by the fashion of another, that which is most acceptable to the thought and feeling of the present may be without an audience; and it may happen that few recent authors will be read as Scott and the writers of the early part of this century will be read.  It may, however, be safely predicted that those writers of fiction worthy to be called literary artists will best retain their hold who have faithfully painted the manners of their own time.

Irving has shared the neglect of the writers of his generation.  It would be strange, even in America, if this were not so.  The development of American literature (using the term in its broadest sense) in the past forty years is greater than could have been expected in a nation which had its ground to clear, its wealth to win, and its new governmental experiment to adjust; if we confine our view to the last twenty years, the national production is vast in amount and encouraging in quality.  It suffices to say of it here, in a general way, that the most vigorous activity has been in the departments of history, of applied science, and the discussion of social and economic problems.  Although pure literature has made considerable gains, the main achievement has been in other directions.  The audience of the literary artist has been less than that of the reporter of affairs and discoveries and the special correspondent.  The age is too busy, too harassed, to have time for literature; and enjoyment of writings like those of Irving depends upon leisure of mind.  The mass of readers have cared less for form than for novelty and news and the satisfying of a recently awakened curiosity.  This was inevitable in an era of journalism, one marked by the marvelous results attained in the fields of religion, science, and art, by the adoption of the comparative method.  Perhaps there is no better illustration of the vigor and intellectual activity of the age than a living English writer, who has traversed and illuminated almost every province of modern thought, controversy, and scholarship; but who supposes that Mr. Gladstone has added anything to permanent literature?  He has been an immense force in his own time, and his influence the next generation will still feel and acknowledge, while it reads, not the writings of Mr. Gladstone, but, maybe, those of the author of “Henry Esmond” and the biographer of “Rab and His Friends.”  De Quincey divides literature into two sorts, the literature of power and the literature of knowledge.  The latter is of necessity for to-day only, and must be revised to-morrow.  The definition has scarcely De Quincey’s usual verbal felicity, but we can apprehend the distinction he intended to make.