atever, then it followed that persecution for the sake of
opinion was simply a wicked folly. Montaigne thus stands out as one of
the earliest of the opponents of fanaticism and the apostles of
toleration in the history of European thought.

The other subject treated of in the Essays, with an equal persistence
and an equal wealth of illustration, is Montaigne himself. The least
reticent of writers, he furnishes his readers with every conceivable
piece of information concerning his history, his character, his
appearance, his health, his habits and his tastes. Here lies the
peculiar charm of his book--the endless garrulity of its confidences,
which, with their combined humour, suavity, and irresponsibility, bring
one right into the intimate presence of a fascinating man.

For this reason, doubtless, no writer has ever been so gushed over as
Montaigne; and no writer, we may be sure, would be so horrified as he at
such a treatment. Indeed, the adulation of his worshippers has perhaps
somewhat obscured the real position that he fills in literature. It is
impossible to deny that, both as a writer and as a thinker, he has
faults--and grave ones. His style, with all its delightful abundance,
its inimitable ease, and its pleasant flavour of antiquity, yet lacks
form; he did not possess the supreme mastery of language which alone can
lead to the creation of great works of literary art. His scepticism is
not important as a contribution to philosophical thought, for his mind
was devoid both of the method and of the force necessary for the pursuit
and discovery of really significant intellectual truths. To claim for
him such titles of distinction is to overshoot the mark, and to distract
attention from his true eminence. Montaigne was neither a great artist
nor a great philosopher; he was not _great_ at all. He was a charming,
admirable human being, with the most engaging gift for conversing
endlessly and confidentially through the medium of the printed page ever
possessed by any man before or after him. Even in his self-revelations
he is not profound. How superficial, how insignificant his rambling
ingenuous outspokenness appears beside the tremendous introspections of
Rousseau! He was probably a better man than Rousseau; he was certainly a
more delightful one; but he was far less interesting. It was in the
gentle, personal, everyday things of life that his nature triumphed.
Here and there in his Essays, this simple goodness wells u