, in Condorcet's edition of the ‘Pensées.' It appeared for the first time in its complete form, and under its proper title, in Faugère's edition, along with its natural pendant, the closely-allied fragment, entitled "L'Art de Persuader." We give a few passages from the first fragment:—

"We may have three principal objects in the study of truth—one to discover it when we seek it, another to demonstrate it when we possess it, and a third and last to discriminate it from the false when we examine it. . . . Geometry excels in all three, and especially in the art of discovering unknown truths, which it calls analysis. . . There is a method which excels geometry, but is impossible to man, for whatever transcends geometry transcends us [in natural science, as he explains elsewhere]. This is the method of defining everything and proving everything. . . A fine method, but impossible; since it is evident that the first terms that we wish to define, suppose precedent terms necessary for their explanation—and that the first propositions that we wish to prove, suppose others which precede them; and so it is clear we can never arrive at absolutely first principles. In pushing our researches to the utmost, we necessarily reach primitive words that admit of no further definition, and principles so obvious, that they require no proof. Man can never, therefore, from natural incompetency, possess an absolutely complete science. . . . But geometry, while inferior in its aims, is absolutely certain within its limits. It neither defines everything, nor attempts to prove everything, and must, so far, yield its pretension to be an absolute science; but it sets out from things universally admitted as clear and constant, and is therefore perfectly true, because in consonance with nature. Its function is not to define things universally clear and understood, but to define all others; and not to attempt to prove things intuitively known to men, but to attempt to prove all others. Against this, the true order of knowledge, those alike err who attempt to define and to prove everything, and those who neglect definition and demonstration where things are not self-evident. This is what geometry teaches perfectly. It attempts no definition of such things as space, time, motion, number, equality, and the like, because these terms designate so naturally the things which they signify, that any attempt at making them more clear ends in making them more obscure. For there is nothing more futile than the talk of those who would define primitive words. {166}

. . . . . . . .

"In geometry the principles are palpable, but removed from common use. . . . In the sphere of natural wit or acuteness, the principles are in common use and before all eyes—it is only a question of having a good view of them; for they are so subtle and numerous, that some are almost sure to escape observation. . . . All geometers would be men of acuteness if they had sufficient insight, for they never reason falsely on the principles recognised by them. All fine or acute spirits would be geometers if they could fix their thoughts on the unwonted principles of geometry. The reason why some finer spirits are not geometers is, that they cannot turn their attention at all to the principles of geometry; but geometers fail in finer perception, because they do not see all that is before them, and being accustomed to the plain and palpable principles of geometry, and never reasoning until they have well ascertained and handled their principles, they lose themselves in matters of intellectual subtlety, where the principles are not so easily laid hold of. Such things are seen with difficulty; they are felt rather than seen. They are so delicate and multitudinous that it requires a very delicate and neat sense to appreciate them. . . . So it is as rare for geometers to be men of subtle wit as it is for the latter to be geometers, because geometers like to treat these nicer matters geometrically, and so make themselves ridiculous; they like to commence with definition, and then go on to principles—a mode which does not at all suit this sort of reasoning. It is not that the mind does not take this method, but it does so silently, naturally, and without conscious art. The perception of the process belongs only to a few minds, and those of the highest order. . . . Geometers, who are only geometers, are sure to be right, provided the subject come within their scope, and is capable of explanation by definition and principles. Otherwise they go wrong altogether, for they only judge rightly upon principles clearly set forth and established. On the other hand, subtle men, who are only subtle, lack patience, in matters of speculation and imagination, to reach first principles which they have never known in the world, and which are entirely beyond their beat. . . .

"There are different kinds of sound sense. Some succeed in one order of things, and not in another, in which they are simply extravagant. . . . Some minds draw consequences well from a few principles, others are more at home in drawing conclusions from a great variety of principles. For example, some understand well the phenomena of water, with reference to which the principles are few, but the results extremely delicate, so that only very great accuracy of mind can trace them. Such men would probably not be great geometers, because geometry involves a multitude of principles, and because the mind which may penetrate thoroughly a few principles to their depth may not be at all able to penetrate things which combine a multitude of principles. . . . There are two sorts of mind: the one fathoms rapidly and deeply the consequences of principles—this is the observant and accurate mind; the other embraces a great multitude of principles, without confounding them—and this is the mathematical mind. The one is marked by energy and accuracy, the other by amplitude. But the one may exist without the other. The mind may be powerful and narrow, or it may be ample and weak." {168}

Few of Pascal's Thoughts are more interesting than those on "Eloquence and Style." So great a master of the art of expression had naturally something to say on these subjects.

"Continued eloquence wearies. Princes and kings amuse themselves sometimes; they are not always upon their thrones—they tire of these. Grandeur must be laid aside in order to be realised.

"Eloquence is a picture of thought; and thus those who, after having drawn a picture, still go on, make a tableau and not a likeness.

"Eloquence is the art of saying things in such a manner—first, that those to whom they are addressed can understand them without trouble and with pleasure; and secondly, that they may be interested in them in such a way that their amour propre may lead them gladly to reflect upon them. It consists, therefore, in a correspondence established between the mind and heart of the hearers on the one side, and the thoughts and expressions used on the other, and so implies a close study of the human heart in order to know all its springs, and to find the due measures of speech to address to it. It must confine itself, as far as possible, to the simplicity of nature, and not make great what is small, nor small what is great. It is not enough that a thing be fine, it must be fitting,—neither in excess nor defect."

"Eloquence should prevail by gentle suasion, not by constraint. It should reign, not tyrannise.

"There are some who speak well, and who do not write well. The place—the assembly—excites them, and draws forth their mind more than they ever experience without such excitement."

"Those who make antitheses by forcing the sense are like men who make false windows for the sake of symmetry. Their rule is not to speak correctly, but to make correct figures."

"There should be in eloquence always what is true and real; but that which is pleasing should itself be the real."

"When we meet with the natural style we are surprised and delighted, for we expected to find an author, and we find a man; whilst those of good taste who in looking into a book think to find a man, are altogether surprised to find an author. Plus poetice quam humane locutus es. They honour nature most who teach her that she can speak best on all subjects—even on theology."

"There are men who always dress up nature. No mere king with them, but an august monarch. No Paris, but the capital of the kingdom. There are places in which it is necessary to call Paris Paris; others, where we must call it the capital of the kingdom."

"When in composition we find a word repeated, and on trying to correct it find it so suitable that a change would spoil the sense, it is better to let it alone. This stamps it as fitting, and it is a stupid feeling which does not recognise that repetition in such a case is not a fault; for there is no universal rule.

"The meaning itself changes with the words which express it. The meaning derives its dignity from the words, instead of imparting it to them."

"The last thing that we discover in writing a book is to know what to put at the beginning.

"When a discourse paints a passion or effect naturally, we find in ourselves the truth of what we hear, which was there without our knowing it, so that we are led to like the man who discovers so much to us. For he does not show us his own good, but ours; and this good turn makes him lovable. Besides that, the community of intelligence we have with him necessarily inclines the heart towards him.

"Let none allege that I have said nothing new. The arrangement of the matter is new. When we play at tennis, both play with the same ball; but one plays better than the other. They might as well accuse me of using old words, as if the same thoughts differently arranged would not form a different discourse; just as the same words differently arranged express different thoughts.

"There is a definite standard of taste and beauty, which consists in a certain relation between our nature—it may be weak or strong, but such as it is—and the thing that pleases us. All that is formed to this standard delights us,—house, song, writing, verse, prose, women, buds, rivers, trees, rooms, dress, etc. All that is not formed by this standard disgusts men of good taste.

"I never judge of the same thing exactly in the same manner. I cannot judge of my work in the course of doing it. I must do as painters do, place myself at a distance from it, but not too far. How then? You may guess."

We do not look to Pascal especially for worldly insight, or for that sharp knowledge of men that make the sayings of clever social writers like Rochefoucauld or Horace Walpole memorable, if not always wise or kind. But there are many of the Thoughts which show that the penitent of Port Royal had looked with clear observant eyes below the surface of Paris society, and that he had a deep sense not only of the moral but the social weaknesses of humanity.

"When passion leads us towards anything, we forget duty; as we like a book we read it, while we ought to be doing something else. In order to be reminded of our duty, it is necessary to propose to do something that we dislike; then we excuse ourselves on the ground that we have something else to do, and so we recollect our duty by this means.

"How wisely are men distinguished by their exterior rather than by their interior qualifications! Which of us two shall take the lead? Which shall yield precedence? The man of less talent? But I am as clever as he. Then we must fight it out. But he has four lackeys and I have only one. That is a visible difference. We have only to count the numbers. It is my place then to give way, and I am a fool to contest the point. In this way peace is kept, which is the greatest of blessings.

"There is a great advantage in rank, which gives to a man of eighteen or twenty a degree of acceptance, publicity, and respect which another can hardly obtain by merit at fifty. It is a gain of thirty years without any trouble.

"Respect for others requires you to inconvenience yourself. This seems foolish, yet it is very proper. It seems to say, I would gladly inconvenience myself if you really required me to do so, seeing I am ready to do so without serving you.

"‘This is my dog,' say children; ‘that sunny seat is mine.' There is the beginning and type of the usurpation of the whole earth.

"This I is hateful. You, Miton, {171} merely cover it, you do not take it away; you are therefore always hateful. Not at all, you say; for if we act obligingly to all men, they have no reason to hate us. So far true, if there was nothing hateful in the I itself but the displeasure which it gives. But if I hate it because it is essentially unjust, because it makes itself the centre of everything, I shall hate it always. In short, this I has two qualities: it is unjust in itself, in that it makes itself the centre of everything; it is an annoyance to others, in that it would serve itself by them. Each I is the enemy, and would be the tyrant, of all others.

"He who would thoroughly know the vanity of men has only to consider the causes and effects of love. The cause is a je ne sais quoi, an indefinable trifle—the effects are monstrous. If the nose of Cleopatra had been a little shorter, it would have changed the history of the world.

"You have a bad manner—‘excuse me, if you please.' Without the apology I should not have known that there was any harm done. Begging your pardon, the ‘excuse me,' is all the mischief.

"Do you wish men to speak well of you? Then never speak well of yourself.

"The more mind we have, the more do we observe men of original mind. It is your commonplace people that find no difference betwixt one man and another.

"It is the contest that delights us, and not the victory. It is the same in play, and the same in search for truth. We love to watch in argument the conflicts of opinion; but the plain truth we do not care to look at. To regard it with pleasure, we must see it gradually emerging from the contest of debate. It is the same with passions: the struggle of two contending passions has great interest, but the dominance of one is mere brutality.

"The example of chastity in Alexander has not availed in the same degree to make men chaste, as his drunkenness has to make them intemperate. Men are not ashamed not to be so virtuous as he; and it seems excusable not to be more vicious. A man thinks he is not altogether sunk in the mud when he follows the vices of great men.

"I have spent much time in the study of the abstract sciences, but the paucity of persons with whom you can communicate on such subjects, gave me a distaste for them. When I began to study man, I saw that these abstract studies are not suited to him, and that in diving into them I wandered farther from my real object than those who were ignorant of them, and I forgave men for not having attended to these things. But I thought at least I should find many companions in the study of mankind, which is the true and proper study of man. I was mistaken. There are yet fewer students of man than of geometry.

"People in general are called neither poets nor geometers, although they have all that in them, and are capable of being judges of it. They are not specifically marked out. When they enter a room, they speak of the subject on hand. They do not show a greater aptitude for one subject than another, except as circumstances call out their talents. . . .

"It is poor praise when a man is pointed out on entering a room as being a clever poet; a bad mark that he should only be referred to when the question is as to the merit of some verses. . . .

"Man is full of wants, and likes those who can satisfy them. ‘Such a one is a good mathematician,' it may be said. But then I must be doing mathematics; he would turn me into a proposition. Another is a good soldier; he would take me for a besieged place. Give me your true man of general talents, who can adapt himself to all my needs.

"If a man sets himself at a window to see the passers-by, and I happen to pass, can I say that he set himself there to see me? No; for he does not think of me in particular. But if a man loves a woman for her beauty, does he love her? No; for the smallpox, which will destroy her beauty without killing her, will cause him to love her no more. And if any one loves me for my judgment or my memory, does he really love me? No; for I may lose those qualities without ceasing to be. Where, then, is this me, if it is neither in soul nor body?

"How is it that a lame man does not anger us, but a blundering mind does? Is it that the cripple admits that we walk straight, but a crippled mind accuses us of limping? Epictetus asks also, Why are we not annoyed if any one tells us that we are unwell in the head, and yet are angry if they tell us that we reason falsely or choose unwisely? The reason is, that we know certainly nothing ails our head, or that we are not crippled in body. But we are not so certain that we have chosen correctly.

"All men naturally hate one another.

"Desire and force are the source of all our actions—desire of our voluntary, force of our involuntary actions.

"Men are necessarily such fools, that it would be folly of another kind not to be a fool.

"To make a man a saint, grace is absolutely necessary; and whoever doubts this does not know what a saint is, nor what a man is.

"The last act is always tragedy, whatever fine comedy there may have been in the rest of life—We must all die alone."

"There can only be two kinds of men: the righteous, who believe themselves sinners; and sinners, who believe themselves righteous.

"Unbelievers are the most credulous; they believe the miracles of Vespasian to escape believing the miracles of Moses.

"Atheists should speak only of things perfectly clear, but it is not perfectly clear that the soul is material.

"Atheism indicates force of mind, but only up to a certain point."

Some of the foregoing Thoughts {174} may appear to our readers sufficient to warrant the charge of scepticism, already adverted to. Pascal certainly speaks at times both of human life and human reason in a contemptuous manner. Even Rochefoucauld could hardly express himself more bitterly than he does now and then when he fixes his clear gaze upon the folly, the vanity, the weaknesses which make up man's customary life, and the deceits which he practises upon himself and his fellows. All the world seems to him at such times "in a state of delusion." If there is truth, it "is not where men suppose it to be." The majority are to be followed, not "because they have more reason, but because they have more force."

"The power of kings is founded on the reason and on the folly of the people, but chiefly on their folly. The greatest and most important thing in the world has weakness for its basis, and the basis is wonderfully secure, for there is nothing more certain than that people will be weak. . . . Our magistrates well understand this mystery. . . . Save for their crimson robes, ermine, palaces of justice, fleur-de-lis, they would never have duped the world. Where would the physician be without his ‘cassock and mule,' and the theologian without his ‘square cap and flowing garments'? These vain adornments impress the imagination, and secure respect. We cannot look at an advocate in his gown and wig without a favourable impression of his abilities. The soldier alone needs no disguise, because he gains his authority by actual force, the others by grimace."

In such sentences, as well as in some previously quoted, the cynicism of both Hobbes and Montaigne seems to speak. Man is really a fool, and society rests upon force. The further down we go, we come, not to any natural rights, or essential principles of justice, which reason is capable of judging, but only to a mass of customs built up out of selfish instincts, and controlled by external influence. Pascal repeats Montaigne over and over again, and seems to make many of his cynicisms his own. This is not to be denied. "Montaigne is right. Custom should be followed because it is custom, and because it is found to be established, without inquiry whether it be reasonable or not." Yet he puts in a caveat, as we shall see more fully afterwards, just when he seems most to have identified himself with the representative of scepticism. In blindly following custom, he reserves "those matters which are not contrary to natural or divine right;" and the root of custom, even in the popular mind, he believes to be a dim sense of justice. Again, in a similar vein, he asks, "Why follow ancient laws and ancient opinions? Are they wiser? No. But they stand apart from present interests; and thus take away the root of difference." Here, as so often, the moralist supplants the sceptic, and suggests a higher thought, while seeming to approve of a superficial Pyrrhonism.

It is easy, in one sense, to make out a case of scepticism against Pascal. He always writes strongly. There is passion in all his thought. He had a strong and deep sense of human weakness, and incapacity to attain the highest truth. He spoke of the philosophy of Descartes without respect. With most of the Port Royalists, indeed, he seems to have concurred in the Cartesian doctrine of automata, {176} strangely revived in our day by Professor Huxley. But he repudiated the notion of "subtle matter," and even spoke of it with contempt (dont il se moquait fort). "He could not bear," his niece tells us, in a passage often quoted and emphasised, "the Cartesian manner of explaining the formation of all things." "I cannot forgive Descartes," he said. "He would willingly in all his philosophy have done without God, if he could; but he could not get on without letting him give the world a fillip to set it agoing: after that, he has nothing more to do with God." Whether he had studied Descartes or not, he evidently did not share the enthusiasm of Arnauld and others for his philosophy. He even spoke of it as "useless, uncertain, and troublesome—nay, as ridiculous." {177} He has added, in that brusque, rapid, forceful style characteristic of many of his Thoughts, that "he did not think the whole of philosophy worth an hour's trouble." Again: "To set light by philosophy is the true philosophy." When we look at such expressions, and many others, it is not to be wondered at that Pascal has been accused of scepticism. As he could not forgive Descartes, so Cousin cannot forgive him for his depreciation of Descartes. One who saw nothing in Cartesianism or philosophy in general beyond what these rash sentences, freshly restored in all their audacity, declare, could be nothing but an "enemy of all philosophy."