to relieve teeming heart and brain. The best method to
lay the spectres of the mind is to commit them to paper. Speaking of
the Essays, he says, "This book has a domestic and private object. It
is intended for the use of my relations and friends; so that, when they
have lost me, which they will soon do, they may find in it some
features of my condition and humours; and by this means keep up more
completely, and in a more lively manner, the knowledge they have of
me." In his Essays he meant to portray himself, his habits, his modes
of thought, his opinions, what fruit of wisdom he had gathered from
experience sweet and bitter; and the task he has executed with
wonderful fidelity. He does not make himself a hero. Cromwell would
have his warts painted; and Montaigne paints his, and paints them too
with a certain fondness. He is perfectly tolerant of himself and of
everybody else. Whatever be the subject, the writing flows on easy,
equable, self-satisfied, almost always with a personal anecdote
floating on the surface. Each event of his past life he considers a
fact of nature; creditable or the reverse, there it is; sometimes to be
speculated upon, not in the least to be regretted. If it is worth
nothing else, it may be made the subject of an essay, or, at least, be
useful as an illustration. We have not only his thoughts, we see also
how and from what they arose. When he presents you with a bouquet, you
notice that the flowers have been plucked up by the roots, and to the
roots a portion of the soil still adheres. On his daily life his
Essays grew like lichens upon rocks. If a thing is useful to him, he
is not squeamish as to where he picks it up. In his eye there is
nothing common or unclean; and he accepts a favour as willingly from a
beggar as from a prince. When it serves his purpose, he quotes a
tavern catch, or the smart saying of a kitchen wench, with as much
relish as the fine sentiment of a classical poet, or the gallant _bon
mot_ of a king. Everything is important which relates to himself.
That his mustache, if stroked with his perfumed glove, or handkerchief,
will retain the odour a whole day, is related with as much gravity as
the loss of a battle, or the march of a desolating plague. Montaigne,
in his grave passages, reaches an eloquence intricate and highly
wrought; but then his moods are Protean, and he is constantly
alternating his stateliness with familiarity, anecdote, humour,
coarseness