and limitations which we now see in it were then passed by, or visible
only to such keen critics as Orestes A. Brownson, who wrote thus of it
in "The Boston Quarterly Review," then the ablest of American
periodicals except "The Dial:" "I do not like the book. It is such a
journal as a man who reads a great deal makes from the scraps in his
table-drawer. Yet it has not the sincerity or quiet touches which give
interest to the real journals of very common persons. It is overloaded
with prettinesses, many of which would tell well in conversation, but
being rather strown over than woven into his narrative, deform where
they should adorn. You cannot guess why the book was written, unless
because the author were tired of reading these morceaux to himself, for
there has been no fusion or fermentation to bring on the hour of
utterance. Then to me the direct personal relation in which we are
brought to the author is unpleasing. Had he but idealized his tale, or
put on the veil of poetry! But as it is, we are embarrassed by his
extreme communicativeness, and wonder that a man, who seems in other
respects to have a mind of delicate texture, could write a letter about
his private life to a public on which he had as yet established no
claim.... Indeed this book will not add to the reputation of its author,
which stood so fair before its publication."{41} This is the criticism
of which Longfellow placidly wrote, "I understand there is a spicy
article against me in the 'Boston Quarterly.' I shall get it as soon as
I can; for, strange as you may think it, these things give me no
pain."{42}

Mr. Howells, in one of the most ardent eulogies ever written upon the
works of Longfellow, bases his admiration largely upon the claim "that
his art never betrays the crudeness or imperfection of essay,"--that is,
of experiment.{43} It would be interesting to know whether this
accomplished author, looking back upon "Hyperion" more than thirty years
later, could reindorse this strong assertion. To others, I fancy,
however attractive and even fascinating the book may still remain, it
has about it a distinctly youthful quality which, while sometimes
characterizing even his poetry, unquestionably marked his early prose. A
later and younger critic says more truly of it, I think, "Plainly in the
style of Richter, with all the mingled grandeur and grotesqueness of the
German romanticists, it is scarcely now a favorite with the adult
reader; though the youn