We must leave it--as, however, Montaigne himself is far enough from leaving it--to the imagination of readers to conjecture what "pleasures" they are, of which this worn-out debauchee (nearing death, and thanking God that he nears it "without fear") speaks in the following sentimental strain: In farewells, we oftener than not heat our affections toward the things we take leave of: I take my last leave of the pleasures of this world; these are our last embraces. Mr. Emerson, in his "Representative Men," makes Montaigne stand for The Skeptic. Skeptic, Montaigne was. He questioned, he considered, he doubted. He stood poised in equilibrium, in indifference, between contrary opinions. He saw reasons on this side, but he saw reasons also on that, and he did not clear his mind. "_Que scai-je?_" was his motto ("What know I?"), a question as of hopeless ignorance--nay, as of ignorance also void of desire to know. His life was one long interrogation, a balancing of opposites, to the end. Such, speculatively, was Montaigne. Such, too, speculatively, was Pascal. The difference, however, was greater than the likeness, between these two minds. Pascal, doubting, gave the world of spiritual things the benefit of his doubt. Montaigne, on the other hand, gave the benefit of his doubt to the world of sense. He was a sensualist, he was a glutton, he was a lecher. He, for his portion, chose the good things of this life. His body he used, to get him pleasures of the body. In pleasures of the body he sunk and drowned his conscience, if he ever had a conscience. But his intelligence survived. He became, at last--if he was not such from the first--almost pure sense, without soul. Yet we have no doubt Montaigne was an agreeable gentleman. We think we should have got on well with him as a neighbor of ours. He was a tolerably decent father, provided the child were grown old enough to be company for him. His own lawful children, while infants, had to go out of the house for their nursing; so it not unnaturally happened that all but one died in their infancy. Five of such is the number that you can count in his own journalistic entries of family births and deaths. But, in his "Essays," speaking as "moral philosopher," he says, carelessly, that he had lost "two or three" "without repining." This, perhaps, is affectation. But what affectation! Montaigne was well-to-do; and he ranked as a gentleman, if not as a great nobleman. He lived in a castle, bequeathed to him, and by him bequeathed--a castle still standing, and full of personal association with its most famous owner. He occupied a room in the tower, fitted up as a library. Over the door of this room may still, we believe, be read Montaigne's motto, "_Que scai-je?_" Votaries of Montaigne perform their pious pilgrimages to this shrine of their idolatry, year after year, century after century.