THE POETRY OF LIFE.
SARAH STICKNLY is favourably known to the public by her Pic- tures If Private Life ; which, both in the first and second series, exhibited a delicacy of perception, a truth of delineation, a femi- nine purity, and—not to speak it profanely—holiness of feeling, combined with a finished elegance of style, that rendered her a sui ,generis among modern writers. In another author it is possi- ble that something of weariness might have sprung from the every-day nature of her subjects and a slight tendency to over- elaboration; but the first point was so refined by her taste, and the second so redeemed by her careful finish, that the elements which threatened failure were, perhaps, one CallEC of her peculiar charm. The volumes on the Poetry of Life, with which she has now favouied us, possess all the quality of her former works, except that which arises from the living interest connected with the pro- gress of a story and the exhibition of character. The object of the book is didactic; but teaching is always a fearful matter, and although SARAH is not fearful, it is, in the present instance, per- haps, because she does not much instruct us.
The Poetry of Life is an endeavour to investigate the nature and to analyze the causes of poetic feeling. Such a subject might have baffled the acutest critics of any time, and perhaps our fair author is too amiable to excel in the " ungentle craft." Her theory of the origin of paetic feeling is so enveloped in a cloud of sweet-sounding woids as to be hidden from sight; and in her analyses she often does not so much explain why a thing is poetical, as tell what objects she considers so. Her book, in short, is a series of elegant essays on various delightful subjects in nature, art, and the human mind. In tl.e first class of sukeets the author expatiates upon the poetry of flowers, of trees, of an inlets, of evening, of the moon, and of woman ; in the second she treats of the poetry of painting and of language; in the third of that of love, of grief, and of religion. In discussing these, and several other matters of a kindred nature, SARAH STICKNEY presents the reader with some beautiful and finished pictures of natural ob- jects and scenes; she conjures up a variety of pleasing images ; she displays occasionally a charming literary taste, with a feminine acuteness, and always exhibits her characteristic elegance of style; but, alas for our gallantry! we are occasionally compelled to dissent from her conclusions, and to doubt the validity of the Stickneyan code. Guarding ourselves by this proviso from " poisoning the town," by authorizing any false canons of criticism, we can recommend the Poetry of Life (oath who delight in elegant
and tasteful but unexciting composition. Here, however, are a few samples of the book.
POETRY OF BEES.
There is poetry in the hum of bees, when the orchards are in bloom and the sun is shining in unclouded splendour upon the waving meadows, and the garden is richly spangled with spring flowers. There is poetry in the hum of the bee, because it brings back to us, as in a dream, the memory of bygone days, when our hearts were alive to the happiness of childhood—the time when we could lie down upon the green bank and enjoy the stillness of summer's noon, when our hopes were in the blossoms of the orchard, our delight in the sunshine, our untiring rambles in the meadows, and our perpetual amusement in the scented flowers. Since these days, time has rolled over us with such a diversity of incident, bringing so many changes in our modes of living and thinking, that we have knitted, perhaps at some cost, to analyze our feelings, and to say, rather than feel, that there is poetry in the hum of bees.
But let one of these honey-laden wandeters find his way into our apartment, and while he struggles with frantic efforts to escape through the closed window, we cease to find pleasure in his busy hunt.
A SENTIMENTAL PICTURE.
I have often thought there was smoothing peculiarly affecting in the charac- ter of the young ass—something almost saddening to the s llll in its sudden starts of slim t-lived frolic. In its appearance there is a strange unnatural mixture of infant glee with a mournful and almost venerable gravity. Its long, melancholy ears, are in perfect contrast with its innocent and happy face. It seems to have heard, what is seldom beard in extreme yl, LI t h, the sad forebodings of its latter days ; and when it crops the thistle and spot is anuingst the briar:, it appears to be with the vain hope of carrying the spirit of joy along with it through the after vicissitudes of its hard and bitter lot.
There is some reasoning in this exposition of the
UNPOETICAL NATURE OF NOSE AND CHIN.
But while thousands and tens of thousands are poetizing about the eye, no one dares venture upon the nose; a fact which can only be accounted for by our having no intellectual associations with this member, and bring accustomed to regard It merely for its sense of smell, nr as an essential ornament to the face. The nose is incapable of expressing any emotion of mind except those whieh are vulgar or grotesque, such as laughter or gross impertinence. It is true the nostrils are distended by any effort of daring, but it is rather with animal emus moral courage, such as might animate a barbarian or a hozse. It is indeed a curious but incontrovertible fact, that while the enraptured sl ive of beauty is at liberty to expend his poetic fire in composing sonnets to his lady's eye, no.. sooner does he descend to the adjoining feature, than the poetry of his lay is converted into burlesque, and he is himself dismissed us a proftner of love and the muses. • •
Every one sees at the first glance that the chin is not a subject for poetry ; for though its peculiar formation may be strongly indicative of boldness or timidity, as well as some meaner traits of character, it is so incapable of chang- ing with the changing emotions of the mind, that the chin must remain to be considered merely as a feature of the face and nothing more.
The following is pretty, aed the closing sentence something more than pretty. I have known the first wild rose of summer gathered with such faithful re- collections, such deep and earnest love, such yearnings of the heart for bygone pleasures, that for a moment its beauty was obscured by falling tears. The tolling of a bell after it lots been heard for a departed friend has a tone of pecu- liar and painful solemnity. The face of one whom we have met with compara- tive indifference in a season of happiness, is afterwards hailed with delight when it is all that remains to us of the past.
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