Ovid, not content with catching the leading features of any scene or
character, indulged himself in a thousand minutiae of description, a
thousand puerile prettinesses, which were in themselves uninteresting,
and took off greatly from the effect of the whole; as the numberless
suckers and straggling branches of a fruit-tree, if permitted to shoot
out unrestrained, while they are themselves barren and useless,
diminish considerably the vigour of the parent stock. Ovid had more
genius but less judgment than Virgil; Dryden more imagination but less
correctness than Pope; had they not been deficient in these points the
former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone
the merits of his countryman. Our author was undoubtedly possessed of
that power which they wanted, and was cautious not to indulge too far
the sallies of a lively imagination. Omitting, therefore, any mention
of sultry Sirius, sylvan shade, sequestered glade, verdant hills,
purling rills, mossy mountains, gurgling fountains, &c., he simply
tells us that it was "All on a summer's day". For my own part I confess
that I find myself rather flattered than disappointed, and consider the
poet as rather paying a compliment to the abilities of his readers,
than baulking their expectations. It is certainly a great pleasure to
see a picture well painted; but it is a much greater to paint it well
oneself. This, therefore, I look upon as a stroke of excellent
management in the poet.
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