Bacon is the greatest of the serious and stately essayists,—­Montaigne the greatest of the garrulous and communicative.  The one gives you his thoughts on Death, Travel, Government, and the like, and lets you make the best of them; the other gives you his on the same subjects, but he wraps them up in personal gossip and reminiscence.  With the last it is never Death or Travel alone:  it is always Death one-fourth, and Montaigne three-fourths; or Travel one-fourth, and Montaigne three-fourths.  He pours his thought into the water of gossip, and gives you to drink.  He gilds his pill always, and he always gilds it with himself.  The general characteristics of his Essays have been indicated, and it is worth while inquiring what they teach, what positive good they have done, and why for three centuries they have charmed, and still continue to charm.

The Essays contain a philosophy of life, which is not specially high, yet which is certain to find acceptance more or less with men who have passed out beyond the glow of youth, and who have made trial of the actual world.  The essence of his philosophy is a kind of cynical common-sense.  He will risk nothing in life; he will keep to the beaten track; he will not let passion blind or enslave him; he will gather round him what good he can, and will therewith endeavour to be content.  He will be, as far as possible, self-sustained; he will not risk his happiness in the hands of man, or of woman either.  He is shy of friendship, he fears love, for he knows that both are dangerous.  He knows that life is full of bitters, and he holds it wisdom that a man should console himself, as far as possible, with its sweets, the principal of which are peace, travel, leisure, and the writing of essays.  He values obtainable Gascon bread and cheese more than the unobtainable stars.  He thinks crying for the moon the foolishest thing in the world.  He will remain where he is.  He will not deny that a new world may exist beyond the sunset, but he knows that to reach the new world there is a troublesome Atlantic to cross; and he is not in the least certain that, putting aside the chance of being drowned on the way, he will be one whit happier in the new world than he is in the old.  For his part he will embark with no Columbus.  He feels that life is but a sad thing at best; but as he has little hope of making it better, he accepts it, and will not make it worse by murmuring.  When the chain galls him, he can at least revenge himself by making jests on it.  He will temper the despotism of nature by epigrams.  He has read Aesop’s fable, and is the last man in the world to relinquish the shabbiest substance to grasp at the finest shadow.