Poet is eminently selfish, while physically he is sympathetic-that while all the varied forms of animated nature find a responsive chord in his heart, yet in the "inner life" he is moody, distant, isolated, solitary, wrapt in self. Indeed it could not be otherwise; his receptive nature must be open-his conceptive must be grasping. In his intellectual relations he must merge every passion and feeling and emotion and existence into his own being. In his creations he must pour forth his whole soul, and that soul, that it may be impressive and effective, must, like the burning lava of Vesuvius, liquidate all that touches it. If the Poet lack this precious alchemy of the soul, his creations will be devoid of that moving life which should animate them, and will no longer stir "the inner depths." Such a Poet do we conceive Pope to have been, but of such a character was not Byron. Indeed, these two, although in their passive states they were very similar, and almost present a parallel; yet in their active natures they were entirely unlike. Both, it is true, were deeply conscious of all that touched upon self, and drank in with rapture the eloquence of all that was beautiful or thoughtful. Both, it is true, were morbidly sensitive-were gloomy in their misanthropy, and brooded over their own unutterable thoughts, like the Spirits of Old Earth hovering over the formless Chaos. But in their creative energies they were greatly dissimilar, and while we detect in the productions of Pope, Life-contemplative and passivein those of Byron it is intense, active, and impassioned. The one seems to have based his verse upon Statuary, and has left us the calm, smooth, marble features of a " Psyche," or the motionless though beauteous and life-like form of the "Diana" of Praxitiles. The other has copied, as it were, Painting, and we behold in each stanza its refulgent and glittering colors-the features warmed into life-the passionate gesture and the form rounded into loveliness, glowing with excitement, and seemingly ready to start from the canvas.

The second branch of the Creative Art, as seen in Literature, embraces the creations of Prose, or, more generally, those of the Author. Romance or Fiction is so nearly akin to Poetry in its subject matter, that it is difficult to distinguish them; and yet a distinction may be detected in the different kinds of Life they generate. Poetry, as before stated, produces an ideal life-one of imaginary and perfect excellency; Romance, on the other hand, images an approximation to an actual, a real life. The one may shadow forth spiritual existencesmay weave a mystic web of the "true Beautiful"-may vision a "Urania." The other never can; its creations must be better adapted to common life, and this is perhaps the reason why this sphere is more consonant with general feeling than is Poetry. Readers feel more at ease in the presence of its creations, than when face to face with the higher spirits of imagination; it requires less effort to follow them, to comprehend them, to woo them, and we venture to say that hundreds are familiar with the "Vicar of Wakefield" with "Olivia”—with "Tom Jones" or "Squire Western," who have scarcely given to the creations of Shakspeare a glance more scrutanizing than that which "Partridge" bestowed upon the ghost. There is too a sociability about

the former, that we do not meet with in the latter, and this it is which endears them to us. It is in this as in Music; the gifted few can alone relish the higher-wrought strains and more elaborate compositions, yet every one may enjoy the simpler melodies. But Romance has another claim to sympathy, which consists in the fact that devoid of it life would lose half its zest; nor would it longer be progressive. Few have ever thrilled half so much at the occurrences of actual life, as at those invented by fiction, and even the school-boy may ofttimes be seen escaping from the noisy din of his companions to muse over his thumb-worn story-book, and there learn

"The wild tumultuous passions of the soul

The playful gladness of unfettered joys."

Wonderful indeed must then be this Art, which can thus tempt the idle truant to knowledge, and we can readily believe that the author whose mind is teeming with unborn conceptions should be, to use his own phrase, "never less alone than when alone." He has within himself a perennial fount from which a life-stream is ever gushing, and, like Milton, though outwardly blind, he may look within his own soul and see there an Eden. Bulwer, wandering amid the ruins of Pompeiiruins which had been entombed for centuries-found a half-decayed and brainless skull. It was lifeless and thoughtless; and yet out of that skull he formed the Egyptian High Priest-" the Hermes lord of the Burning Belt"-who has poured forth more dark and weird philosophy, more soul-startling thought, more bewildering sophistry, than did ever a living disciple of the "Theurgic Mystery."

A distinction has been instituted by Criticism between the creations of the Novelist proper and those of the Romance writer-the former verging more upon actual life than even the latter. Under the shadow

of this distinction, also, and with an eye to degrade him, it has been asserted that Sir Walter Scott-" the Great Magician" himself-was nothing more than a Romance writer. If the view which we have taken of the Creative Art be correct, the distinction will elevate him, and prove that his creations rather approach Poetry than recede towards Criticism. But cavils and quibbles can infringe nought upon his fame, and it suggests thoughts as rife with interest as with wonder to gaze even for a moment upon the "habitations he has erected amongst men"-upon the world he has re-peopled like a second Cadmus. There stands the "Baron of Bradwardine"-the beautiful and high-spirited "Flora McIvor”—“ Evan Dhu," constant in death"Waverly," desultory in studies, in life, in every thing-the wily pedlar "Donald Bean," and "Davie Gellatly" turning his rhymes with ceaseless volubility. Then too we see "Balfour," with his sword and Bible the gigantic "Bothwell"-" Claverhouse," "Macbrier," and "Mucklewrath"-the inflexible "Morton"-" Edith" and her stately Aunt, and that living monument, "Old Mortality." And again, Jenny Deans"- "Butler" and "Dumbedikes," the silent oracle-" Madge Wildfire," 99.66 Stanton,' 99.66 Porteous," swinging in the cold winds of " Auld Reekie""Bertram," "Colonel Mannering," the incomparable" Pley

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dell"—" Dominie Sampson" and " Julia,” “Dirk Hatterick,” “ Dandy Dinmont" and "Meg Merriles"-" Rob Roy," "Balie Nichol Jarvie," "Andrew Fairservice"-" Die Vernon," the beautiful and dauntless— the fiendlike "Rashleigh," and the quiet, easy "Justice Inglewood." In another scene we behold " Mr. Oldbuck," the antiquary" Dousterswivel"" Edie Ochiltree"-" Sir Arthur Wardour" and the young and gallant "Lovel." Again we turn and the stately oaks of Cumnor Hall wave above our heads; we stand upon "the green knoll" and see the gorgeous train of Elizabeth, with its peers and princes sweeping on to the strong-hold of her vassal and lover; within we meet that faded flower," Amy Robarts," vainly pleading the pity of the haughty "Leicester," while her sweet woe is insulted by the detestable “ Varney," and the mischief-loving "Flibbertigibbet." There stand the Peverils," the wiley" Christian," the proud, yet fickle "Buckingham" "Alice Bridgenorth" and "Bridgenorth" himself, that stern fanatic and pilgrim. In another we meet with the gallant "Montrose," with Argyle," Menteith"-"The Children of the Mist"-" Dalgetty" and his favored" Gustavus"—" Allan of the Red Hand" and "Annot Lyle." Again we are in the presence of the "Crusaders"-" Ivanhoe," and Richard," the "Solden" and the "Scottish Knight," "Bois Guilbert" and the beauteous vision, "Rebeca,” are before us. Shift the scene and we see the bold “ Duke of Burgundy," Quentin Durward,” "Lewis," the politic-" Anne of Geierstein," the " Swiss,"" Count Albert," and the peerless, indomitable "Margarett." What a host of beings are thus summoned up by the Magician! What a stream of life is poured forth on every page-suffused over every leaf-and yet what countless numbers are still unnamed! What genius! What depth of conception! What masterly portraiture is stamped upon every feature! This surely is to be an Author-to be a Creator.

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A question that presents itself in connection with the Creative Art is, whether Philosophy, Logic, and the Exact Sciences afford any scope for its exercise. We incline to think that they do, and the apparent inconsistency in the thought seems to arise from a false limitation of their ends to discovery and invention, thereby opposing them to creation. Philosophy, in its general aim, is certainly directed towards the discovery of truths-those "inner facts" of the Universe, yet the deduction of truth from truth, of theory from theory, until an entire system is built up as it were-in other words the abstract and immaterial portion of philosophy resembles not a little the development of trait after trait in a character by the author, and may fairly claim to be ranked as Creative. Invention as applied to Philosophy being wholly mechanical, indicates "a certain means to accomplish a certain end," and so far as that end is concerned certainly excludes the idea of creation, in the sense in which we have hitherto used it; but in the theoretical portion of Philosophy the end is unknown-the thought is expended in fashioning the means-in creating the system—which system afterwards may, though it will not necessarily, evolve Truth. It is to these systems, which thought thus generates, that we would apply the name Creations of Philosophy. Indeed it is not too much to say, that Lord

Chancellor Bacon infused as much life into the confused and inanimate mass of Philosophy, as did Scott into the decayed fabric of "Feudal Grandeur," and that the "Novum Organum" is as justly entitled to be called a Creation, as is the romance of "Ivanhoe." The same holds true in Logic; the author of new systems of thought as much deserves the name as the author of new vehicles of thought, and he who by close analogical investigation should establish the absolute relation of moral qualities and moral actions, and from thence should frame a system of demonstration as applicable to morals as to mathematics, would certainly be a Creator in every sense of the word. The creations of Science are more difficult to be discerned. It is perhaps scarce possible, at the first glance, to detect any evidences of creation in Newton's theory of universal gravitation, and almost every one would persist in calling it a Discovery. But Newton did not discover it. It was the slow, laborious march of Thought-moving step by step, inch by inch, clearing each obstacle from its path, and feeling its way, until finally, it unconsciously reached the grand Truth. The fact was known before the days of Pythagoras, and it is not at the fact that we wonder; it is at the depth of thought that could compass itat the creative power that could body forth a system embracing such a fact; and Newton, although he deserves not the name of a Discoverer, has a yet higher title to our regard in that of a Creator.

We have thus glanced at the phases of the Creative Art, manifested in Poetry, Romance, Philosophy, Science, Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture. We have shown also that the same stamp of "thought made visible" is characteristic of them all, and inspires them with that Life-principle without which they can neither charm nor move us. It is in generating that life that the author rises above his fellow-man and becomes the Prophet of coming time; for it is by his hands that the Future is and must be moulded. His position is high-his destiny a great one, and it becomes him, in view of the influence he wields, to take heed that he be the true priest, and not the idolater of strange gods. In reference to the feelings of Authorship, it can only be said that it breeds cares as well as joys. The choice creations of a "Michael Angelo" speak nought but loveliness and beauty; yet did they also embody the toils and the griefs-the mental agonies-the strife between hope and despair, and the heart-sick fears experienced by the Artist as he labored on, they would be any thing but pleasing to our view. Until Art's first great victory be won, "the still small voice" within him strives with fear and trembling to claim affiliation with the Great Source of Being. But, on the other hand, when once he has triumphed, "And forth the high majestic stranger, Thought,

Bright from the startled brain a Pallas goes,"

it is then that his toil becomes one of love-of passion-and he knows and feels that there is no joy earth can give equal to the Enthusiasm of the Soul, as it labors to Create.

LIFE-DEATH.

"Dust thou art-to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the Soul."

NATURE is glorious, and the works of Art

Are mute, yet voiceful-eloquent with power; And thoughts unuttered fill the human heart, From their sweet presence, e'en in passion's hour. There is a glory in the boundless heaven,

Its azure dome and vaulted canopy;

Where shapes of beauty to the eye are given,
And clouds on outspread wings go sailing by.

There is a grandeur on the Ocean wide,

Whose cold, gray waters break upon the shore; There ages pass above the rolling tide,

Yet still ascends its deep and solemn roar.

And there is glory in the waving tree,

That murmurs softly to the lisping air,

While every breeze doth catch its melody,

And hear its voice in low and whispered prayer.

Thus beautiful are Nature's scenes; but they

Ere long shall hide themselves in gath❜ring gloom, And rushing swift to ruin and decay,

Shall pass in silence to their final doom. They will not find a resurrection morn, When once they perish and forgotten lie, Nor yet again to life shall they be born,

Nor rise renewed like that which cannot die.

And thus must Matter ever turn to dust;

Be lost and buried in the grave of years; And on its Night no dawn shall ever burst, Or Memory o'er its tomb shed gentle tears. O, Death! a dread and awful One art thou,

Pale King! that smitest on the beating breast! With thy cold hand thou chillest the fevered brow, And layest Man with all his cares to rest.

But in the Soul there glows a flame divine,
Kindled from Heaven's own ever-living fire;
Brighter in radiance destined still to shine,
Never to cease, but upward to aspire.
There shall it shine, though ages hurry by

And dimly glide far down the lapse of years; And though each star should shut its burning eye, Still lives the Soul, with all its hopes and fears.