An amusing catalogue might be made of books which contain but one good
passage. They would be a sort of single-speech Hamiltons; if Balaam's
palfrey might not be thought a more apt counterpart to them. Killigrew's
play of the Parson's Wedding, which in length of massy dullness exceeds
many books, is remarkable for one little spark of liveliness. The
languishing fine lady of the piece exclaims most characteristically,
upon coming in tired with walking: 'I am glad I am come home, for I'm
e'en as weary with this walking. For God's sake, whereabouts does the
pleasure of walking lie? I swear I have often sought it till I was
weary, and yet I could ne'er find it.'--Charron on Wisdom, a cumbrous
piece of formality, which Pope's eulogium lately betrayed me into the
perusal of, has one splendid passage, page 138, (I think) English
translation. It contrasts the open honours with which we invest the
sword, as the means of putting man out of the world, with the concealing
and retiring circumstances that accompany his introduction into it. It
is a piece of gorgeous and happy eloquence.--What could Pope mean by
that line,--'sage Montaigne, or more sage Charron?' Montaigne is an
immense treasure-house of observation, anticipating all the discoveries
of succeeding essayists. You cannot dip in him without being struck with
the aphorism, that there is nothing new under the sun. All the writers
on common life since him have done nothing but echo him. You cannot open
him without detecting a _Spectator_ or starting a _Rambler_; besides
that his own character pervades the whole, and binds it sweetly
together. Charron is a mere piece of formality, scholastic dry bones,
without sinew or living flesh.--C. LAMB. _Table Talk._