pend, is being too ſtrictly tied down; in ſuch a caſe ſummun jus may be ſumma injuria.
Corneille himſelf complains of finding his genius often cramped by his own rules: “There is infinite difference,” ſays he, “between ſpeculation and practice: let the ſevereſt critic make the trial he will be convinced by his own experience, that upon certain occaſions too ſtrict an adherence to the letter of the law ſhall exclude a bright opportunity of ſhining, or touching the paſſions. Where the breach is of little moment, or can be contrived to be as it were imperceptible in its repreſentation, a gentle diſpenſation might be allowed.” To thoſe little freedoms he attributes the ſucceſs of hid Cyd: but the rigid legiſlators of the Academy handled him ſo roughly for it, that he never durſt make the venture again, nor none who have followed him. Thus pinioned, the French Muſe muſt always flutter like a bird with the wings cut, incapable of a lofty flight.
The dialogue of their tragedies is under the ſame conſtraint as the conſtruction: not a diſcourſe, but an oration; not ſpeaking, but declaiming; not free, natural, and eaſy, as converſation ſhould be, but preciſe, ſet, formal argumenting, pro and con, like diſputants in a ſchool. In writing, like dreſs, is it not poſſible to be too exact, too ſtarched, and too formal? Pleaſing negligence I have ſeen: who ever ſaw pleaſing formality?
