Nothing is more idle, and, what is less to be forgiven in a writer, more
tedious, than minute and lengthened descriptions of localities; where it
is very doubtful whether the writers themselves had formed any tolerable
notion of the place they describe,--it is certain their readers never
can! These descriptive passages, in which writers of imagination so
frequently indulge, are usually a glittering confusion of unconnected
things; circumstances recollected from others, or observed by themselves
at different times; the finest are thrust in together. If a scene from
nature, it is possible that all the seasons of the year may be jumbled
together; or if a castle or an apartment, its magnitude or its
minuteness may equally bewilder. Yet we find, even in works of
celebrity, whole pages of these general or these particular descriptive
sketches, which leave nothing behind but noun substantives propped up by
random epithets. The old writers were quite delighted to fill up their
voluminous pages with what was a great saving of sense and thinking. In
the _Alaric_ of Scudery sixteen pages, containing nearly five hundred
verses, describe a palace, commencing at the _facade_, and at length
finishing with the garden; but his description, we may say, was much
better described by Boileau, whose good taste felt the absurdity of this
"abondance sterile," in overloading a work with useless details,
Un auteur, quelquefois, trop plein de son objet,
Jamais sans l'epuiser n'abandonne un sujet.
S'il rencontre un palais il m'en depeint la face,
Il me promene apres de terrasae en terrasse.
Ici s'offre un perron, la regne un corridor;
La ce balcon s'enferme en un balustre d'or;
Il compte les plafonds, les ronds, et les ovales--
Je saute vingt feuillets pour en trouver la fin;
Et je me sauve a peine au travers du jardin!
And then he adds so excellent a canon of criticism, that we must not
neglect it:--
Tout ce qu'on dit de trop est fade et rebutant;
L'esprit rassasie le rejette a l'instant,
Qui ne sait se borner, ne sut jamais ecrire.
We have a memorable instance of the inefficiency of local descriptions
in a very remarkable one by a writer of fine genius, composing with an
extreme fondness of his subject, and curiously anxious to send down to
posterity the most elaborate display of his own villa--this was the
_Laurentinum_ of Pliny. We cannot read his letter to Gallus, which the
English reader may in Melmoth's elegant version,[1] without somewhat
participating in the delight of the writer in many of its details; but
we cannot with the writer form the slightest conception of his villa,
while he is leading us over from apartment to apartment, and pointing to
us the opposite wing, with a "beyond this," and a "not far from thence,"
and "to this apartment another of the same sort," &c. Yet, still, as we
were in great want of a correct knowledge of a Roman villa, and as this
must be the most so possible, architects have frequently studied, and
the learned translated with extraordinary care, Pliny's _Description of
his Laurentinum_. It became so favourite an object, that eminent
architects have attempted to raise up this edifice once more, by giving
its plan and elevation; and this extraordinary fact is the result--that
not one of them but has given a representation different from the other!
Montfaucon, a more faithful antiquary, in his close translation of the
description of this villa, in comparing it with Felibien's plan of the
villa itself, observes, "that the architect accommodated his edifice to
his translation, but that their notions are not the same;
unquestionably," he adds, "if ten skilful translators were to perform
their task separately, there would not be one who agreed with another!"
If, then, on this subject of local descriptions, we find that it is
impossible to convey exact notions of a real existing scene, what must
we think of those which, in truth, describe scenes which have no other
existence than the confused makings-up of an author's invention; where
the more he details the more he confuses; and where the more particular
he wishes to be, the more indistinct the whole appears?
Local descriptions, after a few striking circumstances have been
selected, admit of no further detail. It is not their length, but their
happiness, which enters into our comprehension; the imagination can only
take in and keep together a very few parts of a picture. The pen must
not intrude on the province of the pencil, any more than the pencil must
attempt to perform what cannot in any shape be submitted to the eye,
though fully to the mind.
The great art, perhaps, of local description, is rather a general than a
particular view; the details must be left to the imagination; it is
suggestion rather than description. There is an old Italian sonnet of
this kind which I have often read with delight; and though I may not
communicate the same pleasure to the reader, yet the story of the writer
is most interesting, and the lady (for such she was) has the highest
claim to be ranked, like the lady of Evelyn, among _literary wives_.
_Francesca Turina Bufalini di Citta di Castello_, of noble extraction,
and devoted to literature, had a collection of her poems published in
1628. She frequently interspersed little domestic incidents of her
female friend, her husband, her son, her grandchildren; and in one of
these sonnets she has delineated _her palace of San Giustino_, whose
localities she appears to have enjoyed with intense delight in the
company of "her lord," whom she tenderly associates with the scene.
There is a freshness and simplicity in the description, which will
perhaps convey a clearer notion of the spot than even Pliny could do in
the voluminous description of his _villa_. She tells us what she found
when brought to the house of her husband:--
Ampie salle, ampie loggie, ampio cortile
E stanze ornate con gentil pitture,
Trovai giungendo, e nobili sculture
Di marmo fatte, da scalpel non vile.
Nobil giardin con un perpetuo Aprile
Di varij fior, di frutti, e di verdure,
Ombre soavi, acque a temprar l'arsure
E strade di belta non dissimile;
E non men forte estel, che per fortezza
Ha il ponte, e i fianchi, e lo circonda intorno
Fosso profundo e di real larghezza.
Qui fei col mio Signore dolce soggiorno
Con santo amor, con somma contentezza
Onde ne benedico il mese e il giorno!
Wide halls, wide galleries, and an ample court,
Chambers adorn'd by pictures' soothing charm,
I found together blended; noble sculpture
In marble, polish'd by no chisel vile;
A noble garden, where a lasting April
All-various flowers and fruits and verdure showers;
Soft shades, and waters tempering the hot air;
And undulating paths in equal beauty!
Nor less the castled glory stands in force,
And bridged and flanked. And round its circuit winds
The deepened moat, showing a regal size.
Here with my lord I cast my sweet sojourn,
With holy love, and with supreme content;
And hence I bless the month, and bless the day!