I write not this out of any impulse of Vanity, which prompts men to make their fancies publick. I feel my very soul (if I may so speak) in what I say; and understand my self better by expressing the Notion I have form'd of my self, than I could by private thoughts and inward reflections. The idea a man has of himself by a bare attention to internal meditations, is always a little confus'd. The Image which is outwardly express'd, is much more exact, and gives us a much truer judgment of our selves, when it is again submitted to the examination of the mind, after having been laid before our eyes. Besides, the flattering opinion of our own merit, loses half its charms, as soon as it comes into the light; and the complacency of self-love insensibly vanishing, leaves behind it only a disgust of its sweetness, and shame for a vanity as foolishly entertain'd, as judiciously quitted.
To equal Malherbe to the Antients, I require nothing finer than his own Compositions. I wou'd only strike out of his Works what is not worthy of him. It were injustice to make him yield to any one: but it will suffice for the honour of our own Judgments, if we make him give place to himself.
We may say the same of Corneille[1]. He would be above all the Tragedians of Antiquity, if he were not in some of his Pieces much below himself. He is so admirable in what is fine, that he takes away all patience for what is indifferent. What in him is not excellent, methinks is naught; not that it is really so, but because it wants the perfection of the rest. It is not enough for him to please us lightly, he's bound to touch us to the very quick. Some Authors may be allow'd simply to move us: and these emotions are pleasing enough,
- ↑ Peter Corneille.
