_The Poetry of Life. By Sarah Stickney, Author of "Pictures of Private
Life." Philadelphia: Republished by Carey, Lea, and Blanchard._
These two volumes are subdivided as follows. Characteristics of
Poetry--Why certain objects are, or are not poetical--Individual
Associations--General Associations--The Poetry of Flowers--The Poetry
of Trees--The Poetry of Animals--The Poetry of Evening--The Poetry of
the Moon--The Poetry of Rural Life--The Poetry of Painting--The Poetry
of Sound--The Poetry of Language--The Poetry of Love--The Poetry of
Grief--The Poetry of Woman--The Poetry of the Bible--The Poetry of
Religion--Impression--Imagination--Power--Taste--Conclusion.
In a Preface remarkable for neatness of style and precision of
thought, Miss Stickney has very properly circumscribed within definite
limits the design of her work--whose title, without such explanation,
might have led us to expect too much at her hands. It would have been
better, however, had the fair authoress, by means of a _different_
title, which her habits of accurate thinking might have easily
suggested, rendered this explanation unnecessary. Except in some very
rare instances, where a context may be tolerated, if not altogether
justified, a work, either of the pen or the pencil, should contain
within itself every thing requisite for its own comprehension. "The
design of the present volumes," says Miss Stickney, "is to treat of
poetic feeling, rather than poetry; and this feeling I have endeavored
to describe as the great connecting link between our intellects and
our affections; while the customs of society, as well as the license
of modern literature, afford me sufficient authority for the use of
the word _life_ in its widely extended sense, as comprehending all the
functions, attributes, and capabilities peculiar to sentient beings."
We remember having read the "Pictures of Private Life" with interest
of no common kind, and with a corresponding anxiety to know something
more of the author. In them were apparent the calm enthusiasm, and the
_analytical love of beauty_, which are now the distinguishing features
of the volumes before us. We have perused the "Poetry of Life" with an
earnestness of attention, and a degree of real pleasure very seldom
excited in our minds. It is a work giving evidence of more profundity
than discrimination--with no ordinary quantum of either. What is said,
if not always indisputable, is said with a simplicity, and a
scrupulous accuracy which leave us, not for one moment, in doubt of
what is intended, and impress us, at the same time, with a high
opinion of the author's ability. Miss Stickney's manner is very
good--her English pure, harmonious, in every respect unexceptionable.
With a strong understanding, and withal a keen relish for the minor
forms of poetic excellence--a _strictness_ of conception which will
ever prevent her from running into gross error--she is still, we
think, insufficiently alive to the _delicacies_ of the
beautiful--unable fully to appreciate the _energies_ of the sublime.
We were forcibly impressed with these opinions, in looking over, for
the second time, the chapter of our fair authoress, "On the Poetry of
Language." What we have just said in relation to her accuracy of
thought and expression, and her appreciation of the minor forms {124}
of poetic excellence, will be exemplified in the passage we now quote,
beginning at page 187, vol. i.
"There can scarcely be a more beautiful and appropriate arrangement of
words, than in the following stanza from Childe Harold:
The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then it may be of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
"Without committing a crime so heinous as that of entirely spoiling
this verse, it is easy to alter it so as to bring it down to the level
of ordinary composition; and thus we may illustrate the essential
difference between poetry and mere versification.
The sails were _trimm'd_ and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to _force_ him from his native home,
And fast the white rocks _vanish'd_ from his view,
And soon were lost _amid the circling_ foam:
And then, _perchance, of his fond wish_ to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The _wish_, nor from his _silent_ lips did come
One _mournful word_, whilst others sat and wept,
And to _the heedless breeze their fruitless_ moaning kept.
"It is impossible not to be struck with the harmony of the original
words as they are placed in this stanza. The very sound is graceful,
as well as musical; like the motion of the winds and waves, blended
with the majestic movement of a gallant ship. 'The sails were filled'
conveys no association with the work of man; but substitute the word
_trimmed_, and you see the busy sailors at once. The word 'waft'
follows in perfect unison with the whole of the preceding line, and
maintains the invisible agency of the 'light winds;' while the word
'glad' before it, gives an idea of their power as an unseen
intelligence. 'Fading' is also a happy expression, to denote the
gradual obscurity and disappearing of the 'white rocks;' but the
'circumambient foam' is perhaps the most poetical expression of the
whole, and such as could scarcely have proceeded from a low or
ordinary mind."
All this is well--but what follows is not so. "It may be
amusing"--says Miss Stickney, at page 189, "to see how a poet, and
that of no mean order, can undesignedly murder his own offspring"--and
she proceeds to extract, from Shelley, in illustration, some passages,
of whose exquisite beauty she has evidently not the slightest
comprehension. She commences with
"Music, when soft voices die
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets _sicken_,
Live within the sense they quicken."
"Sicken" is here italicized; and the author of the "Poetry of Life"
thinks the word so undeniably offensive as to render a farther
allusion to it unnecessary. A few lines below, she quotes, in the same
tone of criticism, the terrific image in the Ode to Naples.
"Naples!--thou heart of men, which ever pantest
Naked, beneath the lidless eye of Heaven!"