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Yale University Library JAN 4 '40 1847.]

THE CREATIVE ART-PHASES OF LITERATURE.

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pression of kindred life in all that moves or excites us. Nature with her blooming rose-her smiling landscape--her hills-her vales-her mosscovered tree, and silver stream, chimes in with our own Phantasma of Beauty. They are but varied manifestations of that all-pervading life-principle which binds together the world and man. At least so thought Byron, as he wrought that gem of passionate imagery

"From the high host

Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast,

All is concenter'd in a life intense,

Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,

But hath a part of being, and a sense

Of that which is of all Creator and defence."

We gaze upon the delicately-traced carving of a Corinthian column-we behold the gracefully-moulded proportions of Grecian art— and our love yearns for the silent, yet voiceful being of beauty enshrined within. We wander over the broad flag-stones, and stand beneath the lofty arches or swelling dome of a Gothic Cathedral, and we feel that the spirit of vastness-of immense solitude-is hovering around us-a spirit which we may worship but dare not embrace. Who, then, shall say that there is no life there? Every flower of the field lisps forth its Creator's name, and why may not every object of art— every embodied conception of man-hallow his memory, and reflect back the undying soul of its Architect? It may-it can—it must; the soul warms not towards that which is lifeless, nor holds communion with the dead; and that Gothic pile, even in ruins, still bodies forth the mind which conceived it, chained though it be, like Prometheus of old, to the time-worn rock. The Grecian Phydias, as he labored over the unhewn mass, must have infused into the Olympian Jove, not merely a thought, or an idea, but the more aspiring and commanding portion of his own soul; and the beholder, as he dwells upon it communes not with the polished stone, but through the living marble with the soul of Phydias. The sympathy that would otherwise slumber within us warms toward a congenial spirit, and that spirit is full of life, though entombed.

This, then, may be assigned as the reason that scarce any one of mortals—and certainly no one deserving the name of immortal-ever lived, and moved, and acted, who had not some chosen day-dream lurking within him—some "ideal creation," to give form and animation to which seemed the object of his existence. Every one must have felt this; and every one, were their hearts bared, would evince this. We are also aware that all things that border upon this mental conception— this Phantasma-either in Nature or in Art—either in Mind or in Matter, exert through this means a claim upon our sympathy; we cherish them -we associate them-we brood over them-and those who succeed in embodying them, become immortal. Burns has touched this thought -touched it with the wand of his genius, and bodied as follows;

"E'en then a wish, I mind its power

A wish that to my latest hour,

Shall strongly heave my breast;

That I for poor auld Scotland's sake

Some useful plan or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least."

It is nothing remarkable then, that all really great men have been of a moody and somewhat brooding temperament, and that their creations have for the most part proved merely counterparts of their own secret aspirations-shadows of their own souls.

To this tie of kindred life which pervades all things-the marble statue as well as the blooming rose-and which binds together with its secret, yet strong influence, the entire Universe-to this sympathy which generates that universal brotherhood, so conspicuous in all things that delight or affect us, must we, therefore, attribute all the pleasure which we derive from the creations of thought, as shown forth in the Fine Arts. It is the intellectual life-principle that gives effect to each of them, to Painting-to Sculpture-to Architectureas also to Music and to Poetry.

This brings us to the second phase of the Creative Art, and to the one upon which we proposed to dwell more at large,—to wit: the Creations of Literature. In these, as in those of the Arts, the same remarkable feature of thought made life-like, is observable. It may indeed be said, that the power of Creation-the power of investing ideas with an active and an efficient being,-commands high respect whenever and wherever exerted; yet, although this be true, still do we involuntarily yield to that power, when employed in this sphere, an admiration and a sympathy which it cannot elsewhere extort from us. As Literature, too, is grander in its ends, and more diversified in its means of bodying forth thought, than either of the Fine Arts; so also is its generating power more comprehensive and more intense. It does not merely animate a single thought, or a single range of thought, but gives life and form to the Ideal of a whole people. It does not manifest necessarily the hidden yearnings of any one man, or any set of men; but it bodies forth clearly and palpably the "Hero Worship" of a nation.

But Literature is not wholly creative. It embraces three different departments, corresponding to those three distinct phases in man's progress-Fancy-Reproduction-Creation-and thus affords ground which the Neophyte and the Critic may cultivate equally with the great Architect of thought. Its creations are confined principally within the range of Poetry and Romance, and it is to the development of the creative art—the only proper criterion by which to test phases of literature-as exhibited in these two separate provinces, that we shall at present confine attention. Exceptions to this general division, such as are implied in the analogy between Invention and Creation, or the formation of a mental and a moral system, may, and doubtless will occur, but these it will be more proper to consider afterwards.

As Poetry is the highest sphere in which man's genius may unfold itself, it is Poetry that will first present itself. One who has every right to be heard upon such a subject has remarked that nothing should ever be transmuted into Poetry which can be written in prose. This would imply that there are certain creations of the mind that cannot be incorporated otherwise than in verse, and such we find to be the fact. No one could ever conceive of a Cordelia, a Romeo, a Juliet, or a Caliban, divested of their present poetic livery and developing their characters in the set terms and every-day phrases of ordinary conversation. They are beings more than mortal, and in order that they may speak and live they require a language and an atmosphere entirely different from that allotted to mortals. Here lies the true province of Poetry; this is an end, and the only proper end that it subserves; but how, or by what subtle means it accomplishes this end, we can only feel and realize, not describe. To the higher regions of Poetry, therefore, must we look for the more sublime creations of the mind, as also for those ethereal beings that move and breathe as though they were the genii of a purer realm. Its creations however, do not all embody the same life-principle; but as there are two distinct phases of life in Nature, the animal and vegetable or the physical-and the intellectual, so its creations are of two kinds→→→→ the one descriptive and scenic, or aggregative-the other a scintillation. It is far more difficult to etherealize a conception than to embody it; for in the former case it is the spirit alone that acts, and it must therefore act spiritually; but in the latter an array of circumstances, a conflict of passions, or an appeal to sensible properties, may all serve to enhance its influence. This properly constitutes the difference between the mere Amateur in Poetry and the Master of his art; for while the one gives us Nature, decked it may be in refulgent colors, and made beautiful by ever-changing hues, to the other alone is it permitted to scintillate a being of pure intellect and passion-a spirit void and incorporeal, yet still moving and acting-a mind and a soul holy and ethereal-beautiful yet intangible-terrible yet formless. Byron's Egeria, Shakspeare's Ariel, and Milton's Satan, may be adduced as instances of this power of the Mind to create without embodying, and most assuredly this is the highest triumph of Nature, of Art, of Intellect, or of Genius. Of such a character, also, is "Festus”—it being an attempt to incarnate the Ideal of "human nature," and to show it forth divested of

"The matter and the things of clay,"

and although we cannot join in the bilious censure so lavishly poured forth against it, yet must we admit that the execution has scarcely been as happy and as successful as the greatness of the conception deserved. Of Descriptive Poetry, as also of that kind which, while it fashions forth Physical Life, imbues it at the same time with a certain share of intellectuality, it will be sufficient to say, that although its creations evince both the power and the originality of the mind, yet are they inferior to those which, while they lack the media of form

and of physical attributes, are still able to awaken our sympathy. Indeed, it would be a curious subject for philosophical inquiry to trace out the chain of association by which we are insensibly influenced, not only in our views and feelings, but also in our actions, by these ideal, and even by the more material, creations of the mind. Upon what principle of sympathy do we thus, as it were, hold communion with them, and appeal to their actions as a part of the world's experience? Whence arises the dominant power with which these creatures of "airy nothing"-these creations of a prolific and a glowing fancy, bend and sway men of a real and an actual existence? The imaginary "Falstaff" has in fact exerted more influence-both direct and indirect-upon the minds and manners of men since the day of his creation, than did ever his princely associate, the Fifth Henry, who lives in History as well as in Fiction. The dark, mysterious, yet all powerful" Arbases" has consigned to the labyrinths of a mazy and dreamy philosophy numbers whom even Lord Bacon could not reclaim; and the world is most probably far more indebted for its intellectual villains to an Iago than to a Machiavelli. It is in reality this very influence possessed by ideal characters-an influence too which may well excite the envy of nine tenths of mankind-that lends to them their charms; and it is the chief source of consolation and of triumph to a creating and a generating Mind, that it will leave behind it an intellectual progeny, who, long, long after that mind itself shall have been disenthralled and shall have passed away, will still beguile the world with the sweet eloquence of their persuasion, or will make it to thrill and be glad with passion or with merriment.

Thus far we have spoken of the Creations of Poetry; we come now to the Creator-to the Poet himself. We have also hitherto used the terms creative art and creative power, in the same sense; whereas the art applies more suitably to the Poetry, the power to the Poet-to the Man. This distinction it will be well to keep in mind, in order to avoid the confusion that must necessarily arise if we consider them both as artificial; for the power may be innate, although the exercise of that power constitutes an Art. That there is or can be any acquired state of the Mind invested exclusively with the creative power, we do not believe, but would rather consider it as a direct gift of Nature, embracing all the mental faculties and merging them into itself, without being attributable to any one of them. Thus Imagination is embraced in Creation, although by no means synonymous with it, for whilst Imagination is merely conceptive, Creation must embody or etherealize, as well as conceive. So likewise of Judgment, of Fancy, of Reproduction, of Memory; they are all included within it, though none of them include it, and there is probably as much difficulty in determining the means by which we infuse life into Thought, as in discovering how life is infused into ourselves. Still there is one method that we do possess, by which we may detect a very broad distinction between men of Genius and men of Learning, and by which we may draw a line of demarcation between those who create and those who simply reproduce. It consists in examining their produc

tions themselves, with an eye to the different lights in which they view Truth. The one considers it as an end, the other as a means; the one pursues it as an object, the other uses it as an instrument; the one traces it out by antagonism, the other seizes upon it intuitively, and embodies it. The Critic or the man of learning may be called the Undertaker, the man of genius the High Priest of Nature. The one deals in discrepancies, the other in analogies; the one discovers contrasts, the other resemblances; the one may be witty, but the other alone can be eloquent. This is the real and the broad difference, and a difference that cannot be overcome by human effort; for although the critic may dazzle with contrasts and please with his quaintness, his conceits, his "vibrantes sententiæ," or his accumulated lore, yet to the man of genius has it ever been reserved-to the man of exalted and creating genius-to trace up the grand truth of the Harmony of the Universe, and to merge every discordant note into the all-pervading Music of Nature.

The great Poet-the first of Creators-is undoubtedly the greatest, at the same time that he is the most complicated and mystic, of all creations. To conceive vividly of a Mind always strained to its utmost tension, yet still expanding and enlarging-isolated apparently by its very height, yet still sympathetic with every phase of Life created, yet creating-knowing all things, feeling all things, and peopling a world with its ethereal and fancied beings-to conceive of such a Mind requires in itself no tame or fettered imagination; what then must be the compass, or rather the infinitude of that Mind which requires such an intense gaze to comprehend it! So grand, so mysterious, so sublime, but withal so contradictory is it in its very nature, that it seems a perfect paradox. And yet it is not a paradox; it is the noblest of all created Truths-true to itself, to its action, to its destiny. The workings of a great, great Mind are indeed "a wonder and a mystery." Exhaustless as the deep sea, when it floods wave upon wave, we see it casting forth gems unnumbered, and yet the last seems ever to surpass the first in brilliancy. If ought could increase our wonder, it would be to contemplate the frail, miserable tenements in which this grand Life-principle is so often lodged; to see the drooping and exhausted frame tottering beneath its own weight, and yet nourishing within such liquid lightnings of the soul; to see the uncongenial temperament—the cautious-the isolated the suspicious being-fostering no sensibilities save his own, and yet intrusted with such a Heritage of Glory. This is the true mystery, and a mystery which as often calls forth our contempt for his apparent littleness-as it engenders reverence for his greatness. Bulwer has perhaps given the only intelligible solution to this manifest complexity-to this conflict of two natures, visible in the Poet's character. "He (the Poet) usually has two characters-the one belonging to his imagination, the other to his experience. From the one come all his higher embodyings; by the help of the one he elevates, he refines; from the other come his beings of the earth-earthy,' and his aphorisms of worldly caution." This we say explains the fact that intellectually a great

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