With the exception of Dr. Johnson, there is scarcely any great man of letters whom we are enabled to know so intimately as the Sieur de Montaigne.  He has told us all about himself; all about his age, as far as it came under his eager and observant eyes; all about the whole world, as far as it made part of his experience.  Rousseau is not more frank, and not half so worthy of credit, for Rousseau, like Topsy in the novel, had a taste for “’fessing” offences that he had never committed rather than not “’fess” at all.  Montaigne strikes no such attitudes; he does not pose, he does not so much confess as blab.  His life stands before the reader “as in a picture.”  We learn that his childhood was a happier one than usually fell to the lot of children in that age when there was but little honey smeared on the cup of learning.  We know that his father taught him Greek in a kind of sport or game, that the same parent’s relations with the fair sex were remarkable, and that he had extraordinary strength in his thumb.  For his own part, Montaigne was so fresh and full of life that Simon Thomas, a great physician, said it would make a decrepit old man healthy again to live in his company.  One thinks of him as a youth like the irrepressible Swiss who amused the ennui of Gray.

Even in his old age, Montaigne was a gay, cheerful, untiring traveller, always eager to be going on, delighted with every place he visited, and yet anxious for constant change of scene and for new experience.  To be amusingly and simply selfish is ever part of the charm of Montaigne.  He adds to his reader’s pleasure in life by the keenness with which he relished his own existence, and savoured every little incident as a man relishes the bouquet of wine.  Without selfishness, how can this be managed? and without perfect simplicity and the good faith on which he prided himself, how could Montaigne, how could Pepys, have enriched the world as they have done?  His essays are among the few works that really and literally make life more opulent with accumulated experience, criticism, reflection, humour.  He gives of his rich nature, his lavish exuberance of character, out of that fresh and puissant century to this rather weary one, just as his society in youth might have been given to the sick old man.

Besides what he has to give in this manner, Montaigne seems to express French character, to explain the French genius and the French way of looking at life, more clearly and completely than any other writer.  He has at bottom the intense melancholy, the looking forward to the end of all, which is the ground-note of the poetry of Villon, and of Ronsard, as of the prose of Chateaubriand.  The panelled library in Montaigne’s chateau was carven with mottoes, which were to be charms against too great fear of death.  “For my part,” he says, “if a man could by any means avoid death, were it by hanging a calf-skin on his limbs, I am one that would not