om being the greatest of poets will make him also one of the most
permanent. There will be no extreme ups and downs in his fame, as in
that of those great poets of whom Ruskin writes, "Cast Coleridge at once
aside, as sickly and useless; and Shelley as shallow and verbose." The
finished excellence of his average execution will sustain it against
that of profounder thinkers and more daring sons of song. His range of
measures is not great, but his workmanship is perfect; he has always
"the inimitable grace of not too much;" he has tested all literatures,
all poetic motives, and all the simpler forms of versification, and he
can never be taken unprepared. He will never be read for the profoundest
stirring, or for the unlocking of the deepest mysteries; he will always
be read for invigoration, for comfort, for content.

No man is always consistent, and it is not to be claimed that Longfellow
was always ready to reaffirm his early attitude in respect to a national
literature. It is not strange that after he had fairly begun to create
one, he should sometimes be repelled by the class which has always
existed who think that mere nationality should rank first and an
artistic standard afterwards. He writes on July 24, 1844, to an unknown
correspondent:--

"I dislike as much as any one can the tone of English criticism in
reference to our literature. But when you say, 'It is a lamentable fact
that as yet our country has taken no decided steps towards establishing
a national literature,' it seems to me that you are repeating one of the
most fallacious assertions of the English critics. Upon this point I
differ entirely from you in opinion. A national literature is the
expression of national character and thought; and as our character and
modes of thought do not differ essentially from those of England, our
literature cannot. Vast forests, lakes, and prairies cannot make great
poets. They are but the scenery of the play, and have much less to do
with the poetic character than has been imagined. Neither Mexico nor
Switzerland has produced any remarkable poet.

"I do not think a 'Poets' Convention' would help the matter. In fact,
the matter needs no helping."{101}

In the same way he speaks with regret, three years later, November 5,
1847, of "The prospectus of a new magazine in Philadelphia to build up
'a national literature worthy of the country of Niagara--of the land of
forests and eagles.'"

One feels an inexhaustible curio